'Tis over,--that vision of terror,--of woe!
Its horrors I would not recall;--let them go!
I am calm when I think what I suffered them for;
I grudge not the quota _I_ pay to the war!

"But, Douglass!--deep down in the core of my heart,
There's a throbbing, an aching, that will not depart;
For memory mourns, with a wail of despair,
The loss of her treasures,--the subtle, the rare,
Precious things over which she delighted to pore,
Which nothing,--ah! nothing, can ever restore!

"The rose-covered porch, where I sat as your bride--
The hearth, where at twilight I leaned at your side--
The low-cushioned window-seat, where I would lie,
With my head on your knee, and look out on the sky:--
The chamber all holy with love and with prayer,
The motherhood memories clustering there--
The vines that _your_ hand has delighted to train,
The trees that _you_ planted;--Oh! never again
Can love build us up such a bower of bliss;
Oh! never can home be as hallow'd as this!

"Thank God! there's a dwelling not builded with hands,
Whose pearly foundation, immovable stands;
There struggles, alarms, and disquietudes cease,
And the blissfulest balm of the spirit is--peace!
Small trial 'twill seem when our perils are past,
And we enter the house of our Father at last,--
Light trouble, that here, in the night of our stay,