Page:Records of Woman.pdf/161

Rh

There are pale garlands hung above, Of dying scent and hue;— She was a mother—in her love How sorrowfully true! Oh! hallow'd long be every leaf, The record of her children's grief!

She saw their birthright's warrior-crown Of olden glory spoil'd, The standard of their sires borne down, The shield's bright blazon soiled: She met the tempest meekly brave, Then turn'd, o'erwearied, to the grave.

She slumber'd; but it came—it came, Her land's redeeming hour, With the glad shout, and signal-flame, Sent on from tower to tower! Fast thro' the realm a spirit moved— 'Twas hers, the lofty and the loved.