A pictured face, in frame of gold,Large, tender eyes, and forehead bold,And firm, unflinching mouth;A face that tells of mingled birth—The calmness of the northern earth,The passion of the south!The one face in the world to me,The face I never more shall seeUntil God’s kingdom come!Oh, tender eyes! oh, firm strong lips!What comfort in my life’s eclipse?What succor? Ye are dumb!I brought the blossoms of the SpringTo deck my true love’s offeringWhile he was far away:With rose’s bloom, with pansy’s graceI wreathed the well-beloved face;I have no flowers to-day.But laurel, laurel for my braveMy hero lying in his graveUpon that foreign sod!He passed amid the crash of guns,Beyond the farthest sun of suns,A kingly soul, to God!He died upon the battlefield,He knew not, he, to fly nor yield,Bold Britain’s worthy son!And I will wreathe his laurel crown,Although the bitter tears run down—I was his chosen one.He loved his country, so did I;He parted forth to do or die,And I—I let him go;Oh dear, dear land! we gave thee all,God bless the banner, and the pall,God help the mourner’s woe!I hear the bells ring loud and sweet,I hear the shouting in the street,For joy of victory;The very children cease their play,To babble of the victor’s bay,And pennons flutter free.I hear the vivas long and loud,As they ride onward through the crowd,His comrades bold and brave;The shouts of triumph rend the air,Oh, he must hear them lying there,My hero in his grave!I do not grudge thee, darling mine!I, the last daughter of a lineWhose warrior blood ran freeUpon the battlefields of old;Thou wast not mine to have and hold,The land hath need of thee.I do not grudge thee; I shall smile,Beloved, in a little while,And glory in thy name;I hold love’s laurel in my hand,But take thou from the grateful landThy wreath of deathless fame!—All the Year Round.
A pictured face, in frame of gold,Large, tender eyes, and forehead bold,And firm, unflinching mouth;A face that tells of mingled birth—The calmness of the northern earth,The passion of the south!The one face in the world to me,The face I never more shall seeUntil God’s kingdom come!Oh, tender eyes! oh, firm strong lips!What comfort in my life’s eclipse?What succor? Ye are dumb!I brought the blossoms of the SpringTo deck my true love’s offeringWhile he was far away:With rose’s bloom, with pansy’s graceI wreathed the well-beloved face;I have no flowers to-day.But laurel, laurel for my braveMy hero lying in his graveUpon that foreign sod!He passed amid the crash of guns,Beyond the farthest sun of suns,A kingly soul, to God!He died upon the battlefield,He knew not, he, to fly nor yield,Bold Britain’s worthy son!And I will wreathe his laurel crown,Although the bitter tears run down—I was his chosen one.He loved his country, so did I;He parted forth to do or die,And I—I let him go;Oh dear, dear land! we gave thee all,God bless the banner, and the pall,God help the mourner’s woe!I hear the bells ring loud and sweet,I hear the shouting in the street,For joy of victory;The very children cease their play,To babble of the victor’s bay,And pennons flutter free.I hear the vivas long and loud,As they ride onward through the crowd,His comrades bold and brave;The shouts of triumph rend the air,Oh, he must hear them lying there,My hero in his grave!I do not grudge thee, darling mine!I, the last daughter of a lineWhose warrior blood ran freeUpon the battlefields of old;Thou wast not mine to have and hold,The land hath need of thee.I do not grudge thee; I shall smile,Beloved, in a little while,And glory in thy name;I hold love’s laurel in my hand,But take thou from the grateful landThy wreath of deathless fame!—All the Year Round.
A pictured face, in frame of gold,Large, tender eyes, and forehead bold,And firm, unflinching mouth;A face that tells of mingled birth—The calmness of the northern earth,The passion of the south!
A pictured face, in frame of gold,
Large, tender eyes, and forehead bold,
And firm, unflinching mouth;
A face that tells of mingled birth—
The calmness of the northern earth,
The passion of the south!
The one face in the world to me,The face I never more shall seeUntil God’s kingdom come!Oh, tender eyes! oh, firm strong lips!What comfort in my life’s eclipse?What succor? Ye are dumb!
The one face in the world to me,
The face I never more shall see
Until God’s kingdom come!
Oh, tender eyes! oh, firm strong lips!
What comfort in my life’s eclipse?
What succor? Ye are dumb!
I brought the blossoms of the SpringTo deck my true love’s offeringWhile he was far away:With rose’s bloom, with pansy’s graceI wreathed the well-beloved face;I have no flowers to-day.
I brought the blossoms of the Spring
To deck my true love’s offering
While he was far away:
With rose’s bloom, with pansy’s grace
I wreathed the well-beloved face;
I have no flowers to-day.
But laurel, laurel for my braveMy hero lying in his graveUpon that foreign sod!He passed amid the crash of guns,Beyond the farthest sun of suns,A kingly soul, to God!
But laurel, laurel for my brave
My hero lying in his grave
Upon that foreign sod!
He passed amid the crash of guns,
Beyond the farthest sun of suns,
A kingly soul, to God!
He died upon the battlefield,He knew not, he, to fly nor yield,Bold Britain’s worthy son!And I will wreathe his laurel crown,Although the bitter tears run down—I was his chosen one.
He died upon the battlefield,
He knew not, he, to fly nor yield,
Bold Britain’s worthy son!
And I will wreathe his laurel crown,
Although the bitter tears run down—
I was his chosen one.
He loved his country, so did I;He parted forth to do or die,And I—I let him go;Oh dear, dear land! we gave thee all,God bless the banner, and the pall,God help the mourner’s woe!
He loved his country, so did I;
He parted forth to do or die,
And I—I let him go;
Oh dear, dear land! we gave thee all,
God bless the banner, and the pall,
God help the mourner’s woe!
I hear the bells ring loud and sweet,I hear the shouting in the street,For joy of victory;The very children cease their play,To babble of the victor’s bay,And pennons flutter free.
I hear the bells ring loud and sweet,
I hear the shouting in the street,
For joy of victory;
The very children cease their play,
To babble of the victor’s bay,
And pennons flutter free.
I hear the vivas long and loud,As they ride onward through the crowd,His comrades bold and brave;The shouts of triumph rend the air,Oh, he must hear them lying there,My hero in his grave!
I hear the vivas long and loud,
As they ride onward through the crowd,
His comrades bold and brave;
The shouts of triumph rend the air,
Oh, he must hear them lying there,
My hero in his grave!
I do not grudge thee, darling mine!I, the last daughter of a lineWhose warrior blood ran freeUpon the battlefields of old;Thou wast not mine to have and hold,The land hath need of thee.
I do not grudge thee, darling mine!
I, the last daughter of a line
Whose warrior blood ran free
Upon the battlefields of old;
Thou wast not mine to have and hold,
The land hath need of thee.
I do not grudge thee; I shall smile,Beloved, in a little while,And glory in thy name;I hold love’s laurel in my hand,But take thou from the grateful landThy wreath of deathless fame!—All the Year Round.
I do not grudge thee; I shall smile,
Beloved, in a little while,
And glory in thy name;
I hold love’s laurel in my hand,
But take thou from the grateful land
Thy wreath of deathless fame!
—All the Year Round.