But that musical note floated round in the air,--
"Claude!--Claude!" sang the zephyrs that softly sped by,
And his eyes had a far-a way look, as if there,
Far beyond, he could see what I failed to descry.
One eve, in the gloaming, I hushed him to rest,
And the trees whispered "Claude" as they waved overhead,
He smiled as he nestled more close to my breast,--
And I wept,--for I knew that my darling was dead.
All on a Christmas Morning.
The wind it blew cold, and the ice was thick,
Deeper and deeper the snowdrifts grew;
A young mother lay in her cottage, sick,--
Her needs were many, her comforts few.
Clasped to her breast was a newborn child,
Unknowing, unmindful of weal or woe;
And away, far away, in the tempest wild,
Was a husband and father, kneedeep in the snow.
All on a Christmas morning, long ago.
The lamp burned low, and the fire was dead,
And the snow sifted in through each crevice and crack:
As she tossed and turned in her lowly bed,
And murmured, "Good Lord, bring my husband back.
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