WHAT CAN BE THY GRIEF, MY CHILD?
I
Come, my child! a crowd rejoices,
To the casement quickly come.
Hark! that shout of many voices,
'Tis the victor's welcome home!
Age forsakes the blazing hearth,
Youth exulting hurries forth,
Eager to be first to say:
“See, the warriors on their way!”
Hail thy brother; turn and see
Yon bright multitude with me.
Silent still, with eyes so wild!
What can be thy grief, my child?
II
Oh, look forth! the hill ascending,
Now they quit the leafy glen;
And the trumpet's note is blending
With the tramp of armed men!
I can see thy brother lead
Some lamented comrade's steed.
Start not, child! I say again
That thy brother is not slain!
Think how deep had been our gloom,
Had he shared that comrade's doom—
Silent still! with eyes so wild—
Oh! I guess thy grief, my child!
