But itching ears her language scanned,
  And jealous eyes were on her steps;
  And fancies into rumors fanned
  By loyal shrews and demireps
  Proclaimed her traitress to the land.

  They knew her blood, but could not know
  That mighty passion of her heart
  Which, reaching widely in its woe,
  Grasped all she loved on either part,
  And could not, would not let it go!

  XXI.

  The time of gathering came and went—­
  Of noisy zeal and hasty drill—­
  And every where, in field and tent,—­
  A constant presence,—­Philip’s will
  Moulded the callow regiment.

  And then there fell a gala day,
  When all the mighty, motley swarm
  Appeared in beautiful display
  Of burnished arms and uniform,
  And gloried in their brave array!—­

  And, later still, the hour of dread
  To all the simple country round,
  When forth, with Philip at their head,
  They marched from the familiar ground,
  And drained its life, and left it dead;—­

  Dead but for those who pined with grief;
  Dead but for fears that could not die;
  Dead as the world when flower and leaf
  Are still beneath a gathering sky,
  And ocean sleeps on reach and reef.

  The weary waiting time had come,
  When only apprehension waked;
  And lonely wives sat chill and dumb
  Among their broods, with hearts that ached
  And echoed the retreating drum.

  Teachers forgot to preach their creeds,
  And trade forsook its merchandise;
  The fallow fields grew rank with weeds,
  And none had interest or eyes
  For aught but war’s ensanguined deeds.

  As one who lingered by a bier
  Where all she loved lay dead and cold,
  Sad Mildred sat without a tear,
  Living again the days of old,
  Or, with the vision of a seer,

  Forecasting the disastrous end. 
  Whatever might come, she did not dare
  Believe that fortune would defend
  The noble life she could not spare,
  And save her lover and her friend.

  Her blooming girls and stalwart boys
  Could never comprehend the woe
  Which dropped its measure of their joys,
  And felt but horror in the show,
  And heard but murder in the noise,

  And dreamed of death when stillness fell
  Behind the gay and shouting corps. 
  They saw her haunted by the spell
  Of a great sorrow, and forebore
  To question what they could not quell.

  Small time she gave to vain regret;
  Brief space to thought of that adieu
  Which crushed her breast, when last they met,
  And in love’s baptism bathed anew
  Cheeks, lips, and eyes, and left them wet!

  In deeds of sympathy and grace,
  She moved among the homes forlorn,
  Alike to beautiful and base
  And, to the stricken and the shorn,
  The guardian angel of the place.