Page:Poems Jones.djvu/74

   "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;