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MAGDALEN.8
I.
sword, whose blade has ne’er been wet
With blood, except of freedom’s foes;
That hope which, though its sun be set,
Still with a starlight beauty glows;
A heart that worshipped in Romance
The Spirit of the buried Time,
And dreams of knight, and steed, and lance,
And ladye-love, and minstrel-rhyme;
These had been, and I deemed would be
My joy, whate’er my destiny.
II.
Born in a camp, its watch-fires bright
Alone illumed my cradle-bed;
And I had borne with wild delight
My banner where Bolivar led,
Ere manhood’s hue was on my cheek,
Or manhood’s pride was on my brow.
Its foes are furled—the war-bird’s beak
Is thirsty on the Andes now;
I longed, like her, for other skies
Clouded by Glory’s sacrifice.
