But speechless, and moveless, and stony of eye,
Scarce conscious of aught in the earth or the sky,
In a swoon of the heart, all her senses have reeled,--
But she prays for endurance,--for here is the field.
The flight and pursuit, so harassing, so hot,
Have drifted all combatants far from the spot:
And through the sparse woodlands, and over the plain,
Lie gorily scattered, the wounded and slain.
Oh! the sickness,--the shudder,--the quailing of fear,
As it leaps to her lips,--"What if Douglass be here!"

Yet she frames not a question; her spirit can bear
Oh! anything,--all things, but hopeless despair:
Does her darling lie stretched on the slope of yon hill?
Let her doubt--let her hug the suspense, if she will!


She watches each ambulance-burden with dread;
She loots in the faces of dying and dead:
And hour after hour, with steady control,
She bends to her task all the strength of her soul;
She comforts the wounded with pity's sweet care,
And the spirit that's passing, she speeds with her prayer.

She starts as she hears, from her stout-hearted boy,
A wild exclamation, half doubt and half joy:--

"Oh! Surgeon!--some brandy! he's fainting!--Ah! now
The colour comes back to his cheek and his brow:--
He breathes again--speaks again--listen!--you are