A pictured face, in frame of gold,
Large, tender eyes, and forehead bold,
And firm, unflinching mouth;
A face that tells of mingled birth—
The calmness of the northern earth,
The passion of the south!
The one face in the world to me,
The face I never more shall see
Until God’s kingdom come!
Oh, tender eyes! oh, firm strong lips!
What comfort in my life’s eclipse?
What succor? Ye are dumb!
I brought the blossoms of the Spring
To deck my true love’s offering
While he was far away:
With rose’s bloom, with pansy’s grace
I wreathed the well-beloved face;
I have no flowers to-day.
But laurel, laurel for my brave
My hero lying in his grave
Upon that foreign sod!
He passed amid the crash of guns,
Beyond the farthest sun of suns,
A kingly soul, to God!
He died upon the battlefield,
He knew not, he, to fly nor yield,
Bold Britain’s worthy son!
And I will wreathe his laurel crown,
Although the bitter tears run down—
I was his chosen one.
He loved his country, so did I;
He parted forth to do or die,
And I—I let him go;
Oh dear, dear land! we gave thee all,
God bless the banner, and the pall,
God help the mourner’s woe!
I hear the bells ring loud and sweet,
I hear the shouting in the street,
For joy of victory;
The very children cease their play,
To babble of the victor’s bay,
And pennons flutter free.
I hear the vivas long and loud,
As they ride onward through the crowd,
His comrades bold and brave;
The shouts of triumph rend the air,
Oh, he must hear them lying there,
My hero in his grave!
I do not grudge thee, darling mine!
I, the last daughter of a line
Whose warrior blood ran free
Upon the battlefields of old;
Thou wast not mine to have and hold,
The land hath need of thee.
I do not grudge thee; I shall smile,
Beloved, in a little while,
And glory in thy name;
I hold love’s laurel in my hand,
But take thou from the grateful land
Thy wreath of deathless fame!
—_All the Year Round._