GLORIOUS!

'Far how can a man die better, Than in facing fearful odds. For the ashes of his fathers— And the temples of his gods!'

Macaulay's Ballads of Ancient Rome.

Alone—and widowed so early, Aged only twenty-one— Only so few of her years are past, And yet her life is quite done! Quite concluded her life is— Nothing for hopes, or for fears; Nothing to think of, or look to see But a barren desert of years! Slender, lithe little figure— Graceful and yielding form, Never again to be held in the close Clasp of a manly arm! Oh the sweet oval face, And the wonderful violet eyes! No more to be sealed with true kisses, And opened to love's paradise! And oh the sunny, brown hair, Which breaks into ripples and waves O'er her sad brow—like the laughter Of young children over graves! Put it away under widow's weeds— Draw it as straight as you can: Never again will the dear little head Be held to the heart of a man. Dazed, she sits in the twilight Of the funeral-darkened room, Her whole soul gathered to listen—alas! For a voice that is stilled in the tomb. Dear voice, now silent forever! God help her! It seems a dream! She hopes, even now she may waken; But see yonder cruel sunbeam. How it wanders over the carpet— It lights up the distant room— It falls on his portrait—his portrait!— His face shines out in the gloom As warmly and loving as ever;— But, oh, there hangs under its frame The sword he has wielded so bravely— The blade that has lettered his name On the tablets of Glory—erected O'er the bodies of thousands of slain; Who have died to preserve the Republic! Our loss—but the nation's great gain. Wring the small, white hands together— Clasp them close over the breast:— Prisoned heart, throbbing so wildly, Never again to know rest. Can you not leap and be joyful, Knowing the nation is free! Gentle-eyed Peace is but waiting Sure of a welcome, to be. Ask not for pæans of triumph From 'only a woman's' heart: Alas! in the triumph of nations She hath but an humble part! Hers to be patient, and suffer— While her soul goes out to the fray With the one who is dearer than heaven, To see him shot down by the way. Anguished, for drops of cold water That e'en to the vilest we give! Mangled and crushed and insulted! God! can I write it, and live! Fold the hands o'er the soft bosom Baby hands never caressed— Hush into patience the sweet lips Never to man's to be pressed. There on the altar of nations She has given the soul out of her life: Holocaust greater was never: God help the poor, little wife!