The bitterness of her despair. It passed—
That moment of wild anguish; he knelt down;
That sunbeam shed its glory over one,
Young, proud, and brave, nerved in deep energy;
The next fell over cold and bloody clay. - -
There is a deep-voiced sound from yonder vale
Which ill accords with the sweet music made
By the light birds nestling by those green elms,
And a strange contrast to the blossomed thorns.
Dark plumes are waving, and a silent hearse
Is winding through that lane. They told it bore
A widow, who died of a broken heart:
Her child, her soul's last treasure,—he had been
Shot for desertion!L. E. L.
(In the Fifth Sketch, last week, the first seven lines should have been printed as a head to the poem.)
The closing note refers back to the previous poem, on page 26
