When fierce and fast-thronging calamities rush
    Resistless as destiny o’er us, and crush
    The life from the quivering heart till we feel
    Like the victim whose body is broke on the wheel—­
    When we think we have touched the far limit at last,
    —­One throe, and the point of endurance is passed—­
    When we shivering hang on the verge of despair—­
    There still is capacity left us to bear.

    The storm of the winter, the smile of the Spring,
    No respite, no pause, and no hopefulness bring;
    The demon of carnage still breathes his hot breath,
    And fiercely goes forward the harvest of death.

    Days painfully drag their slow burden along;
    And the pulse that is beating so steady and strong,
    Stands still, as there comes, from the echoing shore
    Of the winding and clear Rappahannock, the roar
    Of conflict so fell, that the silvery flood
    Runs purple and rapid and ghastly with blood.

    —­Grand army of martyrs!—­though victory waves
    Them onward, her march must be over their graves: 
    They feel it—­they know it,—­yet steadier each
    Close phalanx moves into the desperate breach: 
    Their step does not falter—­their faith does not yield,—­
    For yonder, supreme o’er the fiercely-fought field,
    Erect in his leonine grandeur, they see
    The proud and magnificent calmness of LEE!

    ’Tis morn—­but the night has brought Alice no rest: 
    The roof seems to press like a weight on her breast;
    And she wanders forth, wearily lifting her eye,
    To seek for relief ’neath the calm of the sky.

    The air of the forest is spicy and sweet,
    And dreamily babbles a brook at her feet;
    Her children are ’round her, and sunshine and flowers,
    Try vainly to banish the gloom of the hours. 
    With a volume she fain her wild thoughts would assuage,
    But her vision can trace not a line on the page,
    And the poet’s dear strains, once so soft to her ear,
    Have lost all their mystical power to cheer.

    The evening approaches—­the pressure—­the woe
    Grows drearer and heavier,—­yet she must go,
    And stifle between the dead walls, as she may,
    The heart that scarce breathed in the free, open day.

    She reaches the dwelling that serves as her home;
    A horseman awaits at the entrance;—­the foam
    Is flecking the sides of his fast-ridden steed,
    Who pants, over-worn with exhaustion and speed;
    And Alice for support to Beverly clings,
    As the soldier delivers the letter he brings.

    Her ashy lips move, but the words do not come,
    And she stands in her whiteness, bewildered and dumb: 
    She turns to the letter with hopeless appeal,
    But her fingers are helpless to loosen the seal: 
    She lifts her dim eyes with a look of despair,—­
    Her hands for a moment are folded in prayer;
    The strength she has sought is vouchsafed in her need: 
    —­“I think I can bear it now, Beverly ... read.”