It was not thine, that forehead Oh, once, once bending to these widstrange and cold, Nor those dumb lips, they hid be owed lips, Take back the tender warmth of life from me, let thy kisses cloud with swift eclipse The light of mine, and give me death with thee? THE SONG OF THE CAMP. "GIVE us a song!" the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding. The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay, grim and threatening, under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder. There was a pause. A guardsman said, "We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow.' They lay along the battery's side, And from the banks of Shannon. They sang of love, and not of fame; Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, Their battle-eve confession. Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But, as the song grew louder, That voice, the perfect music of Something upon the soldier's cheek pour thy heart? Washed off the stains of powder. Woods of glossy oak are ringing Songs, that by the Danube's river And where waves in green light quiver, Down the rushing Rhine. Life, with all its hues and changes, To thy heart doth lie Like those dreamy Alpine ranges In the southern sky; Where the village maidens gather Where the autumn fires are burning Where the mossy wheels are turning Where from ruined robber towers And the crimson foxbell flowers |