The tattoo beats—the lights are gone,
The camp around in slumber lies;
The night with solemn pace moves on,
The shadows thicken o’er the skies;
But sleep my weary eyes hath flown,
And sad, uneasy thoughts arise.
I think of thee, Oh, dearest one,
Whose love my early life hath blest—
Of thee and him—our baby son—
Who slumbers on thy gentle breast.
God of the tender, frail and lone,
Oh, guard the tender sleeper’s rest.
And hover gently, hover near,
To her, whose watchful eye is wet—
To mother, wife—the doubly dear,
In whose young heart have freshly met
Two streams of love so deep and clear
And clear her drooping spirits yet.
Whatever fate those forms may show,
Loved with a passion almost wild—
By day—by night—in joy or woe—
By fears oppressed, or hopes beguiled,
From every danger, every foe,
O God! protect my wife and child!
Now, while she kneels before Thy throne,
Oh, teach her, ruler of the skies,
That, while by thy behest alone,
Earth’s mightiest powers fall or rise,
No tear is wept to Thee unknown,
No hair is lost, no sparrow dies!
That Thou can’st stay the ruthless hands
Of dark disease, and soothe its pain;
That only by Thy stern command
The battle’s lost, the soldier’s slain—
That from the distant sea or land
Thou bring’st the wanderer home again.
And when upon her pillow lone
Her tear-wet cheek is sadly prest,
May happier visions beam upon
The brightening current of her breast,
No frowning look nor angry tone
Disturb the Sabbath of her rest.
JONATHAN TO JOHN.
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
Lowell was born at Cambridge, Mass., in 1819. He went to Harvard college and was Longfellow’s successor as professor of modern languages at the same college. From 1857–’62 he was editor of the Atlantic Monthly; in 1863–’72 he was editor of the North American Review. He held the office of United States minister, first to Spain–1877–’80—and later to Great Britain–1880–’85. Lowell died at Cambridge in 1891. Among his poems are the “Biglow Papers,” the “Vision of Sir Launfal,” “A Tale for Critics.” Some of his prose works are “Among My Books,” “My Study Windows,” and “Political Essays.”
It don’t seem hardly right, John,
When both my hands was full,
To stump me to a fight, John—
Your cousin, tu, John Bull!
Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess
We know it now,” sez he;
“The lion’s paw is all the law,
According to J. B.,
Thet’s fit for you an’ me!”