Chapter 2

"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!