42 THE SOLDIER'S MOTHER. Who can tell where, this moment, my darling may be! On the window has gathered the moisture like dew; I can see where the moonbeams steal tremblingly through; It is cold, but not windy, - how dreary and damp air; For he never was used to the hardships of men When at home, for I shielded and cherished him then; And to all that could tend to his comfort I saw, For he seemed like a child till he went to the War! He is twenty, I know; and boys younger than he, But I never have seen a young soldier, as yet, How the sun and the wind must have darkened it now! How he will have been changed when he comes from the South !— THE SOLDIER'S MOTHER. 43 With his beard shutting out the sweet smiles of his mouth; And the tremulous beauty, the womanly grace, Will be bronzed from the delicate lines of his face, Where, of late, only childhood's soft beauty I saw, For he seemed like a child till he went to the War! He was always so gentle, and ready to yield; He was always so sparkling with laughter and joy, passed; A From his path the light fetters of pleasure he cast; He was only a child till he went to the War! There are homes that are humbler and sadder than ours; There are ways that are barer of beauty and flowers; 44 THE DEAD DRUMMER-BOY. There are those that must suffer for fire and bread, Or what hearth can be darker than mine seems to be, Now the glow of the firelight is all I can see, THE DEAD DRUMMER-BOY. 'MIDST tangled roots that lined the wild ravine Where the fierce fight raged hottest through the day, And where the dead in scattered heaps were seen, Amid the darkling forest's shade and sheen, Speechless in death he lay. The setting sun, which glanced athwart the place THE DEAD DRUMMER-BOY. The silken fringes of his once bright eye 45 No more his hand the fierce tattoo shall beat, And gallant men shall fall. Yet may be in some happy home, that one, And move her lips to say, And bow in grief her head. " But more than this what tongue shall tell his story ? He lived, he died; and so, memento mori, - 46 G A NATIONAL HYMN. A NATIONAL HYMN. BY PARK BENJAMIN. REAT God! to whom our nation's woes, In all their awful gloom are known, We pray Thee mitigate this strife, Such wounds and anguish, groans and tears, Oh, darkly now the tempest rolls, We trust to Thy protecting power O, God of battles! let Thy might |