  Home they brought her warrior dead:— She nor swooned nor uttered cry: All her maidens, watching, said, “She must weep, or she will die.” Then they praised him, soft and low, Called him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe;— Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stept, Took the face-cloth from the face;— Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee;— Like summer tempest came her tears— “Sweet my child, I live for thee.” |
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