Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Patriot Warrior

The Patriot Warrior.

The ship is by the shore, my love, And tarries but for me,Farewell for evermore, my love, To glory and to thee.

"Oh, stay! not yet too late to stay; On yonder pennoned mastSits hazard, like a bird of prey, To stoop and strike at last."

Let dangers ride the troubled wave, More dark than thou canst name,An age of peril I could brave, But not an hour of shame.

"Oh! yet some few may live who bear Exalted hope and will;The brave and worthy still to dare With thee to conquer still."

Not to the worthy is the wreath, The battle to the brave;A baffled sword I now must sheathe, But will not live a slave.

"Thy land from mead to mountain brow, Stamped with the deathless loreOf glorious memories, wilt thou Forsake for evermore?"

It shall be dear, dear as the bride, To him who sees her borne,To wed another, from his side Upon their marriage morn.

"Not yet, unclasp not yet thy hand, Though thou all else resign;I dreamed that death alone should stand Betwixt thy life and mine."

Dark is my path, no path for thee, A gloom without a gleam;Yet speak again, and full and free, What I but dared to dream.

"One path on earth alone I fear, The path that leads from thee;The bleakest wild, so thou wert near, Were blest enough for me."

Then come, the stormy splendour dies That lured and led so far;But love within thy gentle eyes Now lights a purer star.