WOUNDS.

THE night-wind sweeps its viewless lyre,

And o'er dim lands, at pastoral rest,
A single star's white heart of fire
Is throbbing in the amber west.

I track a rivulet, while I roam,
By banks that copious leafage cools,
And watch it roughening into foam,
Or deepening into glassy pools.

And where the shy stream gains a glade

That willowy thickets overwhelm, I find a cottage in the shade

Of one high patriarchal elm.

Unseen, I mark, well bowered from reach,

A group the sloping lawn displays, And more by gestures than by speech

I learn their converse while I gaze. In curious band, youth, maid, and dame,

About his chair they throng to greet

A gaunt old man of crippled frame, Whose crutch leans idle at his feet.

Girt with meek twilight's peaceful breath, [fray, They hear of loud, tempestuous Of troops mown down like wheat by death,

Of red Antietam's ghastly day. He tells of hurts that will not heal;

Where sting of shot and bite of steel Of aches that nerve and sinew fret, Have left their dull mementos yet; And touched by pathos, filled with praise,

His gathered hearers closer press, To pay alike in glance or phrase, Response of pitying tenderness.

But I, who note their kindly will, Look onward, past the box-edged walk, [still, Where stands a woman, grave and Oblivious of their fleeting talk.