* * * * *

The violets star the meadows,
The rose-buds fringe the door,
And over the grassy orchard
The pink-white blossoms pour.

But the grandsire’s chair is empty,
The cottage is dark and still,
There’s a nameless grave in the battle-field,
And a new one under the hill.

  And a pallid, tearless woman
    By the cold hearth sits alone,
  And the old clock in the corner
    Ticks on with a steady drone.

WILLIAM WINTER.

[1] From “Wanderers,” copyright, 1892, by Macmillan and Co.

The Song of the Camp.

  “Give us a song!” the soldiers cried,
    The outer trenches guarding,
  When the heated guns of the camps allied
    Grew weary of bombarding.

  The dark Redan, in silent scoff,
    Lay grim and threatening under;
  And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
    No longer belch’d its thunder.

  There was a pause.  A guardsman said: 
    “We storm the forts to-morrow;
  Sing while we may, another day
    Will bring enough of sorrow.”

  They lay along the battery’s side,
    Below the smoking cannon: 
  Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde,
    And from the banks of Shannon.

  They sang of love, and not of fame;
    Forgot was Britain’s glory: 
  Each heart recall’d a different name,
    But all sang “Annie Laurie.”

  Voice after voice caught up the song,
    Until its tender passion
  Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,—­
    Their battle-eve confession.

  Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,
    But as the song grew louder,
  Something upon the soldier’s cheek
    Washed off the stains of powder.

  Beyond the darkening ocean burn’d
    The bloody sunset’s embers,
  While the Crimean valleys learn’d
    How English love remembers.

  And once again a fire of hell
    Rain’d on the Russian quarters,
  With scream of shot, and burst of shell,
    And bellowing of the mortars!

  And Irish Nora’s eyes are dim
    For a singer dumb and gory;
  And English Mary mourns for him
    Who sang of “Annie Laurie.”

  Sleep, soldiers! still in honor’d rest
    Your truth and valor wearing: 
  The bravest are the tenderest,—­
    The loving are the daring.

B. TAYLOR.

In the Hospital.

  I lay me down to sleep,
  With little thought or care
  Whether my waking find
      Me here or there.

  A bowing, burdened head,
  That only asks to rest,
  Unquestioning, upon
      A loving breast.

  My good right hand forgets
  Its cunning now. 
  To march the weary march
      I know not how.

  I am not eager, bold,
  Nor strong—­all that is past;
  I am ready not to do
      At last, at last.