The Soldier's Grave

Twas long ago, in the summer-time, On a day as sad as this, That I laid my babe in its father's arms, And he gave it his farewell kiss; When the army sail'd from the English shores In a mist of sun and rain, To the vine-clad hills and citadels And the olive groves of Spain. I set my face to the balmy south, And listen'd, intent and dumb, As though a cry from the battle-grounds On the fragrant wind might come. I yearn'd for a gleam of the red camp fires Which burn'd through the watchful nights, For the shine of the bayonets that clash'd one day On the dread Albuera heights. Ah me! And my face cannot turn away, Though the ashes are on my brow,— Though the news of the battle came once for all, And there's nothing to watch for now! Though 'tis further away than that far south land I must look for my dear man's face,— Though I know he will never come home again To the chair in the old house-place!