Where on the earth the wounded mourners lay,
With trembling steps and fearful whispering voice,
Each seeks, and calls him whom she came to seek:
And many a fugitive, whom force or fear
Had driven from the Field, steals softly back,
Anxious to know the fate of some lov'd friend.
Mutual fears appal the mingled group,
Starting alternate at the unknown tongue:
They fear a foe in each uncertain form
That through the gloom imperfectly appears.
The mournful horrors of the doleful night
Melt every heart: ... and when the morning's beam
Shews the sad scene, and gives an interview,
Resentment, that worst torment of the mind,
Resentment ceases, satiate wrath subsides.
Woman is present: and so strong the charm
Of weeping Woman's fascinating tears,
That though surviving Heroes' unwash'd hands
Still grasp the falchion of horrid hue,
And though their fallen brethren from the ground
May seem to call for Vengeance from their hands,
The impulse of Revenge is felt no more;
No more the strange attire, the foreign tongue
Creates alarm: for Nature's-self has writ
In every face; where every eye can read
Repentant Sorrow, and forgiving Love.
Their mingled tears wash the lamented dead:
On every wound they pour soft Pity's balm:
Ere Sorrow's tears are dried, they feel the spring
Of new-born joys, and each expanding heart