The World Was Husht.

A poem by Thomas Moore

The world was husht, the moon above
Sailed thro' ether slowly,
When near the casement of my love,
Thus I whispered lowly,--
"Awake, awake, how canst thou sleep?
"The field I seek to-morrow
"Is one where man hath fame to reap,
"And woman gleans but sorrow."

"Let battle's field be what it may.
Thus spoke a voice replying,
"Think not thy love, while thou'rt away,
"Will sit here idly sighing.
"No--woman's soul, if not for fame,
"For love can brave all danger!
Then forth from out the casement came
A plumed and armed stranger.

A stranger? No; 'twas she, the maid,
Herself before me beaming,
With casque arrayed and falchion blade
Beneath her girdle gleaming!
Close side by side, in freedom's fight,
That blessed morning found us;
In Victory's light we stood ere night,
And Love the morrow crowned us!

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