The apples are ripe in the orchard, The work of the reaper is done, And the golden woodlands redden In the blood of the dying sun. At the cottage-door the grandsire Sits pa!e in his easy cliair, While the gentle wiüd of twilight l'lays witli his silvei hair. A woman is kneeling beside him ; A fair youtig liead is pressed, In the fiist wild passion of sorrow, Against his aged breast. And far from over the distance The falte ring echoes conie Of the Üying blast of trumpet, And the rattling roll of drum. And the grandsire speaks in a whisper : 11 The end no man can seo ; But we give him to his country, And we give our praycrs to Thee." The violets star the meadows, The rose buds fringe the door, And over the grassy orchard The pink-white blossoms pour. Eut the grandsire's chairis empty, The coitage is dark and still ; There's a nameless grave in the batüe-field. And a new oue nnder thehill, And a pallid, tearless woman ' By the cold hearth sits alone, A rui ihe old clock in the corner Ticks on wilh a steady drone.