n'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly
Sigh'd... "Say what thou art, blessed dream of a saintly
And minist'ring spirit!"
A whisper serene
Slid, softer than silence... "The Soeur Seraphine,
A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire
Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy sire,
For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave.
Thou didst not shun death: shun not life: 'Tis more brave
To live than to die. Sleep!"
He sleeps: he is sleeping.

XII.

He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steeping
The skies with chill splendor. And there, never flitting,
Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting.
As the dawn to the darkness, so life seemed returning
Slowly, feebly within him. The night-lamp yet burning,
Made ghastly the glimmering daybreak.
He said,
"If thou be of the living, and not of the dead,
Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing
Of that balmy voice; if it may be, revealing
Thy mission of mercy; whence art thou?"
"O son
Of Matilda and Alfred, it matters not! One
Who is not of the living nor yet of the dead:
To thee, and to others, alive yet"... she said...
"So long as there liveth the poor gift in me
Of this ministration; to them, and to thee,
Dead in all things beside. A French Nun, whose vocation
Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation.
Wherever man suffers, or woman may soothe,
There her land! there her kindred!"
She bent down to smooth
The hot pillow; and added... "Yet more than another
Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy mother,
I know them--I know them."
"Oh, can it be? you!
My dearest dear father! my mother! you knew,'
You know them?"
She bowed, half averting her head
In silence.
He brokenly, timidly said,
"Do they know I am thus?"
"Hush!"... she smiled, as she drew
From her bosom two letters: and--can it be true?
That beloved and familiar writing!
He burst
Into tears... "My poor mother--my father! the worst
Will hav