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68. the brave at home.

by T. Buchanan read.
The maid who binds her warrior's sash
     With smile that well her pain dissembles,
The while, beneath her drooping lash,
     One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles.
Though Heaven alone records the tear,
     And Fame shall never know her story,
Her heart has shed a drop as dear
     As ever dewed the field of glory.

The wife who girds her husband's sword,
     'Mid little ones who weep or wonder,
And bravely speaks the cheering word--
     What though her heart be rent asunder?
Doomed, nightly, in her dreams, to hear
     The bolts of war around him rattle,
Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er
     Was poured upon the plain of battle.

The mother who conceals her grief,
     While to her breast her son she presses,
Then breathes a few brave words and brief,
     Kissing the patriot brow she blesses;
With no one but her secret God
     To know the pain that weighs upon her,
Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod
     Received on Freedom's field of honor.

Rome, July, 1861.

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