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THE FURLOUGH.

ONCE

THE FURLOUGH.

ANONYMOUS.

NCE more the music of his step
Rings on the gravel path.

Once more I meet his living eyes,

And hear his boyish laugh.

Once more one arm is round me thrown,
But through my tears I see

The other palsied by his side, -
His badge of loyalty.

Day that I did not hope to see ;
Yet over all the bliss

There hangs a web of memory
Not all unlike to this.

I'm thinking of a dream that came
When she had passed away,·
One star, whose vanishing so turned
To night our summer day.

I dreamed, amid the garden walk
I wandered when a child,

Her face looked out amid the flowers,
And on me sweetly smiled.

THE FURLOUGH.

I clasped again the tiny form,
As mothers only may,

And yet, and yet, I sighing sobbed,
With me she cannot stay.

Her mission here is past, I said;
And fragrance from the flowers,
A fancy strange, she gathered up,
I thought, for heavenly bowers.
Unlike the scene, yet similar,
The fountain of the tear

That rises at the sight of him,
My sturdy volunteer.

Too short these golden autumn days

So canopied with blue;

The hours drop as the dropping leaves,
As glorious their hue.

We almost bless the fatal aim

That felled the stalwart arm,

And gave us for a year of pain,
These days of sunny calm.

But soon the unnerved pulse will feel
The hero-current flow,

And then the soul will mount again

To meet the dreadful foe.

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320

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

O, not alone for fireside bliss,

And not for pleasant toys,
Are we to train our darling girls,

Our lion-hearted boys.

Some beckon us to heavenly seats

Amid celestial choirs ;

While through the night we pray
Around the lone camp-fires.
Bridgeport, Conn.

for some

E. A. B. L.

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

THE poplar drops beside the way Its tasselled plumes of silver gray; The chestnut points its great brown buds, impatient for the laggard May.

The honeysuckles lace the wall;
The hyacinths grow fair and tall;

And mellow sun, and pleasant wind, and odorous bees are over all.

Down-looking in this snow-white bud, How distant seems the war's red flood! How far remote the streaming wounds, the sickening scent of human blood!

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

Nor Nature does not recognize

321

This strife that rends the earth and skies; No war-dreams vex the winter sleep of cloverheads and daisy-eyes.

She holds her even way the same,
Though navies sink or cities flame;

A snow-drop is a snow-drop still, despite the nation's joy or shame.

When blood her grassy altar wets,

She sends the pitying violets

To heal the outrage with their bloom, and cover it with soft regrets.

O, crocuses with rain-wet eyes,

O, tender-lipped anemones,

What do you know of agony, and death and bloodwon victories?

No shudder breaks your sunshine trance, Though near you rolls, with slow advance, Clouding your shining leaves with dust, the anguishladen ambulance.

Yonder a white encampment hums;
The clash of martial music comes;

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SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

And now your startled stems are all a-tremble with the jar of drums.

Whether it lessen or increase,

Or whether trumpets shout or cease, Still deep within your tranquil hearts the happy bees are humming" Peace!"

O flowers! the soul that faints or grieves, New comfort from your lips receives; Sweet confidence and patient faith are hidden in your healing leaves.

Help us to trust, still on and on,

That this dark night will soon be gone, And that these battle-stains are but the blood-red trouble of the dawn

Dawn of a broader, whiter day
Than ever blessed us with its ray,

A dawn beneath whose purer light all guilt and wrong shall fade away.

Then shall our nation break its bands,

And, silencing the envious lands,

Stand in the searching light unshamed, with spotless robe, and clean, white hands.