And scarce a year of wedlock when Its red arms took him from his bride. With lips by hers thrice sanctified He left to ride with Morgan's men. And I--I never could decide-- Remained at home. It happened then. For days went by. And, oft delayed, A letter came of loving word Scrawled by some camp-fire, sabre-stirred, Or by a pine-knot's fitful aid, When in the saddle, armed and spurred And booted for some hurried raid. Then weeks went by. I do not know How long it was before there came, Blown from the North, the clarion fame Of Morgan, who, with blow on blow, Had drawn a line of blood and flame From Tennessee to Ohio. Then letters ceased; and days went on. No word from him. The war rolled back, And in its turgid crimson track A rumor grew, like some wild dawn, All ominous and red and black, With news of our lost Hamilton, That hinted death or capture. Yet No thing was sure; till one day,--fed By us,--some men rode up who said They'd been with Morgan and had met Disaster, and that he was dead, My brother.--I and Margaret Believed them. Grief was ours too: But mine was more for her than him; Grief, that her eyes with tears were dim; Grief, that became the avenue For love, who crowned the sombre brim Of death's dark cup with rose-red hue. In sympathy,--unconsciously Though it be given--I hold, doth dwell The germ of love that time shall swell To blossom. Sooner then in me-- When close relations so befell-- That love should spring from sympathy. Our similar tastes and mutual bents Combined to make us intimates From our first meeting. Different states Of interest then our temperaments Begot. Then friendship, that abates No love, whose self it represents. These led to talks and dreams: how oft We sat at some wide window while The sun sank o'er the hills' far file, Serene; and of the cloud aloft Made one vast rose; and mile on mile Of firmament grew sad and soft. And all in harmony with these Dim clemencies of dusk, afar Our talks and dreams went; while the star Of evening brightened o'er the trees: We spoke of home; the end of war: We dreamed of life and love and peace. How on our walks in listening lanes Or confidences of the wood, We paused to hear the dove that cooed; Or gathered wild-flowers, taking pains To find the fairest; or her hood Filled with wild fruit that left deep stains. No echo of the drum or fife, No hint of conflict entered in Our thoughts then. Will you call it sin-- Indifference to a nation's strife? What side might lose, what side might win, Both immaterial to our life. Into the past we did not look; Beyond what was we did not dream; While onward rushed the thunderous stream Of war, that, in its torrent, took One of our own. No crimson gleam Of its wild course around us shook.