A heavy tramp, a murmuring sound,
Low mingling with the murmuring rain,—
Heard in the wind and in the ground,—
Came up the street—a tide of pain,
In which the angry din was drowned.
The leaders of the tumult fled;
The door flew open with a crash;
And down the street wild Mildred sped,
Piercing the darkness like a flash,
And walked beside her husband's bed.
Slowly the solemn train advanced;
The crowd fell back with parted ranks;
And like a giant, half entranced,
Sailing between strange, spectral banks,
From side to side the soldier glanced.
The sobbing rain, the evening dim,
The dusky forms that pushed and peered,
The swaying couch, the aching limb,
The lights and shadows, sharp and weird,
Were but a troubled dream to him.
He knew his love—all else unknown,
Or seen through reason's sad eclipse—
And with her, hand within his own,
Or fondly pressed upon his lips,
He clung to it, as if alone
It had the power to stay, his feet
Still longer on the verge of life;
And thus they vanished from the street—
The shepherd-warrior and his wife—
Within the manse's closed retreat.