Dost thou dote on woman's brow?
Dost thou live but in her breath?
March!--one hour of victory now
Wins thee woman's smile till death.
Oh what bliss when war is over
Beauty's long-missed smile to meet.
And when wreaths our temples cover
Lay them shining at her feet.
Who would not that hour to reach
Breathe out life's expiring sigh,--
Proud as waves that on the beach
Lay their war-crests down and die.
There! I see thy soul is burning--
She herself who clasps thee so
Paints, even now, thy glad returning,
And while clasping bids thee go.
One deep sigh to passion given,
One last glowing tear and then--
March!--nor rest thy sword till Heaven
Brings thee to those arms again.
* * * * *
Even then ere loath their hands could part
A promise the youth gave which bore
Some balm unto the maiden's heart,
That, soon as the fierce fight was o'er,
To home he'd speed, if safe and free--
Nay, even if dying, still would come,
So the blest word of "Victory!"
Might be the last he'd breathe at home.
"By day," he cried, "thou'lt know my bark;
"But should I come thro' midnight dark,
"A blue light on the prow shall tell
"That Greece hath won and all is well!"
Fondly the maiden every night,
Had stolen to seek that promised light;
Nor long her eyes had now been turned
From watching when the signal burned.
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