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THE SOLDIER'S MOTHER.
WAKE, little daughter, awake!The sad moon is weaving her shroud;
The pale, drooping lily-bells quake;
The river is sobbing aloud.
I want your sweet face in my sight,
While I open my room to the night:
The torn clouds are flying, the lupine is sighing,
The whip-poor-will wails in affright.
There 's a shadow just marked on the floor—
Now soaring and breaking its bond;
'T is the woodbine, perhaps, by the door,
Or the blooming acacia beyond.
Oh, pitiful weakness of grief!
Oh, trouble, of troubles the chief!
When shades can assail us, and terrors impale us,
At sight of a quivering leaf.
Now soaring and breaking its bond;
'T is the woodbine, perhaps, by the door,
Or the blooming acacia beyond.
Oh, pitiful weakness of grief!
Oh, trouble, of troubles the chief!
When shades can assail us, and terrors impale us,
At sight of a quivering leaf.
I weep, little daughter, I weep;
But chide me not, love, for I heard,
Three times in the depth of my sleep,
The clang of a terrible word.
But chide me not, love, for I heard,
Three times in the depth of my sleep,
The clang of a terrible word.
