Rankles deep within my heart,--
Hope, and joy, and peace, depart;
--Slain in battle!"

'Tis thus through her days and her nights of despair,
Her months of bereavement so bitter to bear,
That Alice moans ever. Ah! little they know,
Who look on that brow, still and white as the snow,
Who watch--but in vain--for the sigh or the tear,
That only comes thick when no mortal is near,--
Who whisper--"How gently she bends to the rod!"
Because all her heart-break is kept for her God,--
Ah! little _they_ know of the tempests that roll
Their desolate floods through the depths of her soul!

Afar in our sunshiny homes on the shore,
We heed not how wildly the billows may roar;
We smile at our firesides, happy and free,
While the rich-freighted argosy founders at sea!
Though wrapped in the weeds of her widowhood, pale,--
Though life seems all sunless and dim through the veil
That drearily shadows her sorrowful brow,--
Is the cause of her country less dear to her now?
Does the patriot-flame in her heart cease to stir,--
Does she feel that the conflict is over for her?
Because the red war-tide has deluged her o'er,--
Has wreaked its wild wrath, and can harm _her_ no more,--
Does she stand, self-absorbed, on the wreck she has braved,
Nor care if her country be lost or be saved?