She has strength to go forward; they enter the door,—­
    And there, on the crowded and blood-tainted floor,
    Close wrapped in his blanket, lies Douglass:—­his brow
    Wore never a look so seraphic as now! 
    She stretches her arms the dear form to enfold,—­
    God help her!..., she shrieks ..., it is silent and cold!

X.

“Break, my heart, and ease this pain—­
Cease to throb, thou tortured brain;
Let me die,—­since he is slain,

                                  —­Slain in battle!

Blessed brow, that loved to rest
Its dear whiteness on my breast—­
Gory was the grass it prest,

                                  —­Slain in battle!

Oh! that still and stately form—­
Never more will it be warm;
Chilled beneath that iron storm,

                                  —­Slain in battle!

Not a pillow for his head—­
Not a hand to smooth his bed—­
Not one tender parting said,

                                  —­Slain in battle!

Straightway from that bloody sod,
Where the trampling horsemen trod—­
Lifted to the arms of God;

                                  —­Slain in battle!

Not my love to come between,
With its interposing screen—­
Naught of earth to intervene;

                                  —­Slain in battle!

Snatched the purple billows o’er,
Through the fiendish rage and roar,
To the far and peaceful shore;

                                  —­Slain in battle!

Nunc demitte—­thus I pray—­
What else left for me to say,
Since my life is reft away? 

                                  —­Slain in battle!

Let me die, oh!  God!—­the dart
Rankles deep within my heart,—­
Hope, and joy, and peace, depart;

                                  —­Slain in battle!”

’Tis thus through her days and her nights of despair,
Her months of bereavement so bitter to bear,
That Alice moans ever.  Ah! little they know,
Who look on that brow, still and white as the snow,
Who watch—­but in vain—­for the sigh or the tear,
That only comes thick when no mortal is near,—­
Who whisper—­“How gently she bends to the rod!”
Because all her heart-break is kept for her God,—­
Ah! little they know of the tempests that roll
Their desolate floods through the depths of her soul!

    Afar in our sunshiny homes on the shore,
    We heed not how wildly the billows may roar;
    We smile at our firesides, happy and free,
    While the rich-freighted argosy founders at sea!