The silence mocks the questions sighed, and nought but shadows fall;
The picture made the fairies fade, with dying notes they call. 
Doth see the Hand that holds the key?  Eclipse of moon they sing,
Go, nations, to thy dreamland couch, and ponder o’er this thing.

Midnight Thoughts.

In silent hours of midnight while earth is wrapped in dreams,
I ponder o’er my present life—­how desolate it seems. 
Through wakeful hours I scan each page penned in despair and grief,
Then turn to my loved childhood’s home for comfort and relief.

A cottage white was standing there among the grand old hills. 
And ’midst the spreading shady trees were songs of laughing rills. 
In that dear home my parents lived, my brothers large and small,
With uncles, aunts and cousins near, and I the pet of all.

But listen! ‘tis my childrens’ call, I hear their plaintive prayer,
In fancy now I press soft cheeks and fondly stroke fair hair. 
Wide seas may roll between us, yet my darlings will life brave,
Perchance be folded to my heart, or kiss their mother’s grave.

Some Mother’s Boy.

The battle-cry is sounding loud, a bugle calls to arm,
The hills and dales are clouded o’er, troops gather in alarm;
With winds is mingled sighing prayer from many a sinking brave;
A youth obeying duty’s call, a life his country gave.

A soldier boy’s dying cry is heard amid the roar
Of battle strife; surround with slain he falls to rise no more. 
Some mother’s boy! it matters not if clad in blue or gray,
If fighting for the right or wrong, is hurried to his grave.

Amid the beats of drum and fife, his pillow but a sod,
With folded hands and marble brow, his soul returns to God. 
Some mother’s boy is resting where the lonely willows weep,
And voices waft with waving trees, while angels watch him sleep.

Now comes along the highway a dusty tramp forlorn,
A tattered coat conceals beneath a bent and aged form,
With hardened weary visage, a bell he faintly rings;
The air is rent with pitying notes, an angel softly sings.

Upon this frozen nature no love for years has shown;
His life is made of cruel words, and knows no kindly tone;
And could you see into his past, as mother clasped her boy,
He then was innocent and fair—­her pride, her hope, her joy.

She never dreamed her darling child a weary tramp would be,
For o’er his tasks or youthful sports he laughed in childish glee;
Perhaps he sinned, but, O! forget, for suffering must repay,
And someone’s boy has now become wretched, old and gray.

Within a large and gilded hall a revel wild is held,
The sound of oaths and laughter loud upon the breezes swell;
A man is seen with bloated face come reeling to the streets;
He turns his fierce and lurid eyes as friends he loudly greets.