“Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,— And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun, If I had lived to smile but on the birth Of one dear pledge;—but shall there then be none, In future times—no gentle little one, To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me? Yet seems it, e’en while life’s last pulses run, A sweetness in the cup of death to be, Lord of my bosom’s love! to die beholding thee!” XXXII. Hushed were his Gertrude’s lips! but still their bland And beautiful expression seemed to melt With love that could not die! and still his hand She presses to the heart no more that felt. Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt, And features yet that spoke a soul more fair. Mute, gazing, agonising as he knelt,— Of them that stood encircling his despair, He heard some friendly words; but knew not what they were. XXXIII. For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives A faithful band. With solemn rites between, ’Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives, And in their deaths had not divided been. Touched by the music, and the melting scene, Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd:— Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen To veil their eyes, as passed each much-loved shroud— While woman’s softer soul in woe dissolved aloud. XXXIV. Then mournfully the parting bugle bid Its farewell, o’er the grave of worth and truth; Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid His face on earth;—him watched, in gloomy ruth, His woodland guide: but words had none to soothe The grief that knew not consolation’s name: Casting his Indian mantle o’er the youth, He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame! XXXV. “And I could weep;”—the Oneyda chief His descant wildly thus begun: “But that I may not stain with grief The death-song of my father’s son, Or bow this head in woe! For by my wrongs, and by my wrath! To morrow Areouski’s breath (That fires yon heaven with storms of death), Shall light us to the foe: And we shall share, my Christian boy! The foeman’s blood, the avenger’s joy! XXXVI. “But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o’er the deep, The spirits of the white man’s heaven Forbid not thee to weep:— Nor will the Christian host, Nor will thy father’s spirit grieve, To see thee, on the battle’s eve, Lamenting, take a mournful leave Of her who loved thee most: She was the rainbow to thy sight! Thy sun—thy heaven—of lost delight! XXXVII.