. At early candle light and other poems. ing South, She whispered the name, with quivering mouth,Of that warrior lad by the strangers laid To sleep where the waves of a lone lagoonBreak round the grave of her boy in blue, And the winds in the cypress thickets croonHis dirge on the bank of the dark bayou. O my soldier son ! she yearned; O to feel the clasp of thine empty sleeve!O bitterest sweet on earth to grieveAbove thy dust, and a wreath to leave Oer my boy who never returned! List, thou loyal woman, he is not there;Did not thy child with his comrades fare In spectral battalions along the s
. At early candle light and other poems. ing South, She whispered the name, with quivering mouth,Of that warrior lad by the strangers laid To sleep where the waves of a lone lagoonBreak round the grave of her boy in blue, And the winds in the cypress thickets croonHis dirge on the bank of the dark bayou. O my soldier son ! she yearned; O to feel the clasp of thine empty sleeve!O bitterest sweet on earth to grieveAbove thy dust, and a wreath to leave Oer my boy who never returned! List, thou loyal woman, he is not there;Did not thy child with his comrades fare In spectral battalions along the street? We heard no tread of their phantom feet,But shadowy banners swept the air, And our stormy shouting was meant, in part,For the white host, hid from our mortal eyes, Who came to comfort their countrys heartFrom their tents in the meadows of Paradise. Yea, clad in the fame he came from his camp on the crystal rimOf the River of Life, as he came in the dimOld days when the nation had need of him, The boy who never JANES NEWTON MATTHEWS HE name which fell baptismal on thy browOf that apostle, brother of our Lord,Surnamed the Just, blameless in deedand word, Fell from a prophets lips, for just art his, surnamed the Wise, who once did bowAbove the apple neath his garden tree,When lo, beside it lay the golden keyWith which we fare thro all Gods mansions now;Yea, both of these in thee do meetly and Pallas thro thy spacious verseGo gracefully, enamored of thine art ;Pushing thy fancys broidered tapestry peer where Love doth laughingly rehearseSongs which thou singest us, Poet and Poets Friend.
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