The mother's Kiss.
Not unarmed go they forth whose brows are wet with the parting tears of children and of wives; not without a helmet and a shield are they whose locks are wet with a mother's tender kisses, whose forms are followed by a mother's tender hourly prayers. ‘ Where the standards waved the thickest,And the tide of battle rolled,
Furiously he charged the foemen,
On his snow white steed so bold;
But he were no guardian helmet,
Only his long hair of gold
"Turn and fly! thou cash young warrior,
Or this iron helmet wear!"
"Nay! but I am armed already
In the brightness of my hair;
For my mother kissed its fresses
"With the holy lips of prayer!"
’
