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Letitia Elizabeth Landon - The Combat. By EttyLetitia Elizabeth Landon - The Combat. By Etty
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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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