When first a wild war-note through England was sent,
He, transferring without either token, or word,

To friend, parent, or comrade, a yet virgin sword,
From a holiday troop, to one bound for the war,
Had march'd forth, with eyes that saw death in the star
Whence others sought glory. Thus, fighting, he fell
On the red field of Inkerman; found, who can tell
By what miracle, breathing, though shatter'd, and borne
To the rear by his comrades, pierced, bleeding, and torn.
Where for long days and nights, with the wound in his side,
He lay, dark.

IX.

But a wound deeper far, undescried,

In the young heart was rankling; for there, of a truth,
In the first earnest faith of a pure pensive youth,
A love large as life, deep and changeless, as death,
Lay ensheath'd: and that love, ever fretting its sheath,
The frail scabbard of life pierced and wore through and through.
There are loves in man's life for which time can renew
All that time may destroy. Lives there are, though, in love,
Which cling to one faith, and die with it; nor move,
Though earthquakes may shatter the shrine.

Whence or how

Love laid claim to this young life, it matters not now.

X.

Oh is it a phantom? a dream of the night?

A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight?

The wind wailing ever, with motion uncertain,

Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tatter'd curtain,
To and fro, up and down.

But it is not the wind

That is lifting it now: and it is not the mind

That hath moulded that vision.

A pale woman enters,

As wan as the lamp's waning light, which concentres
Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmer
There, all in a slumbrous and shadowy glimmer,
The sufferer sees that still form floating on,
And feels faintly aware that he is not alone.
She is flitting before him.
By his bedside, all silent.
On the brow of the boy.

She pauses. She stands
She lays her white hands
A light finger is pressing

Softly, softly, the sore wounds: the hot blood-stain'd dressing Slips from them. A comforting quietude steals

Through the rack'd weary frame: and, throughout it, he feels The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighbourhood.

Something smoothes the toss'd pillow. Beneath a grey hood Of rough serge, two intense tender eyes are bent o'er him, And thrill through and through him. The sweet form before him, It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil keeping!

A soft voice says . . . 'Sleep!'

XI.

And he sleeps: he is sleeping.

He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there:
Still that pale woman moves not. A minist'ring care
Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering
The aspect of all things around him.

Revering

Some power unknown and benignant, he bless'd

In silence the sense of salvation. And rest

Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly Sigh'd... 'Say what thou art, blessèd dream of a saintly 'And minist'ring spirit'!'

A whisper serene

Slid, softer than silence . . .

'A poor Sister of Charity.

'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 splendour. And there, never flitting,
Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting.

As the dawn to the darkness, so life seem'd 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!'

'Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy mother, 'I knew them-I know them.'

'Oh can it be? you!

My dearest dear father! my mother! you knew,

'You know them?'

In silence.

She bow'd, half averting, her head

He brokenly, timidly said,

G G

'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!

'Will have reach'd them !'

'No, no!' she exclaim'd with a smile,

They know you are living; they know that meanwhile
I am watching beside you. Young soldier, weep not!'
But still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hot
Fever'd brow of the boy weeping wildly is press'd.
There, at last, the young heart sobs itself into rest :

And he hears, as it were between smiling and weeping,

And day follow'd day. And, as wave follows wave,
With the tide, day by day, life, re-issuing, drave
Through that young hardy frame novel currents of health.
Yet some strange obstruction, which life's self by stealth
Seem'd to cherish, impeded life's progress. And still
A feebleness, less of the frame than the will,
Clung about the sick man hid and harbour'd within
The sad hollow eyes: pinch'd the cheek pale and thin:
And clothed the wan fingers with languor.

And there,

Day by day, night by night, unremitting in care,
Unwearied in watching, so cheerful of mien,
And so gentle of hand, sat the Sour Seraphine!

XIV.

A strange woman truly! not young; yet her face,
Wan and worn as it was, bore about it the trace