8. the latest war News.
Oh, pale, pale face! Oh, helpless hands!Sweet eyes by fruitless watching wronged,
Yet turning ever towards the lands
Where War's red hosts are thronged.
She shudders when they tell the tale
Of some great battle lost and won!
Her sweet child-face grows old and pale,
Her heart falls like a stone!
She sees no conquering flag unfurled,
She hears no victory's brazen roar,
But a dear face which was her world--
Perchance she'll kiss no more!
Ever there comes between her sight
And the glory that they rave about,
A boyish brow, and eyes whose light
Of splendor hath gone out.
The midnight glory of his hair,
Where late her fingers, like a flood
Of moonlight, wandered — lingering there--
Is stiff and dank — with blood!
She must not shrink, she must not moan;
She must not wring her quivering hands;
But sitting dumb and white, alone,
Be bound with viewless bands.
Because her suffering life enfolds
Another dearer, feebler life,
In death-strong grasp her heart she holds,
And stills its torturing strife.
Yester eve, they say, a field was won;
Her eyes ask tidings of the fight;
But tell her of the dead alone,
Who lay out in the night!
In mercy tell her that his name
Was not upon that fatal list;
That not among the heaps of slain
Dumb are the lips she's kissed.
Oh, poor pale child!
Oh, woman heart!
Its weakness triumphed o'er by strength!
Love teaching pain, discipline's art,
And conquering at length!
