Yet, ere the storm of death had raged remote, Or siege unseen in heaven reflects its beams, Who now each dreadful circumstance shall note, That fills pale Gertrude’s thoughts, and nightly dreams? Dismal to her the forge of battle gleams Portentous light! and music’s voice is dumb; Save where the fife its shrill reveillè screams, Or midnight streets re-echo to the drum, That speaks of maddening strife, and bloodstained fields to come. VIII. It was in truth a momentary pang; Yet how comprising myriad shapes of woe! First when in Gertrude’s ear the summons rang, A husband to the battle doomed to go! “Nay meet not thou,” she cries, “thy kindred foe! But peaceful let us seek fair England’s strand!” “Ah, Gertrude! thy belovèd heart, I know, Would feel like mine, the stigmatising brand! Could I forsake the cause of Freedom’s holy band! IX. “But shame—but flight—a recreant’s name to prove, To hide in exile ignominious fears; Say, e’en if this I brooked,—the public love Thy father’s bosom to his home endears: And how could I his few remaining years, My Gertrude, sever from so dear a child?” So, day by day, her boding heart he cheers; At last that heart to hope is half beguiled, And, pale through tears suppressed, the mournful beauty smiled. X. Night came,—and in their lighted bower, full late, The joy of converse had endured—when, hark! Abrupt and loud a summons shook their gate; And heedless of the dog’s obstreperous bark, A form has rushed amidst them from the dark, And spread his arms,—and fell upon the floor: Of aged strength his limbs retained the mark; But desolate he looked, and famished poor, As ever shipwrecked wretch lone left on desert shore. XI. Uprisen, each wondering brow is knit and arched: A spirit from the dead they deem him first: To speak he tries; but quivering, pale, and parched, From lips, as by some powerless dream accursed, Emotions unintelligible burst; And long his filmed eye is red and dim; At length the pity-proffered cup his thirst Had half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limb, When Albert’s hand he grasped;—but Albert knew not him— XII. “And hast thou then forgot,” he cried, forlorn, And eyed the group with half indignant air, “Oh! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the morn When I with thee the cup of peace did share? Then stately was this head, and dark this hair That now is white as Appalachia’s snow; But, if the weight of fifteen years’ despair, And age hath bowed me, and the torturing foe, Bring me my boy—and he will his deliverer know!” XIII.