"He turned, and he paused, as he uttered the call-- Then reeled in his seat, and fell,--pierced by a ball. "He lives and he breathes yet:--the surgeons declare, That the balance is trembling 'twixt hope and despair. In his blanket he lies, on the hospital floor,-- So calm, you might deem all his agony o'er; And here, as I write, on his face I can see An expression whose radiance is startling to me. His faith is sublime:--he relinquishes life, And craves but one blessing,--_to look on his wife!_" The Chaplain's recital is ended:--no word From Alice's white, breathless lips has been heard; Till, rousing herself from her passionless woe, She simply and quietly says--"I will go." There are moments of anguish so deadly, so deep-- That numbness seems over the senses to creep, With interposition, whose timely relief, Is an anodyne-draught to the madness of grief. Such mercy is meted to Alice;--her eye That sees as it saw not, is vacant and dry: The billows' wild fury sweeps over her soul, And she bends to the rush with a passive control. Through the dusk of the night--through the glare of the day, She urges, unconscious, her desolate way: One image is ever her vision before, --That blanketed form on the hospital floor! Her journey is ended; and yonder she sees The spot where _he_ lies, looming white through the trees: Her torpor dissolves with a shuddering start, And a terrible agony clutches her heart. The Chaplain advances to meet her:--he draws Her silently onward;--no question--no pause-- Her finger she lays on her lip;--if she spake, She knows that the spell that upholds her, would break. 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!