A MAN stands lonely on a foreign strand,
Gazing afar, with longing, wistful eye,
O'er the blue waters; ever and anon,
A name, half-uttered, trembles on his lips.
Oh, there are worlds of sadness in that gaze
Of yearning, deep, unutterable love,
As though his very spirit had gone forth,
In that long look, across the trackless deep,
O'er the wild waste of waters, and had reached
That far-off land, and once more gazed upon
The form beloved: while tears, unbidden, start,
And dim the brightness of that eagle eye
With unaccustomed moisture. That dark eye
Has looked, unmoved, on many a battle-field;
With firm, unshrinking glance, stood face to face
With Death in all his terrors; yet the thought
Of one sweet face in that far-distant home,
Across the ocean wide, has had the power
Thus to unman him.-Yet, oh blame him not!
He is not more a hero, whose stern eye
Has never known the dimness of a tear
Drawn from affection's spring, the fountain sweet
Of tender memories. No, give me the heart
Bold as a lion in the field of fight,
Yet tender as a woman's when the voice
Of fond Affection calls. Such heart was his :
Brave, loyal, true, Nature's own workmanship,
Formed in her noblest mould of chivalry.
Ever the foremost in the battle's van,
Where Glory led, with Danger hand in hand,
There followed he, fearless, though Death's dark wing Hung hovering near, and his winged messengers,
Bearing the doom of many hearts, fell round
Thick as the winter's hail. His comrades oft
Have marked his dauntless mien, as calm he smiled
Amid the cannon's thunder, and led on
His men to victory, or a soldier's grave.
They knew not, how, in that dread hour of strife, ·
Far above all the fearful din of war,
One sweet voice ever sounded in his ear,
Cheering him on, with words of hope and love,
To do and dare. And when, in victory's hour,
His soldier's heart beat high with joy, and pride,
And conscious triumph, then the chiefest joy
That stirred his noble bosom, was the thought
That he might lay his laurels at her feet,
For whose sweet sake alone, glory, or fame,
Or life itself was dear; that he might see
The love-light gleaming in those lustrous eyes,
As the loved accents of that well-known voice
Welcomed her soldier home.
The fight was o'er, the hard-fought victory won,
His noble soul shone forth with purest ray.
Never was mercy to a fallen foe
More generously bestowed than by his hand;
Never did woman bend with tenderer heart
Over the bed of suffering, than did he,
That man of battle, o'er the dying beds
Of those poor wounded men. His gentle words
Of hope and cheer have raised the drooping heart,
And breathed new life into the sinking frame
Of many a sufferer; while his tender tones
Of sympathy and pity for their pain,
Have soothed the parting hour of many a soul
Which has gone forth with blessings on his name, Gone forth to swell the cloud of witnesses
Who shall bear record of his noble deeds
Before the eternal throne.
It is the eve of battle: yon bright sun,
Now calmly sinking in his ocean bed,
Will, on the morrow, set on scenes of blood,
And all the horrid sights and sounds of war.
And now he stands, gazing on that fair scene
Of glorious beauty, while the setting sun
Bathes land and sea with a rich flood of light,
And slowly sinks, as though too well it knew
The fearful change that one short day will bring
Over that peaceful scene; and lingers still,
As loth to leave it yet, as though it fain
Would take one last long look, one sad farewell
Of Nature's loveliness, ere man and war
Have wrought their fearful work.
Seems to be gazing, his mind sees it not;
The glorious beauty of that evening scene
Has touched a chord of Memory in his breast,
And she, swift answering to that gentle touch,
Has taken up life's chain, and led his thoughts
O'er the blue ocean, back to happy scenes
Of bygone years. Once more, in thought, he stands
Upon the shores of his own native land,
And watches, o'er his own loved hills and woods,
That sun go down; while one beside him stands,-
She whom, of all the world, he holds most dear
And as he looks into those deep true eyes
That fondly meet his, sees, in their clear depths,
But the reflection of his own pure love,
His own true, faithful heart.
But still he moves not, though the silent night
Has thrown her veil of darkness o'er the earth;
Yet not of darkness, for 'tis studded thick
With starry gems, that, from the vault of heaven,
Keep loving watch over the sleeping Earth,
And, in their solemn stillness, seem to speak
Of faith, and hope, and peace, to the lone heart
Of him who gazes on them. Now, at length,
His eyes he raises to the distant sky,
And gazes upward, with calm, steadfast look,
Then bows his head, and, 'neath the silent stars,
He kneels and prays, lifting his heart to Him,
The unseen Power who guides that starry host,
Who, in His strength, hath set the mountains fast.
"Thou God of battles!" is his inward prayer,
"Thou in whose mighty hand are life and death,
With all that makes Life blessèd, hear my cry!
And, if it be Thy will, oh keep me still,
As Thou till now hast kept me ;-—but, if not,—
And if it be Thy will that I should fall,
If I no more may see my native land;
If ne'er again these arms may clasp that form
So loved, so cherished; if I'm doomed, no more
To look into the depths of those true eyes,
And see the love-light there; if that sweet voice
No more may fall upon my longing ear,
Awaking thrilling echoes in my heart;-
Thy will be done!-But then, oh Father, hear
My prayer for her, the darling of my heart;
To Thy hands I commit her, in calm faith,
And trusting in Thy mercy: be her God,
Her Guardian and her Guide; oh, keep her safe,
Safe from the cruel storms of this cold world,
Safe in Thy sheltering arms; shield her young heart
From every care and grief; on her dear head
Thy choicest blessings pour; keep her Thine own,
Pure, spotless, angel-like, as now she is,
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