Margaret Junkin Preston

“ 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 ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 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! ”

“ 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? ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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! ”

“ 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 ”

“ 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 ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 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 ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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! ”

“ 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 ”

“ 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? ”

“ 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! ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 ”

“ 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 ”

“ 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 ”

“ 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! ”