He knew his love—­all else unknown,
  Or seen through reason’s sad eclipse—­
  And with her, hand within his own,
  Or fondly pressed upon his lips,
  He clung to it, as if alone

  It had the power to stay, his feet
  Still longer on the verge of life;
  And thus they vanished from the street—­
  The shepherd-warrior and his wife—­
  Within the manse’s closed retreat.

  XXVIII.

  Embraced by home, his soul grew light;
  And though he moaned:  “My head! my head!”
  His life turned back its outward flight,
  Like his, who, from the prophet’s bed,
  Startled the wondering Shunammite.

  He greeted all with tender speech;
  He told his children he should die;
  He gave his fond farewell to each,
  With messages, and fond good-by
  To all he loved beyond his reach.

  And then he spoke her brother’s name: 
  “Tell him,” he said, “that, in my death,
  I cherished his untarnished fame,
  And, to my life’s expiring breath,
  Held his brave spirit free from blame.

  “We strove alike for truth’s behoof,
  With honest faith and love sincere,—­
  For God and-country, right and roof,
  And issues that do not appear;
  But wait with Heaven the awful proof.”

  A tottering figure reached the door;
  The brother fell upon the bed,
  And, in each other’s arms once more,
  With breast to breast, and head to head,—­
  Twin barks, they drifted from the shore;

  And backward on the sobbing air
  Came the same words from warring lips: 
  “God save my country!” and the prayer
  Still wailing from the drifting ships,
  Returned in measures of despair;

  Till far, at the horizon’s verge,
  They passed beyond the tearful eyes
  That could not know if in the surge
  They sank at last, or in the skies
  Forgot the burden of their dirge!

  XXIX.

  In Northern blue and Southern brown,
  Twin coffins and a single grave,
  They laid the weary warriors down;
  And hands that strove to slay and save
  Had equal rest and like renown.

  For in the graveyard’s hallowed close
  A woman’s love made neutral soil,
  Where it might lay the forms of those
  Who, resting from their fateful broil,
  Had ceased forever to be foes.

  To her and those who clung to her—­
  From manly eldest down to least—­
  The obsequies, the sepulchre,
  The chanting choir, the weeping priest,
  And all the throng and all the stir

  Of sympathetic country-folk,
  And all the signs of death and dole,
  Were but a dream that beat and broke
  In chilling waves on heart and soul,
  Till in the silence they awoke.

  She was a widow, and she wept;
  She was a mother, and she smiled;
  Her faith with those she loved was kept,
  Though still the war-cry, fierce and wild,
  Around the harried country swept.