His Sweetheart by Isabella Valancy Crawford

Sylvia's lattices were dark–
  Roses made them narrow.
In the dawn there came a Spark,
  Armèd with an arrow:
Blithe he burst by dewy spray,
  Winged by bud and blossom,
All undaunted urged his way
  Straight to Sylvia's bosom.
'Sylvia! Sylvia! Sylvia!' he
  Like a bee kept humming,
'Wake, my sweeting; waken thee,
  For thy Soldier's coming!'

Sylvia sleeping in the dawn,
  Dreams that Cupid's trill is
Roses singing on the lawn,
  Courting crested lilies.
Sylvia smiles and Sylvia sleeps,
  Sylvia weeps and slumbers;
Cupid to her pink ear creeps,
  Pipes his pretty numbers.
Sylvia dreams that bugles play,
  Hears a martial drumming;
Sylvia springs to meet the day
  With her Soldier coming.

Happy Sylvia, on thee wait
  All the gracious graces!
Venus mild her cestus plait
  Round thy lawns and laces!
Flora fling a flower most fair,
  Hope a rainbow lend thee!
All the nymphs to Cupid dear
  On this day befriend thee!
'Sylvia! Sylvia! Sylvia!' hear
  How he keeps a-humming,
Laughing in her jewelled ear,
  'Sweet, thy Soldier's coming!'

His Wife and Baby by Isabella Valancy Crawford

In the lone place of the leaves,
Where they touch the hanging eaves,
There sprang a spray of joyous song that sounded sweet and sturdy;
    And the baby in the bed
    Raised the shining of his head,
And pulled the mother's lids apart to wake and watch the birdie.
    She kissed lip-dimples sweet,
    The red soles of his feet,
The waving palms that patted hers as wind-blown blossoms wander;
    He twined her tresses silk
    Round his neck as white as milk–
'Now, baby, say what birdie sings upon his green spray yonder.'
    'He sings a plenty things–
    Just watch him wash his wings!
He says Papa will march to-day with drums home through the city.
    Here, birdie, here's my cup.
    You drink the milk all up;
I'll kiss you, birdie, now you're washed like baby clean and pretty.'
    She rose, she sought the skies
    With the twin joys of her eyes;
She sent the strong dove of her soul up through the dawning's glory;
    She kissed upon her hand
    The glowing golden band
That bound the fine scroll of her life and clasped her simple story.

His Mother by Isabella Valancy Crawford

In the first dawn she lifted from her bed
The holy silver of her noble head,
And listened, listened, listened for his tread.
'Too soon, too soon!' she murmured, 'Yet I'll keep
My vigil longer– thou, O tender Sleep,
Art but the joy of those who wake and weep!
'Joy's self hath keen, wide eyes. O flesh of mine,
And mine own blood and bone, the very wine
Of my aged heart, I see thy dear eyes shine!
'I hear thy tread; thy light, loved footsteps run
Along the way, eager for that 'Well done!'
We'll weep and kiss to thee, my soldier son!
'Blest mother I– he lives! Yet had he died
Blest were I still, – I sent him on the tide
Of my full heart to save his nation's pride!'
'O God, if that I tremble so to-day,
Bowed with such blessings that I cannot pray
By speech– a mother prays, dear Lord, alway
'In some far fibre of her trembling mind!
I'll up– I thought I heard a bugle bind
Its silver with the silver of the wind.'

Songs for the Soldiers by Isabella Valancy Crawford

If songs be sung let minstrels strike their harps
To large and joyous strains, all thunder-winged
To beat along vast shores. Ay, let their notes
Wild into eagles soaring toward the sun,
And voiced like bugles bursting through the dawn
When armies leap to life! Give them such breasts
As hold immortal fires, and they shall fly,
Swept with our little sphere through all the change
That waits a whirling world.
                 Joy's an immortal;
She hath a fiery fibre in her flesh
That will not droop or die; so let her chant
The pæans of the dead, where holy Grief
Hath, trembling, thrust the feeble mist aside
That veils her dead, and in the wondrous clasp
Of re-possession ceases to be Grief.
Joy's ample voice shall still roll over all,
And chronicle the heroes to young hearts
Who knew them not.....
                  There's glory on the sword
That keeps its scabbard-sleep, unless the foe
Beat at the wall, then freely leaps to light
And thrusts to keep the sacred towers of Home
And the dear lines that map the nation out upon the world.

The Rose by Isabella Valancy Crawford

The Rose was given to man for this:
   He, sudden seeing it in later years,
Should swift remember Love's first lingering kiss
   And Grief's last lingering tears;
Or, being blind, should feel its yearning soul
   Knit all its piercing perfume round his own,
Till he should see on memory's ample scroll
   All roses he had known;
Or, being hard, perchance his finger-tips
   Careless might touch the satin of its cup,
And he should feel a dead babe's budding lips
   To his lips lifted up;
Or, being deaf and smitten with its star,
   Should, on a sudden, almost hear a lark
Rush singing up–the nightingale afar
   Sing through the dew-bright dark;
Or, sorrow-lost in paths that round and round
   Circle old graves, its keen and vital breath
Should call to him within the yew's bleak bound
   Of Life, and not of Death.