Classic Poem

Yet, who closer marked the face
That o'erruled the battle-place,
Much had marvelled to discern
Looks more calm and soft than stern.
For no flush of hot ambition
Stained her soul's unearthly mission.
Raging hate, and stubborn pride,
Warlike cunning, life-long tried,
Low before that presence died,
For within her sainted heart
Naught of these had found a part.
God had willed the land to free;
Handmaiden of God was she.
Ne'er so smooth a brow before,
Battle's darkening ensign wore;
And 'twas still the gentle eye
Wont when evening veiled the sky,
In the whispering shade to see
Angels haunt the lonely tree.