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[19] missing. Still a hope to cheer her!
     Safe, triumphant, he may come,
With the victor army shouting,
     With the clamor of the drum!

So, through all the days of autumn--
     In the eve and in the morn--
She will hear his quickening footstep
     In the rustling of the corn;

Or, she will hush her household,
     While her heart goes leaping high,
Thinking that she hears him whistling
     In the pathway through the rye.
* * * * *

Far away through all the autumn,
     In a lonely, lonely glade,
In the dreary desolation
     That the battle-storm has made--

With the rust upon his musket--
     In the eve and in the morn--
In the rank gloom of the fern leaves
     Lies her noble-browed first-born.

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