There’s a happy time coming,
  When the boys come home. 
There’s a glorious day coming,
  When the boys come home. 
We will end the dreadful story
Of this treason dark and gory
In a sunburst of glory,
  When the boys come home.

The day will seem brighter
  When the boys come home,
For our hearts will be lighter
  When the boys come home. 
Wives and sweethearts will press them
In their arms and caress them,
And pray God to bless them,
  When the boys come home.

The thinned ranks will be proudest
  When the boys come home,
And their cheer will ring the loudest
  When the boys come home. 
The full ranks will be shattered,
And the bright arms will be battered,
And the battle-standards tattered,
  When the boys come home.

Their bayonets may be rusty,
  When the boys come home,
And their uniforms dusty,
  When the boys come home. 
But all shall see the traces
Of battle’s royal graces,
In the brown and bearded faces,
  When the boys come home.

Our love shall go to meet them,
  When the boys come home,
To bless them and to greet them,
  When the boys come home;
And the fame of their endeavor
Time and change shall not dissever
From the nation’s heart forever,
  When the boys come home.

Lese-Amour

How well my heart remembers
Beside these camp-fire embers
The eyes that smiled so far away,—­
  The joy that was November’s.

  Her voice to laughter moving,
  So merrily reproving,—­
We wandered through the autumn woods,
  And neither thought of loving.

  The hills with light were glowing,
  The waves in joy were flowing,—­
It was not to the clouded sun
  The day’s delight was owing.

Though through the brown leaves straying,
  Our lives seemed gone a-Maying;
We knew not Love was with us there,
  No look nor tone betraying.

  How unbelief still misses
  The best of being’s blisses! 
Our parting saw the first and last
  Of love’s imagined kisses.

  Now ’mid these scenes the drearest
  I dream of her, the dearest,—­
Whose eyes outshine the Southern stars,
  So far, and yet the nearest.

  And Love, so gayly taunted,
  Who died, no welcome granted,
Comes to me now, a pallid ghost,
  By whom my life is haunted.

  With bonds I may not sever,
  He binds my heart forever,
And leads me where we murdered him,—­
  The Hill beside the River.

CAMP SHAW, FLORIDA, February, 1864.

Northward

Under the high unclouded sun
That makes the ship and shadow one,
  I sail away as from the fort
Booms sullenly the noonday gun.

The odorous airs blow thin and fine,
The sparkling waves like emeralds shine,
  The lustre of the coral reefs
Gleams whitely through the tepid brine.