By MARION COUTHOUY SMITH.
Ev'n he, the master of the songs of life,
May speak at times with less than certain sound--
"He jests at scars who never felt a wound."
So runs his word! Yet on the verge of strife,
They jest not who have never known the knife;
They tremble who in the waiting ranks are found,
While those scarred deep on many a battle-ground
Sing to the throbbing of the drum and fife.
They laugh who know the open, fearless breast,
The thrust, the steel-point, and the spreading stain;
Whose flesh is hardened to the searing test,
Whose souls are tempered to a high disdain.
Theirs is the lifted brow, the gallant jest,
The long last breath, that holds a victor-strain.