Past was the flight, and welcome seemed the tower, That like a giant standard-bearer frowned Defiance on the roving Indian power. Beneath, each bold and promontory mound With embrasure embossed, and armour crowned, And arrowy frieze, and wedgèd ravelin, Wove like a diadem its tracery round The lofty summit of that mountain green; Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene,— XXVI. A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun, And blended arms, and white pavilions glow; And for the business of destruction done Its requiem the war-horn seemed to blow: There sad spectatress of her country’s woe! The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm, Had laid her cheek, and clasped her hands of snow On Waldegrave’s shoulder, half within his arm Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hushed its wild alarm! XXVII. But short that contemplation—sad and short The pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu! Beneath the very shadow of the fort, Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew, Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew Was near?—yet there, with lust of murderous deeds, Gleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view, The ambushed foeman’s eye—his volley speeds, And Albert—Albert—falls! the dear old father bleeds! XXVIII. And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swooned; Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, Say, burst they, borrowed from her father’s wound, These drops?—Oh, God! the life-blood is her own! And faltering, on her Waldegrave’s bosom thrown— “Weep not, O Love!” she cries, “to see me bleed— Thee, Gertrude’s sad survivor, thee alone Heaven’s peace commiserate; for scarce I heed These wounds; yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed. XXIX. “Clasp me a little longer on the brink Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress: And when this heart hath ceased to beat—oh! think, And let it mitigate thy woe’s excess, That thou hast been to me all tenderness, And friend to more than human friendship just. Oh! by that retrospect of happiness, And by the hopes of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs—when I am laid in dust! XXX. “Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart, The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, Where my dear father took thee to his heart, And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove With thee, as with an angel, through the grove Of peace, imagining her lot was cast In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love. And must this parting be our very last? No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past. XXXI.