Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE COMBAT, BY ETTY, by LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: They fled, - for there was for the brave Last Line: He strikes, -- the work of death is done! Alternate Author Name(s): L. E. L.; Maclean, Letitia Subject(s): Etty, William (1787-1849); Paintings & Painters | ||||||||
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 e 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! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...1801: AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE ENVOY TO CONSTANTINOPLE by RICHARD HOWARD VENETIAN INTERIOR, 1889 by RICHARD HOWARD THERE IS A GOLD LIGHT IN CERTAIN OLD PAINTINGS by DONALD JUSTICE DUTCH INTERIORS by JANE KENYON INVITATION TO A PAINTER: 3 by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM THE CHINA PAINTERS by TED KOOSER ELEGY FOR SOL LEWITT by ANN LAUTERBACH ON THE SEPARATION OF ADAM AND EVE by TIMOTHY LIU CALYPSO WATCHING THE OCEAN by LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON |
|