Old Elva’s halls have many a guest to-night, Yet the lamps shed not their accustomed light, Nor music’s strain, nor garnished feast is there, But all is sentineled by anxious care. For they who rest within, in act and word, Are leagued in hostile guise against their lord; And much they dare who aid with kindly hand The attainted members of that patriot band: Men who had cast with daring hands aside The cankering chains of feudal pomp and pride, And roused by wrongs, long suffered, long forgiven, Will now be free, if not on earth—in heaven. Worn by long marching, wearied, dark with soil— But not one fiery bosom tamed by toil— On the hard floor their limbs they careless lay, And wait their arms beside th’ approaching day— Small thought have they of aught of daintier fare— Few nights, I ween, for them such couch prepare. II. As one who watched his slumbering band to guard, Their chieftain, Gilbert, slowly paced the sward. His ebon locks thrown back to catch the breeze, Cooled by the lake and scented by the trees, His small hand resting on his dagger’s hilt, Whose blade may yet retain its last red gilt, With careful gaze he scans the darkening scene, Marks each faint motion of the foliage green, Or turns at times his flashing full gray eye, To where the stars hang brightening o’er the sky. Why waits he here when all the rest are deep In the void realms of weird, mysterious sleep? What thought—what scene doth hope or memory trace, Which gilds and glooms alternately his face? Dreams he of glory?—of revenge?—or love? Or seek his eyes those silent suns above, With strange, deep yearnings for the mystic lore The eastern Magi proudly held of yore? When stars were gods, and he who bent the knee To their far thrones, the future there might see— Or why hath power so soon her mantle flung, On one so fair, so slender, and so young? III. Vain questions all! But ask the bold of deed Who scarce can follow where he dares to lead, Whose form is foremost in the reeling fight? Whose arm is last to stay and first to smite? Whose voice still rings the wavering ranks to cheer? Whose counsel still partakes of aught but fear? Whose face, when all was chill with blank despair, Ne’er yet has worn one shade that looked like care? Or whose the hand, when some well-won success Might sure have named revenge a just redress, Was still most prompt the conquered foe to save? All his—the young—the beautiful—the brave! He who had lightly held that slender hand, Would scarce have scorned it when it grasped the brand; And he who marked at rest that eye and cheek, In war so wild, in peace so soft and meek, Might well have wondered whence the spirit rose, So dear to friends—so terrible to foes! IV.