Ho, dwellers by the frontier trail, Come forth and greet the bride of war! From cabin and rough settlement They come to speed her on her way-- Maidens, whose ruddy cheeks grow pale With pity never felt before; Children that cluster at the door; Mothers, whose toil-worn hands are lent To help, or bid her longer stay. But through them all she passes on, Strangely martial, fair and wan; Nor waits to listen to their cheers That sound so faintly in her ears. For now all scenes around her shift, Like those before a racer's eyes When, foremost sped and madly swift, Quick stretching toward the goal he flies, Yet feels his strength wane with his breath, And purpose fail 'mid fears of death,-- Till, like the flashing of a lamp, Starts forth the sight of Arnold's camp,-- The bivouac flame, and sinuous gleam Of steel,--where, crouched, the army waits, Ere long, beyond the midnight stream, To storm Quebec's ice-mounded gates. IX Then to the leader she was brought, And spoke her simply loyal thought. If, 'mid the shame of after-days, The man who wronged his country's trust (Yet now in worth outweighed all praise) Remembered what this woman wrought, It should have bowed him to the dust! "Humbly my soldier-husband tried To do his part. He served,--and died. But honor did not die. His name And honor--bringing both, I came; And this his rifle, here, to show, While far away the tired heart sleeps, To-day his faith with you he keeps!" Proudly the war bride, ending so, Sank breathless in the dumb white snow. A RUNE OF THE RAIN O many-toned rain! O myriad sweet voices of the rain! How welcome is its delicate overture At evening, when the moist and glowing west Seals all things with cool promise of night's rest. At first it would allure The earth to kinder mood, With dainty flattering Of soft, sweet pattering: Faintly now you hear the tramp Of the fine drops, falling damp On the dry, sun-seasoned ground And the thirsty leaves, resound. But anon, imbued With a sudden, bounding access Of passion, it relaxes All timider persuasion. And, with nor pretext nor occasion, Its wooing redoubles; And pounds the ground, and bubbles In sputtering spray, Flinging itself in a fury Of flashing white away; Till the dusty road, Dank-perfumed, is o'erflowed; And the grass, and the wide-hung trees, The vines, the flowers in their beds,-- The virid corn that to the breeze Rustles along the garden-rows,-- Visibly lift their heads, And, as the quick shower wilder grows, Upleap with answering kisses to the rain.