Classic Poem

Bend low, thou loved one, to my song of love,
Thy child of battle, daughter of the storm,
Whose infant years were cradled on thy shield,
Whose wondering eyes saw first thine armored form.

For I must sing thee, though thy fallen state,
Left but a sword gleam, for a trusting smile;
And gave the first print of my baby feet
Unto the prison earth of Johnson's Isle.

Yea, I will sing thee, though my pipes forget,
And voice sometime the strain thou knowest well;
Remember, love, thou couldst not close my ears
Against the music of the whizzing shell.

But if I pain thee with a martial prayer,—
Mine first in war, mine last in mantling peace,—
Lay thou thy soft hand on my throbbing heart,
And bid the 'plaining of thy minstrel cease.

Thou art mine own, my beautiful, my love!
I blame thee not, what cloud may come to me;
I give my faith into thy trustful arms;
All that I am, or hope, I yield to thee!

Thy foot rests on the fairest spot of earth,
Thine eyes are full of heaven's holy blue;
The sunlit kiss of peace is on thy brow,
Oh! thou mine own, the beautiful, the true!

Let my right hand forget her tricks of art,
Ere I conceal the faith that lies in me,
And let my tongue forget to utter love,
If I pay homage unto aught but thee!

I trim my taper but to seek thy shrine,
With thee I smile, with thee I breathe my sigh;
Yea, as thou goest, loved one, I will go,
And when thou diest,—Beautiful,—I die!