XXI.

The time of gathering came and went— Of noisy zeal and hasty drill— And every where, in field and tent,— A constant presence,—Philip's will Moulded the callow regiment.

And then there fell a gala day, When all the mighty, motley swarm Appeared in beautiful display Of burnished arms and uniform, And gloried in their brave array!—

And, later still, the hour of dread To all the simple country round, When forth, with Philip at their head, They marched from the familiar ground, And drained its life, and left it dead;—

Dead but for those who pined with grief; Dead but for fears that could not die; Dead as the world when flower and leaf Are still beneath a gathering sky, And ocean sleeps on reach and reef.

The weary waiting time had come, When only apprehension waked; And lonely wives sat chill and dumb Among their broods, with hearts that ached And echoed the retreating drum.

Teachers forgot to preach their creeds, And trade forsook its merchandise; The fallow fields grew rank with weeds, And none had interest or eyes For aught but war's ensanguined deeds.

As one who lingered by a bier Where all she loved lay dead and cold, Sad Mildred sat without a tear, Living again the days of old, Or, with the vision of a seer,

Forecasting the disastrous end. Whatever might come, she did not dare Believe that fortune would defend The noble life she could not spare, And save her lover and her friend.

Her blooming girls and stalwart boys Could never comprehend the woe Which dropped its measure of their joys, And felt but horror in the show, And heard but murder in the noise,

And dreamed of death when stillness fell Behind the gay and shouting corps. They saw her haunted by the spell Of a great sorrow, and forebore To question what they could not quell.

Small time she gave to vain regret; Brief space to thought of that adieu Which crushed her breast, when last they met, And in love's baptism bathed anew Cheeks, lips, and eyes, and left them wet!

In deeds of sympathy and grace, She moved among the homes forlorn, Alike to beautiful and base And, to the stricken and the shorn, The guardian angel of the place.



XXII.

Oh piteous waste of hopes and fears! Oh cruel stretch of long delay! Oh homes bereft! Oh useless tears! Oh war! that ravened on its prey Through pain's immeasurable years!

The town was mourning for its dead; The streets were black with widowhood; While orphaned children begged for bread, And Rachel, for the brave and good, Mourned, and would not be comforted.

The regiment that, straight and crisp, Shone like a wheat-field in the sun, Its swift voice deafened to a lisp, Fell, ere the war was well begun, And waned and withered to a wisp.

And Philip, grown to higher rank, Crowned with the bays of splendid deeds, Of the full cup of glory drank, And lived, though all his reeking steeds In the red front of conflict sank.

The star of conquest waxed or waned, Yet still the call came back for men; Still the lamenting town was drained, And still again, and still again, Till only impotence remained!



XXIII.

There came at length an eve of gloom— Dread Gettysburg's eventful eve— When all the gathering clouds of doom Hung low, the breathless air to cleave With scream of shell and cannon-boom!

Man knew too well; and woman felt, That when the next-wild morn should rise, A blow of battle would, be dealt Before whose fire ten thousand eyes— As in a furnace flame—would melt.

And on this eve—her flock asleep— Knelt Mildred at her lonely bed. She could not pray, she did not weep, But only moaned, and moaning, said: "Oh God! he sows what I must reap!

"He will not live: he must not die! But oh, my poor, prophetic heart! It warns me that there lingers nigh The hour when love and I must part!" And then she startled with a cry,

For, from beneath her lattice, came A low and once repeated call! She knew the voice that spoke her name, And swiftly, through the midnight hall She fluttered noiseless as a flame,

And on its unresisting hinge Threw wide her hospitable door, To one whose spirit did not cringe Though he was weak, and knew he bore No right her freedom to infringe.

She wildly clasped his neck of bronze; She rained her kisses; on his face, Grown tawny with a thousand suns, And holding him in her embrace, She led him to her little ones,

Who, reckless of his coming, slept. Then down the stair with silent feet, And through the shadowy hall she swept, And saw, between her and the street, A form that into darkness crept.

She closed the door with speechless dread; She fixed the bolt with trembling hand; Then led the rebel to his bed, Whom love and safety had unmanned, And left him less alive than dead.

Through nights and days of fear and grief, She kept her faithful watch and ward, But love and rest brought no relief; And all he begged for of his Lord Was death, with passion faint and brief.



XXIV.

Around the house were prying eyes, And gossips hiding under trees; And Mildred heard the steps of spies At midnight, when, upon her knees, She sought the comfort of the skies.

Strange voices rose upon the night; Strange errands entered at the gate; Her hours were months of pale affright; But still her prisoner of state Was shielded from their eager sight.

They did not dare to force the lock Of one whose deeds had been divine, Or carry to her heart the shock Of violence, although condign Toward one who dared the laws to mock.

But there were hirelings in pursuit, Who thirsted for his golden price; And, swift allied with pimp and brute, And quick to purchase and entice, They found the tree that held their fruit.



XXV.

The day of Gettysburg had set; The smoke had drifted from the scene, And burnished sword and bayonet Lay rusting where, but yestere'en, They dropped with life-blood red and wet!

The swift invader had retraced His march, and left his fallen braves, Covered at night in voiceless haste, To, sleep, in memorable graves, But knew that all his loss was waste.

The nation's legions, stretching wide, Too sore to chase, too weak to cheer, Gave sepulture to those who died, And saw their foemen disappear Without the loss of power or pride.

And then, swift-sweeping like a gale, Through all the land, from end to end, Grief poured its wild, untempered wail, And father, mother, wife, and friend Forgot their country in their bale.

And Philip, with his fatal wound, Was borne beyond the battle's blaze, Across the torn and quaking ground,— His ear too dull to heed the praise, That spoke him hero, robed and crowned.

They bent above his blackened face, And questioned of his last desire; And with his old, familiar grace, And smiling mouth, and eye of fire, He answered them: "My wife's embrace!"

They wiped his forehead of its stain, They bore him tenderly away, Through teeming mart and wide champaign, Till on a twilighty cool and gray, And wet with weeping of the rain,

They gave him to a silent crowd That waited at the river's marge, Of men with age and sorrow bowed, Who raised and bore their precious charge, Through groups that watched and wailed aloud.



XXVI.

The hounds of power were at her gate; And at their heels, a yelping pack Of graceless mongrels stood in wait, To mark the issue of attack, With lips that slavered with their hate.

With window raised and portal barred, The mistress scanned the darkening space, And with a visage hot and hard— At bay before the cruel chase— She held them in her fierce regard.

"What would ye—spies and hirelings—what?" She asked with accent, stern and brave; "Why come ye to this sacred spot, Led by the counsel of a knave, And flanked by slanderer and sot?

"You have my husband: has he earned No meed of courtesy for me? Is this the recompense returned, That she he loved the best should be Suspected, persecuted, spurned?

"My home is wrecked: what would ye more? My life is ruined—what new boon? My children's hearts are sad and sore With weeping for the wounds that soon Will plead for healing at my door!

"I hold your prisoner—stand assured: Safe from his foes: aye, safe from you! Safe in a sister's love immured, And by a warden kept as true As e'er the test of faith endured,

"Why, men, he was my brother born! My hero, all my youthful years! My counsellor, to guide and warn! My shield alike from foes and fears! And when he came to me, forlorn,

"What could I do but hail him guest, And bind his cruel wounds with balm, And give him on his sister's breast That which he asked, the humble alm Of a safe pillow where to rest?

"Come, then, and dare the wrath of fate! Come, if you must, or if you will! But know that I am desperate; And shafts that wound, and wounds that kill Your deed of dastardy await!"

A murmur swept through all the mob; The base informer slunk afar; And lusty cheer and stifled sob Rose to her at the window-bar, While those whose hands were come to rob

Her dwelling of its treasure, cursed; For round their heads the menace flew That he who dared adventure first, Or first an arm of murder drew, Should taste of vengeance at its worst.



XXVII.

A heavy tramp, a murmuring sound, Low mingling with the murmuring rain,— Heard in the wind and in the ground,— Came up the street—a tide of pain, In which the angry din was drowned.

The leaders of the tumult fled; The door flew open with a crash; And down the street wild Mildred sped, Piercing the darkness like a flash, And walked beside her husband's bed.

Slowly the solemn train advanced; The crowd fell back with parted ranks; And like a giant, half entranced, Sailing between strange, spectral banks, From side to side the soldier glanced.

The sobbing rain, the evening dim, The dusky forms that pushed and peered, The swaying couch, the aching limb, The lights and shadows, sharp and weird, Were but a troubled dream to him.

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.

No more with this had she to do; God and her little ones were left; And unto these, serene and true, She gave the life so soon bereft Of its first gifts, and rose anew

At duty's call to make amends For all her loss of loves and lands; And found, to speed her noble ends, The succor of uplifting hands, And solace of a thousand friends.

And o'er her precious graves she built A stone whereon the yellow boss Of sword on sword with naked hilt Lay as the symbol of her cross, In mournful meaning, carved and gilt.

And underneath were graved the lines:—

"THEY DID THE DUTY THAT THEY SAW; BOTH WROUGHT AT GOD'S SUPREME DESIGNS AND, UNDER LOVE'S ETERNAL LAW, EACH LIFE WITH EQUAL BEAUTY SHINES."



XXX.

Peace, with its large and lilied calms, Like moonlight sleeps on land and lake, With healing in its dewy balms, For pride that pines and hearts that ache, From Huron to the land of palms!

From rock-bound Massachusetts Bay To San Francisco's Golden Gate; From where Itasca's waters play, To those which plunge or palpitate A thousand happy leagues away,

And drink, among her dunes and bars, The Mississippi's boiling tide, Still floating from a million spars, The nation's ensign, undefied, Blazons its galaxy of stars.

No more to party strife the slave, And freed from Hate's infernal spells, Love pays her tribute to the brave, And snows her holy immortelles O'er friend and foe, where'er his grave.

On every Decoration Day The white-haired Mildred finds her mounds Decked with the garnered bloom of May— Flowers planted first within her wounds, And fed by love as white as they.

And Philip's first-born, strong and sage, Through Heaven's design or happy chance Finds the old church his heritage, And still, The Mistress of the Manse, Sits Mildred, in her silver age!

THE END