Home they brought her warrior dead:--
She nor swooned nor uttered cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
“She must weep, or she will die.”
Then they praised him, soft and low,
Called him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;--
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stept,
Took the face-cloth from the face;--
Yet she neither moved nor wept.
Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee;--
Like summer tempest came her tears--
“Sweet my child, I live for thee.”