Hers was an aspect singularly mild,
With radiant brow deep-arched, obscurely clear,
And dark affrayed eyes, half-meek, half-wild,
That told the fount of pity welling near.
Twice gazed you on that face ere ’twould appear
That Time had all too early cast his pall
O’er the bright blooms that Youth and Beauty wear;
For mingled there hope, grief, doubt, fear, and all
That turn the human heart to tenderness—or gall.
VII.
The day declined, night’s dusky mantle fell,
And evening’s hush lay lightly o’er the vale;
Still watched Irene like hermit in his cell.
The bright moon rose, and twilight ’gan to fail
As the soft beams fell gently o’er the dale;
And still she watched with fixed, inquiring view
Upon the soldier’s face upturned and pale,—
Alike his name, his lot, his fate, none knew,
Save by the badge he wore,—the Northern coat of blue.
VIII.
Scarce yestermorn it was since he had come,
Languid and faint from wounds and bitter woe,
Unto the portals of that Southern home,
Which, like the Southern heart, can ne’er forego
The sight of wretchedness, even in a foe,
A mortal foe, when hapless Pity calls
The generous heart unconsciously to show
The claims of mercy ere the mandate falls,
Or soothe the shriveled heart that suffering woe enthralls.
IX.
Still watched Irene; the bright moon higher rose,
And swung above the vale beneath a cloud.
“How like the orb of hope that rising glows
Fair, ’neath some sullen gloom that would enshroud
All that is bright in life!” Thus, half aloud,
The maiden spoke; then silence fell again,
And the soft light gleamed o’er her head, as bowed
She ’neath that aching, sinking sense of pain,
When hope hath sunk from view, and life itself is vain.