When the winter’s icy fingers sow The mound with jewels till it shines, And cowled in hoods of glistening snow, Like white-veiled sisters bending low, Bow, sorrowing, the silent pines. While others fought for cities proud, For fertile plains and wealth of mines, I breathed the sulph’rous battle cloud, I bared my breast, and took my shroud For the land where wave the grand old pines. Though comrades sigh and loved ones weep For the form shot down in the battle lines, In my grave of blood I gladly sleep, If the life I gave will help to keep The Vandal’s foot from the Land of Pines. * * * * * The Vandal’s foot hath pressed our sod, His heel hath crushed our sacred shrines; And, bowing ’neath the chastening rod, We lift our hearts and hands to God, And cry: “Oh! save our Land of Pines!” THE LAST LOOK TO MARY Do not fasten the lid of the coffin down yet; Let me have a long look at the face of my pet. Please all quit the chamber and pull to the door, And leave me alone with my darling once more. Is this little Ethel, so cold, and so still! Beat, beat, breaking heart, ’gainst God’s mystic will, Remember, O Christ, thou didst dread thine own cup, And while I drink mine, let thine arm bear me up. But the moments are fleeting: I must stamp on my brain, Each dear little feature, for never again Can I touch her; and only God measures how much Affection a mother conveys by her touch. Oh! dear little head, oh! dear little hair, So silken, so golden, so soft, and so fair, Will I never more smooth it? Oh! help me, my God, To bear this worst stroke of the chastening rod. Those bright little eyes that used to feign sleep, Or sparkle so merrily, playing at peep, Closed forever! And yet they seemed closed with a sigh, As if for our sake she regretted to die. And that dear little _mouth_, once so warm and so soft, Always willing to kiss you, no matter how oft, Cold and rigid, without the least tremor of breath, How could you claim _Ethel_, O pitiless death! Her hands! No, ’twill kill me to think how they wove Through my daily existence a tissue of love. Each finger’s a print upon memory’s page, That will brighten, thank God! and not dim with my age. Sick or well, they were ready at every request To amuse us: sweet hands! they deserve a sweet rest. Their last little trick was to wipe “Bopeep’s” eye, Their last little gesture, to wave us good-bye. Little feet! little feet, how dark the heart’s gloom, Where your patter is hushed in that desolate room! For oh! ’twas a sight sweet beyond all compare, To see little “Frisky” rock back in her chair. * * * * *