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!