My Warrior of Soul,

Her soul caught up Hope's shining shield

Against the dark assaults of Doubt;

She bade him bravely to the field

Where Death holds Glory's standard out.

She girt the good steel on his thigh,

And, "Rumor's random shafts," she said,

"Full oft are poisoned with a lie

That strikes the unwitting victim dead.

"If you—God give me strength!—should bleed,

Yet stanch life's current ere it fail,

Send me this scabbard! I will heed

No other token, tongue, nor tale!

"If captive, in the rebel host

Some youth, heart-mated, there must be,

Who for her sake, or loved, or lost,

Will speed your ransomed blade to me.

"If—if—I can not speak the word!

Pray some true comrade—at the worst—

In pity hither bear the sword;

But bid, oh! bid him break it first!"

Time sped. And Rumor still forbore

To strike her with its venomed dart;

Hope's buckler, still undimmed, she wore,

A constant AEgis, on her heart!

Till—surely 'twas a love divine

That armed her soul with daily prayer—

A soldier found her at the shrine,

And laid a broken falchion there!

"You broke the blade at his command?"

She faltered. "Nay, true heart, not so!

''Twas shivered, in his good right hand,

Full on the forehead of his foe!"

"To the just cause I freely gave

My better life," she said, and pressed

To her pale lips the shattered glaive:

"To God I dedicate the rest!

"Yet is my mission here to do;

I hear his stricken brethren groan;

Many their pangs, their soothers few;

Be they my heralds to the Throne?"

Self-vowed, to wounds and death, she bears

Her Master's healing and his word;

But ever at her side she wears,

For rosary, the broken sword!