Lost in heavy slumbers,
Free from toil and strife;
Dreaming of their dear ones,—
Home, and child, and wife;
Tentless they are lying,
While the fires burn low,—
Lying in their blankets,
Midst December's snow!
Come, Sophy, my blossom! I've something to say
Will chase for a moment your gambols away:
To-day as we climbed the steep mountain-path o'er,
I noticed a bare-footed lad in my corps;
"How comes it,"—I asked,—"you look careful and bold,
How comes it you're marching, unshod, through the cold?"
"Ah, sir! I'm a poor, lonely orphan, you see;
No mother, no friends that are caring for me;
If I'm wounded, or captured, or killed, in the war,
'Twill matter to nobody, Colonel Dunbar."
Now, Sophy!—your needles, dear!—Knit him some socks,
And send the poor fellow a pair in my box;
Then he'll know,—and his heart with the thought will be filled,—
There is one little maiden will care if he's killed.
The fire burns dimly, and scattered around,
The men lie asleep on the snow-covered ground;
But ere in my blanket I wrap me to rest,
I hold you, my darling, close,—close, to my breast:
God love you! God grant you His comforting light!
I kiss you a thousand times over!—Good night!
V.
"To-morrow is Christmas!"—and clapping his hands,
Little Archie in joyful expectancy stands,
And watches the shadows, now short and now tall,
That momently dance up and down on the wall.
Drawn curtains of crimson shut out the cold night,
And the parlor is pleasant with odours and light;
The soft lamp suspended, its mellowness throws
O'er cluster'd geranium, jasmine and rose;
The sleeping canary hangs caged midst the blooms,
A Sybarite slumberer steeped in perfumes;
For Alice still clings to her birds and her flowers,
Sweet tokens of kindlier, happier hours.