The wife who girds her husband's sword,
'Mid little ones who weep or wonder,
And bravely speaks the cheering word,
What though her heart be rent asunder,
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear
The bolts of death around him rattle,
Has shed as sacred blood as e'er
Was poured upon the field of battle.
The mother who conceals her grief
While to her breast her son she presses,
Then breathes a few brave words and brief,
Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,
With no one but her secret God
To know the pain that weighs upon her,
Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod
Received on Freedom's field of honor.
—Thomas Buchanan Read.
LOVE OF COUNTRY
Breathes there the man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said:
"This is my own, my native land!"
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power and pelf,
The wretch concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
—Sir Walter Scott.
FAIR INES
I saw you not fair Ines?
She's gone into the West,
To dazzle when the sun is down,
And rob the world of rest.
She took our daylight with her,
The smiles that we love best,
With morning blushes on her cheek,
And pearls upon her breast.
Oh, turn again, fair Ines
Before the fall of night,
For fear the moon should shine alone,
And stars unrivalled bright.
And blessed will the lover be,
That wakes beneath their light,
And breathes the love against thy cheek,
I dare not even write!
Would I had been, fair Ines,
That gallant cavalier,
Who rode so gaily by thy side
And whispered thee so near!
Were there no loving dames at home,
Or no true lovers here,
That he should cross the seas to win
The dearest of the dear?
I saw thee, lovely Ines,
Descend along the shore,
With a band of noble gentlemen,
And banners waved before.
And gentle youths and maidens gay—
And snowy plumes they wore;
It would have been a beauteous dream—
If it had been no more!
Alas, alas, fair Ines!
She went away with song,
With music waiting on her steps,
And shouting of the throng.
And some were sad, and felt no mirth,
But only music's wrong,
In sounds that sang, farewell, farewell!
To her you've loved so long.