Where the yellow globes of the orange grow
In the southern fields-that slope to the sun,—
Oh say, have my brothers met the foe,—
Has another Shiloh been lost or won?
For when the moonlight falls across
The threshold of our cottage door.
My heart is full of a sense of loss,
As if they would return no more.
Last year when the April days were fair,
And the harvest fields were ploughed and sown,
Two stalwart boys took each his share,
But now our father toils alone.
And often at our evening prayers,
With an absence I can understand,
I see him look at the vacant chairs,
And wipe his brow with his wrinkled hand.
And therefore at the fireside nook,
Kneeling sadly at night to pray,
All the light of the holy book
Seems to fall and point one way.
And therefore tending my milk-white curds,
Still the song that my fancy hums,
Catches the glitter of martial words,
And sets itself to the beat of drums.
CHRISTMAS HYMN.
Break over the waiting hill-tops,
White dawn of the Christmas morn!
For the angels have sung through the midnight,
That the wonderful Babe is born.
And still in the slumbering valleys,
The night's black tents are up,
And the young moon stands on the mountains,
Clear and fair as a silver cup.
Under the cottage rafters,
Silent and soft and deep,
On the swart low brow of the toiler,
Settles the dew of sleep.