THE TWO WIVES.

The colonel rode by his picket-line

In the pleasant morning sun,

That glanced from him far off to shine

On the crouching rebel picket's gun.

From his command the captain strode

Out with a grave salute,

And talked with the colonel as he rode;—

The picket levelled his piece to shoot.

The colonel rode and the captain walked,—

The arm of the picket tired;

Their faces almost touched as they talked,

And, swerved from his aim, the picket fired.

The captain fell at the horse's feet,

Wounded and hurt to death,

Calling upon a name that was sweet

As God is good, with his dying breath.

And the colonel that leaped from his horse and knelt

To close the eyes so dim,

A high remorse for God's mercy felt,

Knowing the shot was meant for him.

And he whispered, prayer-like, under his breath,

The name of his own young wife:

For Love, that had made his friend's peace with Death,

Alone could make his with life.