LAST WORDS. When you, dear friend, undaunted, And safely brought me through. My words are weak, dear Charlie, there, Can you not hear me pant? How dark it grows! True comrade A moment, and he lay there Were stretched in careless grace, And by the fitful moon was seen 317 318 THE FURLOUGH. THE FURLOUGH. ANONYMOUS. ONCE Rings on the gravel path. Once more one arm is round me thrown, But through my tears I see The other palsied by his side, His badge of loyalty. Day that I did not hope to see; There hangs a web of memory I'm thinking of a dream that came I dreamed, amid the garden walk Her face looked out amid the flowers, THE FURLOUGH. I clasped again the tiny form, And yet, and yet, I sighing sobbed, Her mission here is past, I said; Too short these golden autumn days So canopied with blue; The hours drop as the dropping leaves, We almost bless the fatal aim That felled the stalwart arm, And gave us for a year of pain, But soon the unnerved pulse will feel And then the soul will mount again To meet the dreadful foe. 319 320 SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. O, not alone for fireside bliss, And not for pleasant toys, Our lion-hearted boys. Some beckon us to heavenly seats Amid celestial choirs ; While through the night we pray for some Around the lone camp-fires. E. A. B. L. SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. THE poplar drops beside the way Its tasselled plumes of silver gray; The chestnut points its great brown buds, impatient for the laggard May. The honeysuckles lace the wall; And mellow sun, and pleasant wind, and odorous bees are over all. Down-looking in this snow-white bud, How distant seems the war's red flood! How far remote the streaming wounds, the sickening scent of human blood! SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. Nor Nature does not recognize This strife that rends the earth and skies 321 No war-dreams vex the winter sleep of cloverheads and daisy-eyes. She holds her even way the same, A snow-drop is a snow-drop still, despite the nation's joy or shame. When blood her grassy altar wets, She sends the pitying violets To heal the outrage with their bloom, and cover it with soft regrets. O, crocuses with rain-wet eyes, O, tender-lipped anemones, What do you know of agony, and death and bloodwon victories ? No shudder breaks your sunshine trance, Though near you rolls, with slow advance, Clouding your shining leaves with dust, the anguishladen ambulance. Yonder a white encampment hums; |