Passion

Some have won a wild delight,
⁠By daring wilder sorrow;
Could I gain thy love to-night,
⁠I'd hazard death to-morrow.

Could the battle-struggle earn
⁠One kind glance from thine eye,
How this withering heart would burn,
⁠The heady fight to try!

Welcome nights of broken sleep,
⁠And days of carnage cold,
Could I deem that thou wouldst weep
⁠To hear my perils told.

Tell me, if with wandering bands
⁠I roam full far away,
Wilt thou, to those distant lands,
⁠In spirit ever stray?

Wild, long, a trumpet sounds afar;
⁠Bid me—bid me go
Where Seik and Briton meet in war,
⁠On Indian Sutlej's flow.

Blood has dyed the Sutlej's waves
⁠With scarlet stain, I know;
Indus' borders yawn with graves,
⁠Yet, command me go!

Though rank and high the holocaust
⁠Of nations, steams to heaven,
Glad I'd join the death-doomed host,
⁠Were but the mandate given.

Passion's strength should nerve my arm,
⁠Its ardour stir my life,
Till human force to that dread charm
Should yield and sink in wild alarm,
⁠Like trees to tempest-strife.

If, hot from war, I seek thy love,
⁠Darest thou turn aside?
Darest thou, then, my fire reprove,
⁠By scorn, and maddening pride?

No—my will shall yet control
⁠Thy will, so high and free,
And love shall tame that haughty soul—
⁠Yes—tenderest love for me.

I'll read my triumph in thine eyes,
⁠Behold, and prove the change;
Then leave, perchance, my noble prize,
⁠Once more in arms to range.

I'd die when all the foam is up,
⁠The bright wine sparkling high;
Nor wait till in the exhausted cup
⁠Life's dull dregs only lie.

Then Love thus crowned with sweet reward,
⁠Hope blest with fulness large,
I'd mount the saddle, draw the sword,
⁠And perish in the charge!