Long shadows toward the east: and in the westA blaze of garnet sunset, wherein rolledOne cloud like some great gnarly log of gold;Each gabled casement of the farm seemed dressedIn ghosts of roses blossoming manifest.And she had brought his letter there to read,There on the porch, that faced the locust glade;To watch the summer sunset burn and fade,And breathe the twilight scent of wood and weed,Forget all care and her soul’s hunger feed.And on his face her fancy mused a while:“Dark hair, dark eyes.—And now he has a beardDark as his hair.”—She smiled; yet almost fearedIt changed him so she could not reconcileHer heart to that which hid his lips and smile.Then tried to feature, but could only seeThe beardless man who bent to her and kissedHer and their child and left them to enlist:She heard his horse grind in the gravel: heWaved them adieu and rode to fight with Lee.Now all around her drowsed the hushful humOf evening insects. And his letter spokeOf love and longings to her: nor awokeOne echo of the bugle and the drum,But all their future in one kiss did sum.The stars were thick now; and the western blushDrained into darkness. With a dreamy sighShe rocked her chair.—It must have been the cryOf infancy that made her rise and rushTo where their child slept, and to hug andhush.Then she returned. But now her ease was gone.She knew not what, she felt an unknown fearPress, tightening, at her heart-strings; then a tearScalded her eyelids, and her cheeks grew wanAs helpless sorrow’s, and her white lips drawn.With stony eyes she grieved against the skies,A slow, dull, aching agony that knewFew tears, and saw no answer shining toHer silent questions in the stars’ still eyes“Where Peace delays and where her soldier lies.”They could have told her. Peace was far away,Beyond the field that belched black batteriesAll the red day. ’Mid picket silences,On woodland mosses, in a suit of gray,Shot through the heart, he by his rifle lay.
Long shadows toward the east: and in the westA blaze of garnet sunset, wherein rolledOne cloud like some great gnarly log of gold;Each gabled casement of the farm seemed dressedIn ghosts of roses blossoming manifest.And she had brought his letter there to read,There on the porch, that faced the locust glade;To watch the summer sunset burn and fade,And breathe the twilight scent of wood and weed,Forget all care and her soul’s hunger feed.And on his face her fancy mused a while:“Dark hair, dark eyes.—And now he has a beardDark as his hair.”—She smiled; yet almost fearedIt changed him so she could not reconcileHer heart to that which hid his lips and smile.Then tried to feature, but could only seeThe beardless man who bent to her and kissedHer and their child and left them to enlist:She heard his horse grind in the gravel: heWaved them adieu and rode to fight with Lee.Now all around her drowsed the hushful humOf evening insects. And his letter spokeOf love and longings to her: nor awokeOne echo of the bugle and the drum,But all their future in one kiss did sum.The stars were thick now; and the western blushDrained into darkness. With a dreamy sighShe rocked her chair.—It must have been the cryOf infancy that made her rise and rushTo where their child slept, and to hug andhush.Then she returned. But now her ease was gone.She knew not what, she felt an unknown fearPress, tightening, at her heart-strings; then a tearScalded her eyelids, and her cheeks grew wanAs helpless sorrow’s, and her white lips drawn.With stony eyes she grieved against the skies,A slow, dull, aching agony that knewFew tears, and saw no answer shining toHer silent questions in the stars’ still eyes“Where Peace delays and where her soldier lies.”They could have told her. Peace was far away,Beyond the field that belched black batteriesAll the red day. ’Mid picket silences,On woodland mosses, in a suit of gray,Shot through the heart, he by his rifle lay.
Long shadows toward the east: and in the westA blaze of garnet sunset, wherein rolledOne cloud like some great gnarly log of gold;Each gabled casement of the farm seemed dressedIn ghosts of roses blossoming manifest.
And she had brought his letter there to read,There on the porch, that faced the locust glade;To watch the summer sunset burn and fade,And breathe the twilight scent of wood and weed,Forget all care and her soul’s hunger feed.
And on his face her fancy mused a while:“Dark hair, dark eyes.—And now he has a beardDark as his hair.”—She smiled; yet almost fearedIt changed him so she could not reconcileHer heart to that which hid his lips and smile.
Then tried to feature, but could only seeThe beardless man who bent to her and kissedHer and their child and left them to enlist:She heard his horse grind in the gravel: heWaved them adieu and rode to fight with Lee.
Now all around her drowsed the hushful humOf evening insects. And his letter spokeOf love and longings to her: nor awokeOne echo of the bugle and the drum,But all their future in one kiss did sum.
The stars were thick now; and the western blushDrained into darkness. With a dreamy sighShe rocked her chair.—It must have been the cryOf infancy that made her rise and rushTo where their child slept, and to hug andhush.
Then she returned. But now her ease was gone.She knew not what, she felt an unknown fearPress, tightening, at her heart-strings; then a tearScalded her eyelids, and her cheeks grew wanAs helpless sorrow’s, and her white lips drawn.
With stony eyes she grieved against the skies,A slow, dull, aching agony that knewFew tears, and saw no answer shining toHer silent questions in the stars’ still eyes“Where Peace delays and where her soldier lies.”
They could have told her. Peace was far away,Beyond the field that belched black batteriesAll the red day. ’Mid picket silences,On woodland mosses, in a suit of gray,Shot through the heart, he by his rifle lay.
THE WOMAN ON THE HILL
The storm-red sun, through wrecks of wind and rain,And dead leaves driven from the frantic boughs,Where, on the hill-top, stood a gaunt, gray house,Flashed wildest ruby on each rainy pane.Then woods grew darker than unburdened grief;And, crimson through the woodland’s ruin, streamedThe sunset’s glare—a furious eye, which seemedWatching the moon rise like a yellow leaf.The rising moon, against which, like despair,High on the hill, a woman, darkly drawn,The wild leaves round her, stood; with features wan,And tattered dress and wind-distracted hair.As still as death, and looking, not through tears,For the young face of one she knows is lost,While in her heart the melancholy frostGathers of all the unforgotten years.What if she heard to-night a hurrying hoof,Wild as the whirling of the withered leaf,Bring her a more immedicable grief,A shattered shape to live beneath her roof!The shadow of him who claimed her once as wife;Her lover!—no!—the wreck of all their pastBrought back from battle!—Better to the lastA broken heart than heartbreak all her life!
The storm-red sun, through wrecks of wind and rain,And dead leaves driven from the frantic boughs,Where, on the hill-top, stood a gaunt, gray house,Flashed wildest ruby on each rainy pane.Then woods grew darker than unburdened grief;And, crimson through the woodland’s ruin, streamedThe sunset’s glare—a furious eye, which seemedWatching the moon rise like a yellow leaf.The rising moon, against which, like despair,High on the hill, a woman, darkly drawn,The wild leaves round her, stood; with features wan,And tattered dress and wind-distracted hair.As still as death, and looking, not through tears,For the young face of one she knows is lost,While in her heart the melancholy frostGathers of all the unforgotten years.What if she heard to-night a hurrying hoof,Wild as the whirling of the withered leaf,Bring her a more immedicable grief,A shattered shape to live beneath her roof!The shadow of him who claimed her once as wife;Her lover!—no!—the wreck of all their pastBrought back from battle!—Better to the lastA broken heart than heartbreak all her life!
The storm-red sun, through wrecks of wind and rain,And dead leaves driven from the frantic boughs,Where, on the hill-top, stood a gaunt, gray house,Flashed wildest ruby on each rainy pane.
Then woods grew darker than unburdened grief;And, crimson through the woodland’s ruin, streamedThe sunset’s glare—a furious eye, which seemedWatching the moon rise like a yellow leaf.
The rising moon, against which, like despair,High on the hill, a woman, darkly drawn,The wild leaves round her, stood; with features wan,And tattered dress and wind-distracted hair.
As still as death, and looking, not through tears,For the young face of one she knows is lost,While in her heart the melancholy frostGathers of all the unforgotten years.
What if she heard to-night a hurrying hoof,Wild as the whirling of the withered leaf,Bring her a more immedicable grief,A shattered shape to live beneath her roof!
The shadow of him who claimed her once as wife;Her lover!—no!—the wreck of all their pastBrought back from battle!—Better to the lastA broken heart than heartbreak all her life!
Down Loudon lanes, with swinging reins,And clash of spur and sabre,And bugling of the battle-horn,Six score and eight we rode that morn,Six score and eight of Southern born,All tried in war’s hot labor.Full in the sun, at Hamilton,We met the South’s invaders;Who, over fifteen hundred strong,’Mid blazing homes had marched alongAll night, with Northern shout and song,To crush the rebel raiders.Down Loudon lanes, with streaming manes,We spurred in wild March weather;And all along our war-scarred wayThe graves of Southern heroes lay—Our guide-posts to revenge that day,As we rode grim together.Old tales still tell some miracleOf Saints in holy writing—But who shall say why hundreds fledBefore the few that Mosby led,Unless it was that even the deadFought with us then when fighting.While Yankee cheers still stunned our ears,Of troops at Harper’s Ferry;While Sheridan led on his Huns,And Richmond rocked to roaring guns,We felt the South still had some sonsShe would not scorn to bury.
Down Loudon lanes, with swinging reins,And clash of spur and sabre,And bugling of the battle-horn,Six score and eight we rode that morn,Six score and eight of Southern born,All tried in war’s hot labor.Full in the sun, at Hamilton,We met the South’s invaders;Who, over fifteen hundred strong,’Mid blazing homes had marched alongAll night, with Northern shout and song,To crush the rebel raiders.Down Loudon lanes, with streaming manes,We spurred in wild March weather;And all along our war-scarred wayThe graves of Southern heroes lay—Our guide-posts to revenge that day,As we rode grim together.Old tales still tell some miracleOf Saints in holy writing—But who shall say why hundreds fledBefore the few that Mosby led,Unless it was that even the deadFought with us then when fighting.While Yankee cheers still stunned our ears,Of troops at Harper’s Ferry;While Sheridan led on his Huns,And Richmond rocked to roaring guns,We felt the South still had some sonsShe would not scorn to bury.
Down Loudon lanes, with swinging reins,And clash of spur and sabre,And bugling of the battle-horn,Six score and eight we rode that morn,Six score and eight of Southern born,All tried in war’s hot labor.
Full in the sun, at Hamilton,We met the South’s invaders;Who, over fifteen hundred strong,’Mid blazing homes had marched alongAll night, with Northern shout and song,To crush the rebel raiders.
Down Loudon lanes, with streaming manes,We spurred in wild March weather;And all along our war-scarred wayThe graves of Southern heroes lay—Our guide-posts to revenge that day,As we rode grim together.
Old tales still tell some miracleOf Saints in holy writing—But who shall say why hundreds fledBefore the few that Mosby led,Unless it was that even the deadFought with us then when fighting.
While Yankee cheers still stunned our ears,Of troops at Harper’s Ferry;While Sheridan led on his Huns,And Richmond rocked to roaring guns,We felt the South still had some sonsShe would not scorn to bury.
Rocks, trees and rocks; and down a mossy stoneThe murmuring ooze and trickle of a streamThrough brambles, where the mountain spring lies lone,—A gleaming cairngorm where the shadows dream,—And one wild road winds like a saffron seam.Here sang the thrush, whose pure, mellifluous noteDropped golden sweetness on the fragrant June;Here cat-and blue-bird and wood-sparrow wroteTheir presence on the silence with a tune;And here the fox drank ’neath the mountain moon.Frail ferns and dewy mosses and dark brush,—Impenetrable briers, deep and dense,And wiry bushes;—brush, that seemed to crushThe struggling saplings with its tangle, whenceSprawled out the ramble of an old rail-fence.A wasp buzzed by; and then a butterflyIn orange and amber, like a floating flame;And then a man, hard-eyed and very sly,Gaunt-cheeked and haggard and a little lame,With an old rifle, down the mountain came.He listened, drinking from a flask he tookOut of the ragged pocket of his coat;Then all around him cast a stealthy look;Lay down; and watched an eagle soar and float,His fingers twitching at his hairy throat.The shades grew longer; and each Cumberland heightLoomed, framed in splendors of the dolphin dusk.Around the road a horseman rode in sight;Young, tall, blond-bearded. Silent, grim, and brusque,He in the thicket aimed—Quick, harsh, then husk,The echoes barked among the hills and madeRepeated instants of the shot’s distress.—Then silence—and the trampled bushes swayed:—Then silence, packed with murder and the pressOf distant hoofs that galloped riderless.
Rocks, trees and rocks; and down a mossy stoneThe murmuring ooze and trickle of a streamThrough brambles, where the mountain spring lies lone,—A gleaming cairngorm where the shadows dream,—And one wild road winds like a saffron seam.Here sang the thrush, whose pure, mellifluous noteDropped golden sweetness on the fragrant June;Here cat-and blue-bird and wood-sparrow wroteTheir presence on the silence with a tune;And here the fox drank ’neath the mountain moon.Frail ferns and dewy mosses and dark brush,—Impenetrable briers, deep and dense,And wiry bushes;—brush, that seemed to crushThe struggling saplings with its tangle, whenceSprawled out the ramble of an old rail-fence.A wasp buzzed by; and then a butterflyIn orange and amber, like a floating flame;And then a man, hard-eyed and very sly,Gaunt-cheeked and haggard and a little lame,With an old rifle, down the mountain came.He listened, drinking from a flask he tookOut of the ragged pocket of his coat;Then all around him cast a stealthy look;Lay down; and watched an eagle soar and float,His fingers twitching at his hairy throat.The shades grew longer; and each Cumberland heightLoomed, framed in splendors of the dolphin dusk.Around the road a horseman rode in sight;Young, tall, blond-bearded. Silent, grim, and brusque,He in the thicket aimed—Quick, harsh, then husk,The echoes barked among the hills and madeRepeated instants of the shot’s distress.—Then silence—and the trampled bushes swayed:—Then silence, packed with murder and the pressOf distant hoofs that galloped riderless.
Rocks, trees and rocks; and down a mossy stoneThe murmuring ooze and trickle of a streamThrough brambles, where the mountain spring lies lone,—A gleaming cairngorm where the shadows dream,—And one wild road winds like a saffron seam.
Here sang the thrush, whose pure, mellifluous noteDropped golden sweetness on the fragrant June;Here cat-and blue-bird and wood-sparrow wroteTheir presence on the silence with a tune;And here the fox drank ’neath the mountain moon.
Frail ferns and dewy mosses and dark brush,—Impenetrable briers, deep and dense,And wiry bushes;—brush, that seemed to crushThe struggling saplings with its tangle, whenceSprawled out the ramble of an old rail-fence.
A wasp buzzed by; and then a butterflyIn orange and amber, like a floating flame;And then a man, hard-eyed and very sly,Gaunt-cheeked and haggard and a little lame,With an old rifle, down the mountain came.
He listened, drinking from a flask he tookOut of the ragged pocket of his coat;Then all around him cast a stealthy look;Lay down; and watched an eagle soar and float,His fingers twitching at his hairy throat.
The shades grew longer; and each Cumberland heightLoomed, framed in splendors of the dolphin dusk.Around the road a horseman rode in sight;Young, tall, blond-bearded. Silent, grim, and brusque,He in the thicket aimed—Quick, harsh, then husk,
The echoes barked among the hills and madeRepeated instants of the shot’s distress.—Then silence—and the trampled bushes swayed:—Then silence, packed with murder and the pressOf distant hoofs that galloped riderless.
At the moon’s down-going, let it beOn the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree.The red-rock road of the underbrush,Where the woman came through the summer hush.The sumac high and the elder thick,Where we found the stone and the ragged stick.The trampled road of the thicket, fullOf footprints down to the quarry pool.The rocks that ooze with the hue of lead,Where we found her lying stark and dead.The scraggy wood; the negro hut,With its doors and windows locked and shut.A secret signal; a foot’s rough tramp;A knock at the door; a lifted lamp.An oath; a scuffle; a ring of masks;A voice that answers a voice that asks.A group of shadows; the moon’s red fleck;A running noose and a man’s bared neck.A word, a curse, and a shape that swings;The lonely night and a bat’s black wings.At the moon’s down-going, let it beOn the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree.
At the moon’s down-going, let it beOn the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree.The red-rock road of the underbrush,Where the woman came through the summer hush.The sumac high and the elder thick,Where we found the stone and the ragged stick.The trampled road of the thicket, fullOf footprints down to the quarry pool.The rocks that ooze with the hue of lead,Where we found her lying stark and dead.The scraggy wood; the negro hut,With its doors and windows locked and shut.A secret signal; a foot’s rough tramp;A knock at the door; a lifted lamp.An oath; a scuffle; a ring of masks;A voice that answers a voice that asks.A group of shadows; the moon’s red fleck;A running noose and a man’s bared neck.A word, a curse, and a shape that swings;The lonely night and a bat’s black wings.At the moon’s down-going, let it beOn the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree.
At the moon’s down-going, let it beOn the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree.
The red-rock road of the underbrush,Where the woman came through the summer hush.
The sumac high and the elder thick,Where we found the stone and the ragged stick.
The trampled road of the thicket, fullOf footprints down to the quarry pool.
The rocks that ooze with the hue of lead,Where we found her lying stark and dead.
The scraggy wood; the negro hut,With its doors and windows locked and shut.
A secret signal; a foot’s rough tramp;A knock at the door; a lifted lamp.
An oath; a scuffle; a ring of masks;A voice that answers a voice that asks.
A group of shadows; the moon’s red fleck;A running noose and a man’s bared neck.
A word, a curse, and a shape that swings;The lonely night and a bat’s black wings.
At the moon’s down-going, let it beOn the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree.
He rode adown the autumn wood,A man dark-eyed and brown;A mountain girl before him stoodClad in a homespun gown.“To ride this road is death for you!My father waits you there;My father and my brother, too—You know the oath they swear.”He holds her by one berry-brown wrist,And by one berry-brown hand;And he hath laughed at her and kissedHer cheek the sun hath tanned.“The feud is to the death, sweetheart:But forward must I ride.”—“And if you ride to death, sweetheart,My place is by your side.”Low hath he laughed again and kissedAnd helped her with his hand;And they have galloped into the mistThat belts the autumn land.And they had passed by Devil’s Den,And come to Dead Man’s Run,When in the brush rose up two men,Each with a levelled gun.“Down! down! my sister!” cries the one;—She gives the reins a twirl.—The other shouts, “He shot my son!And now he steals my girl!”The rifles crack: she will not wail:He will not cease to ride:But, oh! her face is pale, is pale,And the red blood stains her side.“Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart!The road is rough to ride!”—The road is rough by gulch and bluff,And her hair blows wild and wide.“Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart!The bank is steep to ride!”—The bank is steep for a strong man’s leap,And her eyes are staring wide.“Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart!The Run is swift to ride!”—The Run is swift with mountain drift,And she sways from side to side.Is it a wash of the yellow moss,Or drift of the autumn’s gold,The mountain torrent foams acrossFor the dead pine’s roots to hold?Is it the bark of the sycamore,Or peel of the white birch-tree,The mountaineer on the other shoreHath followed and still can see?No mountain moss or leaves, wild rolled,No bark of birchen-gray!—Young hair of gold and a face death-coldThe wild stream sweeps away.
He rode adown the autumn wood,A man dark-eyed and brown;A mountain girl before him stoodClad in a homespun gown.“To ride this road is death for you!My father waits you there;My father and my brother, too—You know the oath they swear.”He holds her by one berry-brown wrist,And by one berry-brown hand;And he hath laughed at her and kissedHer cheek the sun hath tanned.“The feud is to the death, sweetheart:But forward must I ride.”—“And if you ride to death, sweetheart,My place is by your side.”Low hath he laughed again and kissedAnd helped her with his hand;And they have galloped into the mistThat belts the autumn land.And they had passed by Devil’s Den,And come to Dead Man’s Run,When in the brush rose up two men,Each with a levelled gun.“Down! down! my sister!” cries the one;—She gives the reins a twirl.—The other shouts, “He shot my son!And now he steals my girl!”The rifles crack: she will not wail:He will not cease to ride:But, oh! her face is pale, is pale,And the red blood stains her side.“Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart!The road is rough to ride!”—The road is rough by gulch and bluff,And her hair blows wild and wide.“Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart!The bank is steep to ride!”—The bank is steep for a strong man’s leap,And her eyes are staring wide.“Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart!The Run is swift to ride!”—The Run is swift with mountain drift,And she sways from side to side.Is it a wash of the yellow moss,Or drift of the autumn’s gold,The mountain torrent foams acrossFor the dead pine’s roots to hold?Is it the bark of the sycamore,Or peel of the white birch-tree,The mountaineer on the other shoreHath followed and still can see?No mountain moss or leaves, wild rolled,No bark of birchen-gray!—Young hair of gold and a face death-coldThe wild stream sweeps away.
He rode adown the autumn wood,A man dark-eyed and brown;A mountain girl before him stoodClad in a homespun gown.
“To ride this road is death for you!My father waits you there;My father and my brother, too—You know the oath they swear.”
He holds her by one berry-brown wrist,And by one berry-brown hand;And he hath laughed at her and kissedHer cheek the sun hath tanned.
“The feud is to the death, sweetheart:But forward must I ride.”—“And if you ride to death, sweetheart,My place is by your side.”
Low hath he laughed again and kissedAnd helped her with his hand;And they have galloped into the mistThat belts the autumn land.
And they had passed by Devil’s Den,And come to Dead Man’s Run,When in the brush rose up two men,Each with a levelled gun.
“Down! down! my sister!” cries the one;—She gives the reins a twirl.—The other shouts, “He shot my son!And now he steals my girl!”
The rifles crack: she will not wail:He will not cease to ride:But, oh! her face is pale, is pale,And the red blood stains her side.
“Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart!The road is rough to ride!”—The road is rough by gulch and bluff,And her hair blows wild and wide.
“Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart!The bank is steep to ride!”—The bank is steep for a strong man’s leap,And her eyes are staring wide.
“Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart!The Run is swift to ride!”—The Run is swift with mountain drift,And she sways from side to side.
Is it a wash of the yellow moss,Or drift of the autumn’s gold,The mountain torrent foams acrossFor the dead pine’s roots to hold?
Is it the bark of the sycamore,Or peel of the white birch-tree,The mountaineer on the other shoreHath followed and still can see?
No mountain moss or leaves, wild rolled,No bark of birchen-gray!—Young hair of gold and a face death-coldThe wild stream sweeps away.
Far in the forest, where the rude road windsThrough twisted briers and weeds, stamped down and cakedWith mountain mire, the clashing boughs are rakedAgain with rain whose sobbing frenzy blinds.There is a noise of winds; a gasp and gulpOf swollen torrents; and the sodden smellOf woodland soil, dead trees—that long since fellAmong the moss—red-rotted into pulp.Fogged by the rain, far up the mountain glen,Deep in a cave, an elfish wisp of light;And stealthy shadows stealing through the nightWith strong, set faces of determined men.
Far in the forest, where the rude road windsThrough twisted briers and weeds, stamped down and cakedWith mountain mire, the clashing boughs are rakedAgain with rain whose sobbing frenzy blinds.There is a noise of winds; a gasp and gulpOf swollen torrents; and the sodden smellOf woodland soil, dead trees—that long since fellAmong the moss—red-rotted into pulp.Fogged by the rain, far up the mountain glen,Deep in a cave, an elfish wisp of light;And stealthy shadows stealing through the nightWith strong, set faces of determined men.
Far in the forest, where the rude road windsThrough twisted briers and weeds, stamped down and cakedWith mountain mire, the clashing boughs are rakedAgain with rain whose sobbing frenzy blinds.
There is a noise of winds; a gasp and gulpOf swollen torrents; and the sodden smellOf woodland soil, dead trees—that long since fellAmong the moss—red-rotted into pulp.
Fogged by the rain, far up the mountain glen,Deep in a cave, an elfish wisp of light;And stealthy shadows stealing through the nightWith strong, set faces of determined men.
’Twixt fog and fire, in pomps of chrysoprase,Above vague peaks, the morning hesitatesEre, o’er the threshold of her golden gates,Speeds the wild splendor of her chariot’s rays.A gleaming glimmer in the sun-speared mist,A cataract, reverberating, falls:Upon a pine a gray hawk sits and calls,Then soars away no bigger than a fist.Along the wild path, through the oaks and firs,—Rocks, where the rattler coils himself and suns,—Big-booted, belted, and with twinkling guns,The posse marches with its moonshiners.
’Twixt fog and fire, in pomps of chrysoprase,Above vague peaks, the morning hesitatesEre, o’er the threshold of her golden gates,Speeds the wild splendor of her chariot’s rays.A gleaming glimmer in the sun-speared mist,A cataract, reverberating, falls:Upon a pine a gray hawk sits and calls,Then soars away no bigger than a fist.Along the wild path, through the oaks and firs,—Rocks, where the rattler coils himself and suns,—Big-booted, belted, and with twinkling guns,The posse marches with its moonshiners.
’Twixt fog and fire, in pomps of chrysoprase,Above vague peaks, the morning hesitatesEre, o’er the threshold of her golden gates,Speeds the wild splendor of her chariot’s rays.
A gleaming glimmer in the sun-speared mist,A cataract, reverberating, falls:Upon a pine a gray hawk sits and calls,Then soars away no bigger than a fist.
Along the wild path, through the oaks and firs,—Rocks, where the rattler coils himself and suns,—Big-booted, belted, and with twinkling guns,The posse marches with its moonshiners.
Not far from here, it lies beyondThat low-hilled belt of woods. We ’ll takeThis unused lane where brambles makeA wall of twilight, and the blondBrier-roses pelt the path and flakeThe margin waters of a pond.This is its fence—or that which wasIts fence once—now, rock rolled from rock,One tangle of the vine and dock,Where bloom the wild petunias;And this its gate, the ragweeds block,Hot with the insects’ dusty buzz.Two wooden posts, wherefrom has peeledThe weather-blistered paint, still rise;Gaunt things—that groan when some one triesThe gate whose hinges, rust-congealed,Snarl open:—on each post still liesIts carven panther with a shield.We enter; and between great rowsOf locusts winds a grass-grown road;And at its glimmering end,—o’erflowedWith quiet light,—the white front showsOf an old mansion, grand and broad,With grave, Colonial porticoes.Grown thick around it, dark and deep,The locust trees make one vast hush;Their brawny branches crowd and crushIts very casements, and o’ersweepIts rotting roofs: their tranquil rushHaunts all its spacious rooms with sleep.Still is it called The Locusts; thoughNone lives here now. A tale ’s to tellOf some dark thing that here befell;A crime that happened years ago,When past its walls, with shot and shell,The war swept on and left it so.For one black night, within it, shameMade revel, while, all here about,With prayer or curse or battle-shout,Men died and homesteads leapt in flame:Then passed the conquering Northern rout,And left it silent and the same.Why should I speak of what has been?Or what dark part I played in all?Why ruin sits in porch and hallWhere pride and gladness once were seen;And why beneath this lichened wallThe grave of Margaret is green.Heart-broken Margaret! whose fateWas sadder far than his who wonHer hand—my brother Hamilton—Or mine, who learned to know too late;Who learned to know, when all was done,And naught I did could expiate.To expiate is still my lot!—And, like the Ancient Mariner,To show to others how things were,And what I am, still helps me blotA little from that crime’s red blur,That on my life is branded hot.He was my only brother. SheA sister of my brother’s friend.They met, and married in the end.And I remember well when heBrought her rejoicing home, the trendOf war moved towards us sullenly.And scarce a year of wedlock whenIts red arms tore him from his bride.With lips by hers thrice sanctifiedHe left to ride with Morgan’s men.And I—I never could decide—Remained behind. It happened then.Long days went by. And, oft delayed,A letter came of loving wordScrawled by some camp-fire, sabre-stirred,Or by a pine-knot’s fitful aid,When in the saddle, armed and spurredAnd booted for some hurried raid.Then weeks went by. I do not knowHow long it was before there came,Blown from the North, the clarion fameOf Morgan, who, with blow on blow,Had drawn a line of blood and flameFrom Tennessee to Ohio.Then letters ceased; and days went on.No word from him. The war rolled back,And in its turgid crimson trackA rumor grew, like some wild dawn,All ominous and red and black,With news of our lost Hamilton.News hinting death or capture. YetNo word was sure; till one day,—fedBy us,—some men rode up who saidThey’d been with Morgan and had metDisaster, and that he was dead,My brother.—I and MargaretBelieved them. Grief was ours too:But mine was more for her than him:Grief, that her eyes with tears were dim:Grief, that became the avenueFor love, who crowned the sombre brimOf death’s dark cup with rose-red hue.In sympathy,—unconsciouslyThough it be given,—I hold, doth dwellThe germ of love that time shall swellTo blossom. Sooner then in me—When close relations so befell—That love should spring from sympathy.Our similar tastes and mutual bentsCombined to make us intimatesFrom our first meeting. Different statesOf interest then our temperamentsBegot. Then friendship, that abatesNo love, whose soul it represents.These led to talks and dreams: how oftWe sat at some wide window whileThe sun sank o’er the hills’ far file,Serene; and of the cloud aloftMade one vast rose; and mile on mileOf firmament grew sad and soft.And all in harmony with theseDim clemencies of dusk, afarOur talks and dreams went; while the starOf evening brightened through the trees:We spoke of home; the end of war;We dreamed of life and love and peace.How on our walks, in listening lanesOr confidences of the wood,We paused to hear the dove that cooed;Or gathered wildflowers, taking painsTo find the fairest; or her hoodFilled with wild fruit that left deep stains.No echo of the drum or fife,No hint of conflict entered inOur thoughts then. Will you call it sin—Indifference to a nation’s strife?What side might lose, what side might win,Both immaterial to our life.Into the past we did not look:Beyond what was we did not dream;While onward rolled the thunderous streamOf war, that, in its torrent, tookOne of our own. No crimson gleamOf its wild course around us shook.At last we knew. And when we learnedHow he had fallen, MargaretWept; and, albeit my eyes were wet,Within my soul I half discernedA joy that mingled with regret,A grief that to relief was turned.As time went on and confidenceDrew us more strongly each to each,Why did no intimation reachIts warning hand into the denseSoul-silence, and confuse the speechOf love’s unbroken eloquence!But, no! no hint to turn the poise,Or check the impulse of our youth;To chill it with the living truthAs with the awe of God’s own voice;No hint, to make our hope uncouth;No word, to warn us from our choice.To me a wall seemed overthrownThat social law had raised between;And o’er its ruin, broad and greenA path went, I possessed alone;The sky above seemed all serene;The land around seemed all my own.What shall I say of MargaretTo justify her part in this?That her young heart was never his?But had been mine since first we met?So would you say!—Enough it isThat when he left she loved him yet.So passed the spring, and summer sped;And early autumn brought the dayWhen she her hand in mine should lay,And I should take her hand and wed:And still no hint that might gainsay,No warning word of quick or dead.The day arrived; and with it born,A battle, sullying the EastWith boom of cannon, that increased,And throb of musket and of horn:Until at last, towards dusk, it ceased;And men with faces wild and worn,In fierce retreat, swept past; now groups;Now one by one: now sternly white,Or blood-stained; now with looks whose frightSaid all was lost: then sullen troopsThat, beaten, still kept up the fight.—Then came the victors: shadowy loopsOf men and horse, that left a crowdOf officers in hall and porch....While through the land, around, the torchCircled, and many a fiery cloudMarked out the army’s iron marchIn furrows red that pillage plowed,Here were we wedded.... Ask the yearsHow such could be, while over usA sword of wrath swung ominous,And on our cheeks its breath struck fierce!—All I remember is—’t was thus;And Margaret’s eyes were wet with tears.No other cause my memory seesSave this,thatnight was set; and whenI found my home filled with armed menWith whom were all my sympathiesOf Union—why postpone it then?So argued conscience into peace.And then it was, when night had passed,There came to me an orderlyWith word of a Confederate spyJust taken; who, with head downcast,Had asked one favor, this: “That IWould see him ere he breathed his last.”I stand alone here. HeavilyMy thoughts go back. Had I not gone,The dead had still been dead! (for noneHad yet believed his story) he,My dead-deemed brother, Hamilton,Who in the spy confronted me.O you who never have been tried,How can you judge me!—In my placeI saw him standing,—who can traceMy heart-thoughts then!—I turned aside,A son of some unnatural race,And did not speak: and so he died....In hospital or prison, whenIt was he lay; what had forbidHis home return so long: amidWhat hardships he had suffered, thenI dared not ask; and when I did,Long afterwards, inquire of men,No thing I learned. But this I feel—He who had so returned to lifeWas not a spy. Through stress and strife,—This makes my conscience hard to heal!—He had escaped: he sought his wife;He sought his home that should conceal.And Margaret! Oh, pity her!A criminal I sought her side,Still thinking love was justifiedIn all for her—whatever wereThe price: a brother thrice denied,Or thrice a brothers murderer.Since then long years have passed away.And through those years, perhaps, you ’ll askHow to the world I wore my maskOf honesty?—I can but sayBeyond my powers it was a task;Before my time it turned me gray.And when at last the ceaseless hissOf conscience drove, and I betrayedAll to her, she knelt down and prayed:Then rose: and ’twixt us an abyssWas opened; and she seemed to fadeOut of my life: I came to missThe sweet attentions of a bride:For each appealing heart’s caressIn me her heart assumed a dressOf dull indifference; till deniedTo me was all responsiveness;And then I knew her love had died.Ah, had she loaded me, perchance,With wild reproach or even hate,Such would have helped me hope and waitForgiveness and returned romance:But ’twixt our souls, instead, a gateShe closed of silent tolerance.Yet, ’t was for love of her I lentMy soul to crime.... I question meOften, if less entirelyI’d loved her, then, in that eventShe had been justified to seeThe deed alone stand prominent.The deed alone! But love recordsIn his own heart, I will aver,No depth I did not feel for herBeyond the plummet-reach of words:And though there may be worthier,No truer love this world affordsThan mine was, though it could not riseAbove itself. And so ’t was best,Perhaps, that she saw manifestThe crime, so I,—as saw her eyes,—Might see; and so, in soul confessed,Some life atonement might devise.Sadly my heart one comfort keeps,That, towards her end, she took my handsAnd said,—as one who understands,—“Had I but seen!—But love that weepsSees only as its loss commands.”And sighed.—Beneath this stone she sleeps.Yes; I have suffered for that sin:Yet in no instance would I shunWhat I should suffer. Many a one,Who heard my tale, has tried to winMe to believe that HamiltonIt was not; and, though proven kin,This had not saved him. Still the stainOf the intention—had I erredAnd ’t was not he—had writ the wordRed on my soul that branded Cain:For still my error had incurredThe fact of guilt that would remain.
Not far from here, it lies beyondThat low-hilled belt of woods. We ’ll takeThis unused lane where brambles makeA wall of twilight, and the blondBrier-roses pelt the path and flakeThe margin waters of a pond.This is its fence—or that which wasIts fence once—now, rock rolled from rock,One tangle of the vine and dock,Where bloom the wild petunias;And this its gate, the ragweeds block,Hot with the insects’ dusty buzz.Two wooden posts, wherefrom has peeledThe weather-blistered paint, still rise;Gaunt things—that groan when some one triesThe gate whose hinges, rust-congealed,Snarl open:—on each post still liesIts carven panther with a shield.We enter; and between great rowsOf locusts winds a grass-grown road;And at its glimmering end,—o’erflowedWith quiet light,—the white front showsOf an old mansion, grand and broad,With grave, Colonial porticoes.Grown thick around it, dark and deep,The locust trees make one vast hush;Their brawny branches crowd and crushIts very casements, and o’ersweepIts rotting roofs: their tranquil rushHaunts all its spacious rooms with sleep.Still is it called The Locusts; thoughNone lives here now. A tale ’s to tellOf some dark thing that here befell;A crime that happened years ago,When past its walls, with shot and shell,The war swept on and left it so.For one black night, within it, shameMade revel, while, all here about,With prayer or curse or battle-shout,Men died and homesteads leapt in flame:Then passed the conquering Northern rout,And left it silent and the same.Why should I speak of what has been?Or what dark part I played in all?Why ruin sits in porch and hallWhere pride and gladness once were seen;And why beneath this lichened wallThe grave of Margaret is green.Heart-broken Margaret! whose fateWas sadder far than his who wonHer hand—my brother Hamilton—Or mine, who learned to know too late;Who learned to know, when all was done,And naught I did could expiate.To expiate is still my lot!—And, like the Ancient Mariner,To show to others how things were,And what I am, still helps me blotA little from that crime’s red blur,That on my life is branded hot.He was my only brother. SheA sister of my brother’s friend.They met, and married in the end.And I remember well when heBrought her rejoicing home, the trendOf war moved towards us sullenly.And scarce a year of wedlock whenIts red arms tore him from his bride.With lips by hers thrice sanctifiedHe left to ride with Morgan’s men.And I—I never could decide—Remained behind. It happened then.Long days went by. And, oft delayed,A letter came of loving wordScrawled by some camp-fire, sabre-stirred,Or by a pine-knot’s fitful aid,When in the saddle, armed and spurredAnd booted for some hurried raid.Then weeks went by. I do not knowHow long it was before there came,Blown from the North, the clarion fameOf Morgan, who, with blow on blow,Had drawn a line of blood and flameFrom Tennessee to Ohio.Then letters ceased; and days went on.No word from him. The war rolled back,And in its turgid crimson trackA rumor grew, like some wild dawn,All ominous and red and black,With news of our lost Hamilton.News hinting death or capture. YetNo word was sure; till one day,—fedBy us,—some men rode up who saidThey’d been with Morgan and had metDisaster, and that he was dead,My brother.—I and MargaretBelieved them. Grief was ours too:But mine was more for her than him:Grief, that her eyes with tears were dim:Grief, that became the avenueFor love, who crowned the sombre brimOf death’s dark cup with rose-red hue.In sympathy,—unconsciouslyThough it be given,—I hold, doth dwellThe germ of love that time shall swellTo blossom. Sooner then in me—When close relations so befell—That love should spring from sympathy.Our similar tastes and mutual bentsCombined to make us intimatesFrom our first meeting. Different statesOf interest then our temperamentsBegot. Then friendship, that abatesNo love, whose soul it represents.These led to talks and dreams: how oftWe sat at some wide window whileThe sun sank o’er the hills’ far file,Serene; and of the cloud aloftMade one vast rose; and mile on mileOf firmament grew sad and soft.And all in harmony with theseDim clemencies of dusk, afarOur talks and dreams went; while the starOf evening brightened through the trees:We spoke of home; the end of war;We dreamed of life and love and peace.How on our walks, in listening lanesOr confidences of the wood,We paused to hear the dove that cooed;Or gathered wildflowers, taking painsTo find the fairest; or her hoodFilled with wild fruit that left deep stains.No echo of the drum or fife,No hint of conflict entered inOur thoughts then. Will you call it sin—Indifference to a nation’s strife?What side might lose, what side might win,Both immaterial to our life.Into the past we did not look:Beyond what was we did not dream;While onward rolled the thunderous streamOf war, that, in its torrent, tookOne of our own. No crimson gleamOf its wild course around us shook.At last we knew. And when we learnedHow he had fallen, MargaretWept; and, albeit my eyes were wet,Within my soul I half discernedA joy that mingled with regret,A grief that to relief was turned.As time went on and confidenceDrew us more strongly each to each,Why did no intimation reachIts warning hand into the denseSoul-silence, and confuse the speechOf love’s unbroken eloquence!But, no! no hint to turn the poise,Or check the impulse of our youth;To chill it with the living truthAs with the awe of God’s own voice;No hint, to make our hope uncouth;No word, to warn us from our choice.To me a wall seemed overthrownThat social law had raised between;And o’er its ruin, broad and greenA path went, I possessed alone;The sky above seemed all serene;The land around seemed all my own.What shall I say of MargaretTo justify her part in this?That her young heart was never his?But had been mine since first we met?So would you say!—Enough it isThat when he left she loved him yet.So passed the spring, and summer sped;And early autumn brought the dayWhen she her hand in mine should lay,And I should take her hand and wed:And still no hint that might gainsay,No warning word of quick or dead.The day arrived; and with it born,A battle, sullying the EastWith boom of cannon, that increased,And throb of musket and of horn:Until at last, towards dusk, it ceased;And men with faces wild and worn,In fierce retreat, swept past; now groups;Now one by one: now sternly white,Or blood-stained; now with looks whose frightSaid all was lost: then sullen troopsThat, beaten, still kept up the fight.—Then came the victors: shadowy loopsOf men and horse, that left a crowdOf officers in hall and porch....While through the land, around, the torchCircled, and many a fiery cloudMarked out the army’s iron marchIn furrows red that pillage plowed,Here were we wedded.... Ask the yearsHow such could be, while over usA sword of wrath swung ominous,And on our cheeks its breath struck fierce!—All I remember is—’t was thus;And Margaret’s eyes were wet with tears.No other cause my memory seesSave this,thatnight was set; and whenI found my home filled with armed menWith whom were all my sympathiesOf Union—why postpone it then?So argued conscience into peace.And then it was, when night had passed,There came to me an orderlyWith word of a Confederate spyJust taken; who, with head downcast,Had asked one favor, this: “That IWould see him ere he breathed his last.”I stand alone here. HeavilyMy thoughts go back. Had I not gone,The dead had still been dead! (for noneHad yet believed his story) he,My dead-deemed brother, Hamilton,Who in the spy confronted me.O you who never have been tried,How can you judge me!—In my placeI saw him standing,—who can traceMy heart-thoughts then!—I turned aside,A son of some unnatural race,And did not speak: and so he died....In hospital or prison, whenIt was he lay; what had forbidHis home return so long: amidWhat hardships he had suffered, thenI dared not ask; and when I did,Long afterwards, inquire of men,No thing I learned. But this I feel—He who had so returned to lifeWas not a spy. Through stress and strife,—This makes my conscience hard to heal!—He had escaped: he sought his wife;He sought his home that should conceal.And Margaret! Oh, pity her!A criminal I sought her side,Still thinking love was justifiedIn all for her—whatever wereThe price: a brother thrice denied,Or thrice a brothers murderer.Since then long years have passed away.And through those years, perhaps, you ’ll askHow to the world I wore my maskOf honesty?—I can but sayBeyond my powers it was a task;Before my time it turned me gray.And when at last the ceaseless hissOf conscience drove, and I betrayedAll to her, she knelt down and prayed:Then rose: and ’twixt us an abyssWas opened; and she seemed to fadeOut of my life: I came to missThe sweet attentions of a bride:For each appealing heart’s caressIn me her heart assumed a dressOf dull indifference; till deniedTo me was all responsiveness;And then I knew her love had died.Ah, had she loaded me, perchance,With wild reproach or even hate,Such would have helped me hope and waitForgiveness and returned romance:But ’twixt our souls, instead, a gateShe closed of silent tolerance.Yet, ’t was for love of her I lentMy soul to crime.... I question meOften, if less entirelyI’d loved her, then, in that eventShe had been justified to seeThe deed alone stand prominent.The deed alone! But love recordsIn his own heart, I will aver,No depth I did not feel for herBeyond the plummet-reach of words:And though there may be worthier,No truer love this world affordsThan mine was, though it could not riseAbove itself. And so ’t was best,Perhaps, that she saw manifestThe crime, so I,—as saw her eyes,—Might see; and so, in soul confessed,Some life atonement might devise.Sadly my heart one comfort keeps,That, towards her end, she took my handsAnd said,—as one who understands,—“Had I but seen!—But love that weepsSees only as its loss commands.”And sighed.—Beneath this stone she sleeps.Yes; I have suffered for that sin:Yet in no instance would I shunWhat I should suffer. Many a one,Who heard my tale, has tried to winMe to believe that HamiltonIt was not; and, though proven kin,This had not saved him. Still the stainOf the intention—had I erredAnd ’t was not he—had writ the wordRed on my soul that branded Cain:For still my error had incurredThe fact of guilt that would remain.
Not far from here, it lies beyondThat low-hilled belt of woods. We ’ll takeThis unused lane where brambles makeA wall of twilight, and the blondBrier-roses pelt the path and flakeThe margin waters of a pond.
This is its fence—or that which wasIts fence once—now, rock rolled from rock,One tangle of the vine and dock,Where bloom the wild petunias;And this its gate, the ragweeds block,Hot with the insects’ dusty buzz.
Two wooden posts, wherefrom has peeledThe weather-blistered paint, still rise;Gaunt things—that groan when some one triesThe gate whose hinges, rust-congealed,Snarl open:—on each post still liesIts carven panther with a shield.
We enter; and between great rowsOf locusts winds a grass-grown road;And at its glimmering end,—o’erflowedWith quiet light,—the white front showsOf an old mansion, grand and broad,With grave, Colonial porticoes.
Grown thick around it, dark and deep,The locust trees make one vast hush;Their brawny branches crowd and crushIts very casements, and o’ersweepIts rotting roofs: their tranquil rushHaunts all its spacious rooms with sleep.
Still is it called The Locusts; thoughNone lives here now. A tale ’s to tellOf some dark thing that here befell;A crime that happened years ago,When past its walls, with shot and shell,The war swept on and left it so.
For one black night, within it, shameMade revel, while, all here about,With prayer or curse or battle-shout,Men died and homesteads leapt in flame:Then passed the conquering Northern rout,And left it silent and the same.
Why should I speak of what has been?Or what dark part I played in all?Why ruin sits in porch and hallWhere pride and gladness once were seen;And why beneath this lichened wallThe grave of Margaret is green.
Heart-broken Margaret! whose fateWas sadder far than his who wonHer hand—my brother Hamilton—Or mine, who learned to know too late;Who learned to know, when all was done,And naught I did could expiate.
To expiate is still my lot!—And, like the Ancient Mariner,To show to others how things were,And what I am, still helps me blotA little from that crime’s red blur,That on my life is branded hot.
He was my only brother. SheA sister of my brother’s friend.They met, and married in the end.And I remember well when heBrought her rejoicing home, the trendOf war moved towards us sullenly.
And scarce a year of wedlock whenIts red arms tore him from his bride.With lips by hers thrice sanctifiedHe left to ride with Morgan’s men.And I—I never could decide—Remained behind. It happened then.
Long days went by. And, oft delayed,A letter came of loving wordScrawled by some camp-fire, sabre-stirred,Or by a pine-knot’s fitful aid,When in the saddle, armed and spurredAnd booted for some hurried raid.
Then weeks went by. I do not knowHow long it was before there came,Blown from the North, the clarion fameOf Morgan, who, with blow on blow,Had drawn a line of blood and flameFrom Tennessee to Ohio.
Then letters ceased; and days went on.No word from him. The war rolled back,And in its turgid crimson trackA rumor grew, like some wild dawn,All ominous and red and black,With news of our lost Hamilton.
News hinting death or capture. YetNo word was sure; till one day,—fedBy us,—some men rode up who saidThey’d been with Morgan and had metDisaster, and that he was dead,My brother.—I and Margaret
Believed them. Grief was ours too:But mine was more for her than him:Grief, that her eyes with tears were dim:Grief, that became the avenueFor love, who crowned the sombre brimOf death’s dark cup with rose-red hue.
In sympathy,—unconsciouslyThough it be given,—I hold, doth dwellThe germ of love that time shall swellTo blossom. Sooner then in me—When close relations so befell—That love should spring from sympathy.
Our similar tastes and mutual bentsCombined to make us intimatesFrom our first meeting. Different statesOf interest then our temperamentsBegot. Then friendship, that abatesNo love, whose soul it represents.
These led to talks and dreams: how oftWe sat at some wide window whileThe sun sank o’er the hills’ far file,Serene; and of the cloud aloftMade one vast rose; and mile on mileOf firmament grew sad and soft.
And all in harmony with theseDim clemencies of dusk, afarOur talks and dreams went; while the starOf evening brightened through the trees:We spoke of home; the end of war;We dreamed of life and love and peace.
How on our walks, in listening lanesOr confidences of the wood,We paused to hear the dove that cooed;Or gathered wildflowers, taking painsTo find the fairest; or her hoodFilled with wild fruit that left deep stains.
No echo of the drum or fife,No hint of conflict entered inOur thoughts then. Will you call it sin—Indifference to a nation’s strife?What side might lose, what side might win,Both immaterial to our life.
Into the past we did not look:Beyond what was we did not dream;While onward rolled the thunderous streamOf war, that, in its torrent, tookOne of our own. No crimson gleamOf its wild course around us shook.
At last we knew. And when we learnedHow he had fallen, MargaretWept; and, albeit my eyes were wet,Within my soul I half discernedA joy that mingled with regret,A grief that to relief was turned.
As time went on and confidenceDrew us more strongly each to each,Why did no intimation reachIts warning hand into the denseSoul-silence, and confuse the speechOf love’s unbroken eloquence!
But, no! no hint to turn the poise,Or check the impulse of our youth;To chill it with the living truthAs with the awe of God’s own voice;No hint, to make our hope uncouth;No word, to warn us from our choice.
To me a wall seemed overthrownThat social law had raised between;And o’er its ruin, broad and greenA path went, I possessed alone;The sky above seemed all serene;The land around seemed all my own.
What shall I say of MargaretTo justify her part in this?That her young heart was never his?But had been mine since first we met?So would you say!—Enough it isThat when he left she loved him yet.
So passed the spring, and summer sped;And early autumn brought the dayWhen she her hand in mine should lay,And I should take her hand and wed:And still no hint that might gainsay,No warning word of quick or dead.
The day arrived; and with it born,A battle, sullying the EastWith boom of cannon, that increased,And throb of musket and of horn:Until at last, towards dusk, it ceased;And men with faces wild and worn,In fierce retreat, swept past; now groups;Now one by one: now sternly white,Or blood-stained; now with looks whose frightSaid all was lost: then sullen troopsThat, beaten, still kept up the fight.—Then came the victors: shadowy loops
Of men and horse, that left a crowdOf officers in hall and porch....While through the land, around, the torchCircled, and many a fiery cloudMarked out the army’s iron marchIn furrows red that pillage plowed,
Here were we wedded.... Ask the yearsHow such could be, while over usA sword of wrath swung ominous,And on our cheeks its breath struck fierce!—All I remember is—’t was thus;And Margaret’s eyes were wet with tears.
No other cause my memory seesSave this,thatnight was set; and whenI found my home filled with armed menWith whom were all my sympathiesOf Union—why postpone it then?So argued conscience into peace.
And then it was, when night had passed,There came to me an orderlyWith word of a Confederate spyJust taken; who, with head downcast,Had asked one favor, this: “That IWould see him ere he breathed his last.”
I stand alone here. HeavilyMy thoughts go back. Had I not gone,The dead had still been dead! (for noneHad yet believed his story) he,My dead-deemed brother, Hamilton,Who in the spy confronted me.
O you who never have been tried,How can you judge me!—In my placeI saw him standing,—who can traceMy heart-thoughts then!—I turned aside,A son of some unnatural race,And did not speak: and so he died....
In hospital or prison, whenIt was he lay; what had forbidHis home return so long: amidWhat hardships he had suffered, thenI dared not ask; and when I did,Long afterwards, inquire of men,No thing I learned. But this I feel—He who had so returned to lifeWas not a spy. Through stress and strife,—This makes my conscience hard to heal!—He had escaped: he sought his wife;He sought his home that should conceal.
And Margaret! Oh, pity her!A criminal I sought her side,Still thinking love was justifiedIn all for her—whatever wereThe price: a brother thrice denied,Or thrice a brothers murderer.
Since then long years have passed away.And through those years, perhaps, you ’ll askHow to the world I wore my maskOf honesty?—I can but sayBeyond my powers it was a task;Before my time it turned me gray.
And when at last the ceaseless hissOf conscience drove, and I betrayedAll to her, she knelt down and prayed:Then rose: and ’twixt us an abyssWas opened; and she seemed to fadeOut of my life: I came to missThe sweet attentions of a bride:For each appealing heart’s caressIn me her heart assumed a dressOf dull indifference; till deniedTo me was all responsiveness;And then I knew her love had died.
Ah, had she loaded me, perchance,With wild reproach or even hate,Such would have helped me hope and waitForgiveness and returned romance:But ’twixt our souls, instead, a gateShe closed of silent tolerance.
Yet, ’t was for love of her I lentMy soul to crime.... I question meOften, if less entirelyI’d loved her, then, in that eventShe had been justified to seeThe deed alone stand prominent.
The deed alone! But love recordsIn his own heart, I will aver,No depth I did not feel for herBeyond the plummet-reach of words:And though there may be worthier,No truer love this world affordsThan mine was, though it could not riseAbove itself. And so ’t was best,Perhaps, that she saw manifestThe crime, so I,—as saw her eyes,—Might see; and so, in soul confessed,Some life atonement might devise.
Sadly my heart one comfort keeps,That, towards her end, she took my handsAnd said,—as one who understands,—“Had I but seen!—But love that weepsSees only as its loss commands.”And sighed.—Beneath this stone she sleeps.
Yes; I have suffered for that sin:Yet in no instance would I shunWhat I should suffer. Many a one,Who heard my tale, has tried to winMe to believe that HamiltonIt was not; and, though proven kin,
This had not saved him. Still the stainOf the intention—had I erredAnd ’t was not he—had writ the wordRed on my soul that branded Cain:For still my error had incurredThe fact of guilt that would remain.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Ah, love at best is insecure,And lives with doubt and vain regret;And hope and faith, with faces setUpon the past, are never sure;And through their fever, grief, and fretThe heart may fail that should endure.For in ourselves, however blendThe passions that make heaven and hell,Is evil not accountableFor most the good we comprehend?And through these two,—or ill, or well,—Man must evolve his spiritual end.It is with deeds that we must askForgiveness: for, upon this earth,Life walks alone from very birthWith death, hope tells us is a maskFor life beyond of vaster worth,Where sin no more sets love a task.
Ah, love at best is insecure,And lives with doubt and vain regret;And hope and faith, with faces setUpon the past, are never sure;And through their fever, grief, and fretThe heart may fail that should endure.For in ourselves, however blendThe passions that make heaven and hell,Is evil not accountableFor most the good we comprehend?And through these two,—or ill, or well,—Man must evolve his spiritual end.It is with deeds that we must askForgiveness: for, upon this earth,Life walks alone from very birthWith death, hope tells us is a maskFor life beyond of vaster worth,Where sin no more sets love a task.
Ah, love at best is insecure,And lives with doubt and vain regret;And hope and faith, with faces setUpon the past, are never sure;And through their fever, grief, and fretThe heart may fail that should endure.
For in ourselves, however blendThe passions that make heaven and hell,Is evil not accountableFor most the good we comprehend?And through these two,—or ill, or well,—Man must evolve his spiritual end.
It is with deeds that we must askForgiveness: for, upon this earth,Life walks alone from very birthWith death, hope tells us is a maskFor life beyond of vaster worth,Where sin no more sets love a task.
Would I could sing of joy I onlyRemember as without alloy:Of life full-filled, that once was lonely:Of love a treasure, not a toy:Of grief, regret but makes the keener,Of aspiration, failure mars—These would I sing, and sit serener.Than song among the stars.Would I could sing of faith unbroken;Of heart-kept vows, and not of tears:Of promised faith and vows love-spoken,That have been kept through many years:Of truth, the false but leaves the truer;Of trust, the doubt makes doubly sure—These would I sing, the noble doerWhose dauntless heart is pure.I would not sing of time made hateful;Of hope that only clings to hate:Of charity, that grows ungrateful;And pride that will not stand and wait.—Of humbleness, care hath imparted;Of resignation, born of ills,These would I sing, and stand high-heartedAs hope upon the hills.Once on a throne of gold and scarletI touched a harp and felt it break;I dreamed I was a king—a varlet,A slave, who only slept to wake!—Still on that harp my memory lingers,While on a tomb I lean and read,“Dust are our songs, and dust we singers,And dust are all who heed.”
Would I could sing of joy I onlyRemember as without alloy:Of life full-filled, that once was lonely:Of love a treasure, not a toy:Of grief, regret but makes the keener,Of aspiration, failure mars—These would I sing, and sit serener.Than song among the stars.Would I could sing of faith unbroken;Of heart-kept vows, and not of tears:Of promised faith and vows love-spoken,That have been kept through many years:Of truth, the false but leaves the truer;Of trust, the doubt makes doubly sure—These would I sing, the noble doerWhose dauntless heart is pure.I would not sing of time made hateful;Of hope that only clings to hate:Of charity, that grows ungrateful;And pride that will not stand and wait.—Of humbleness, care hath imparted;Of resignation, born of ills,These would I sing, and stand high-heartedAs hope upon the hills.Once on a throne of gold and scarletI touched a harp and felt it break;I dreamed I was a king—a varlet,A slave, who only slept to wake!—Still on that harp my memory lingers,While on a tomb I lean and read,“Dust are our songs, and dust we singers,And dust are all who heed.”
Would I could sing of joy I onlyRemember as without alloy:Of life full-filled, that once was lonely:Of love a treasure, not a toy:Of grief, regret but makes the keener,Of aspiration, failure mars—These would I sing, and sit serener.Than song among the stars.
Would I could sing of faith unbroken;Of heart-kept vows, and not of tears:Of promised faith and vows love-spoken,That have been kept through many years:Of truth, the false but leaves the truer;Of trust, the doubt makes doubly sure—These would I sing, the noble doerWhose dauntless heart is pure.
I would not sing of time made hateful;Of hope that only clings to hate:Of charity, that grows ungrateful;And pride that will not stand and wait.—Of humbleness, care hath imparted;Of resignation, born of ills,These would I sing, and stand high-heartedAs hope upon the hills.
Once on a throne of gold and scarletI touched a harp and felt it break;I dreamed I was a king—a varlet,A slave, who only slept to wake!—Still on that harp my memory lingers,While on a tomb I lean and read,“Dust are our songs, and dust we singers,And dust are all who heed.”
What though I dreamed of mountain heights,Of peaks, the barriers of the world,Around whose tops the Northern LightsAnd tempests are unfurled!Mine are the footpaths leading throughLife’s lowly fields and woods,—with rifts,Above, of heaven’s Eden blue,—By which the violet liftsIts shy appeal; and, holding upIts chaliced gold, like some wild wine,Along the hillside, cup on cup,Blooms bright the celandine.Where soft upon each flowering stockThe butterfly spreads damask wings;And under grassy loam and rockThe cottage cricket sings.Where overhead eve blooms with fire,In which the new moon bends her bow,And, arrow-like, one white star by herBurns through the afterglow.I care not, so the sesameI find; the magic flower there,Whose touch unseals each mysteryIn water, earth, and air.That in the oak tree lets me hearIts heart’s deep speech, its soul’s dim words;And to my mind makes crystal clearThe messages of birds.Why should I care, who live aloofBeyond the din of life and dust,While dreams still share my humble roof,And love makes sweet my crust.
What though I dreamed of mountain heights,Of peaks, the barriers of the world,Around whose tops the Northern LightsAnd tempests are unfurled!Mine are the footpaths leading throughLife’s lowly fields and woods,—with rifts,Above, of heaven’s Eden blue,—By which the violet liftsIts shy appeal; and, holding upIts chaliced gold, like some wild wine,Along the hillside, cup on cup,Blooms bright the celandine.Where soft upon each flowering stockThe butterfly spreads damask wings;And under grassy loam and rockThe cottage cricket sings.Where overhead eve blooms with fire,In which the new moon bends her bow,And, arrow-like, one white star by herBurns through the afterglow.I care not, so the sesameI find; the magic flower there,Whose touch unseals each mysteryIn water, earth, and air.That in the oak tree lets me hearIts heart’s deep speech, its soul’s dim words;And to my mind makes crystal clearThe messages of birds.Why should I care, who live aloofBeyond the din of life and dust,While dreams still share my humble roof,And love makes sweet my crust.
What though I dreamed of mountain heights,Of peaks, the barriers of the world,Around whose tops the Northern LightsAnd tempests are unfurled!
Mine are the footpaths leading throughLife’s lowly fields and woods,—with rifts,Above, of heaven’s Eden blue,—By which the violet lifts
Its shy appeal; and, holding upIts chaliced gold, like some wild wine,Along the hillside, cup on cup,Blooms bright the celandine.
Where soft upon each flowering stockThe butterfly spreads damask wings;And under grassy loam and rockThe cottage cricket sings.
Where overhead eve blooms with fire,In which the new moon bends her bow,And, arrow-like, one white star by herBurns through the afterglow.
I care not, so the sesameI find; the magic flower there,Whose touch unseals each mysteryIn water, earth, and air.
That in the oak tree lets me hearIts heart’s deep speech, its soul’s dim words;And to my mind makes crystal clearThe messages of birds.
Why should I care, who live aloofBeyond the din of life and dust,While dreams still share my humble roof,And love makes sweet my crust.