Classic Poem

When War's red tempest shall depart,
 That long hath sundered me
From those sweet precincts of thy heart
 And all that heaven of thee;
If I return from where they rest
 Whom battle's scythe hath mown,
Then in the fragrance of thy breast
 I'll live for love alone.

But if, where warstorms wildest roll,
 My life for her I yield—
That other empress of my soul,
 Who called me to the field—
Though 'twixt you twain, with dying breath,
 My homage I'll divide,
My heart will turn to thee in death,
 To claim and clasp its bride.