Of labour or of mirth, and in their stead
Terror and stillness, boding signs of woe,
Inquiring glances, rumours whisper’d low,
Questions half-utter’d, jealous looks that keep
A fearful watch around, and sadness deep
That weighs upon the heart; and voices, heard
At intervals, in many a broken word—
Voices of mothers, trembling as they press’d
Th’ unconscious infant closer to their breast;
Voices of wives, with fond imploring cries,