Not a sob has escaped her all day,—­not a moan;
    But now the tide rushes,—­for she is alone. 
    On the fresh, shining knapsack she pillows her head,
    And weeps as a mourner might weep for the dead. 
    She heeds not the three-year old baby at play,
    As donning the cap, on the carpet he lay;
    Till she feels on her forehead, his fingers’ soft tips,
    And on her shut eyelids, the touch of his lips.

    “Mamma is so sorry!—­Mamma is so sad! 
    But Archie can make her look up and be glad: 
    I’ve been praying to God, as you told me to do,
    That Papa may come back when the battle is thro’:—­
    He says when we pray, that our prayers shall be heard;
    And Mamma, don’t you always know, God keeps his word?”

    Around the young comforter stealthily press
    The arms of his father with sudden caress;
    Then fast to his heart,—­love and duty at strife,—­
    He snatches with fondest emotion, his wife.

    “My own love! my precious!—­I feel I am strong;
    I know I am brave in opposing the wrong;
    I could stand where the battle was fiercest, nor feel
    One quiver of nerve at the flash of the steel;
    I could gaze on the enemy guiltless of fears,
    But I quail at the sight of your passionate tears: 
    My calmness forsakes me,—­my thoughts are a-whirl,
    And the stout-hearted man is as weak as a girl. 
    I’ve been proud of your fortitude; never a trace
    Of yielding, all day, could I read in your face;
    But a look that was resolute, dauntless and high,
    As ever flashed forth from a patriot’s eye. 
    I know how you cling to me,—­know that to part
    Is tearing the tenderest cords of your heart: 
    Through the length and the breadth of our Valley to-day,
    No hand will a costlier sacrifice lay
    On the altar of Country; and Alice,—­sweet wife! 
    I never have worshipped you so in my life! 
    Poor heart,—­that has held up so brave in the past,—­
    Poor heart! must it break with its burden at last?”

    The arms thrown about him, but tighten their hold,
    The cheek that he kisses, is ashy and cold,
    And bowed with the grief she so long has suppressed,
    She weeps herself quiet and calm on his breast. 
    At length, in a voice just as steady and clear
    As if it had never been choked by a tear,
    She raises her eyes with a softened control,
    And through them her husband looks into her soul.

    “I feel that we each for the other could die;
    Your heart to my own makes the instant reply: 
    But dear as you are, Love,—­my life and my light,—­
    I would not consent to your stay, if I might: 
    No!—­arm for the conflict, and on, with the rest;
    Virginia has need of her bravest and best! 
    My heart—­it must bleed, and my cheek will be wet,
    Yet never, believe me, with selfish regret: 
    My ardor abates not one jot of its glow,
    Though the tears of the wife and the woman will flow.