No word is said—the sudden gush Of feeling warm, and memory’s flush— Of cares, and doubts, and hopes, and pains, Th’ o’ermaster’d tongue awhile enchains, While heart to throbbing heart careers, And vents its joy, at first, in tears! And then with quick response is heard, Soft interchange of fitting word, And all the fervid greeting kind, That rivets constant mind to mind. Oh love, there is no word, no sign, No token half so sweet as thine, When sighing hours, when ling’ring years, When hopes deferred, when pallid fears, Are banish’d all, and, at a start, Kind heart is riveted to heart. Whether the face be white or red, Within a cot or palace bred, Beneath the line, or at the pole, An unwont rapture fires the soul. We cannot say that sigh or vow Were brought to mind, or uttered now; We cannot say, that months or years Were counted o’er amid their tears; But this we can, and this we know, That past and gone was every woe; That former crosses—former tears, Were cast behind, with other years, And every thought that could annoy Deep buried in the present joy.
And now had gratulation past, And warrior-lover broken fast, And dainty haunch, and wild-fruit shar’d, By Ednee’s gentle hand prepar’d, And all in high expectance wait The annals of his wayward fate.
Little suits it tide or time I should here descant on crime, War or loss, mischance or boast, That befell on southern coast, Where, by cruel fate impelled, As a captive I was held. Little boots it, that I here Once again should drop the tear, Not by red man often shed, Save above the honored dead; Or, by sad recitals, throw O’er this scene a garb of woe. Let it, once for all, suffice, That my path was hemmed by vice, Power, misfortune, cross and ill, Such as stoutest bosoms kill; But I had a warrior’s heart, That not light with life could part.
Oft I fought with club and knife, Strewing death’s dark path with life, But not often felt the blight Fate prepared _that_ fearful night, When by river, rock, and dell, There Alhalla’s household fell: As I lifted high my brand, O’er the wide retreating strand, Hot the fight and loud the yell, This I only know, I fell: Consciousness, as with a thought, Left me, as the fight I fought, Sudden, as, if in a dream, What we do may only seem. When, from this unguarded stroke, First to life and sense I woke, Darkness spread around the plain, Shielding dying, dead, and slain; Slowly rising from my gore, Faint, I sought the river’s shore; Fatal act! to drink or die, Purchased by captivity. Yet my fate was not to fall By the broadsword or the ball; Taught by kindly hands to know War doth mingle balms with woe, And ’tis only on the field Saxon men will never yield. Soft they made my prison bed, Kindly nurtured, kindly fed, Till my wounds and fevered brain Health and soundness felt again.