Falls the sunlight, dim and faint,
On her face, like face of saint,
On her thin, white hand:
Oh, the patient spirit pines
For the brighter sun which shines
In a brighter land!
Down her wan cheeks never steal
Quiet tears, which sweetly heal
The unspoken woe:
For although they often rise
Like a mist before her eyes,
Yet they do not flow.
That which sacrifice doth ask,
That which gives a noble task,
Soon our love obtains.
And when one hath given all
At a martyred country's call,
What a love it gains!
She has given youth and health,
And her father's modest wealth,
And her mother's smile:
Gazing at the fresh blue skies,
Mute upon her couch she lies,
All the weary while.
Has her father toiled for nought?
Have his comrades sternly fought
Only for a grave?
Fettered must their country weep,
Those who on her bosom sleep,
Beautiful and brave?
Shall it never rise again,
Better for its martyr's pain,
That dear sunny land?
Ah! she sends the thought away,
She can love, and she can pray,
But not understand.
So the fair brow fadeth fast,
It is very near the last,
And 'tis growing late:
See, the sunbeams fade away,
They will come another day,
But she cannot wait!
Falls the starlight, dim and faint,
On her face, like face of saint,
On her thin white hand:
And no more her spirit pines
For the brighter sun which shines
In the Brighter Land.
