The wife, with trembling hand that wrote to say The babe was waiting for the sire’s caress— The letter meeting that upon the way,— The babe was fatherless: The maiden, with her lips, in fancy, pressed Against the brow once dewy with her breath, Now lying numb, unknown, and uncaressed Save by the dews of death. II What meed of tribute can the poet pay The Soldier, but to trail the ivy-vine Of idle rhyme above his grave to-day In epitaph design?— Or wreathe with laurel-words the icy brows That ache no longer with a dream of fame, But, pillowed lowly in the narrow house, Renown’d beyond the name. The dewy tear-drops of the night may fall, And tender morning with her shining hand May brush them from the grasses green and tall That undulate the land.— Yet song of Peace nor din of toil and thrift, Nor chanted honors, with the flowers we heap, Can yield us hope the Hero’s head to lift Out of its dreamless sleep: The dear old flag, whose faintest flutter flies A stirring echo through each patriot breast, Can never coax to life the folded eyes That saw its wrongs redressed— That watched it waver when the fight was hot, And blazed with newer courage to its aid, Regardless of the shower of shell and shot Through which the charge was made;— And when, at last, they saw it plume its wings, Like some proud bird in stormy element, And soar untrammelled on its wanderings, They closed in death, content. III O mother, you who miss the smiling face Of that dear boy who vanished from your sight, And left you weeping o’er the vacant place He used to fill at night,— Who left you dazed, bewildered, on a day That echoed wild huzzas, and roar of guns That drowned the farewell words you tried to say To incoherent ones;— Be glad and proud you had the life to give— Be comforted through all the years to come,— Your country has a longer life to live, Your son a better home. O widow, weeping o’er the orphaned child, Who only lifts his questioning eyes to send A keener pang to grief unreconciled,— Teach him to comprehend He had a father brave enough to stand Before the fire of Treason’s blazing gun, That, dying, he might will the rich old land Of Freedom to his son. And, maiden, living on through lonely years In fealty to love’s enduring ties,— With strong faith gleaming through the tender tears That gather in your eyes, Look up! and own, in gratefulness of prayer, Submission to the will of Heaven’s High Host:— I see your Angel-soldier pacing there, Expectant at his post.— I see the rank and file of armies vast, That muster under one supreme control; I hear the trumpet sound the signal-blast— The calling of the roll—