March! nor heed those arms that hold thee,

  Tho' so fondly close they come;

Closer still will they enfold thee

  When thou bring'st fresh laurels home.

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.

Signal of joy—for her, for all—

  Fleetly the boat now nears the land,

While voices from the shore-edge call

  For tidings of the long-wished band.

Oh the blest hour when those who've been

  Thro' peril's paths by land or sea

Locked in our arms again are seen

  Smiling in glad security;

When heart to heart we fondly strain,

  Questioning quickly o'er and o'er—

Then hold them off to gaze affain

  And ask, tho' answered oft before,

  If they indeed are ours once more?

Such is the scene so full of joy

Which welcomes now this warrior-boy,

As fathers, sisters, friends all run

Bounding to meet him—all but one

Who, slowest on his neck to fall,

Is yet the happiest of them all.

And now behold him circled round

  With beaming faces at that board,

While cups with laurel foliage crowned,

  Are to the coming warriors poured—

Coming, as he, their herald, told,

With blades from victory scarce yet cold,

With hearts untouched by Moslem steel

And wounds that home's sweet breath will heal.

"Ere morn," said he,—and while he spoke

  Turned to the east, where clear and pale

The star of dawn already broke—

  "We'll greet on yonder wave their sail!"

Then wherefore part? all, all agree

  To wait them here beneath this bower;

And thus, while even amidst their glee,

Each eye is turned to watch the sea,

  With song they cheer the anxious hour.