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diff --git a/16480.txt b/16480.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d792b6a --- /dev/null +++ b/16480.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2353 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Beechenbrook, by Margaret J. Preston + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Beechenbrook + A Rhyme of the War + +Author: Margaret J. Preston + +Release Date: August 8, 2005 [EBook #16480] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEECHENBROOK *** + + + + +Produced by Mark C. Orton, Ted Garvin and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + +BEECHENBROOK; + +A Rhyme of the War. + + * * * * * + +BY + +MARGARET J. PRESTON. + + + * * * * * + +BALTIMORE: +KELLY & PIET, PUBLISHERS, +174 BALTIMORE STREET, +1866. + + + +Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by KELLY & PIET, +In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Maryland. + + +Dedication. + + +TO EVERY SOUTHERN WOMAN, WHO HAS BEEN Widowed by the War, +I DEDICATE THIS RHYME, PUBLISHED DURING THE PROGRESS OF THE STRUGGLE +AND NOW RE-PRODUCED--AS A Faint Memorial of Sufferings, +OF WHICH THERE CAN BE NO FORGETFULNESS. + +M.J.P. + + * * * * * + +BEECHENBROOK; + +A + +RHYME OF THE WAR. + + * * * * * + +I. + + There is sorrow in Beechenbrook Cottage; the day + Has been bright with the earliest glory of May; + The blue of the sky is as tender a blue + As ever the sunshine came shimmering through: + The songs of the birds and the hum of the bees, + As they merrily dart in and out of the trees,-- + The blooms of the orchard, as sifting its snows, + It mingles its odors with hawthorn and rose,-- + The voice of the brook, as it lapses unseen,-- + The laughter of children at play on the green,-- + Insist on a picture so cheerful, so fair, + Who ever would dream that a grief could be there! + + The last yellow sunbeam slides down from the wall, + The purple of evening is ready to fall; + The gladness of daylight is gone, and the gloom + Of something like sadness is over the room. + Right bravely all day, with a smile on her brow, + Has Alice been true to her duty,--but now + Her tasks are all ended,--naught inside or out, + For the thoughtfullest love to be busy about; + The knapsack well furnished, the canteen all bright, + The soldier's grey dress and his gauntlets in sight, + The blanket tight strapped, and the haversack stored, + And lying beside them, the cap and the sword; + No last, little office,--no further commands,-- + No service to steady the tremulous hands; + All wife-work,--the sweet work that busied her so, + Is finished:--the dear one is ready to go. + + Not a sob has escaped her all day,--not a moan; + But now the tide rushes,--for she is alone. + On the fresh, shining knapsack she pillows her head, + And weeps as a mourner might weep for the dead. + She heeds not the three-year old baby at play, + As donning the cap, on the carpet he lay; + Till she feels on her forehead, his fingers' soft tips, + And on her shut eyelids, the touch of his lips. + + "Mamma is _so_ sorry!--Mamma is _so_ sad! + But Archie can make her look up and be glad: + I've been praying to God, as you told me to do, + That Papa may come back when the battle is thro':-- + He says when we pray, that our prayers shall be heard; + And Mamma, don't you _always_ know, God keeps his word?" + + Around the young comforter stealthily press + The arms of his father with sudden caress; + Then fast to his heart,--love and duty at strife,-- + He snatches with fondest emotion, his wife. + + "My own love! my precious!--I feel I am strong; + I know I am brave in opposing the wrong; + I could stand where the battle was fiercest, nor feel + One quiver of nerve at the flash of the steel; + I could gaze on the enemy guiltless of fears, + But I quail at the sight of your passionate tears: + My calmness forsakes me,--my thoughts are a-whirl, + And the stout-hearted man is as weak as a girl. + I've been proud of your fortitude; never a trace + Of yielding, all day, could I read in your face; + But a look that was resolute, dauntless and high, + As ever flashed forth from a patriot's eye. + I know how you cling to me,--know that to part + Is tearing the tenderest cords of your heart: + Through the length and the breadth of our Valley to-day, + No hand will a costlier sacrifice lay + On the altar of Country; and Alice,--sweet wife! + I never have worshipped you so in my life! + Poor heart,--that has held up so brave in the past,-- + Poor heart! must it break with its burden at last?" + + The arms thrown about him, but tighten their hold, + The cheek that he kisses, is ashy and cold, + And bowed with the grief she so long has suppressed, + She weeps herself quiet and calm on his breast. + At length, in a voice just as steady and clear + As if it had never been choked by a tear, + She raises her eyes with a softened control, + And through them her husband looks into her soul. + + "I feel that we each for the other could die; + Your heart to my own makes the instant reply: + But dear as you are, Love,--my life and my light,-- + I would not consent to your stay, if I might: + No!--arm for the conflict, and on, with the rest; + Virginia has need of her bravest and best! + My heart--it must bleed, and my cheek will be wet, + Yet never, believe me, with selfish regret: + My ardor abates not one jot of its glow, + Though the tears of the wife and the woman _will_ flow. + + "Our cause is so holy, so just, and so true,-- + Thank God! I can give a defender like you! + For home, and for children,--for freedoms--for bread,-- + For the house of our God,--for the graves of our dead,-- + For leave to exist on the soil of our birth,-- + For everything manhood holds dearest on earth: + When _these_ are the things that we fight for--dare I + Hold back my best treasure, with plaint or with sigh? + My cheek would blush crimson,--my spirit be galled, + If _he_ were not there when the muster was called! + When we pleaded for peace, every right was denied; + Every pressing petition turned proudly aside; + Now God judge betwixt us!--God prosper the right! + To brave men there's nothing remains, but to fight: + I grudge you not, Douglass,--die, rather than yield,-- + And like the old heroes,--come home on your shield!" + + The morning is breaking:--the flush of the dawn + Is warning the soldier, 'tis time to be gone; + The children around him expectantly wait,-- + His horse, all caparisoned, paws at the gate: + With face strangely pallid,--no sobbings,--no sighs,-- + But only a luminous mist in her eyes, + His wife is subduing the heart-throbs that swell, + And calming herself for a quiet farewell. + + There falls a felt silence:--the note of a bird, + A tremulous twitter,--is all that is heard; + The circle has knelt by the holly-bush there,-- + And listen,--there comes the low breathing of prayer. + + "Father! fold thine arms of pity + Round us as we lowly bow; + Never have we kneeled before Thee + With such burden'd hearts as now! + + Joy has been our constant portion, + And if ill must now befall, + With a filial acquiescence, + We would thank thee for it all. + + In the path of present duty, + With Thy hand to lean upon, + Questioning not the hidden future, + May we walk serenely on. + + For this holy, happy home-love, + Purest bliss that crowns my life,-- + For these tender, trusting children,-- + For this fondest, faithful wife,-- + + Here I pour my full thanksgiving; + And, when heart is torn from heart, + Be our sweetest tryst-word, '_Mizpah_,'-- + Watch betwixt us while we part! + + And if never round this altar, + We should kneel as heretofore,-- + If these arms in benediction + Fold my precious ones no more,-- + + Thou, who in her direst anguish, + Sooth'dst thy mother's lonely lot, + In thy still unchanged compassion, + Son of Man! forsake them not!" + + + The little ones each he has caught to his breast, + And clasped them, and kissed them with fervent caress; + Then wordless and tearless, with hearts running o'er, + _They_ part who have never been parted before: + He springs to his saddle,--the rein is drawn tight,-- + And Beechenbrook Cottage is lost to his sight. + + +II. + + The feathery foliage has broadened its leaves, + And June, with its beautiful mornings and eves, + Its magical atmosphere, breezes and blooms, + Its woods all delicious with thousand perfumes,-- + First-born of the Summer,--spoiled pet of the year,-- + June, delicate queen of the seasons, is here! + + The sadness has passed from the dwelling away, + And quiet serenity brightens the day: + With innocent prattle, her toils to beguile, + In the midst of her children, the mother _must_ smile. + With matronly cares,--those relentless demands + On the strength of her heart and the skill of her hands,-- + The hours come tenderly, ceaselessly fraught, + And leave her small space for the broodings of thought. + + Thank God!--busy fingers a solace can find, + To lighten the burden of body or mind; + And Eden's old curse proves a blessing instead,-- + "In the sweat of thy brow shalt thou toil for thy bread." + For the bless'd relief in all labours that lurk, + Aye, thank Him, unhappy ones,--thank Him for work! + + Thus Alice engages her thoughts and her powers, + And industry kindly lends wings to the hours: + Poor, petty employments they sometimes appear, + And on her bright needle there plashes a tear,-- + Half shame and half passion;--what would she not dare + Her fervid compatriots' struggles to share? + It irks her,--the weakness of womanhood then,-- + Yet such are the tears that make heroes of men! + + She feels the hot blood of the nation beat high; + With rapture she catches the rallying cry: + From mountain and valley and hamlet they come! + On every side echoes the roll of the drum. + A people as firm, as united, as bold, + As ever drew blade for the blessings they hold, + Step sternly and solemnly forth in their might, + And swear on their altars to die for the right! + + The clangor of muskets,--the flashing of steel,-- + The clatter of spurs on the stout-booted heel,-- + The waving of banners,--the resonant tramp + Of marching battalions,--the fiery stamp + Of steeds in their war-harness, newly decked out,-- + The blast of the bugle,--the hurry, the shout,-- + The terrible energy, eager and wild, + That lights up the face of man, woman and child,-- + That burns on all lips, that arouses all powers; + Did ever we dream that such times would be ours? + + One thought is absorbing, with giant control,-- + With deadliest earnest, the national soul:-- + "The right of self-government, crown of our pride,-- + Right, bought with the sacredest blood,--is denied! + Shall we tamely resign what our enemy craves? + No! martyrs we _may_ be!--we _cannot_ be slaves!" + Fair women who naught but indulgence have seen, + Who never have learned what denial could mean,-- + + Who deign not to clipper their own dainty feet, + Whose wants swarthy handmaids stand ready to meet, + Whose fingers decline the light kerchief to hem,-- + What aid in this struggle is hoped for from them? + + Yet see! how they haste from their bowers of ease, + Their dormant capacities fired,--to seize + Every feminine weapon their skill can command,-- + To labor with head, and with heart, and with hand. + They stitch the rough jacket, they shape the coarse shirt, + Unheeding though delicate fingers be hurt; + They bind the strong haversack, knit the grey glove, + Nor falter nor pause in their service of love. + + When ever were people subdued, overthrown, + With women to cheer them on, brave as our own? + With maidens and mothers at work on their knees, + When ever were soldiers as fearless as these? + + June's flower-wreathed sceptre is dropped with a sigh, + And forth like an empress steps stately July: + She sits all unveiled, amidst sunshine and balms, + As Zenobia sat in her City of Palms! + + Not yet has the martial horizon grown dun, + Not yet has the terrible conflict begun: + But the tumult of legions,--the rush and the roar, + Break over our borders, like waves on the shore. + Along the Potomac, the confident foe + Stands marshalled for onset,--prepared, at a blow, + To vanquish the daring rebellion, and fling + Utter ruin at once on the arrogant thing! + + How sovran the silence that broods o'er the sky, + And ushers the twenty-first morn of July; + --Date, written in fire on history's scroll,-- + --Date, drawn in deep blood-lines on many a soul! + + There is quiet at Beechenbrook: Alice's brow + Is wearing a Sabbath tranquility now, + As softly she reads from the page on her knee,-- + "Thou wilt keep him in peace who is stayed upon Thee!" + When Sophy bursts breathlessly into the room,-- + "Oh! mother! we hear it,--we hear it!.., the boom + Of the fast and the fierce cannonading!--it shook + The ground till it trembled, along by the brook." + + One instant the listener sways in her seat,-- + The paralysed heart has forgotten to beat; + The next, with the speed and the frenzy of fear, + She gains the green hillock, and pauses to hear. + + Again and again the reverberant sound + Is fearfully felt in the tremulous ground; + Again and again on their senses it thrills, + Like thunderous echoes astray in the hills. + + On tip-toe,--the summer wind lifting his hair, + With nostril expanded, and scenting the air + Like a mettled young war-horse that tosses his mane, + And frettingly champs at the bit and the rein,-- + Stands eager, exultant, a twelve-year-old boy, + His face all aflame with a rapturous joy. + + "_That's_ music for heroes in battle array! + Oh, mother! I feel like a Roman to-day! + The Romans I read of in Plutarch;--Yes, men + Thought it noble to die for their liberties then! + And I've wondered if soldiers were ever so bold, + So gallant and brave, as those heroes of old. + --There!--listen!--that volley peals out the reply; + They prove it is sweet for their country to die: + How grand it must be! what a pride! what a joy! + --And _I_ can do nothing: I'm only a boy!" + + The fervid hand drops as he ceases to speak, + And the eloquent crimson fades out on his cheek. + + "Oh, Beverly!--brother! It never would do! + Who comforts mamma, and who helps her like you? + She sends to the battle her darlingest one,-- + She could not give both of them,--husband and son; + If she lose _you_, what's left her in life to enjoy? + --Oh, no! I am _glad_ you are only a boy." + And Sophy looks up with her tenderest air, + And kisses the fingers that toy with her hair. + + For her, who all silent and motionless stands, + And over her heart locks her quivering hands, + With white lips apart, and with eyes that dilate, + As if the low thunder were sounding her fate,-- + What racking suspenses, what agonies stir, + What spectres these echoes are rousing for her! + + Brave-natur'd, yet quaking,--high-souled, yet so pale,-- + Is it thus that the wife of a soldier should quail, + And shudder and shrink at the boom of a gun, + As only a faint-hearted girl should have done? + Ah! wait until custom has blunted the keen, + Cutting edge of that sound, and no woman, I ween, + Will hear it with pulses more equal, more free + From feminine terrors and weakness, than she. + + The sun sinks serenely; a lingering look + He flings at the mists that steal over the brook, + Like nuns that come forth in the twilight to pray, + Till their blushes are seen through their mantles of grey. + + The gay-hearted children, but lightly oppressed, + Find perfect relief on their pillow of rest: + For Alice, no bless'd forgetfulness comes;-- + The wail of the bugles,--the roll of the drums,-- + The musket's sharp crack,--the artillery's roar,-- + The flashing of bayonets dripping with gore,-- + The moans of the dying,--the horror, the dread, + The ghastliness gathering over the dead,-- + Oh! these are the visions of anguish and pain,-- + The phantoms of terror that troop through her brain! + + She pauses again and again on the floor, + Which the moonlight has brightened so mockingly o'er; + She wrings her cold hands with a groan of despair; + --"Oh, God! have compassion!--my darling is there!" + + All placidly, dewily, freshly, the dawn + Comes stealing in pulseless tranquility on: + More freely she breathes, in its balminess, though + The forehead it kisses is pallid with woe. + + Through the long summer sunshine the Cottage is stirred + By passers, who brokenly fling them a word: + Such tidings of slaughter! "The enemy cowers;"-- + "He breaks!"--"He is flying!"--"Manassas is ours!" + + 'Tis evening: and Archie, alone on the grass, + Sits watching the fire-flies gleam as they pass, + When sudden he rushes, too eager to wait,-- + "Mamma! there's an ambulance stops at the gate!" + + Suspense then is past: he is borne from the field,-- + "God help me!... God grant it be _not_ on his shield!" + And Alice, her passionate soul in her eyes, + And hope and fear winging each quicken'd step, flies,-- + Embraces, with frantical wildness, the form + Of her husband, and finds ... it is living, and warm! + + +III. + + Ye, who by the couches of languishing ones, + Have watched through the rising and setting of suns,-- + Who, silent, behind the close curtain, withdrawn, + Scarce know that the current of being sweeps on,-- + To whom outer life is unreal, untrue, + A world with whose moils ye have nothing to do; + Who feel that the day, with its multiform rounds, + Is full of discordant, impertinent sounds,-- + Who speak in low whispers, and stealthily tread, + As if a faint footfall were something to dread,-- + Who find all existence,--its gladness, its gloom,-- + Enclosed by the walls of that limited room,-- + Ye only can measure the sleepless unrest + That lies like a night-mare on Alice's breast. + + Days come and days go, and she watches the strife + So evenly balanced, 'twixt death and 'twixt life; + Thanks God he still breathes, as each evening takes wing, + And dares not to think what the morrow may bring. + + In the lone, ghostly midnight, he raves as he lies, + With death's ashen pallidness dimming his eyes: + He shouts the sharp war-cry,--he rallies his men,-- + He is on the red field of Manassas again. + + "Now, courage, my comrades! Keep steady! lie low! + Wait, like the couch'd lion, to spring on your foe: + Ye'll face without flinching the cannons' grim mouth, + For ye're 'Knights of the Horse-Shoe'--ye're Sons of the South! + There's Jackson!--how brave he rides! coursing at will, + Midst the prostrated lines on the crest of the hill; + God keep him! for what will we do if he falls? + Be ready, good fellows!--be cool when he calls + To the charge: Oh! we'll beat them,--we'll turn them,--and then + We'll ride them down madly!--On! Onward! my men!" + + The feverish frenzy o'erwearies him soon, + And back on his pillows he sinks in a swoon. + + And sometimes, when Alice is wetting his lip, + He turns from the draught, and refuses to sip: + --"'Tis sweet, pretty angel!--but yonder there lies + A famishing comrade, with death in his eyes: + His need is far greater,... Sir Philip, I think,-- + Or was it Sir Philip?... go, go!--let him drink!" + + And oft, with a sort of bewildered amaze, + On her face he would fasten the wistfullest gaze: + --"You are kind, but a hospital nurse cannot be + Like Alice,--my tenderest Alice,--to me. + Oh! I know there's at Beechenbrook, many a tear, + As she asks all the day,--'Will he never be here?'" + + But Nature, kind healer! brings sovereignest balm, + And strokes the wild pulses with coolness and calm; + + The conflict so equal, so stubborn, is past, + And life gains the hardly-won battle at last. + How sweet through the long convalescence to lie, + And from the low window, gaze out at the sky, + And float, as the zephyrs so tranquilly do, + Aloft in the depths of ineffable blue:-- + In painless, delicious half consciousness brood,-- + No duties to cumber, no claims to intrude,-- + Receptive as childhood, from trouble as free, + And feel it is bliss enough simply, to be! + + For Alice,--what pencil can picture her joy,-- + So perfect, so thankful, so free from annoy, + As her lips press the lotus-bound chalice, and drain + That exquisite blessedness born out of pain! + Oh! not in her maidenhood, blushing and sweet, + When Douglass first poured out his love at her feet; + And not when a shrinking and beautiful bride, + With worshipping fondness she clung to his side; + And not in those holiest moments of life, + When first she was held to his heart, as his wife; + And never in motherhood's earliest bliss, + Had she tasted a happiness rounded like this! + + And Douglass, safe sheltered from war's rude alarms, + Finds Eden's lost precincts again in her arms: + He hears afar off, in the distance, the roar + And the lash of the billows that break on the shore + Of his isle of enchantment,--his haven of rest,-- + And rapturous languor steals over his breast. + + He bathes in the sunlight of Alice's smiles; + He wraps himself round with love's magical wiles: + His sweet iterations pall not on her ear,-- + "_I love you--I love you!_"--she never can hear + That cadence too often; its musical roll + Wakes ever an echoed reply in her soul. + + --Do visions of trial, of warning, of woe, + Loom dark in the future of doubt? Do they know + They are hiving, of honied remembrance, a store + To live on, when summer and sunshine are o'er? + Do they feel that their island of beauty at last + Must be rent by the tempest,--be swept by the blast? + Do they dream that afar, on the wild, wintry main, + Their love-freighted bark must be driven again? + + --Bless God for the wisdom that curtains so tight + To-morrow's enjoyments or griefs from our sight! + Bless God for the ignorance, darkness and doubt, + That girdle so kindly our future about! + + The crutches are brought, and the invalid's strength + Is able to measure the lawn's gravel'd length; + And under the beeches, once more he reclines, + And hears the wind plaintively moan through the pines; + His children around him, with frolic and play, + Cheat autumn's mild listlessness out of the day; + And Alice, the sunshine all flecking her book, + Reads low to the chime of the murmuring brook. + + But the world's rushing tide washes up to his feet, + And leaps the soft barriers that bound his retreat; + The tumult of camps surges out on the breeze, + And ever seems mocking his Capuan ease. + He dare not be happy, or tranquil, or blest, + While his soil by the feet of invaders is prest: + What brooks it though still he be pale as a ghost? + --If he languish or fail, let him fail at his post. + + + The gums by the brook-side are crimson and brown; + The leaves of the ash flicker goldenly down; + The roses that trellis the porches, have lost + Their brightness and bloom at the touch of the frost; + The ozier-twined seat by the beeches, no more + Looks tempting, and cheerful, and sweet, as of yore; + The water glides darkly and mournfully on, + As Alice sits watching it:--Douglass has gone! + + + + +IV. + + + "I am weary and worn,--I am hungry and chill, + And cuttingly strikes the keen blast o'er the hill; + All day I have ridden through snow and through sleet, + With nothing,--not even a cracker to eat; + But now, as I rest by the bivouac fire, + Whose blaze leaps up merrily, higher and higher, + Impatient as Roland, who neighs to be fed,-- + For Caleb to bring me my bacon and bread,-- + I'll warm my cold heart, that is aching and lone, + By thinking of you, love,--my Alice,--my own! + + "I turn a deaf ear to the scream of the wind, + I leave the rude camp and the forest behind; + And Beechenbrook, wrapped in its raiment of white, + Is tauntingly filling my vision to-night. + I catch my sweet little ones' innocent mirth, + I watch your dear face, as you sit at the hearth; + And I know, by the tender expression I see, + I know that my darling is musing of me. + Does her thought dim the blaze?--Does it shed through the room + A chilly, unseen, and yet palpable gloom? + Ah! then we are equal! _You_ share all my pain, + And _I_ halve your blessedness with you again! + + "Don't think that my hardships are bitter to bear; + Don't think I repine at the soldier's rough fare; + If ever a thought so unworthy steals on, + I look upon Ashby,--and lo! it is gone! + Such chivalry, fortitude, spirit and tone, + Make brighter, and stronger, and prouder, my own. + Oh! Beverly, boy!--on his white steed, I ween, + A princelier presence has never been seen; + And as yonder he lies, from the groups all apart, + I bow to him loyally,--bow with my heart. + + "What brave, buoyant letters you write, sweet!--they ring + Through my soul like the blast of a trumpet, and bring + Such a flame to my eye, such a flush to my cheek,-- + That often my hand will unconsciously seek + The hilt of my sword as I read,--and I feel + As the warrior does, when he flashes the steel + In fiery circles, and shouts in his might, + For the heroes behind him, to follow its light! + True wife of a soldier!--If doubt or dismay + Had ever, within me, one instant held sway, + Your words wield a spell that would bid them be gone, + Like bodiless ghosts at the touch of the dawn. + + "Could the veriest craven that cowers and quails + Before the vast horde that insults and assails + Our land and our liberties,--could he to-night, + Sit here on the ice-girdled log where I write, + And look on the hopeful, bright brows of the men, + Who have toiled all the day over mountain, through glen,-- + Half-clothed and unfed,--would he doubt?--would he dare, + In the face of such proof, yield again to despair? + + "The hum of their voices comes laden with cheer, + As the wind wafts a musical swell to my ear,-- + Wild, clarion catches,--now flute-like and low; + --Would you like me to give you their Song of the Snow? + + Halt!--the march is over! + Day is almost done; + Loose the cumbrous knapsack, + Drop the heavy gun: + Chilled and wet and weary, + Wander to and fro, + Seeking wood to kindle + Fires amidst the snow. + + Round the bright blaze gather, + Heed not sleet nor cold,-- + Ye are Spartan soldiers, + Stout and brave and bold: + Never Xerxian army + Yet subdued a foe, + Who but asked a blanket + On a bed of snow. + + Shivering midst the darkness + Christian men are found, + There devoutly kneeling + On the frozen ground,-- + + Pleading for their country, + In its hour of woe,-- + For its soldiers marching + Shoeless through the snow. + + Lost in heavy slumbers, + Free from toil and strife; + Dreaming of their dear ones,-- + Home, and child, and wife; + Tentless they are lying, + While the fires burn low,-- + Lying in their blankets, + Midst December's snow! + + Come, Sophy, my blossom! I've something to say + Will chase for a moment your gambols away: + To-day as we climbed the steep mountain-path o'er, + I noticed a bare-footed lad in my corps; + "How comes it,"--I asked,--"you look careful and bold, + How comes it you're marching, unshod, through the cold?" + + "Ah, sir! I'm a poor, lonely orphan, you see; + No mother, no friends that are caring for me; + If I'm wounded, or captured, or killed, in the war, + 'Twill matter to nobody, Colonel Dunbar." + + Now, Sophy!--your needles, dear!--Knit him some socks, + And send the poor fellow a pair in my box; + Then he'll know,--and his heart with the thought will be filled,-- + There is _one_ little maiden will care if he's killed. + + The fire burns dimly, and scattered around, + The men lie asleep on the snow-covered ground; + But ere in my blanket I wrap me to rest, + I hold you, my darling, close,--close, to my breast: + God love you! God grant you His comforting light! + I kiss you a thousand times over!--Good night! + + + + +V. + + + "To-morrow is Christmas!"--and clapping his hands, + Little Archie in joyful expectancy stands, + And watches the shadows, now short and now tall, + That momently dance up and down on the wall. + + Drawn curtains of crimson shut out the cold night, + And the parlor is pleasant with odours and light; + The soft lamp suspended, its mellowness throws + O'er cluster'd geranium, jasmine and rose; + The sleeping canary hangs caged midst the blooms, + A Sybarite slumberer steeped in perfumes; + For Alice still clings to her birds and her flowers, + Sweet tokens of kindlier, happier hours. + + "To-morrow is Christmas!--but Beverly,--say, + Will it do to be glad when Papa is away?" + And the face that is tricksy and blythe as can be, + Tries vainly to temper its shadowless glee. + + "For _you_, pet, I'm sure it is right to be glad; + 'Tis a pitiful thing to see little ones sad; + But for Sophy and me, who are older, you know,-- + We dare not be glad when we look at the snow! + I shrink from this comfort, this light and this heat, + This plenty to wear, and this plenty to eat, + When the soldiers who fight for us,--die for us,--lie, + With nothing around and above, but the sky; + When their clothes are so light, and the rations they deal, + Are only a morsel of bacon and meal: + And how can I fold my thick blankets around, + When I know that my father's asleep on the ground? + I'm ashamed to be happy, or merry, or free, + As if war and its trials were nothing to me: + Oh! I never can know any frolic or fun,-- + Any real, mad romps,--till the battles are done!" + And the face of the boy, so heroic and fair, + Is touched with the singular shadow of care. + Sophy ceases her warbling, subdues her soft mirth, + And draws her low ottoman up to the hearth: + + "But, brother, what good would it do to refuse + The comforts and blessings God gives us, or use + Them quite with indifference, as much as to say, + We care not how soon they are taken away! + I am sure I would give my last blanket, and spread + My pretty, blue cloak, at night, over my bed,-- + (Mamma, you know, covers herself with her shawl, + Since we've sent all our blankets,)--but, then, it's too small! + Would Papa be less hungry or cold, do you think, + If _we_ had too little to eat or to drink? + So I mean to be busy,--I mean to be glad; + Mamma says there's time enough yet to be sad; + I'll work for the soldiers,--I'll pray, and I'll plan, + And just be as happy as ever I can; + I've made the grey shirt, and I've finished the socks:-- + So come, let us help,--they are packing the box." + + How grateful the task is to Alice! her cares + Are quite put aside, and her countenance wears + A look of enjoyment as eager, as bright, + As Santa Claus brings little dreamers to-night; + For Douglass away in his camp, is to share + The daintiest cates that her larder can spare. + + The turkey, well seasoned, and tenderly browned, + Is flanked by the spiciest _a la mode_ "round;" + The great "priestly ham," in its juiciest pride, + Is there,--with the tenderest surloin beside; + Neat bottles, suggestive of ketchups and wines, + And condiments racy, of various kinds; + And firm rolls of butter as yellow as gold, + And patties and biscuit most rare to behold, + And sauces that richest of odors betray,-- + Are marshalled in most appetizing array. + Then Beverly brings of his nuts a full store, + And Archie has apples, a dozen or more; + While Sophy, with gratified housewifery, makes + Her present of spicy "Confederate cakes." + + And then in a snug little corner, there lies + A pacquet will brighten the orphan boy's eyes; + For Beverly claims it a pleasure to use + His last cherish'd hoardings in buying him shoes. + Sophy's socks too are there; and she catches afar-- + "There's _somebody_ cares for me, Colonel Dunbar!" + + What subtlest of essences, sovereign to cheer-- + What countless, uncatalogu'd tokens are here! + What lavender'd memories, tenderly green, + Lie hidden, these grosser of viands between! + What food for the heart-life,--unreckon'd, untold-- + What manna enclosed in its chalice of gold! + What caskets of sweets that Love only unlocks,-- + What mysteries Douglass will find in the box! + + + + + +VI. + + + The lull of the Winter is over; and Spring + Comes back, as delicious and buoyant a thing, + As airy, and fairy, and lightsome, and bland, + As if not a sorrow was dark'ning the land;-- + So little has Nature of passion or part + In the woes and the throes of humanity's heart. + + The wild tide of battle runs red,--dashes high, + And blots out the splendour of earth and of sky; + The blue air is heavy, and sulph'rous, and dun, + And the breeze on its wings bears the boom of the gun. + In faster and fiercer and deadlier shocks, + The thunderous billows are hurled on the rocks; + And our Valley becomes, amid Spring's softest breath, + The valley, alas! of the shadow of death. + The crash of the onset,--the plunge and the roll, + Reach down to the depth of each patriot's soul; + It quivers--for since it is human, it must; + But never a tremor of doubt or distrust, + Once blanches the cheek, or is wrung from the mouth, + Or lurks in the eye of the sons of the South. + + What need for dismay? Let the live surges roar, + And leap in their fury, our fastnesses o'er, + And threaten our beautiful Valley to fill + With rapine and ruin more terrible still: + What fear we?--See Jackson! his sword in his hand, + Like the stern rocks around him, immovable stand,-- + The wisdom, the skill and the strength that he boasts, + Sought ever from him who is Leader of Hosts: + --He speaks in the name of his God:--lo! the tide,-- + The red sea of battle, is seen to divide; + The pathway of victory cleaves the dark flood;-- + And the foe is o'erwhelmed in a deluge of blood! + The spirit of Alice no longer is bowed + By the troubles, and tumults, and terrors, that crowd + So closely around her:--the willow's lithe form + Bends meekly to meet the wild rush of the storm. + + Yet pale as Cassandra, unconscious of joy, + With visions of Greeks at the gates of her Troy, + All day she has waited and watched on the lawn, + Till the purple and gold of the sunset are gone; + For the battle draws near her:--few leagues intervene + Her home and that Valley of slaughter, between. + + The tidings and rumors come thick and come fast, + As riders fly hotly and breathlessly past; + They tell of the onslaught,--the headlong attack + Of the foe with a quadruple force at his back: + They boast how they hurl themselves,--shiver and fall + Before their stout rampart, the valiant "Stonewall." + + At length, with the gradual fading of day,-- + The tokens of battle are floated away: + The booming no longer makes sullen the air, + And the silence of night seems as holy as prayer. + + Gray shadows still linger the beeches among, + And scarce has the earliest matin been sung, + Ere Alice with Beverly pale at her side, + Yet firm as his mother, is ready to ride. + + With sympathy, womanly, tender, divine,-- + With lint and with bandage, with bread and with wine,-- + She hastes to the battle-field, eager to bear + Relief to the wounded and perishing there: + To breathe, like an angel of mercy, the breath + Of peace over brows that are fainting in death. + + She dares not to stir with a question, _her_ woe, + One word,--and the bitter-brimm'd heart would o'erflow: + But speechless, and moveless, and stony of eye, + Scarce conscious of aught in the earth or the sky, + In a swoon of the heart, all her senses have reeled,-- + But she prays for endurance,--for here is the field. + The flight and pursuit, so harassing, so hot, + Have drifted all combatants far from the spot: + And through the sparse woodlands, and over the plain, + Lie gorily scattered, the wounded and slain. + Oh! the sickness,--the shudder,--the quailing of fear, + As it leaps to her lips,--"What if Douglass be here!" + + Yet she frames not a question; her spirit can bear + Oh! anything,--all things, but hopeless despair: + Does her darling lie stretched on the slope of yon hill? + Let her doubt--let her hug the suspense, if she will! + + + She watches each ambulance-burden with dread; + She loots in the faces of dying and dead: + And hour after hour, with steady control, + She bends to her task all the strength of her soul; + She comforts the wounded with pity's sweet care, + And the spirit that's passing, she speeds with her prayer. + + She starts as she hears, from her stout-hearted boy, + A wild exclamation, half doubt and half joy:-- + + "Oh! Surgeon!--some brandy! he's fainting!--Ah! now + The colour comes back to his cheek and his brow:-- + He breathes again--speaks again--listen!--you are + 'An orderly'--is it?--'of Colonel Dunbar?' + 'He fought like a lion!' (I knew it!) and passed + Untouched through the battle, 'unhurt to the last?' + --My father is safe,--mother!--safe!--what a joy! + And here is Macpherson,--our barefooted boy!" + + Poor Alice!--her grief has been tearless and dumb, + But the pressure once lifted, her senses succumb: + Too quick the revulsion,--too glad the surprise,-- + The mists of unconsciousness curtain her eyes: + 'Tis only a moment they suffer eclipse, + And words of thanksgiving soon thrill on her lips. + + To Beechenbrook's quiet, with tenderest care, + They hasten the wounded, wan soldier to bear; + And never hung mother more patiently o'er + The couch of the child, her own bosom that bore, + Than Alice above the lone orphan, who lay + Submissively breathing his spirit away. + He knows that existence is ebbing; his brain + Is lucid and calm, in the pauses of pain; + But his round boyish cheek with no weeping is wet, + And his smile is not touched with a shade of regret. + + No murmur is uttered--no lingering sigh + Escapes him;--so young,--yet so willing to die! + His garment of flesh he has worn undefiled, + His faith is the beautiful faith of a child: + He knows that the Crucified hung on the tree, + That the pathway to bliss might be open and free: + He believes that the cup has been drained,--he can find + Not a drop of the wrath that had filled it,--behind. + If ever a doubt or misgiving assails, + His finger he puts on the print of the nails; + If sometimes there springs an emotion of fear, + He lays his cold hand on the mark of the spear! + He thinks of his darling, dead mother;--the light + Of the Heavenly City falls full on his sight: + And under the rows of the palms, by the brim + Of the river--he knows she is waiting for him. + + But the present comes back;--and on Alice's ear, + Fall whispers like these, as she pauses to hear: + + "Only a private;--and who will care + When I may pass away,-- + Or how, or why I perish, or where + I mix with the common clay? + They will fill my empty place again, + With another as bold and brave; + And they'll blot me out, ere the Autumn rain + Has freshened my nameless grave. + + Only a private:--it matters not, + That I did my duty well; + That all through a score of battles I fought, + And then, like a soldier, fell: + The country I died for,--never will heed + My unrequited claim; + And history cannot record the deed, + For she never has heard my name. + + Only a private;--and yet I know, + When I heard the rallying call, + I was one of the very first to go, + And ... I'm one of the many who fall: + But, as here I lie, it is sweet to feel, + That my honor's without a stain;-- + That I only fought for my Country's weal, + And not for glory or gain. + + Only a private;--yet He who reads + Through the guises of the heart, + Looks not at the splendour of the deeds, + But the way we do our part; + And when He shall take us by the hand, + And our small service own, + There'll a glorious band of privates stand + As victors around the throne!" + + The breath of the morning is heavy and chill, + And gloomily lower the mists on the hill: + The winds through the beeches are shivering low, + With a plaintive and sad _miserere_ of woe: + A quiet is over the Cottage,--a dread + Clouds the children's sweet faces,--Macpherson is dead! + + + + +VII. + + + 'Tis Autumn,--and Nature the forest has hung + With arras more gorgeous than ever was flung + From Gobelin looms,--all so varied, so rare, + As never the princeliest palaces were. + Soft curtains of haze the far mountains enfold, + Whose warp is of purple, whose woof is of gold, + And the sky bends as peacefully, purely above, + As if earth breathed an atmosphere only of love. + + But thick as white asters in Autumn, are found + The tents all bestrewing the carpeted ground; + The din of a camp, with its stir and its strife, + Its motley and strange, multitudinous life, + Floats upward along the brown slopes, till it fills + The echoing hollows afar in the hills. + + 'Tis the twilight of Sabbath,--and sweet through the air, + Swells the blast of the bugle, that summons to prayer: + The signal is answered, and soon in the glen + Sits Colonel Dunbar in the midst of his men. + + The Chaplain advances with reverent face, + Where lies a felled oak, he has chosen his place; + On the stump of an ash-tree the Bible he lays, + And they bow on the grass, as he solemnly prays. + + Underneath thine open sky, + Father, as we bend the knee, + May we feel thy presence nigh, + --Nothing 'twixt our souls and thee! + + We are weary,--cares and woes + Lay their weight on every breast, + And each heart before thee knows, + That it sighs for inward rest. + + Thou canst lift this weight away, + Thou canst bid these sighings cease; + Thou canst walk these waves and say + To their restless tossings--"Peace!" + + We are tempted;--snares abound,-- + Sin its treacherous meshes weaves; + And temptations strew us round, + Thicker than the Autumn leaves. + + Midst these perils, mark our path, + Thou who art 'the life, the way;' + Rend each fatal wile that hath + Power to lead our souls astray. + + Prince of Peace! we follow Thee! + Plant thy banner in our sight; + Let thy shadowy legions be + Guards around our tents to-night." + + Through the aisles of the forest, far-stretching and dim + As a cloister'd Cathedral, the notes of a hymn + Float tenderly upward,--now soft and now clear, + As if twilight had silenced its breathing to hear; + Now swelling, a lofty, triumphant refrain,-- + Now sobbing itself into sadness again. + + The Bible is opened, and stillness profound + Broods over the listeners scattered around; + And warning, and comfort, and blessing, and balm, + Distil from the beautiful words of the Psalm. + Then simply and earnestly pleading,--his face + Lit up with persuasive and eloquent grace, + The Chaplain pours forth, from the warmth of his heart, + His words of entreaty and truth, ere they part. + + "I see before me valiant men, + With courage high and true, + Who fight as only heroes fight, + And die, as heroes do. + + Your serried ranks have never quailed + Before the battle-shock, + Whose maddest fury beats and breaks + Like foam against the rock. + + Ye've borne the deadly brunt of war, + Through storm, and cold, and heat, + Yet never have ye turned your backs + Nor fled before defeat. + + Behind you lie your cheerful homes, + And all of sweet or fair,-- + The only remnants earth has left + Of Eden-life, are there. + + Ye know that many a once bright cheek + Consuming care, makes wan; + Ye know the old, dear happiness + That blest your hearths,--is gone. + + Ye see your comrades smitten down,-- + The young, the good, the brave,-- + Ye feel, the turf ye tread to-day, + May be to-morrow's grave. + + Yet not a murmur meets the ear, + Nor discontent has sway, + And not a sullen brow is seen, + Through all the camp to-day. + + No Greek, in Greece's palmiest days, + His javelin ever threw, + Impelled by more heroic zeal, + Or nobler aim than you. + + No mailed warrior ever bore + Aloft his shining lance, + More proudly through the tales that fire + The page of old romance. + + Oh! soldiers!--well ye bear your part; + The world awards its praise: + Be sure,--this grandest tourney o'er,-- + 'Twill crown you with its bays! + + But there's sublimer work than even + To free your native sod; + --Ye may be loyal to your land, + Yet traitors to your God! + + No Moslem heaven for him who falls, + A bribed requital doles; + And while ye save your country,--ye, + Alas! may lose your souls! + + No glorious deeds can urge their claim,-- + No merits, entrance win,-- + The pierced hand of Christ alone, + Must freely let you in. + + Oh! sirs!--there lurks a fiercer foe, + Than this that treads your soil, + Who springs from unseen ambuscades, + To drag you as his spoil. + + He drugs the heedless conscience, till, + No wary watch it keeps, + And parleys with the treacherous heart, + While fast the warder sleeps. + + He captive leads the wavering will + With specious words, and fair, + And enters the beleaguered soul, + And rules, a conqueror there. + + Will ye who fling defiance forth, + Against a temporal foe, + And rather die, than stoop to wear + The chains that gall you so,-- + + Will ye succumb beneath a power, + That grasps at full control, + And binds its helpless victims down + In servitude of soul? + + Nay,--act like brave men, as ye are,-- + Nor let the despot, sin, + Wrest those immortal rights away, + Which Christ has died to win. + + For Heaven--best home--true fatherland, + Bear toil, reproach and loss, + Your highest honor,--holiest name,-- + The soldiers of the Cross! + + + + +VIII. + + + "My Douglass! my darling!--there once was a time, + When we to each other confessed the sublime + And perfect sufficiency love could bestow, + On the hearts that have learned its completeness to know; + We felt that we too had a well-spring of joy, + That earthly convulsions could never destroy,-- + A mossy, sealed fountain, so cool and so bright, + It could solace the soul, let it thirst as it might. + + "'Tis easy, while happiness strews in our path, + The richest and costliest blessings it hath, + 'Tis easy to say that no sorrow, no pain, + Could utterly beggar our spirits again; + 'Tis easy to sit in the sunshine, and speak + Of the darkness and storm, with a smile on the cheek! + + "As hungry and cold, and with weariness spent, + You droop in your saddle, or crouch in your tent; + Can you feel that the love so entire, so true, + The love that we dreamed of,--is all things to you? + That come what there may,--desolation or loss, + The prick of the thorn, or the weight of the cross-- + You can bear it,--nor feel you are wholly bereft, + While the bosom that beats for you only, is left? + While the birdlings are spared that have made it so blest, + Can you look, undismayed, on the wreck of the nest? + + "There's a love that is tenderer, sweeter than this-- + That is fuller of comfort, and blessing, and bliss; + That never can fail us, whatever befall-- + Unchanging, unwearied, undying, through all: + We have need of the support--the staff and the rod;-- + Beloved! we'll lean on the bosom of God! + + "You guess what I fain would keep hidden:--you know, + Ere now, that the trail of the insolent foe + Leaves ruin behind it, disastrous and dire, + And burns through our Valley, a pathway of fire. + --Our beautiful home,--as I write it, I weep, + Our beautiful home is a smouldering heap! + And blackened, and blasted, and grim, and forlorn, + Its chimneys stand stark in the mists of the morn! + + "I stood in my womanly helplessness, weak-- + Though I felt a brave color was kindling my cheek-- + And I plead by the sacredest things of their lives-- + By the love that they bore to their children,--their wives, + By the homes left behind them, whose joys they had shared, + By the God that should judge them,--that mine should be spared. + + "As well might I plead with the whirlwind to stay + As it crashingly cuts through the forest its way! + I know that my eye flashed a passionate ire, + As they scornfully flung me their answer of--fire! + + "Why harrow your heart with the grief and the pain? + Why paint you the picture that's scorching my brain? + Why speak of the night when I stood on the lawn, + And watched the last flame die away in the dawn? + 'Tis over,--that vision of terror,--of woe! + Its horrors I would not recall;--let them go! + I am calm when I think what I suffered them for; + I grudge not the quota _I_ pay to the war! + + "But, Douglass!--deep down in the core of my heart, + There's a throbbing, an aching, that will not depart; + For memory mourns, with a wail of despair, + The loss of her treasures,--the subtle, the rare, + Precious things over which she delighted to pore, + Which nothing,--ah! nothing, can ever restore! + + "The rose-covered porch, where I sat as your bride-- + The hearth, where at twilight I leaned at your side-- + The low-cushioned window-seat, where I would lie, + With my head on your knee, and look out on the sky:-- + The chamber all holy with love and with prayer, + The motherhood memories clustering there-- + The vines that _your_ hand has delighted to train, + The trees that _you_ planted;--Oh! never again + Can love build us up such a bower of bliss; + Oh! never can home be as hallow'd as this! + + "Thank God! there's a dwelling not builded with hands, + Whose pearly foundation, immovable stands; + There struggles, alarms, and disquietudes cease, + And the blissfulest balm of the spirit is--peace! + Small trial 'twill seem when our perils are past, + And we enter the house of our Father at last,-- + Light trouble, that here, in the night of our stay, + The blast swept our wilderness lodging away! + + "The children--dear hearts!--it is touching to see + My Beverly's beautiful kindness to me; + So buoyant his mein--so heroic--resigned-- + The boy has the soul of his father, I find! + Not a childish complaint or regret have I heard,-- + Not even from Archie, a petulant word: + Once only--a tear moistened Sophy's bright cheek: + '_Papa has no home now!_'--'twas all she could speak. + + "A stranger I wander midst strangers; and yet + I never,--no, not for a moment forget + That my heart has a home,--just as real, as true, + And as warm as if Beechenbrook sheltered me too. + God grant that this refuge from sorrow and pain-- + This blessedest haven of peace, may remain! + And, then, though disaster, still sharper, befall, + I think I can patiently bear with it all: + For the rarest, most exquisite bliss of my life + Is wrapped in a word, Douglass ... I am your wife!" + + + + +IX. + + + When fierce and fast-thronging calamities rush + Resistless as destiny o'er us, and crush + The life from the quivering heart till we feel + Like the victim whose body is broke on the wheel-- + When we think we have touched the far limit at last, + --One throe, and the point of endurance is passed-- + When we shivering hang on the verge of despair-- + There still is capacity left us to bear. + + The storm of the winter, the smile of the Spring, + No respite, no pause, and no hopefulness bring; + The demon of carnage still breathes his hot breath, + And fiercely goes forward the harvest of death. + + Days painfully drag their slow burden along; + And the pulse that is beating so steady and strong, + Stands still, as there comes, from the echoing shore + Of the winding and clear Rappahannock, the roar + Of conflict so fell, that the silvery flood + Runs purple and rapid and ghastly with blood. + + --Grand army of martyrs!--though victory waves + Them onward, her march must be over _their_ graves: + They feel it--they know it,--yet steadier each + Close phalanx moves into the desperate breach: + Their step does not falter--their faith does not yield,-- + For yonder, supreme o'er the fiercely-fought field, + Erect in his leonine grandeur, they see + The proud and magnificent calmness of LEE! + + 'Tis morn--but the night has brought Alice no rest: + The roof seems to press like a weight on her breast; + And she wanders forth, wearily lifting her eye, + To seek for relief 'neath the calm of the sky. + + The air of the forest is spicy and sweet, + And dreamily babbles a brook at her feet; + Her children are 'round her, and sunshine and flowers, + Try vainly to banish the gloom of the hours. + With a volume she fain her wild thoughts would assuage, + But her vision can trace not a line on the page, + And the poet's dear strains, once so soft to her ear, + Have lost all their mystical power to cheer. + + The evening approaches--the pressure--the woe + Grows drearer and heavier,--yet she must go, + And stifle between the dead walls, as she may, + The heart that scarce breathed in the free, open day. + + She reaches the dwelling that serves as her home; + A horseman awaits at the entrance;--the foam + Is flecking the sides of his fast-ridden steed, + Who pants, over-worn with exhaustion and speed; + And Alice for support to Beverly clings, + As the soldier delivers the letter he brings. + + Her ashy lips move, but the words do not come, + And she stands in her whiteness, bewildered and dumb: + She turns to the letter with hopeless appeal, + But her fingers are helpless to loosen the seal: + She lifts her dim eyes with a look of despair,-- + Her hands for a moment are folded in prayer; + The strength she has sought is vouchsafed in her need: + --"I think I can bear it now, Beverly ... read." + + The boy, with the resolute nerve of a man, + And a voice which he holds as serene as he can, + Takes quietly from her the letter, and reads:-- + + "Dear Madam,--My heart in its sympathy bleeds + For the pain that my tidings must bear you: may God + Most tenderly comfort you, under His rod! + + "This morning, at daybreak, a terrible charge + Was made on the enemy's centre: such large + And fresh reinforcements were held at his back, + He stoutly and stubbornly met the attack. + + "Our cavalry bore themselves splendidly:--far + In front of his line galloped Colonel Dunbar; + Erect in his stirrups,--his sword flashing high, + And the look of a conqueror kindling his eye, + His silvery voice rang aloft through the roar + Of the musketry poured from the opposite shore: + --'Remember the Valley!--remember your wives! + And on to your duty, boys!--on--with your lives!' + + "He turned, and he paused, as he uttered the call-- + Then reeled in his seat, and fell,--pierced by a ball. + + "He lives and he breathes yet:--the surgeons declare, + That the balance is trembling 'twixt hope and despair. + In his blanket he lies, on the hospital floor,-- + So calm, you might deem all his agony o'er; + And here, as I write, on his face I can see + An expression whose radiance is startling to me. + His faith is sublime:--he relinquishes life, + And craves but one blessing,--_to look on his wife!_" + + The Chaplain's recital is ended:--no word + From Alice's white, breathless lips has been heard; + Till, rousing herself from her passionless woe, + She simply and quietly says--"I will go." + + There are moments of anguish so deadly, so deep-- + That numbness seems over the senses to creep, + With interposition, whose timely relief, + Is an anodyne-draught to the madness of grief. + Such mercy is meted to Alice;--her eye + That sees as it saw not, is vacant and dry: + The billows' wild fury sweeps over her soul, + And she bends to the rush with a passive control. + + Through the dusk of the night--through the glare of the day, + She urges, unconscious, her desolate way: + One image is ever her vision before, + --That blanketed form on the hospital floor! + + Her journey is ended; and yonder she sees + The spot where _he_ lies, looming white through the trees: + Her torpor dissolves with a shuddering start, + And a terrible agony clutches her heart. + + The Chaplain advances to meet her:--he draws + Her silently onward;--no question--no pause-- + Her finger she lays on her lip;--if she spake, + She knows that the spell that upholds her, would break. + + She has strength to go forward; they enter the door,-- + And there, on the crowded and blood-tainted floor, + Close wrapped in his blanket, lies Douglass:--his brow + Wore never a look so seraphic as now! + She stretches her arms the dear form to enfold,-- + God help her!..., she shrieks ..., it is silent and cold! + + + + +X. + + + "Break, my heart, and ease this pain-- + Cease to throb, thou tortured brain; + Let me die,--since he is slain, + --Slain in battle! + + Blessed brow, that loved to rest + Its dear whiteness on my breast-- + Gory was the grass it prest, + --Slain in battle! + + Oh! that still and stately form-- + Never more will it be warm; + Chilled beneath that iron storm, + --Slain in battle! + + Not a pillow for his head-- + Not a hand to smooth his bed-- + Not one tender parting said, + --Slain in battle! + + Straightway from that bloody sod, + Where the trampling horsemen trod-- + Lifted to the arms of God; + --Slain in battle! + + Not my love to come between, + With its interposing screen-- + Naught of earth to intervene; + --Slain in battle! + + Snatched the purple billows o'er, + Through the fiendish rage and roar, + To the far and peaceful shore; + --Slain in battle! + + _Nunc demitte_--thus I pray-- + What else left for me to say, + Since my life is reft away? + --Slain in battle! + + Let me die, oh! God!--the dart + Rankles deep within my heart,-- + Hope, and joy, and peace, depart; + --Slain in battle!" + + 'Tis thus through her days and her nights of despair, + Her months of bereavement so bitter to bear, + That Alice moans ever. Ah! little they know, + Who look on that brow, still and white as the snow, + Who watch--but in vain--for the sigh or the tear, + That only comes thick when no mortal is near,-- + Who whisper--"How gently she bends to the rod!" + Because all her heart-break is kept for her God,-- + Ah! little _they_ know of the tempests that roll + Their desolate floods through the depths of her soul! + + Afar in our sunshiny homes on the shore, + We heed not how wildly the billows may roar; + We smile at our firesides, happy and free, + While the rich-freighted argosy founders at sea! + Though wrapped in the weeds of her widowhood, pale,-- + Though life seems all sunless and dim through the veil + That drearily shadows her sorrowful brow,-- + Is the cause of her country less dear to her now? + Does the patriot-flame in her heart cease to stir,-- + Does she feel that the conflict is over for her? + Because the red war-tide has deluged her o'er,-- + Has wreaked its wild wrath, and can harm _her_ no more,-- + Does she stand, self-absorbed, on the wreck she has braved, + Nor care if her country be lost or be saved? + + By her pride in the soil that has given her birth-- + By her tenderest memories garnered on earth-- + By the legacy blood-bought and precious, which she + Would leave to her children--the right to be free,-- + By the altar where once rose the hymn and the prayer; + By the home that lies scarred in its solitude there,-- + By the pangs she has suffered,--the ills she has borne,-- + By the desolate exile through which she must mourn,-- + By the struggles that hallow this fair Southern sod, + By the vows she has breathed in the ear of her God,-- + By the blood of the heart that she worshipped,--the life + That enfolded her own; by her love, as his wife; + By his death on the battle-field, gallantly brave,-- + By the shadow that ever will wrap her--his grave-- + By the faith she reposes, oh! Father! in Thee, + She claims that her glorious South MUST be free! + + + + +VIRGINIA. + +A SONNET. + + + Grandly thou fillest the world's eye to-day, + My proud Virginia! When the gage was thrown-- + The deadly gage of battle--thou, alone, + Strong in thy self-control, didst stoop to lay + The olive-branch thereon, and calmly pray + We might have peace, the rather. When the foe + Turned scornfully upon thee,--bade thee go, + And whistled up his war-hounds, then--the way + Of duty full before thee,--thou didst spring + Into the centre of the martial ring-- + Thy brave blood boiling, and thy glorious eye, + Shot with heroic fire, and swear to claim + Sublimest victory in God's own name,-- + Or, wrapped in robes of martyrdom,--to die! + + + + +JACKSON. + +A SONNET. + + + Thank God for such a Hero!--Fearless hold + His diamond character beneath the sun, + And brighter scintillations, one by one, + Come flashing from it. Never knight of old + Wore on serener brow, so calm, yet bold, + Diviner courage: never martyr knew + Trust more sublime,--nor patriot, zeal more true,-- + Nor saint, self-abnegation of a mould + Touched with profounder beauty. All the rare, + Clear, starry points of light, that gave his soul + Such lambent lustre, owned but one sole aim,-- + Not for himself, nor yet his country's fame, + These glories shone: he kept the clustered whole + A jewel for the crown that Christ shall wear! + + + + +DIRGE FOR ASHBY. + + + Heard ye that thrilling word-- + Accent of dread-- + Flash like a thunderbolt, + Bowing each head-- + Crash through the battle dun, + Over the booming gun-- + "_Ashby, our bravest one_,-- + _Ashby is dead!_" + + Saw ye the veterans-- + Hearts that had known + Never a quail of fear, + Never a groan-- + Sob 'mid the fight they win, + --Tears their stern eyes within,-- + "Ashby, our Paladin, + Ashby is gone!" + + Dash,--dash the tear away-- + Crush down the pain! + "_Dulce et decus_," be + Fittest refrain! + Why should the dreary pall + Round him be flung at all? + Did not our hero fall + Gallantly slain? + + Catch the last word of cheer + Dropt from his tongue; + Over the volley's din, + Loud be it rung-- + "_Follow me! follow me!_"-- + Soldier, oh! could there be + Paean or dirge for thee, + Loftier sung! + + Bold as the Lion-heart, + Dauntless and brave; + Knightly as knightliest + Bayard could crave; + Sweet with all Sidney's grace-- + Tender as Hampden's face-- + Who--who shall fill the space + Void by his grave? + + 'Tis not _one_ broken heart, + Wild with dismay; + Crazed with her agony, + Weeps o'er his clay: + Ah! from a thousand eyes + Flow the pure tears that rise; + Widowed Virginia lies + Stricken to-day! + + Yet--though that thrilling word-- + Accent of dread-- + Falls like a thunderbolt, + Bowing each head-- + Heroes! be battle done + Bravelier every one, + Nerved by the thought alone-- + _Ashby is dead!_ + + + + + +STONEWALL JACKSON'S GRAVE.[A] + + + A simple, sodded mound of earth, + Without a line above it; + With only daily votive flowers + To prove that any love it: + The token flag that silently + Each breeze's visit numbers, + Alone keeps martial ward above + The hero's dreamless slumbers. + + No name?--no record? Ask the world; + The world has read his story-- + If all its annals can unfold + A prouder tale of glory:-- + If ever merely human life + Hath taught diviner moral,-- + If ever round a worthier brow + Was twined a purer laurel! + + A twelvemonth only, since his sword + Went flashing through the battle-- + A twelvemonth only, since his ear + Heard war's last deadly rattle-- + And yet, have countless pilgrim-feet + The pilgrim's guerdon paid him, + And weeping women come to see + The place where they have laid him. + + Contending armies bring, in turn, + Their meed of praise or honor, + And Pallas here has paused to bind + The cypress wreath upon her: + It seems a holy sepulchre, + Whose sanctities can waken + Alike the love of friend or foe,-- + Of Christian or of pagan. + + THEY come to own his high emprise, + Who fled in frantic masses, + Before the glittering bayonet + That triumphed at Manassas: + Who witnessed Kernstown's fearful odds, + As on their ranks he thundered, + Defiant as the storied Greek, + Amid his brave three hundred! + + They well recall the tiger spring, + The wise retreat, the rally, + The tireless march, the fierce pursuit, + Through many a mountain valley: + Cross Keys unlock new paths to fame, + And Port Republic's story + Wrests from his ever-vanquish'd foes, + Strange tributes to his glory. + + Cold Harbor rises to their view,-- + The Cedars' gloom is o'er them; + Antietam's rough and rugged heights, + Stretch mockingly before them: + The lurid flames of Fredericksburg + Right grimly they remember, + That lit the frozen night's retreat, + That wintry-wild December! + + The largess of their praise is flung + With bounty, rare and regal; + --Is it because the vulture fears + No longer the dead eagle? + Nay, rather far accept it thus,-- + An homage true and tender, + As soldier unto soldier's worth,-- + As brave to brave will render, + + But who shall weigh the wordless grief + That leaves in tears its traces, + As round their leader crowd again, + The bronzed and veteran faces! + The "Old Brigade" he loved so well-- + The mountain men, who bound him + With bays of their own winning, ere + A tardier fame had crowned him; + + The legions who had seen his glance + Across the carnage flashing, + And thrilled to catch his ringing "_charge_" + Above the volley crashing;-- + Who oft had watched the lifted hand, + The inward trust betraying, + And felt their courage grow sublime, + While they beheld him praying! + + Good knights and true as ever drew + Their swords with knightly Roland; + Or died at Sobieski's side, + For love of martyr'd Poland; + Or knelt with Cromwell's Ironsides; + Or sang with brave Gustavus; + Or on the plain of Austerlitz, + Breathed out their dying AVES! + + Rare fame! rare name!--If chanted praise, + With all the world to listen,-- + If pride that swells a nation's soul,-- + If foemen's tears that glisten,-- + If pilgrims' shrining love,--if grief + Which nought may soothe or sever,-- + If THESE can consecrate,--this spot + Is sacred ground forever! + +[A] In the month of June the singular spectacle was presented at +Lexington, Va., of two hostile armies, in turn, reverently visiting +Jackson's grave. + + + + +WHEN THE WAR IS OVER. + +A CHRISTMAS LAY. + + +I. + + Ah! the happy Christmas times! + Times we all remember;-- + Times that flung a ruddy glow + O'er the gray December;-- + Will they never come again, + With their song and story? + Never wear a remnant more + Of their olden glory? + Must the little children miss + Still the festal token? + Must their realm of young romance + All be marred and broken? + Must the mother promise on, + While her smiles dissemble, + And she speaks right quietly, + Lest her voice should tremble:-- + + "Darlings! wait till father comes-- + Wait--and we'll discover + Never were such Christmas times, + When the war is over!" + + +II. + + Underneath the midnight sky, + Bright with starry beauty, + Sad, the shivering sentinel + Treads his round of duty: + For his thoughts are far away, + Far from strife and battle, + As he listens dreamingly, + To his baby's prattle;-- + As he clasps his sobbing wife, + Wild with sudden gladness, + Kisses all her tears away-- + Chides her looks of sadness-- + Talks of Christmas nights to come,-- + And his step grows lighter, + Whispering, while his stiffening hand + Grasps his musket tighter:-- + + "Patience, love!--keep heart! keep hope! + To your weary rover, + What a home our home will be, + When the war is over!" + + +III. + + By the twilight Christmas fire, + All her senses laden + With a weight of tenderness, + Sits the musing maiden: + From the parlor's cheerful blaze, + Far her visions wander, + To the white tent gleaming bright, + On the hill-side yonder. + Buoyant in her brave, young love, + Flushed with patriot honour, + No misgiving, no fond fear, + Flings its shade upon her. + Though no mortal soul can know + Half the love she bears him, + Proudly, for her country's sake, + From her heart she spares him. + + --God be thanked!--she does not dream, + That her gallant lover + Will be in a soldier's grave, + When the war is over! + + +IV. + + 'Midst the turmoil and the strife + Of the war-tide's rushing, + Every heart its separate woe + In its depths is hushing. + Who has time for tears, when blood + All the land is steeping? + --In our poverty we grudge + Even the waste of weeping! + But when quiet comes again, + And the bands, long broken, + Gather round the hearth, and breathe + Names now seldom spoken-- + _Then_ we'll miss the precious links-- + Mourn the empty places-- + Read the hopeless "_Nevermore_," + In each other's faces! + + --Oh! what aching, anguish'd hearts + O'er lone graves will hover, + With a new, fresh sense of pain, + When the war is over! + + +V. + + Stern endurance, bitterer still, + Sharp with self-denial, + Fraught with loftier sacrifice, + Fuller far of trial-- + Strews our flinty path of thorns-- + Marks our bloody story-- + Fits us for the victor's palm-- + Weaves our robe of glory! + Shall we faint with God above, + And His strong arm under-- + And the cold world gazing on, + In a maze of wonder? + No! with more resistless march, + More resolved endeavor, + Press we onward--struggle still, + Fight and win forever! + + --Holy peace will heal all ills, + Joy all losses cover, + Raptures rend our Southern skies, + When the war is over! + + + + +VIRGINIA CAPTA. + +APRIL 9TH, 1865. + + +I. + + Unconquered captive!--close thine eye, + And draw the ashen sackcloth o'er, + And in thy speechless woe deplore + The fate that would not let thee die! + + +II. + + The arm that wore the shield, strip bare; + The hand that held the martial rein, + And hurled the spear on many a plain-- + Stretch--till they clasp the shackles there! + + +III. + + The foot that once could crush the crown, + Must drag the fetters, till it bleed + Beneath their weight:--thou dost not need + It now, to tread the tyrant down. + + +IV. + + Thou thought'st him vanquish'd--boastful trust! + --His lance, in twain--his sword, a wreck-- + But with his heel upon thy neck, + He holds _thee_ prostrate in the dust! + + +V. + + Bend though thou must, beneath his will, + Let not one abject moan have place; + But with majestic, silent grace, + Maintain thy regal bearing still. + + +VI. + + Look back through all thy storied past, + And sit erect in conscious pride:-- + No grander heroes ever died-- + No sterner, battled to the last! + + +VII. + + Weep, if thou wilt, with proud, sad mein, + Thy blasted hopes--thy peace undone,-- + Yet brave, live on,--nor seek to shun + Thy fate, like Egypt's conquer'd Queen. + + +VIII. + + Though forced a captive's place to fill, + In the triumphal train,--yet there, + Superbly, like Zenobia, wear + Thy chains,--_Virginia Victrix_ still! + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Beechenbrook, by Margaret J. 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