That I his father—I whose love Had sheltered long his feeble form E’en as some stronger bird the dove All mateless wandering in the storm,— That I borne down amid the stern And bloody shapes of battle wild, Would never from its wreck return To sooth his lonely orphan child; And then on bended knees he prayed— (God! why availed not his prayer?) That I would give him steed and blade, So he might in my dangers share. I left him for I could not bare That tender brow to war’s wild air. Away! away on foaming steed, For two long years my sword was out; And I had learned (a soldier’s need,) —Almost without a groan to bleed— Aye! gloried in the battle’s shout; For it gave presage of a fame Such as the brave alone may claim. For two long years, as I have told, The storm of war around me roll’d; But never more, by day or night In sunshine or in shower, Did I forget my castle’s light— Love’s only idol-flower! There is a deeper passion known For those in love, when left alone; Then busy fancy ponders o’er Some kindness never prized before: And we can almost turn with tears And deep upbraiding (as distress Comes with the holy light of years) And kneeling ask forgiveness. And so I felt—and Laura beamed Still lovelier than she ever seemed, E’en when the dew of childhood’s hours Along her heart’s first blossoms clung, And I amid my native bowers In sinless worship o’er them hung. Oh! are not feelings such as these Like splendid rainbow-glories caught (To cheer our voyage o’er life’s seas) From Heaven’s own holy Land of Thought? And yet, oh, God! how soon may they Like those bright glories flee away, And leave the heart an unlit sea, Where piloted by dark despair The spirit-wreck rolls fearfully Within the night of sullen air? At last the eye of battle closed— Its lurid fires no longer burned— The warrior on his wreath reposed, And I unto my halls returned. Oh! who can tell the joys that start Like angel-wings within the heart, When wearied with war’s toil, the chief In home’s dear light would seek relief! Not he who has no loved one there Left in his absence lonely— Whose heart he fondly hopes shall beat For him and for him only. And such my Laura’s heart I deemed; For me alone I thought she beamed Like some pure lamp on hermit’s shrine, Which only glows for him, divine And beauteous as the spirit-eyes That light the bow’rs of Paradise.