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THE SOLDIER'S MOTHER.
"Your Harry is dying," it cried; "Is dying"' and "dying," it sighed;As bells that, in tolling, set echoes to rolling, Till fainting sound ebbs like the tide.
Then the walls of my room fell away; My eye pierced the distance afar,Where, by the plowed field of the fray, The camp-fire shone out like a star. And southward, unhindered, I fled, By the instinct of motherhood led;The night-wind was blowing, the red blood was flowing, And Harry was dying—was dead!
I dreamed, little daughter, I dreamed— Look! the window is lit by a face.It is not? Well, how life-like it seemed! Go, draw down the curtains of lace. It may be 't was only a flower; For fancy has wonderful power.The loud wind is whirring—hark! something is stirring— 'T is midnight—the clock knells the hour.
The horseman had ridden all night; His garments were spotted with gore;
