Lenore

Up rose Lenore as the red morn wore,
From weary visions starting;
“Art faithless, William, or, William, art dead?
‘Tis long since thy departing.”
For he, with Frederick’s men of might,
In fair Prague waged the uncertain fight;
Nor once had he writ in the hurry of war.
And sad was the true heart that sickened afar.

The Empress and the King,
With ceaseless quarrel tired,
At length relaxed the stubborn hate
Which rivalry inspired:
And the martial throng, with laugh and song,
Spoke of their homes as they rode along.
And clank, clank, clank! came every rank.
With the trumpet-sound that rose and sank.