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--