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Page 40
Or, mayhap, amid the phantoms
Teeming thick within his brain,
His dear father's locks, o'er-silvered,
Come to greet his view again;
And he hears his trembling accents,
Like a clarion ringing high,
"Since _not mine_ are youth and strength, boy,
_Thou_ must victor prove, or die."
Or perchance he hears a whisper
Of the faintest, faintest sigh,
Something deeper than word-spoken,
Something breathing of a tie
Near his soul as bounding heart-blood:
It is hers, that patient wife--
And again that parting seemeth
Like the taking leave of life:
And her last kiss he remembers,
And the agonizing thrill,
And the "_Must you go?_" and answer,
"_I but know my Country's will._"
Or the little children gather,
Half in wonder, round his knees;
And the faithful dog, mute, watchful,
In the mystic glass he sees;
And the voice of song, and pictures,
And the simplest homestead flowers,
Unforgotten, crowd before him
In the solemn midnight hours.
Then his thoughts in Dreamland wander
To a sister's sweet caress,
And he feels her dear lips quiver
As his own they fondly press;
And he hears her proudly saying,
(Though sad tears are in her eyes),
"Brave men fall, but live in story,
_For the Hero never dies!_"
Or, perhaps, his brown cheek flushes,
And his heart beats quicker now,
As he thinks of one who gave him,
Him, the loved one, love's sweet vow;
And, ah, fondly he remembers
He is _still_ her dearest care,
Even in his star-watched slumber
That she pleads for him in prayer.
Oh, the soldier _will_ be dreaming,
Dreaming _often_ of us all,
(When the damp earth is his pillow,
And the snow and cold sleet fall),
Of the dear, familiar faces,
Of the cozy, curtained room,
Of the flitting of the shadows
In the twilight's pensive gloom.
Or when summer suns burn o'er him,
Bringing drought and dread disease,
And the throes of wasting fever
Come his weary frame to seize--
In the restless sleep of sickness,
Doomed, perchance, to martyr death,
Hear him whisper "_Home_"--sweet cadence,
With his quickened, labored breath.
Then God bless him, bless the soldier,
And God nerve him for the fight;
May He lend his arm new prowess
To do battle for the right.
Let him feel that while he's dreaming
In his fitful slumber bound,
That we're praying--_God watch o'er him
In his blanket on the ground._
The Mountain Partisan.
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