Wheeled, pale, in a chair, and shattered, the wreck of their hero was
seen;
The ghost of Tom drawn slow o’er the orchard’s shadowy green.
Could this be the martial darling they joyed in a moment ago?
‘He knows it?’ to Mary Tom murmured, and closed his weak lids at her
‘No.’
‘Beloved!’ she said, falling by him, ‘I have been a coward: I thought
You lay in the foreign country, and some strange good might be
wrought.