XXII.

  Oh piteous waste of hopes and fears! 
  Oh cruel stretch of long delay! 
  Oh homes bereft!  Oh useless tears! 
  Oh war! that ravened on its prey
  Through pain’s immeasurable years!

  The town was mourning for its dead;
  The streets were black with widowhood;
  While orphaned children begged for bread,
  And Rachel, for the brave and good,
  Mourned, and would not be comforted.

  The regiment that, straight and crisp,
  Shone like a wheat-field in the sun,
  Its swift voice deafened to a lisp,
  Fell, ere the war was well begun,
  And waned and withered to a wisp.

  And Philip, grown to higher rank,
  Crowned with the bays of splendid deeds,
  Of the full cup of glory drank,
  And lived, though all his reeking steeds
  In the red front of conflict sank.

  The star of conquest waxed or waned,
  Yet still the call came back for men;
  Still the lamenting town was drained,
  And still again, and still again,
  Till only impotence remained!

  XXIII.

  There came at length an eve of gloom—­
  Dread Gettysburg’s eventful eve—­
  When all the gathering clouds of doom
  Hung low, the breathless air to cleave
  With scream of shell and cannon-boom!

  Man knew too well; and woman felt,
  That when the next-wild morn should rise,
  A blow of battle would, be dealt
  Before whose fire ten thousand eyes—­
  As in a furnace flame—­would melt.

  And on this eve—­her flock asleep—­
  Knelt Mildred at her lonely bed. 
  She could not pray, she did not weep,
  But only moaned, and moaning, said: 
  “Oh God! he sows what I must reap!

  “He will not live:  he must not die! 
  But oh, my poor, prophetic heart! 
  It warns me that there lingers nigh
  The hour when love and I must part!”
  And then she startled with a cry,

  For, from beneath her lattice, came
  A low and once repeated call! 
  She knew the voice that spoke her name,
  And swiftly, through the midnight hall
  She fluttered noiseless as a flame,

  And on its unresisting hinge
  Threw wide her hospitable door,
  To one whose spirit did not cringe
  Though he was weak, and knew he bore
  No right her freedom to infringe.

  She wildly clasped his neck of bronze;
  She rained her kisses; on his face,
  Grown tawny with a thousand suns,
  And holding him in her embrace,
  She led him to her little ones,

  Who, reckless of his coming, slept. 
  Then down the stair with silent feet,
  And through the shadowy hall she swept,
  And saw, between her and the street,
  A form that into darkness crept.

  She closed the door with speechless dread;
  She fixed the bolt with trembling hand;
  Then led the rebel to his bed,
  Whom love and safety had unmanned,
  And left him less alive than dead.