The anules are tip k) the orehard, The wc-rk of the reaper is done, ■ml the solden Vrooulands redden In the blood of the dying sun. At the cottage door the grandsire Sits ra'e in bis easy chair, While tliegentle wind of t.wilight PJays with bis silver hair. A woman is kneeling beside him, A fair young hend is pressed, In the first wild passim) of sorrow, Against his ajed breast. And far from over the distance The foltering echoes come, Of the flying blast oi tnimpet And the rattling roll of drum, And the gmndsire speaka in a whisper,- " The end no man can see ; But we give him to his country, And we give our prayers to Thee.' The violets star the meadows, The rose-buds friiige the door, And over the grassy orehard The pink white blossoms pour. But the grandsire's elmir is empty, The cottage is dark and Mili ; There's anameless grave in the battle-ficld, And a new one under the hill. And a palid, tearless woman I5y the cold hearth sits alone, And the old clock in the corner Ticks on with a steady drone.