  A pictured face, in frame of gold, Large, tender eyes, and forehead bold, And firm, unflinching mouth; A face that tells of mingled birth— The calmness of the northern earth, The passion of the south! The one face in the world to me, The face I never more shall see Until God’s kingdom come! Oh, tender eyes! oh, firm strong lips! What comfort in my life’s eclipse? What succor? Ye are dumb! I brought the blossoms of the Spring To deck my true love’s offering While he was far away: With rose’s bloom, with pansy’s grace I wreathed the well-beloved face; I have no flowers to-day. But laurel, laurel for my brave My hero lying in his grave Upon that foreign sod! He passed amid the crash of guns, Beyond the farthest sun of suns, A kingly soul, to God! He died upon the battlefield, He knew not, he, to fly nor yield, Bold Britain’s worthy son! And I will wreathe his laurel crown, Although the bitter tears run down— I was his chosen one. He loved his country, so did I; He parted forth to do or die, And I—I let him go; Oh dear, dear land! we gave thee all, God bless the banner, and the pall, God help the mourner’s woe! I hear the bells ring loud and sweet, I hear the shouting in the street, For joy of victory; The very children cease their play, To babble of the victor’s bay, And pennons flutter free. I hear the vivas long and loud, As they ride onward through the crowd, His comrades bold and brave; The shouts of triumph rend the air, Oh, he must hear them lying there, My hero in his grave! I do not grudge thee, darling mine! I, the last daughter of a line Whose warrior blood ran free Upon the battlefields of old; Thou wast not mine to have and hold, The land hath need of thee. I do not grudge thee; I shall smile, Beloved, in a little while, And glory in thy name; I hold love’s laurel in my hand, But take thou from the grateful land Thy wreath of deathless fame! —All the Year Round. |
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