I bow to him loyally,--bow with my heart.

"What brave, buoyant letters you write, sweet!--they ring
Through my soul like the blast of a trumpet, and bring
Such a flame to my eye, such a flush to my cheek,--
That often my hand will unconsciously seek
The hilt of my sword as I read,--and I feel
As the warrior does, when he flashes the steel
In fiery circles, and shouts in his might,
For the heroes behind him, to follow its light!
True wife of a soldier!--If doubt or dismay
Had ever, within me, one instant held sway,
Your words wield a spell that would bid them be gone,
Like bodiless ghosts at the touch of the dawn.

"Could the veriest craven that cowers and quails
Before the vast horde that insults and assails
Our land and our liberties,--could he to-night,
Sit here on the ice-girdled log where I write,
And look on the hopeful, bright brows of the men,
Who have toiled all the day over mountain, through glen,--
Half-clothed and unfed,--would he doubt?--would he dare,
In the face of such proof, yield again to despair?

"The hum of their voices comes laden with cheer,
As the wind wafts a musical swell to my ear,--
Wild, clarion catches,--now flute-like and low;
--Would you like me to give you their Song of the Snow?

Halt!--the march is over!