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THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW. I

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THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW.  BT N. P. 'WILMS. Wo for my vine-clad home Titat erer it should be so dark to inp, With its bright threshold, and its whispering tree! That I should ever come, Fearing the lonely echo of a tread, Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead Lead on my orphan boy! Thy home is not so desolate to thee And the low shiver in the linden-tree May bring to thee a joy; But oh! how dark is the bright home before thee, To her who with a joyous spirit bore thee Lead on for thou art now My sole remainmg helper. God hath spoken, And the strong hart I leaned upon is broken And 1 have seen his brow, The forehead of my upright one and just, Trod by the hoof of battle to the dust. He will not meet me there Who blessed thee at the eventide, my son! And when the shadows of the night come on, He will not call to prayer. The lips that melted, giving thee to God, Are in the icy keeping of the sod Ay, my own boy! thy tire la with the sleepers of the valley cast, And the proud glory of my life hath past, With his high glance of fire. Wo! that the linden and the v ine should bloom, And a just man be gathered to the tomb! Why, bear them proudly, boy! It it the sword he girded to his thigh, It is the helm he wore in victory! And shall we have no joy ? For thy green vales, 0 native land, he died I will forget my sorrow-in my pride!

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