| WHEEL me down by the meadow, | |
| Where no step but thine will pass; | |
| Anchor me where the shadow | |
| Skims o'er the billowy grass: | |
| Where the arbutus straggles over | 5 |
| The slope of the spreading hill, | |
| And the souls of hidden violets | |
| Their scented airs distil. | |
| |
| Saint, with your sweet composure, | |
| Lean your cool cheek 'gainst my hair; | 10 |
| My soul 's in the fierce exposure | |
| Of fields where the dying are; | |
| And even your hand can never | |
| Quiet this fever and pain, | |
| Or soften the restless longing | 15 |
| To share in the contest again. | |
| |
| O, to be here so idle! | |
| To sit like a clod in this chair, | |
| With hands that ache for the bridle, | |
| With heart away in the war! | 20 |
| Instead of the long roll beating | |
| To hear but the tinkle of vines, | |
| For the rush and whirl of the conflict | |
| Only the wail of the pines. | |
| |
| Still midst the sounds of summer, | 25 |
| Which freight the soft June air | |
| With tender slumberous murmur, | |
| My soul hears the trumpet's blare. | |
| What have I laid on the altar? | |
| Only a few drops of blood! | 30 |
| Small is the gift to offer | |
| For honor, freedom, God. | |
| |
| While by your side I dally, | |
| Still waits the slave in his chain. | |
| Up, my faint pulse must rally | 35 |
| Once more 'mid the leaden rain. | |
| With kisses on lips, eyes and forehead, | |
| Sign me the sign of the Cross. | |
| If my heart throb its last for our banner, | |
| Greater the gain than the loss. | 40 |
| If we gain—there 'll be time for our wooing, | |
| In paths where the wild roses nod; | |
| If we lose—I 'll wait for you, dearest, | |
| 'Neath the palms by the mount of our God. | |
