The Heart Of The War

Peace to the clover-scented air, And stars within the dome; And underneath, in dim repose, A plain, New England liome. Within, a murmur of low tones Aud sighs from liearts oppressed, Merging in prayer, at last, that brings The balm of 'silent rest. Tve closod a hard day's work, Marty- The eveuing chores are done: And you are weary .with the house. And with the little one. But he is sleeping sweetly now, With all our pretty brood: So come and sit upon my knee, And it will do me good. Oh, Marty ! I must teil you all The trouble in my heart, And you must do the best you can Totake and bear your pari. You've seen the shadow on my face, You've feit it day and night; For it has lilled our littlo home, And banished all its light. I did not mean it should be so, And vet I might have known That hèarts that live as close as ours Can never keep their own. But e have ."allen on ill timos, And, do whate'er I may, My heart grows sad about the war, And sadiler every day. I think about it when I work, And wlien I try to rest, And never more han when your head ís pillowetl ou my breast, For then I see tlie camp-fires blaze, And sleeping men around, Wlio (urn their faces toward their homes, And dream upon the ground. í think about the dear, brave boys, My mat es in other years, Wbo pine for home and those they love, Till I am choked with tears. With siiouts and cheei s they marched away On glory's shilling track, But, ah ! íiow long, how long they stay ! How few of them come back ! One sleeps beside th-e Tennessee, And one beside the James, And one foughl oa a gallant ship And peri&hed i its flames. Audíome, struck down by fell ílisease, Are breathing out their life; And otiters, marmed by cruel wounds, Have left the deadly stiife. Ah, Marty:! Marty! oniy think Of all the boys have done And suffe red in this weary war J Brave héroes, every one ! Gh ! often, often in the aiglit, I hear their voices cali: "Come on nd help us! Isitright That iwe should bear it all? And vrken l kneel.aiid try to firay, My thmights are never free, Bui ding to those who toil and flghl Aji ie for you and me. And when I pray for victory, It seems almost a sin To fold my hands and ask feu wliai I will not heJp io winOh ! do not cíing to me and cry, i'or it will break my heai-t; l'm sure you'd rather have me die Than not to bear my part. You think that some should stay aX lijine To care for those away; But still l'm hopeless to decide If I should go r stay. For Marty, all the soldiers love, And all are loved again; And I am loved, and love, perhape, No more than other men. I cannot teil - I do not know - Which way my duty lies, Or where the Lord would iiave me buiil My iire of sacrifice. l fee[ - I know- -I am not meao; And though I seem to boast, l'm sure that I wouid give my life To those who need it most. Perhape the Spirit will reveal That which is fair and right: 80, Marty, let us humbly kneel And pray to Heaven for light. Teace in the clover-scetited air, And stars within thp dome; And underneath in dim repose, A plain, New England home. Within a widow in her weeds, From whom all joy is flown, Who kneels among her sleeping babes, And weeiis and prays alone !