barren desert of years!

Slender, lithe little figure--
Graceful and yielding form,
Never again to be held in the close
Clasp of a manly arm!

Oh the sweet oval face,
And the wonderful violet eyes!
No more to be sealed with true kisses,
And opened to love's paradise!

And oh the sunny, brown hair,
Which breaks into ripples and waves
O'er her sad brow--like the laughter
Of young children over graves!

Put it away under widow's weeds--
Draw it as straight as you can:
Never again will the dear little head
Be held to the heart of a man.

Dazed, she sits in the twilight
Of the funeral-darkened room,
Her whole soul gathered to listen--alas!
For a voice that is stilled in the tomb.

Dear voice, now silent forever!
God help her! It seems a dream!
She hopes, even now she may waken;
But see yonder cruel sunbeam.

How it wanders over the carpet--
It lights up the distant room--
It falls on his portrait--_his_ portrait!--
His face shines out in the gloom

As warmly and loving as ever;--
But, oh, there hangs under its frame
The sword he has wielded so bravely--
The blade that has lettered his name

On the tablets of Glory--erected
O'er the bodies of thousands of slain;
Who have died to preserve the Republic!
_Our_ loss--but the nation's great gain.

Wring the small, white hands together--
Clasp them close over the breast:--
Prisoned heart, throbbing so wildly,
Never again to know rest.

Can you not leap and be joyful,
Knowing the nation is free!
Gentle-eyed Peace is but waiting
Sure of a welcome, to be.

Ask not for paeans of triumph
From 'only a woman's' heart:
Alas! in the triumph of nations
She hath but an humble part!

Hers to be patient, and suffer--
While her soul goes out to the fray
With the one who is dearer than heaven,
To see him shot down by the way.

Anguished, for drops of cold water
That e'en to the vilest we give!
Mangled and crushed and insulted!
God! can I write it, and live!

Fold the hands o'er the soft bosom
Baby hands never caressed--
Hush into patience the sweet lips
Never to man's to be pressed.

There on the altar of nations
She has given the soul out of her life:
Holocaust greater was never:
God help the poor, little wife!

THE ISLE OF SPRINGS.

CHAPTER V.

HISTORIC