She was buried yesterday
With her husband, side by side;
Ere two months had passed away
She had died!
For one morning she had read
Of her son among the slain,
And they saw her old gray head
Sink in pain.
Nevermore across the sea
Will he come to Italy!
He was killed in Tripoli,
Tripoli!
There was nothing more to tell
Of a lad so little known;
He was reckoned "one who fell,"
That alone.
Was he wounded? Did he lie
Long ill-treated by the foe?
And not know!
Yes, he lies beyond the sea!
(Can it be that that is he?)
In the sands of Tripoli,
Tripoli!
She had asked for nothing more,
But in silence slowly failed,
Dreaming ever of the shore,
Whence he sailed.
Till her face, so wan and white,
Flushed at last with sweet surprise,
And a strangely tender light
Filled her eyes.
Then for her was "no more sea"!
She had found the soul set free
From the sands of Tripoli,
Tripoli!
INFLUENCE
We know not what mysterious power
Lies latent in our words and deeds,—
Sweet as the perfume of a flower,
Strong as the life that sleeps in seeds;
But something certainly survives
The passing of our fleeting lives.
A look, a pressure of the hand,
A sign of hope, a song of cheer,
May journey over sea and land,
Outliving many a sterile year,
To find at last the destined hour
When they shall leap to bud and flower.
We write, we print, then—nevermore
To be recalled—our thoughts take flight,
Like white-winged birds that leave the shore,
And scattering, lose themselves in light;
For good or ill those words may be
The arbiters of destiny.