Can kind and loyal bosoms bleed,
    And Marie not bewail the deed? 
    Can England’s valiant sons be slain,
      In whose fair isle so long she dwelt—­
      To whom she sang, with whom she felt! 
    Can kindred Normans die in vain! 
      Or, banish’d from their native shore,
      Enjoy their sire’s domains no more! 
      Brothers, with whom her mind was nurs’d,
      Who shar’d her young ideas first!—­
    And not her tears their doom arraign?

      Alas! no stimulus avails! 
    Each former potent influence fails: 
    No longer e’en a sigh can part
    From that oppress’d and wearied heart.

      What broke, at length, the spell?  There came
    The sound of Hugh de Lacy’s name! 
    It struck like lightning on her ear—­
    But did she truly, rightly hear? 
    For terror through her senses ran,
    E’en as the song of hope began.—­
    His charge arriv’d on England’s coast,
    Consign’d where they had wish’d it most,
    Had brave De Lacy join’d the train
    Which sought the Norman shores again?—­
    Then liv’d her darling and her pride! 
      What anguish was awaken’d there! 
      A joy close mating with despair—­
    He liv’d for whom her Eustace died!

      Yes! yes! he lives! the sea could spare
    That Island warrior’s infant heir! 
    For whom, when thick-surrounding foes,
    Nigh spent with toil, had sought repose,
    Slow stealing forth, with wary feet,
    From covert of secure retreat,—­
    A soldier leading on the way
    To where his dear commander lay,—­
    Over the field, at dead midnight,
    By a pale torch’s flickering light,
    Did Friendship wander to behold,
    Breathing, but senseless, pallid, cold,
    With many a gash, and many a stain,
    Him,—­whom the morrow sought in vain!
    Love had not dar’d that form to find,
      Ungifted with excelling grace! 
    Nor, thus without a glimpse of mind,
      Acknowledg’d that familiar face! 
      Disfigur’d now with many a trace
    Of recent agony!—­Its power
    Had not withstood this fatal hour!
    Friendship firm-nerv’d, resolv’d, mature,
    With hand more steady, strong, and sore,
    Can torpid Horror’s veil remove,
    Which palsies all the force of Love!

      What is Love’s office, then?  To tend
    The hero rescued by a friend! 
    All unperceiv’d, with balmy wing
    To wave away each restless thing
    That wakes to breathe disturbance round! 
    To temper all in peace profound. 
    With whisper soft and lightsome touch,
    To aid, assuage,—­relieving much
    Of trouble neither seen nor told—­
      Of pain, which it alone divines,
      Which scarcely he who feels defines,
    Which lynx-like eyes alone behold!