o be fed,--
For Caleb to bring me my bacon and bread,--
I'll warm my cold heart, that is aching and lone,
By thinking of you, love,--my Alice,--my own!

"I turn a deaf ear to the scream of the wind,
I leave the rude camp and the forest behind;
And Beechenbrook, wrapped in its raiment of white,
Is tauntingly filling my vision to-night.
I catch my sweet little ones' innocent mirth,
I watch your dear face, as you sit at the hearth;
And I know, by the tender expression I see,
I know that my darling is musing of me.
Does her thought dim the blaze?--Does it shed through the room
A chilly, unseen, and yet palpable gloom?
Ah! then we are equal! _You_ share all my pain,
And _I_ halve your blessedness with you again!

"Don't think that my hardships are bitter to bear;
Don't think I repine at the soldier's rough fare;
If ever a thought so unworthy steals on,
I look upon Ashby,--and lo! it is gone!
Such chivalry, fortitude, spirit and tone,
Make brighter, and stronger, and prouder, my own.
Oh! Beverly, boy!--on his white steed, I ween,
A princelier presence has never been seen;
And as yonder he lies, from the groups all apart,
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,--