The stars were always bright at night, the month was fair as June.
Dear Ruth! whose eyes were mild as doves’, whose tones were sweet as birds’—
More pleasant was the maid to me than gold or land or herds.
Sweet Ruth! at eighty-two my ears find music in the name;
But human bliss must reach its end, and bleak December came.
Meanwhile the people round us fought, the country was one camp;
Sometimes, far in the dead of night, I’d hear the soldiers’ tramp.
The Friends were loyal? Nay, not all; if loyalty be such
As favors fraud and winks at wrong, then few were loyal—much;
Yet few felt free to go to war—they dwelt upon the word