“There’s a staff growing up for your age, Mother,” said Robert, “if I am to fall.”
IV.
“Eighteen?” Oh, I know; and yet narrowly. Just a wee babe on the day
When his father got up from his sick bed, and cast his last ballot for Clay.
Proud of his boy and his ticket, said he, “A new morsel of fame
We’ll lay on the candidate’s altar;” and christened the child with that name.*/
V.
O, what have I done, a weak woman? In what have I meddled with harm
(Troubling God only for sunshine and rain, on my rough little farm)
That my ploughshares are beaten to swords, and sharpened before my eyes--