_Lydia H. Sigourney._

More Cruel Than War

(During the Civil War, a Southern prisoner at Camp Chase in Ohio lay
sick in the hospital. He confided to a friend, Colonel Hawkins of
Tennessee, that he was grieving because his fiancee, a Nashville girl,
had not written to him. The soldier died soon afterward, Colonel Hawkins
having promised to open and answer any mail that came for him. This poem
is in reply to a letter from his friend's fiancee, in which she curtly
broke the engagement.)

Your letter, lady, came too late,
For heaven had claimed its own;
Ah, sudden change--from prison bars
Unto the great white throne;
And yet I think he would have stayed,
To live for his disdain,
Could he have read the careless words
Which you have sent in vain.

So full of patience did he wait,
Through many a weary hour,
That o'er his simple soldier-faith
Not even death had power;
And you--did others whisper low
Their homage in your ear,
As though among their shallow throng
His spirit had a peer?

I would that you were by me now,
To draw the sheet aside
And see how pure the look he wore
The moment when he died.
The sorrow that you gave to him
Had left its weary trace,
As 'twere the shadow of the cross
Upon his pallid face.

"Her love," he said, "could change for me
The winter's cold to spring."
Ah, trust of fickle maiden's love,
Thou art a bitter thing!
For when these valleys, bright in May,
Once more with blossoms wave,
The northern violets shall blow
Above his humble grave.

Your dole of scanty words had been
But one more pang to bear
For him who kissed unto the last
Your tress of golden hair;
I did not put it where he said,
For when the angels come,
I would not have them find the sign
Of falsehood in the tomb.

I've read your letter, and I know
The wiles that you have wrought
To win that trusting heart of his,
And gained it--cruel thought!
What lavish wealth men sometimes give
For what is worthless all!
What manly bosoms beat for them
In folly's falsest thrall!

You shall not pity him, for now
His sorrow has an end;
Yet would that you could stand with me
Beside my fallen friend!
And I forgive you for his sake,
As he--if he be forgiven--
May e'en be pleading grace for you
Before the court of Heaven.

To-night the cold winds whistle by,
As I my vigil keep
Within the prison dead-house, where
Few mourners come to weep.
A rude