No, blame him not if Hope awhile
Dawned in his soul and threw her smile
O'er hours to come--o'er days and nights,
Winged with those precious, pure delights
Which she who bends all beauteous there
Was born to kindle and to share.
A tear or two which as he bowed
To raise the suppliant, trembling stole,
First warned him of this dangerous cloud
Of softness passing o'er his soul.
Starting he brusht the drops away
Unworthy o'er that cheek to stray;--
Like one who on the morn of fight
Shakes from his sword the dews of night,
That had but dimmed not stained its light.
Yet tho' subdued the unnerving thrill,
Its warmth, its weakness lingered still
So touching in each look and tone,
That the fond, fearing, hoping maid
Half counted on the flight she prayed,
Half thought the hero's soul was grown
As soft, as yielding as her own,
And smiled and blest him while he said,--
"Yes--if there be some happier sphere
"Where fadeless truth like ours is dear.--
"If there be any land of rest
"For those who love and ne'er forget,
"Oh! comfort thee--for safe and blest
"We'll meet in that calm region yet!"
Scarce had she time to ask her heart
If good or ill these words impart,
When the roused youth impatient flew
To the tower-wall, where high in view
A ponderous sea-horn[262] hung, and blew
A signal deep and dread as those
The storm-fiend at his rising blows.
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