"He carried the boy like a babe through the rain,
The death-pouring torrent of grape-shot and shell;
And he walked at a foot's pace because of the pain,
Laid his burden down gently, smiled once, and then fell."
"Did he live?" "No; he died: but he rescued the boy.
Such a death is more noble than life (so they said).
He had streams of fair hair, and a face full of joy,
And his name"--"Speak it not! 'Tis my son! He is dead!
"Oh, dig him a grave by the red rowan tree,
Where the spring moss grows softer than fringes of foam!
And lay his bed smoothly, and leave room for me,
For I shall be ready before he comes home.
"And carve on his tombstone a name and a wreath,
And a tale to touch hearts through the slow-spreading years--
How he died his noble and beautiful death,
And his mother who longed for him, died of her tears.
"But what is this face shining in at the door,
With its old smile of peace, and its flow of fair hair?
Are you come, blessed ghost, from the far heavenly shore?
Do not go back alone--let me follow you there!"
"Oh! clasp me, dear mother. I come to remain;
I come to your heart, and God answers your prayer.
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