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.