'Tis midnight dark--all lonely in her sorrow,
The warrior maiden in her dungeon lies;
Not only visions of the fearful morrow
Traced as by lightning gleams before her eyes,
But dreams come round her of a day more golden,
Fond memories of a happy peasant time,
Sweet as the melody of ballad olden,
The tune of birds, the cheerful hamlet-chime.
Oh, mine own fountain! in the glade up-springing,
For ever cool beneath the tender leaves,
Amid the murmur of thy waters ringing,
The fairies talked with me on summer eves;
No more--no more to bathe my burning brow--
How much I love thee now!
O, mine old father, by my fortune saddened,
Like autumn field destroyed by sudden blight;
Well hath thy homely love my childhood gladdened
On many an April morn and winter night!
Farewell!--farewell!--thou canst not hear me vow
How much I love thee now!
No more of dreaming in the leafy forest--
The scaffold and the pile are set for me;
No more kind smiles, when my heart needs them sorest.
The mocking crowd are all I now shall see;
Can I not 'scape and hide me? Will no eye
Pity my youth?--no ear receive my cry?--
Hark! I am heard! Mine angel voices near me,
With seraph-clarions through the darkness cheer me!
They bid me once again the armour wear
Of faith immortal, won by lowly prayer;
And I will triumph o'er my great despair,
And lift my eyes to Heaven, and nobly die!
Thou gavest me the battle sword
By which the foe did fall;
Thou gavest me the crown, O Lord!
To crown me King withal!
And now Thou givest me the chain
My feeble frame upon,
Because the mortal was too vain
Of deeds thine hand had done!
But thou wilt give me, soon, the palm
Of triumph o'er despair,
That, safe in Thine eternal calm,
Thy glorious angels wear!--
Wilt stand beside me in the fire,
Though keen its torture be;
And, when the curling flames aspire,
Take up my soul to Thee!