And with them all sad Mildred walked,
The bearer of a heavy cross;
For at her side the phantom stalked--
Nor left her for an hour--of loss
Which by no fortune might be balked.

For one or all she loved must fall;
One cause must perish in defeat;
Success of either would appall,
And victory, however sweet
To others, would to her be gall.

To each, with equal heart allied,
Her love was like the love of God,
That wraps the country in its tide,
And o'er its hosts, benign and broad,
Broods with its pity and its pride!

A thousand chances of the feud
She wove and raveled one by one,--
Of hands in kindred blood imbrued,--
Of father, face to face with son,
And friends turned foemen fierce and rude.

And in her dreams two forms were met,
Of friends as leal as ever breathed---
Her husband and her brother--wet
With priceless blood from swords ensheathed
In hearts that loved each other yet!