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Younger, and exquisitely beautiful, With large blue eyes, the darker for their tears; And with the red rose reign upon her face, Paramount as in youth.

Agatha Loquitur.

Nay, Bertha, turn from gazing on the road Which winds amid the lime-trees—'tis in vain; The last hoof-tramp has perished on the wind Two hours agone. Now dry thy tears, dear child; I would not check the natural tenderness, The grief, the young and loved at parting feel; But I must blame this utter yielding woe, Which feeds upon indulgence, and forgets Womanly fortitude and gentleness, Making the strength it finds in patient hope. But then the dangers of the red campaign— The weary march—the night-watch when the snow Drives on a northern wind!—My Bertha, yes, All these, and more, are in thy Ernest's lot; Yet not the less his life is in God's hand, As much as when he wandered through our vales With thy sweet eyes upon him: trust in heaven— Prayer and submission bring their blessing down. Dear child! I know your sorrow, though my heart Now only beats unto a measured time; Yet once its pulse was agony; I wept Tears passionate and vain. Oft have you asked