Page:Poems Dorr.djvu/376

Let me sit down. Speak, Rosalie, when
You see a band of stalwart men,
With one fair boy among them—one
With bright hair shining in the sun,
Red, smiling lips, and eager eyes,
Blue as the blue of summer skies.
My boy! my boy!—Why come they not?
O Son of God! hast Thou forgot
Thy Mother's agony? Yet she,
Was she not stronger far than we,
We common mothers? Could she know
From her far heights such pain and woe?—
Run farther down the street, and see
If they're not coming, Rosalie!

Mother of Christ! how lag the hours!
What? just beyond the convent towers,
And coming straight this way? O heart,
Be still and strong, and bear thy part,
Thy new part, bravely. Hark! I hear
Above the city's hum the near
Slow tread of marching feet; I see—
Nay, I can not see, Rosalie;
Your eyes are younger. Is he there,
My Antoine, with his sunny hair?
It is like gold; it shines in the sun:
Surely you see it? What? Not one—
Not one bright head? All old, old men,
Gray-haired, gray-bearded, gaunt? Then—then
He has not come—he is ill, or dead!
O God, that I were in thy stead,
My son! my son! Who touches me?
Your pardon, sir. I am not she
For whom you look. Go farther on
Ere yet the daylight shall be gone.