. Idyls of battle and poems of the rebellion. weet! my all!He wrote me he was coming ; and all dayI sat and listened for his homeward said, Sweet wife ! one little week ago,—His farewell kiss is warm upon my mouth;And now ? — They re hringing him home !Why ! there s his letter on the table there, —His very last! and the tender hand that wroteWill never stroke my nestling head again;And wdien I kiss him he 11 not kiss me back;And when I suffer he 11 not comfort ! are you just ? You knew he was my all!And so I — they We hringing him home ! 102 BRINGING HIM HOME! 1 wonder if the vi
. Idyls of battle and poems of the rebellion. weet! my all!He wrote me he was coming ; and all dayI sat and listened for his homeward said, Sweet wife ! one little week ago,—His farewell kiss is warm upon my mouth;And now ? — They re hringing him home !Why ! there s his letter on the table there, —His very last! and the tender hand that wroteWill never stroke my nestling head again;And wdien I kiss him he 11 not kiss me back;And when I suffer he 11 not comfort ! are you just ? You knew he was my all!And so I — they We hringing him home ! 102 BRINGING HIM HOME! 1 wonder if the violets are all dead, —His ejes were like tliem !Well, if their roots are planted on our graves,They 11 blossom blue and thick, this time next , my dead soldier! Oh, my lifes one love !I think I could have borne it better ifYou d kissed me only once before you died !Say, do you miss me, darling, up in heaven ?I want you so, that if God lets me go,I 11 leave the world to find you, —I cannot wait until they ^ hring you liome^*. PREACHING IN CAMP. mHE rich light Fell tenderly and like a heaven-sentblessingUpon the prayerful, upturned facesOf a great multitude. The musical swellOf song sublime pealed out its triumph glad ;And my rapt soul went out upon the wings,The viewless wings of melody, and left This weary land, And sought a glorious one beyond the stars,Where life is love, and love is infinite ;Where shadows never come to dim the lightOf perfect blessedness. 104 PREACHING IN CAMP. The music ceased,And looking up, I saw, through lingering tears,A wan, half spiritual form, — an earnesi greatest heauty was its intense lookOf self-devotedness. He spoke, and then it seemedAs if that living mass had but one heart, —One mighty quiverings throbbing heart, —And each word pierced it through. And strong men coweredBefore his searching words, and every eyeWas drawn to his, and helpless hands were tears welled up unbidden, — stranger guestsTo
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