The Soldier in the Rain
Ah me! the rain has a sadder sound
Than it ever had before;
And the wind more plaintively whistles through
The crevices of the door.
We know we are safe beneath our roof
From every drop that falls;
And we feel secure and blest, within
The shelter of our walls.
Then why do we dread to hear the noise
Of the rapid, rushing rain—
And the plash of the wintry drops, that beat
Through the blinds, on the window-pane?
We think of the tents on the lowly ground,
Where our patriot soldiers lie;
And the sentry’s bleak and lonely march,
’Neath the dark and starless sky.
And we pray, with a tearful heart, for those
Who brave for us yet more—
And we wish this war, with its thousand ills
And griefs, was only o’er.
We pray when the skies are bright and clear,
When the winds are soft and warm—
But oh! we pray with an aching heart
’Mid the winter’s rain and storm.
We fain would lift these mantling clouds
That shadow our sunny clime;
We can but wait—for we know there’ll be
A day, in the coming time,
When peace, like a rosy dawn, will flood
Our land with softest light:
Then—we will scarcely hearken the rain
In the dreary winter’s night.