“The Sisters of Charity and the Friends, each with their different costume of plainness and self-denial, and other noble-hearted women of no particular outward order, but kindred in spirit, have shown to womanhood, on the battle-field and in the hospital, a more excellent way,—­a beauty and nobility before which all the common graces and ornaments of the sex fade, appear like dim candles by the pure, eternal stars.”

* * * * *

THE HEART OF THE WAR.

Peace in the clover-scented air,
And stars within the dome;
And underneath, in dim repose,
A plain, New-England home. 
Within, a murmur of low tones
And sighs from hearts oppressed,
Merging in prayer, at last, that brings
The balm of silent rest.

* * * * *

I’ve closed a hard day’s work, Marty,—­
The evening chores are done;
And you are weary with the house,
And with the little one. 
But he is sleeping sweetly now,
With all our pretty brood;
So come and sit upon my knee,
And it will do me good.

  Oh, Marty!  I must tell you all
    The trouble in my heart,
  And you mast do the best you can
    To take and bear your part. 
  You’ve seen the shadow on my face,
    You’ve felt it day and night;
  For it has filled our little home,
    And banished all its light.

  I did not mean it should be so,
    And yet I might have known
  That hearts that live as close as ours
    Can never keep their own. 
  But we are fallen on evil times,
    And, do whate’er I may,
  My heart grows sad about the war,
    And sadder every day.

  I think about it when I work,
    And when I try to rest,
  And never more than when your head
    Is pillowed on my breast;
  For then I see the camp-fires blaze,
    And sleeping men around,
  Who turn their faces toward their homes,
    And dream upon the ground.

  I think about the dear, brave boys,
    My mates in other years,
  Who pine for home and those they love,
    Till I am choked with tears. 
  With shouts and cheers they marched away
    On glory’s shining track,
  But, ah! how long, how long they stay! 
    How few of them come back!

  One sleeps beside the Tennessee,
    And one beside the James,
  And one fought on a gallant ship
    And perished in its flames. 
  And some, struck down by fell disease,
    Are breathing out their life;
  And others, maimed by cruel wounds,
    Have left the deadly strife.

  Ah, Marty!  Marty! only think
    Of all the boys have done
  And suffered in this weary war! 
    Brave heroes, every one! 
  Oh! often, often in the night,
    I hear their voices call: 
  “Come on and help us!  Is it right
    That we should bear it all?”