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Letitia Elizabeth Landon - The Combat. By Etty
Work rating: Low

THEY fled,--for there was for the brave
Left only a dishonour`d grave.
The day was lost; and his red hand
Was now upon a broken brand,
The foes were in his native town,
The gates were forced, the walls were down,
The burning city lit the sky,--
What had he then to do but fly;
Fly to the mountain-rock, where yet
Revenge might strike, or peace forget!

They fled,--for she was by his side,
Life`s last and loveliest link, his bride,--
Friends, fame, hope, freedom, all were gone,
Or linger`d only with that one.
They hasten`d by the lonely way
That through the winding forest lay,
Hearth, home, tower, temple, blazed behind,
And shout and shriek came on the wind;
And twice the warrior turn`d again
And cursed the arm that now in vain,
Wounded and faint, essay`d to grasp
The sword that trembled in its clasp.

At last they reach`d a secret shade
Which seem`d as for their safety made;
And there they paused, for the warm tide
Burst in red gushes from his side,
And hung the drops on brow and cheek,
And his gasp`d breath came thick and weak.
She took her long dark hair, and bound
The cool moss on each gaping wound, 
And in her closed-up hands she brought
The water which his hot lip sought,--
And anxious gazed upon his eye,
As asking, shall we live or die?
Almost as if she thought his breath
Had power o`er his own life and death.

But, hark!--`tis not the wind deceives,
There is a step among the leaves:
Her blood runs cold, her heart beats high,
It is their fiercest enemy;
He of the charm`d and deadly steel,
Whose stroke was never known to heal,--
He of the sword sworn not to spare,--
She flung her down in her despair!

The dying chief sprang to his knee,
And the staunch`d wounds well`d fearfully;
But his gash`d arm, what is it now?
Livid his lip, and black his brow,
While over him the slayer stood,
As if he almost scorn`d the blood
That cost so little to be won,--
He strikes,--the work of death is done!
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