 | Poems of Love |  |
27
ONE WOMAN'S HISTORY.
“The maiden free, the maiden wed.
Can never, never be the same,
A new life springs from out the dead.
And with the speaking of a name—
A breath upon the marriage bed,
She finds herself a something new.
Can never, never be the same,
A new life springs from out the dead.
And with the speaking of a name—
A breath upon the marriage bed,
She finds herself a something new.
“Where lay the shallows of the maid
No plummet line the wife can sound;
Where round the sunny islands played
The pulses of the great profound
Lies low the treacherous everglade.
No plummet line the wife can sound;
Where round the sunny islands played
The pulses of the great profound
Lies low the treacherous everglade.
“A wife is like an unknown sea,
Least known to him who thinks he knows
Where all the shores of Promise be,
And where the islands of Repose—
And where the rocks that he must flee.”
Least known to him who thinks he knows
Where all the shores of Promise be,
And where the islands of Repose—
And where the rocks that he must flee.”
28
WHY THE SPRING IS LATE.
To Miss Eva Russell.
The spring time is deaf to our pleading,
The meadows are brown as can be.
The hilltops are bleak and unlovely,
No thrush sits and sings on the tree.
I hear many practical people
Explain why the spring loiters so,
But, dear one, they all are mistaken:
The true reason I alone know.
The meadows are brown as can be.
The hilltops are bleak and unlovely,
No thrush sits and sings on the tree.
I hear many practical people
Explain why the spring loiters so,
But, dear one, they all are mistaken:
The true reason I alone know.
The South-wind, Spring's hand-maiden, told me
Her mistress declared, o'er and o'er,
That, till you were here to give greeting,
She'd visit our prairies no more.
And all her vast household stand by her!
The thrush says he cannot come here
And sing the old songs that you loved so,
Unless you are lingering near.
Her mistress declared, o'er and o'er,
That, till you were here to give greeting,
She'd visit our prairies no more.
And all her vast household stand by her!
The thrush says he cannot come here
And sing the old songs that you loved so,
Unless you are lingering near.
The wild pinks that rival your blushes,
The violets blue as the sky,
Declare it no pleasure to blossom
Unseen by your beautiful eye.
Oh darling! I'm loath to upbraid you,
So come without further delay.
Each moment you linger, remember
You are keeping the spring time away.
Then come! we are waiting to welcome
The birds and the flowers, 'tis true;
But warmer than all is the welcome,
Fair girl, that is waiting for you.
The violets blue as the sky,
Declare it no pleasure to blossom
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Oh darling! I'm loath to upbraid you,
So come without further delay.
Each moment you linger, remember
You are keeping the spring time away.
Then come! we are waiting to welcome
The birds and the flowers, 'tis true;
But warmer than all is the welcome,
Fair girl, that is waiting for you.
32
LOVE.
In all earth's music, grand, or sweet, or strong,
To hear one name, as if 'twere set in song.
To hear one name, as if 'twere set in song.
In all my poems, written 'neath the sun,
To find the praises, o'er and o'er, in one.
To find the praises, o'er and o'er, in one.
To feel thyself a lesser part of what
Hadst thou not found, the earth would be as naught.
Hadst thou not found, the earth would be as naught.
To think all beauty, perfectness and grace,
As but the shadow of one worshiped face.
As but the shadow of one worshiped face.
With that face's coming, to bask in warmth and light
And with its going to grope, as in the night.
And with its going to grope, as in the night.
To rather feel a dear hand's stinging blow
Than any caress another might bestow.
Than any caress another might bestow.
To rather sit in gloom, and hear one voice
Than, missing that, on mountain tops rejoice.
Than, missing that, on mountain tops rejoice.
To lose all individual hope and aim,
And have no wish, but for another's fame.
And have no wish, but for another's fame.
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To count grief naught, though great, if one is glad.
To feel no joy if that dear one is sad.
To feel no joy if that dear one is sad.
Do thy heart strings, responsive, answer this?
Then thou hast known true love in all its bliss.
Then thou hast known true love in all its bliss.
38
LINES ON H---'S FOOT.
It may be you've seen her eyes,
Dark and deep like midnight skies;
You mayhap have seen them flash
Underneath the drooping lash,
And been dazzled by the light
Of those orbs, so dark and bright;
But—have you seen her foot,
In its little gaiter boot?
Dark and deep like midnight skies;
You mayhap have seen them flash
Underneath the drooping lash,
And been dazzled by the light
Of those orbs, so dark and bright;
But—have you seen her foot,
In its little gaiter boot?
You have noticed, maybe, how
The lily spreads from chin to brow.
You have thought her cheek more fair
Than if roses lingered there;
(Roses would seem out of place
On her pale patrician face)
But—again I question you,
Have you seen her tiny shoe?
The lily spreads from chin to brow.
You have thought her cheek more fair
Than if roses lingered there;
(Roses would seem out of place
On her pale patrician face)
But—again I question you,
Have you seen her tiny shoe?
You have thought her mouth, no doubt,
Like a blush-rose half blown out;
Small and sweet, withal, beside,
Touched with scorn and curved with pride;
(Innate pride—not meant to chill)—
You have seen it there, and still—
Answer one more question, pray—
Have you seen her boot? I say.
Like a blush-rose half blown out;
Small and sweet, withal, beside,
Touched with scorn and curved with pride;
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You have seen it there, and still—
Answer one more question, pray—
Have you seen her boot? I say.
Such a tiny, tiny thing,
Is that foot of which I sing;
No. 3 would hide it so
It could not be found, I know.
No. 2 must stand aside
All too long and large and wide,
No. 1 must be the boot
For this maiden's little foot.
Is that foot of which I sing;
No. 3 would hide it so
It could not be found, I know.
No. 2 must stand aside
All too long and large and wide,
No. 1 must be the boot
For this maiden's little foot.
You may envy, sir, the clerk
In the shoe-store, hard at work,
Who tries the gaiter boot
On this cunning little foot.
On his knee, supporting it,
Saying, “It's a perfect fit,”
Buttoning on the No. 1,
Looking sorry, when it's done.
In the shoe-store, hard at work,
Who tries the gaiter boot
On this cunning little foot.
On his knee, supporting it,
Saying, “It's a perfect fit,”
Buttoning on the No. 1,
Looking sorry, when it's done.
You have seen her, slight and neat,
As she tripped along the street,
You have heard the pit-pat-fall
Of that foot so very small.
That she's fair, and pure, and good,
Bright, and sweet is understood,
But—have you seen that foot—
In its dainty gaiter boot?
As she tripped along the street,
You have heard the pit-pat-fall
Of that foot so very small.
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Bright, and sweet is understood,
But—have you seen that foot—
In its dainty gaiter boot?
43
RESIGNED.
My babe was moaning in its sleep,
I leaned and kissed it where it lay,
My pain was such I could not weep,
Oh, would God take my child away?
He had so many round his throne—
If He took mine—I stood alone!
I leaned and kissed it where it lay,
My pain was such I could not weep,
Oh, would God take my child away?
He had so many round his throne—
If He took mine—I stood alone!
I took my child upon my knee;
It looked up with its father's eyes,
Who, ere the infant came to me,
Had journeyed homeward to the skies,
But through those eyes, so sad and mild,
I found my husband, in my child.
It looked up with its father's eyes,
Who, ere the infant came to me,
Had journeyed homeward to the skies,
But through those eyes, so sad and mild,
I found my husband, in my child.
It was such comfort, night and day,
To watch its slumber,—feel its breath—
And slow—so slow—it pined away,
I heard not the approach of Death
Until he stood close at my side,
And then my soul within me died.
To watch its slumber,—feel its breath—
And slow—so slow—it pined away,
I heard not the approach of Death
Until he stood close at my side,
And then my soul within me died.
I clasped my babe with sudden moan,
I cried, “My sweet, thou shalt not go
To join the children round the Throne,
For I have need of thee below.
If God takes thee, I am bereft—
No hope or joy or comfort left.”
I cried, “My sweet, thou shalt not go
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For I have need of thee below.
If God takes thee, I am bereft—
No hope or joy or comfort left.”
My babe looked pleading in my face,
It seemed my husband's eyes instead,
And his voice sounded in the place,
“I want my child in heaven,” it said.
The infant raised its little hands,
And seemed to reach toward heavenly lands.
It seemed my husband's eyes instead,
And his voice sounded in the place,
“I want my child in heaven,” it said.
The infant raised its little hands,
And seemed to reach toward heavenly lands.
The tears that had refused to flow
Came welling upward from my heart,
I sobbed, “My child, then thou may'st go,
Thy angel father bids us part.
I know in all that heavenly place
He ne'er looked on so sweet a face.
Came welling upward from my heart,
I sobbed, “My child, then thou may'st go,
Thy angel father bids us part.
I know in all that heavenly place
He ne'er looked on so sweet a face.
“He journeyed on, before thou came—
And all these months, he's longed for thee,
How could I so forget his claim—
And strive to keep thee at my knee.
Go, child—my child—and give him this—
In one the wife's and mother's kiss.”
And all these months, he's longed for thee,
How could I so forget his claim—
And strive to keep thee at my knee.
Go, child—my child—and give him this—
In one the wife's and mother's kiss.”
My baby smiled, and seeming slept,
Its hand grew cold within my own.
Not wholly sad the tears I wept
For though I was indeed alone,
My babe I knew was safe at rest
Upon its angel father's breast.
Its hand grew cold within my own.
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For though I was indeed alone,
My babe I knew was safe at rest
Upon its angel father's breast.
54
ONLY A SAD MISTAKE.
Only a blunder—a sad mistake;
All my own fault and mine alone.
The saddest error a heart can make;
I was so young, or I would have known.
All my own fault and mine alone.
The saddest error a heart can make;
I was so young, or I would have known.
Only his rare, sweet, tender smile;
Only a lingering touch of his hand.
I think I was dreaming all the while,
The reason I did not understand.
Only a lingering touch of his hand.
I think I was dreaming all the while,
The reason I did not understand.
Yet, somewhere, I've read men woo this way;
That eyes speak, sometimes, before the tongue.
And I was sure he would speak some day;
Pardon the folly—I was so young.
That eyes speak, sometimes, before the tongue.
And I was sure he would speak some day;
Pardon the folly—I was so young.
Was I, say—for now I am old!
So old, it seems like a hundred years
Since I felt my heart growing hard and cold
With a pain too bitter and deep for tears.
So old, it seems like a hundred years
Since I felt my heart growing hard and cold
With a pain too bitter and deep for tears.
I saw him lean over the stranger's chair,
With a warm, new light in his beautiful eyes;
And I woke from my dreaming, then and there,
And went out of my self-made Paradise.
With a warm, new light in his beautiful eyes;
55
And went out of my self-made Paradise.
He never loved me—I know, I see!
Such sad, sad blunders as young hearts make.
She did not win him away from me,
For he was not mine. It was my mistake.
Such sad, sad blunders as young hearts make.
She did not win him away from me,
For he was not mine. It was my mistake.
A woman should wait for a man to speak
Before she dreams of his love, I own;
But I was a girl—girls' hearts are weak;
And the pain, like the fault, is mine alone.
Before she dreams of his love, I own;
But I was a girl—girls' hearts are weak;
And the pain, like the fault, is mine alone.
56
SONG OF THE WHEELMAN.
Over my desk in a dark office bending.
Dim seems the sunlight and dull seems the day;
But when the afternoon draws toward an ending,
Here waits my steel steed—I mount, and away!
Like cobwebs of silver I see in the distance
The glint of bright wheels, I must follow and find.
What life in the air now! what zest in existence,
As faster and faster I race with the wind.
Dim seems the sunlight and dull seems the day;
But when the afternoon draws toward an ending,
Here waits my steel steed—I mount, and away!
Like cobwebs of silver I see in the distance
The glint of bright wheels, I must follow and find.
What life in the air now! what zest in existence,
As faster and faster I race with the wind.
Down the smooth pavements, and out toward the heather—
Ho! fellows, ho! I am coming you see!
Ho! fellows, ho! I am coming you see!
Breast to breast, now let us speed on together—
Who dares try mounting that hillside with me?
Over the bridge I go—past the green meadows,
Au revoir, boys, I will ride on alone!
For in yon cottage half hid in the shadows,
Waiting for me, is my sweetheart—my own.
Who dares try mounting that hillside with me?
Over the bridge I go—past the green meadows,
Au revoir, boys, I will ride on alone!
For in yon cottage half hid in the shadows,
Waiting for me, is my sweetheart—my own.
She watches my wheel as it glitters and glistens
Down the steep crest of the daisy-starred hill.
Down the steep crest of the daisy-starred hill.
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Fair is her cheek as she waits there and listens
For the sure signal blown tenderly shrill.
Sweetheart, my sweetheart, I'm coming, I'm coming.
Here, sturdy steed, you may stand by the wall.
For the sure signal blown tenderly shrill.
Sweetheart, my sweetheart, I'm coming, I'm coming.
Here, sturdy steed, you may stand by the wall.
A bird to her mate has flown swift thro' the gloaming,
Love, youth and summer, thank God for them all.
Love, youth and summer, thank God for them all.
61
LONG AGO.
I loved a maiden, long ago,
She held within her hand my fate;
And in the ruddy sunset glow
We lingered at the garden gate.
She held within her hand my fate;
And in the ruddy sunset glow
We lingered at the garden gate.
The splendor of the western skies
Lay in a halo on her hair.
I gazed with worship in her eyes,
And deemed her true and knew her fair.
Lay in a halo on her hair.
I gazed with worship in her eyes,
And deemed her true and knew her fair.
“Good night,” I said, and turned away;
She held me with her subtle smile.
I saw her red lips whisper “stay,”
And so I lingered yet awhile.
She held me with her subtle smile.
I saw her red lips whisper “stay,”
And so I lingered yet awhile.
“I love you, love you, sweet!” I said,
She laughed, and whispered, “I love you.”
I kissed her small mouth, ripe and red,
And knew her fair, and deemed her true.
She laughed, and whispered, “I love you.”
I kissed her small mouth, ripe and red,
And knew her fair, and deemed her true.
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'Twas very, very long ago,
And I was young, and so was she;
My faith as love was strong, for oh!
The maid was all the world to me.
And I was young, and so was she;
My faith as love was strong, for oh!
The maid was all the world to me.
But as the sunset died away
And left the heavens cold and blue,
So died my dream of love one day.
The maid was only fair, not true.
And left the heavens cold and blue,
So died my dream of love one day.
The maid was only fair, not true.
81
GROWING OLD.
Little by little the year grows old,
The red leaves drop from the maple boughs;
The sun grows dim, and the winds blow cold,
Down from the distant arctic seas.
The red leaves drop from the maple boughs;
The sun grows dim, and the winds blow cold,
Down from the distant arctic seas.
Out of the skies the soft light dies,
And the shadows of autumn come creeping over,
And the bee and the bird are no longer heard
In grove or meadow, or field of clover.
And the shadows of autumn come creeping over,
And the bee and the bird are no longer heard
In grove or meadow, or field of clover.
Little by little our lives grow old,
Our faces no longer are fair to see;
For gray creeps into the curls of gold,
And the red fades out of the cheeks, ah me!
Our faces no longer are fair to see;
For gray creeps into the curls of gold,
And the red fades out of the cheeks, ah me!
And the birds that sang till our heart strings rang
With strains of hope, and joy, and pleasure,
Have flown away; and our hearts today
Hear only the weird wind's solemn measure.
With strains of hope, and joy, and pleasure,
Have flown away; and our hearts today
Hear only the weird wind's solemn measure.
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Youth and summer, and beauty and bloom,
Droop and die in the autumn weather,
But up from the gloom of the winter's tomb,
They shall rise, in God's good time, together.
Droop and die in the autumn weather,
But up from the gloom of the winter's tomb,
They shall rise, in God's good time, together.
97
“THE SAME OLD STRAIN.”
Each day that I live I am persuaded anew,
A maxim I long have believed in, is true.
Each day I grow firmer in this, my belief,
Strong drink causes half the world's trouble and grief.
A maxim I long have believed in, is true.
Each day I grow firmer in this, my belief,
Strong drink causes half the world's trouble and grief.
Do I take up a paper, I read of a fight,
Tom's fist in his eye deprived Jamie of sight;
Both fellows were drinking before it began,
And drink made a brute of a peaceable man.
Tom's fist in his eye deprived Jamie of sight;
Both fellows were drinking before it began,
And drink made a brute of a peaceable man.
Next, Jones kills his wife, such an awful affair!
She was throttled, and pounded, and drawn by the hair;
Cause—“Jones had been drinking—not in his sane mind.”
(Few men are who tip up the bottle, I find.)
She was throttled, and pounded, and drawn by the hair;
Cause—“Jones had been drinking—not in his sane mind.”
(Few men are who tip up the bottle, I find.)
Then, a man is assaulted and dirked in the dark
By two “jolly boys” who are out on a “lark;”
They have ever been peaceable boys—but, you see,
They drank, and “were hardly themselves” on this spree.
By two “jolly boys” who are out on a “lark;”
They have ever been peaceable boys—but, you see,
They drank, and “were hardly themselves” on this spree.
98
Just over the street lives the man who is known
To be honest and kind, when he lets drink alone;
But whenever he quaffs from the full, flowing bowl,
He is more like a beast than a man with a soul.
To be honest and kind, when he lets drink alone;
But whenever he quaffs from the full, flowing bowl,
He is more like a beast than a man with a soul.
Next door lives the husband who frets at his wife;
With his temper and spleen, she's no peace of her life.
Well I know—do you? he muddles his head
Every night with hot toddy, ere going to bed.
With his temper and spleen, she's no peace of her life.
Well I know—do you? he muddles his head
Every night with hot toddy, ere going to bed.
“We temperance croakers harp on the same strain?”
Well—the cause is one story again and again;
Fights—tragedy—troubles—all stirred up by drink,
Good reason we have to keep harping, I think.
Well—the cause is one story again and again;
Fights—tragedy—troubles—all stirred up by drink,
Good reason we have to keep harping, I think.
We harp to these words; strong drink drives the knife
To the heart of a friend, and deprives him of life;
It turns sober boys into rowdies and knaves—
It steals from the household to fill up the graves.
To the heart of a friend, and deprives him of life;
It turns sober boys into rowdies and knaves—
It steals from the household to fill up the graves.
Who loves it the most first falls by its art;
It first wins its victim—then strikes to the heart.
But one thing is certain—it never was known
To do a man harm if he let it alone.
It first wins its victim—then strikes to the heart.
But one thing is certain—it never was known
To do a man harm if he let it alone.
104
RICH AND POOR.
By the castle-gate my lady stands,
Viewing broad acres and spreading lands.
Viewing broad acres and spreading lands.
Hill and valley and mead and plain
Are all her own, with their wealth of grain.
Are all her own, with their wealth of grain.
In the richest of rich robes she is dressed,
A jewel blazes upon her breast;
A jewel blazes upon her breast;
And her brow is decked with a diadem
That glitters with many a precious gem.
That glitters with many a precious gem.
But what to the Lady Wendoline
Rich satin garments or jewels fine?
Rich satin garments or jewels fine?
Or ripening harvests, or spreading lands—
See! she is wringing her milk-white hands!
See! she is wringing her milk-white hands!
And her finger is stained with crimson dew
Where the ring with the diamond star cut through.
Where the ring with the diamond star cut through.
And a look of pain and wild despair
Rests on the face, so young and fair.
Rests on the face, so young and fair.
105
To-morrow will be her bridal day,
And she will barter herself away
And she will barter herself away
For added wealth and a titled name;
'Tis the curse of her station, and whose the blame!
'Tis the curse of her station, and whose the blame!
She loathes the man who will call her wife,
And moans o'er her hapless, loveless life.
And moans o'er her hapless, loveless life.
The joys of wooing she cannot know;
My lord, her father, has willed it so.
My lord, her father, has willed it so.
She's a piece of merchandise, bought and sold
For name, position, and bags of gold.
For name, position, and bags of gold.
But people must wed in their own degree,
Though hearts may break in their agony.
Though hearts may break in their agony.
Under the hill, in the castle's shade,
At a cottage door sits an humble maid;
At a cottage door sits an humble maid;
In her cheek the blushes come and go
As she stitches away on a robe like snow;
As she stitches away on a robe like snow;
And she sings aloud in her happiness—
In a joy she cannot hide or repress.
In a joy she cannot hide or repress.
Close at her side her lover stands,
Watching the nimble, sun-browned hands
Watching the nimble, sun-browned hands
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As they draw the needle to and fro
Through the robe as white as drift of snow.
Through the robe as white as drift of snow.
Both hearts are singing a wordless lay,
For the morrow will be their bridal day.
For the morrow will be their bridal day.
They have only their hands, their love, their health,
In place of title, position, and wealth.
In place of title, position, and wealth.
But which is the rich, and which the poor,
The maid at the gate, or the maid in the door?
The maid at the gate, or the maid in the door?
123
OVER THE WATER.
Think of it, think of it over the water
Thousands of men to-day march on to death,
Think how the sun shines on fields red with slaughter—
How the air chokes, with the cannon's hot breath.
Thousands of men to-day march on to death,
Think how the sun shines on fields red with slaughter—
How the air chokes, with the cannon's hot breath.
How in the shadows, perchance, of this even,
Hundreds of hearts, will have paused in their beat,
Pale, ghastly brows, will be turned up to heaven—
Brows that were pressed by lips, tender and sweet.
Hundreds of hearts, will have paused in their beat,
Pale, ghastly brows, will be turned up to heaven—
Brows that were pressed by lips, tender and sweet.
Think of the homes that these battles are leaving
Destitute, desolate, dreary and dumb.
Think of the fond, patient, hearts that are grieving,
Breaking for loved ones, who never will come.
Destitute, desolate, dreary and dumb.
Think of the fond, patient, hearts that are grieving,
Breaking for loved ones, who never will come.
Ah! we so recently felt this same anguish,
Women—Oh! women who suffer and pray,
We well can weep with you, who weep and languish,
We have borne all you are bearing to-day.
Women—Oh! women who suffer and pray,
We well can weep with you, who weep and languish,
We have borne all you are bearing to-day.
124
“God speed the right,” we cry, “God be with Prussia,”
Yet to the mourners of soldiers who fall,
Whether their tears flow in France, or in Russia,
Their dead are their dead, and we pity them all.
Yet to the mourners of soldiers who fall,
Whether their tears flow in France, or in Russia,
Their dead are their dead, and we pity them all.
Think of it, think of it, hearts that are breaking,
Sorrowing, suffering, over the sea.
Think of the eyes that are blinded and aching
With watching for those whom they never will see.
Sorrowing, suffering, over the sea.
Think of the eyes that are blinded and aching
With watching for those whom they never will see.
139
THE CAMP FIRE.
When night hung low and dew fell damp,
There fell athwart the shadows
The gleaming watchfires of the camp,
Like glow-worms on the meadows.
The sentinel his measured beat
With measured tread was keeping,
While like bronze statues at his feet
Lay tired soldiers, sleeping.
There fell athwart the shadows
The gleaming watchfires of the camp,
Like glow-worms on the meadows.
The sentinel his measured beat
With measured tread was keeping,
While like bronze statues at his feet
Lay tired soldiers, sleeping.
On some worn faces of the men
There crept a homesick yearning,
Which made it almost seem again,
The child-look was returning.
While on full many a youthful brow,
Till now to care a stranger,
The premature grave lines told how
They had grown old through danger.
There crept a homesick yearning,
Which made it almost seem again,
The child-look was returning.
While on full many a youthful brow,
Till now to care a stranger,
The premature grave lines told how
They had grown old through danger.
One, in his slumber, laughed with joy,
The laughing echoes mocked him,
He thought beside his baby boy
He sat and gaily rocked him.
O pitying angels! Thou wert kind
To end this brief elysian,
He found what he no more could find
Save in a dreamer's vision.
The laughing echoes mocked him,
He thought beside his baby boy
He sat and gaily rocked him.
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To end this brief elysian,
He found what he no more could find
Save in a dreamer's vision.
The clear note of a mocking bird—
That star of sound—came falling
Down thro' the night; one, wakeful, heard
And answered to the calling,
And then upon the ear there broke
That sweet, pathetic measure,
That song that wakes—as then it woke,
Such mingled pain and pleasure.
That star of sound—came falling
Down thro' the night; one, wakeful, heard
And answered to the calling,
And then upon the ear there broke
That sweet, pathetic measure,
That song that wakes—as then it woke,
Such mingled pain and pleasure.
One voice at first, and then the sound
Pulsed like a great bell's swinging,
“Tenting to-night on the old camp ground,”
The whole roused camp was singing.
The sense of warfare's discontent
Gave place to warfare's glory;
Right merrily the swift hours went
With song, and jest, and story.
Pulsed like a great bell's swinging,
“Tenting to-night on the old camp ground,”
The whole roused camp was singing.
The sense of warfare's discontent
Gave place to warfare's glory;
Right merrily the swift hours went
With song, and jest, and story.
They sang the song of Old John Brown,
Whose march goes on forever;
It made them thirsty for renown,
It fired them with endeavor.
So much of that great heart lives still,
So much of that great spirit—
His very name shoots like a thrill
Through all men when they hear it.
Whose march goes on forever;
It made them thirsty for renown,
It fired them with endeavor.
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So much of that great spirit—
His very name shoots like a thrill
Through all men when they hear it.
They found in tales of march and fight
New courage as they listened,
And while they watched the weird camp-light,
And while the still stars glistened,
Like some stern comrade's voice, there broke
And swept from hill to valley
'Til all the sleeping echoes woke,—
The bugle's call to rally!
New courage as they listened,
And while they watched the weird camp-light,
And while the still stars glistened,
Like some stern comrade's voice, there broke
And swept from hill to valley
'Til all the sleeping echoes woke,—
The bugle's call to rally!
“To arms! to arms! the foe is near!”
Ah, brave hearts were ye equal
To hearing through without one fear
The whole tale's bloody sequel?
The laurel wreath, the victor's cry,
These are not all of glory;
The gaping wound, the glazing eye,
They, too, are in the story.
Ah, brave hearts were ye equal
To hearing through without one fear
The whole tale's bloody sequel?
The laurel wreath, the victor's cry,
These are not all of glory;
The gaping wound, the glazing eye,
They, too, are in the story.
And when again their tents were spread,
And by campfires they slumbered,
The missing faces of the dead
The living ones outnumbered.
And yet, their memories animate
The hearts that still survive them,
And holy seems the task, and great,
For one hour to revive them.
And by campfires they slumbered,
The missing faces of the dead
The living ones outnumbered.
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The hearts that still survive them,
And holy seems the task, and great,
For one hour to revive them.
| Poems of Love | |