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6
The lady’s prayer, Senanus spurned,
The winds blew fresh, the bark returned;
But legends hint, ihat had the maid
’Till mornlng’s light delay’d,
And given the saint one rosy smile,
She ne’er had left this lonely isle.
REST WARRIOR, REST.
He comes from the wars, from the red field of fight,
He comes thro’ the storm and the darkness of night,
For rest and for refuge now fain to implore,
The warrior bends low at the cottager’s door.
Pale, pale, pale is his cheek; there’s a gash on his brow;
His locks o’er his shoulders distractedly flow
And the fire of his heart shoots by fits from his eye,
Like a languishing lamp that just flashes to die.
Rest Warrior, rest,—Rest Warrior, rest.
Sunk in silence and sleep on the Cottager’s bed,
