BY THE SHENANDOAH.
243
Their hair by mountain winds is blown,
Their shout the echoing valley fills.
Wafts from the woodland, spring sunshine,
Come as they open this door of mine,
And I hear them sing by the evening blaze
The songs they sang in the vanished days.
Their shout the echoing valley fills.
Wafts from the woodland, spring sunshine,
Come as they open this door of mine,
And I hear them sing by the evening blaze
The songs they sang in the vanished days.
I cannot part their lives and say,
"This was the traitor, this the true;"
God only knows why one should stray,
And one go pure death's portals through.
They have passed from their mother's clasp and care;
But my heart ascends in the yearning prayer
That His larger love will the two enfold,—
My Courtney fair and my Philip bold!
"This was the traitor, this the true;"
God only knows why one should stray,
And one go pure death's portals through.
They have passed from their mother's clasp and care;
But my heart ascends in the yearning prayer
That His larger love will the two enfold,—
My Courtney fair and my Philip bold!
October, 1863.
