Nothing that ought to be, and could be, done.
A Captain’s wife, with him she long sustain’d
The toil of war, and in a camp remain’d; 20
Her husband wounded, with a child in arms,
She nurst them both, unheeded all alarms;
All useless terror in her soul supprest—
None could discern in hers a troubled breast.
Her wounded soldier is a prisoner made—
She hears, prepares, and is at once convey’d
Through hostile ranks; with air sedate she goes,