My Soldier-Son.
51
What! sleeping ere the toil is o'er,
And the decisive battle won?
At duty's summons sleep no more,
Awake and arm, my soldier-son!
Arm thee! for treason sows its seed
And rears its form throughout the land—
Now is thy country's sorest need,
Come to her aid with ready hand.
And the decisive battle won?
At duty's summons sleep no more,
Awake and arm, my soldier-son!
Arm thee! for treason sows its seed
And rears its form throughout the land—
Now is thy country's sorest need,
Come to her aid with ready hand.
Oh, ne'er till now hath voice of love
Failed of its echo in thine own:
Never till now hath duty proved
Too weak to rouse thee, soldier-son!
To call thee back is more than vain,
Since mightier strength than that of earth
Hath bound thee with unyielding chain,
And given thy spirit higher birth.
Failed of its echo in thine own:
Never till now hath duty proved
Too weak to rouse thee, soldier-son!
To call thee back is more than vain,
Since mightier strength than that of earth
Hath bound thee with unyielding chain,
And given thy spirit higher birth.
A father's sorrow-stricken heart
Laments, my soldier-son, with mine—
And brothers mourn the cruel dart,
That pierced a life so dear as thine—
And widowed, orphaned, wail is heard,
That tells of hopes untimely flown,
By which life's bitterest depths are stirred
And souls left quivering, bleeding, lone.
Laments, my soldier-son, with mine—
And brothers mourn the cruel dart,
That pierced a life so dear as thine—
And widowed, orphaned, wail is heard,
That tells of hopes untimely flown,
By which life's bitterest depths are stirred
And souls left quivering, bleeding, lone.
