There she sat, so lovely grown, Like a queen to see,-- There she sat--but not alone,-- With her--who is he? So my boyish dream has flown, Faithless Natalie! VI. In my heart there is a place Still for Natalie! For the pretty, siren face, For the sweetly, winning ways, That were dear to me, In those happy far-off days, When her heart was free. THE FENIAN RAID. _June, 1866._ I. The breath of the south wind was laden with woe As it moaned to the Northland “Prepare for the foe!” And the Northland was silent a moment, and then There was hieing and arming and marching of men. II. To the front! There’s a struggle--the crisis is past! The foemen are flying! woe, woe to the last! There’s a hush, only stirred by the zephyr of peace, Wafting thanks to the God who makes fighting to cease. III. But, oh! with the voice of that zephyr a cry Strives up after justice that seemeth to fly From the nations of earth.--O our God have regard To that cry; let the cause of the injured be heard! IV. From the blood of the true, the unselfish, the brave, From the women and children they perished to save, Goes a cry that no sound of rejoicing can still: “Judge between us and those who have sanctioned this ill.” _Humanum est errare, Divinum condonare._ ’Tis easy to cry “Raca”[B] from within Cold, passionless morality’s strong tower, To those who struggle fiercely, hour by hour, ’Gainst grim Goliaths of unconquered sin. ’Tis easy, safely far from battle’s din, To wave a sword or raise a banner high To those who have to fight each inch, or--die; Who must be wounded, even if they win. ’Tis easy to point clean, weak hands of scorn When some much-tempted brother falls or flies; Or some sweet Eve has strayed from Paradise Into the outer world of briar and thorn. But in the great, high council of the skies There’s One who reads men’s hearts with milder eyes. [B] St. Matthew’s Gospel v. 22. SING ME THE SONGS I LOVE. Sing me the songs I love once more, The songs your lips have made so dear, For many a day must pass before Again your music fills my ear. And when you are no longer near, I’ll in my loneliness rejoice, Deep in my inmost heart, to hear The gentle music of your voice. ’Tis not in words that friendship lies, E’en when those words in music move, But words have power that never dies, When said or sung by those we love. So when in weariness I rove Through the world’s desert, seeking rest, The memory of your songs shall prove A solace to my lonely breast.