And where was Clara? In that chamber dark She might by sounds the battle’s progress mark; She heard when Gilbert woke them to the fray, And when the door to angry blows gave way; The volleyed crash that sped the deadly hail, And the long shout that quivered to a wail, She heard—but still as wilder grew the din, And crept the sulphurous smoke the room within, One maddening thought—_her Gilbert_—torture grew, His single form her frenzied fancy drew, Each blade was bent at Gilbert’s heart alone, In every cry rung Gilbert’s dying moan, Till a dull sense—like slumber or like death— Unnerved her limbs and quenched her struggling breath, Seemed the wild strife in distance far to die. And gleamed with rainbow tints her closing eye. She wakes—how dark and chill! Confused she hears— She scarce knows what—her cheek is drench’d with tears, And forms and scenes distorted cross her mind, Like images on water, swept by wind. She starts—ah, now all’s known—that voice—for well Each tone of that loved voice her ear can tell! ’Twas then that Gilbert strove, with voice and hand, To that last charge to cheer his drooping band; She hears and flies—flings wide the door, and all Is there revealed within that gory hall. XIV. Low lay Gleneden’s chief—his crimson vest Dark with the blood warm springing from his breast; O’er him stood Gilbert—still his sabre kept At bay the circling host that round him swept, When, with a long, wild shout, and bursting shock, The ranks are riven, the reeling masses rock, And piercing through the midst fresh troops are seen, With weapons bared and clad in robes of green. “Oh welcome, welcome!” burst from Gilbert’s tongue, As proudly to that column’s head he sprung; Not long the foe that sweeping charge may bide, Wildly they fly, or fall on every side. XV.