girt her finger, and she kissed the ring
In solemn pledge, and said:

"'I bring a gift--
The priceless gift of God unto his own:
O may it prove a precious gift to you,
As it has proved a precious gift to me;
And promise me to read it day by day--
Beginning on the morrow--every day
A chapter--and I too will read the same.'

"I took the gift--a precious gift indeed--
And you may see how I have treasured it.
Here, Captain, put your hand upon my breast--
An inner pocket--you will find it there."

I opened the bloody blouse and thence drew forth
The Book of Christ all stained with Christian blood.
He laid his hand upon the holy book,
And closed his eyes as if in silent prayer.
I held his weary head and bade him rest.
He lay a moment silent and resumed:
"Let me go on if you would hear the tale;
I soon shall sleep the sleep that wakes no more.
O there were promises and vows as solemn
As Christ's own promises; but as we sat
The pattering rain-drops fell among the pines,
And in the branches the foreboding owl
With dismal hooting hailed the coming storm.
So in that dreary hour and desolate
We parted in the silence of our tears.

"And on the morrow morn I bade adieu
To the old cottage home I loved so well--
The dear old cottage home where I was born.
Then from my mother's grave I plucked a rose
Bursting in bloom--Pauline had planted it--
And left my little hill-girt boyhood world.
I journeyed eastward to my journey's end;
At first by rail for many a flying mile,
By mail-coach thence from where the hurrying train
Leaps a swift river that goes tumbling on
Between a village and a mountain-ledge,
Chafing its rocky banks. There seethes and foams
The restless river round the roaring rocks,
And then flows on a little way and pours
Its laughing waters into a bridal lap.
Its flood is fountain-fed among the hills;
Far up the mossy brooks the timid trout
Lie in the shadow of vine-tangled elms.
Out from the village-green the roadway leads
Along the river up between the hills,
Then climbs a wooded mountain to its top,
And gently winds adown the farther side
Unto a valley where the bridal stream
Flows rippling, meadow-flower-and-willow-fringed,
And dancing onward with a merry song,
Hastes to the nuptials. From the mountain-top--
A thousand feet above the meadowy vale--
She seems a chain of fretted silver wound
With artless art among the emerald hills.
Thence up a winding valley of grand views--