EIGHTEEN SIXTY-TWO.
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II.
Oh, pretty dark-eyed bird of the South, With your face so mournful and whiteThere is many a little Northern girl That is breathing that prayer to-night.
There's a little girl on the hills of Maine Looking out through the fading light,She looks down the winding path, and says, "He will surely come to-night!"
The table is set, the lamp is trimmed, The fire has a ruddy glowThat streams like a beacon down the path, To the dusky valley below.
There is smiling hope on the pretty face Pressed so close to the pane,And her eyes are like blue violets. After a summer rain.
III.
How you tremble, little Sybil, At the cannons' dreadful sound,Did you see far away, the fallen steed, And its rider prone on the ground?
