“Steady! forward the squadron!” cries
The dying soldier, and strives amain
To rise from the pillow and his pain.
Wild and wandering are his eyes,
Painting once more, on the empty air,
The wrathful battle’s wavering glare.
“Hugh!” said Alice, and checked her fear
“Speak to me, Hugh; your father is here.”
“Father! what of my father? he
Is anything but a father to me;