"What brave, buoyant letters you write, sweet!--they ring Through my soul like the blast of a trumpet, and bring Such a flame to my eye, such a flush to my cheek,-- That often my hand will unconsciously seek The hilt of my sword as I read,--and I feel As the warrior does, when he flashes the steel In fiery circles, and shouts in his might, For the heroes behind him, to follow its light! True wife of a soldier!--If doubt or dismay Had ever, within me, one instant held sway, Your words wield a spell that would bid them be gone, Like bodiless ghosts at the touch of the dawn. "Could the veriest craven that cowers and quails Before the vast horde that insults and assails Our land and our liberties,--could he to-night, Sit here on the ice-girdled log where I write, And look on the hopeful, bright brows of the men, Who have toiled all the day over mountain, through glen,-- Half-clothed and unfed,--would he doubt?--would he dare, In the face of such proof, yield again to despair? "The hum of their voices comes laden with cheer, As the wind wafts a musical swell to my ear,-- Wild, clarion catches,--now flute-like and low; --Would you like me to give you their Song of the Snow? Halt!--the march is over! Day is almost done; Loose the cumbrous knapsack, Drop the heavy gun: Chilled and wet and weary, Wander to and fro, Seeking wood to kindle Fires amidst the snow. Round the bright blaze gather, Heed not sleet nor cold,-- Ye are Spartan soldiers, Stout and brave and bold: Never Xerxian army Yet subdued a foe, Who but asked a blanket On a bed of snow. Shivering midst the darkness Christian men are found, There devoutly kneeling On the frozen ground,-- Pleading for their country, In its hour of woe,-- For its soldiers marching Shoeless through the snow. Lost in heavy slumbers, Free from toil and strife; Dreaming of their dear ones,-- Home, and child, and wife; Tentless they are lying, While the fires burn low,-- Lying in their blankets, Midst December's snow! Come, Sophy, my blossom! I've something to say Will chase for a moment your gambols away: To-day as we climbed the steep mountain-path o'er, I noticed a bare-footed lad in my corps; "How comes it,"--I asked,--"you look careful and bold, How comes it you're marching, unshod, through the cold?" "Ah, sir! I'm a poor, lonely orphan, you see; No mother, no friends that are caring for me; If I'm wounded, or captured, or killed, in the war, 'Twill matter to nobody, Colonel Dunbar."