September 20, 1854

Willie, fold your little hands; Let it drop,—that "soldier" toy; Look where father's picture stands,— Father, that here kissed his boy Not a mouth since,—father kind, Who this night may (never mind Mother's sob, my Willie dear) Cry out loud that He may hear Who is God of battles,—cry, "God keep father safe this day By the Alma River!"

Ask no more, child. Never heed Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk; Right of nations, trampled creed, Chance-poised victory's bloody work; Any flag i' the wind may roll On thy heights, Sevastopol! Willie, all to you and me Is that spot, whate'er it be, Where he stands—no other word— Stands—God sure the child's prayers heard— Near the Alma River.

Willie, listen to the bells Ringing in the town to-day; That's for victory. No knell swells For the many swept away,— Hundreds, thousands. Let us weep, We, who need not,—just to keep Reason clear in thought and brain Till the morning comes again; Till the third dread morning tell Who they were that fought and—fell By the Alma River.

Come, we'll lay us down, my child; Poor the bed is,—poor and hard; But thy father, far exiled, Sleeps upon the open sward, Dreaming of us two at home; Or, beneath the starry dome, Digs out trenches in the dark, Where he buries—Willie, mark!— Where he buries those who died Fighting—fighting at his side— By the Alma River.

Willie, Willie, go to sleep; God will help us, O my boy! He will make the dull hours creep Faster, and send news of joy; When I need not shrink to meet Those great placards in the street, That for weeks will ghastly stare In some eyes—child, say that prayer Once again,—a different one,— Say, "O God! Thy will be done By the Alma River."