Again and again on their senses it thrills,
Like thunderous echoes astray in the hills.

On tip-toe,--the summer wind lifting his hair,
With nostril expanded, and scenting the air
Like a mettled young war-horse that tosses his mane,
And frettingly champs at the bit and the rein,--
Stands eager, exultant, a twelve-year-old boy,
His face all aflame with a rapturous joy.

"_That's_ music for heroes in battle array!
Oh, mother! I feel like a Roman to-day!
The Romans I read of in Plutarch;--Yes, men
Thought it noble to die for their liberties then!
And I've wondered if soldiers were ever so bold,
So gallant and brave, as those heroes of old.
--There!--listen!--that volley peals out the reply;
They prove it is sweet for their country to die:
How grand it must be! what a pride! what a joy!
--And _I_ can do nothing: I'm only a boy!"

The fervid hand drops as he ceases to speak,
And the eloquent crimson fades out on his cheek.

"Oh, Beverly!--brother! It never would do!
Who comforts mamma, and who helps her like you?
She sends to the battle her darlingest one,--
She could not give both of them,--husband and son;
If she lose _you_, what's left her in life to enjoy?
--Oh, no! I am _glad_ you are only a boy."