Of race, of country, or of parentage,
 Her lisping accents nothing could unfold;—­
No questioning could win to read the page
 Of her short life;—­she left her tale untold,
And home and kin thus early to forget,
She only knew,—­her name was—­Margaret.

Then in the dusk upon his arm it chanced
 That night that suddenly she fell asleep;
And he looked down on her like one entranced,
 And listened to her breathing still and deep,
As if a little child, when daylight closed,
With half-shut lids had ne’er before reposed.

Softly he laid her down from off his arm,
 With earnest care and new-born tenderness: 
Her infancy, a wonder-working charm,
 Laid hold upon his love; he stayed to bless
The small sweet head, then went he forth that night
And sought a nurse to tend this new delight.

And day by day his heart she wrought upon,
 And won her way into its inmost fold—­
A heart which, but for lack of that whereon
  To fix itself, would never have been cold;
And, opening wide, now let her come to dwell
Within its strong unguarded citadel.

She, like a dream, unlocked the hidden springs
  Of his past thoughts, and set their current free
To talk with him of half-forgotten things—­
  The pureness and the peace of infancy,
“Thou also, thou,” to sigh, “wert undefiled
(O God, the change!) once, as this little child.”

The baby-mistress of a soldier’s heart,
  She had but friendlessness to stand her friend,
And her own orphanhood to plead her part,
  When he, a wayfarer, did pause, and bend,
And bear with him the starry blossom sweet
Out of its jeopardy from trampling feet.

A gleam of light upon a rainy day,
  A new-tied knot that must be sever’d soon,
At sunrise once before his tent at play,
  And hurried from the battle-field at noon,
While face to face in hostile ranks they stood,
Who should have dwelt in peace and brotherhood.

But ere the fight, when higher rose the sun,
  And yet were distant far the rebel bands,
She heard at intervals a booming gun,
  And she was pleased, and laughing clapped her hands;
Till he came in with troubled look and tone,
Who chose her desolate to be his own.

And he said, “Little madam, now farewell,
  For there will be a battle fought ere night. 
God be thy shield, for He alone can tell
  Which way may fall the fortune of the fight. 
To fitter hands the care of thee pertain,
My dear, if we two never meet again.”

Then he gave money shortly to her nurse,
  And charged her straitly to depart in haste,
And leave the plain, whereon the deadly curse
  Of war should light with ruin, death, and waste,
And all the ills that must its presence blight,
E’en if proud victory should bless the right.

“But if the rebel cause should prosper, then
  It were not good among the hills to wend;
But journey through to Boston in the fen,
  And wait for peace, if peace our God shall send;
And if my life is spared, I will essay,”
Quoth he, “to join you there as best I may.”