Sweetly the mellow moonbeams fall
  O’er rose-wreathed cottage and ivied wall.

  But never dawned a brighter eve,
  Than the holy night of St. Genevieve.

  And never moonlight fairer fell,
  Over the banks of the blue Moselle.

  Richly the silver splendor shines,
  Spangles with sheen the clustered vines,

  And rests, in benediction fair,
  On midnight tresses and golden hair.

  Golden hair and midnight tress,
  Mingle in tender lovingness,

  While the evening breezes breathe upon
  Marie and Jean,—­and their hearts are one!

  “The spell of silence lifts at last,
  Marie, the saint’s sweet day is past!

  “Her vesper chimes have died away,
  Where shall we be on Christmas day?”

  With answering throb heart thrilled to heart,
  Hand met hand with sudden start.

  For in each soul shone the blessed thought,
  The vision fair of a little cot,

  Nestled beneath the lilac spray,
  Waiting the blissful bridal day!

  Low bowed in tearful silence there,
  Their hearts rose up in solemn prayer,

  And still the mellow lustre fell
  Over the banks of the blue Moselle.

  And still the moonlight shone upon
  Marie and Jean,—­and their hearts were one!

II

  Six red moons have rolled away,
  And the sun is shining on Christmas day.

  Over the hills of fair Lorraine—­
  Heaps of ashes and rows of slain.

  Where merrily rang the light guitar,
  The angry trump of the red hussar

  Flings on the midnight’s shrinking breath,
  The direful notes of the Dance of Death!

  Underneath the clustered vines,
  The sentry’s glittering saber shines.

  Over the banks of the blue Moselle,
  Rain of rocket and storm of shell!

  Where to-day is the forehead fair,
  Crowned with masses of midnight hair?

  A summer’s twilight saw him fall,
  Dead on Verdun’s leaguered wall.

  Where, alas! is the little cot? 
  Ask the blackened walls of Gravelotte!

  Under the lilac broods alone
  A maid whose heart is turned to stone.

  Who sits, with folded fingers, dumb,
  And meekly prays that her time may come!

  Yet see! the Death-god’s baleful star! 
  And War’s black eagle screams afar!

  And lo! the Christmas shadows wane
  Over the hills of sad Lorraine.

Quarterly, 1873.

IN ANSWER

“S.”

  And thou didst idly dream,
    Or, careless of thy action, think,
  To cast a veil o’er all the past
    And weld anew the broken link? 
  Vain thought to weave anew the bond
    That thou didst ruthless sever;
  Know friendship often turns to love,
    But love to friendship never.