Chapter 3

"You guess what I fain would keep hidden:--you know, Ere now, that the trail of the insolent foe Leaves ruin behind it, disastrous and dire, And burns through our Valley, a pathway of fire. --Our beautiful home,--as I write it, I weep, Our beautiful home is a smouldering heap! And blackened, and blasted, and grim, and forlorn, Its chimneys stand stark in the mists of the morn!

"I stood in my womanly helplessness, weak-- Though I felt a brave color was kindling my cheek-- And I plead by the sacredest things of their lives-- By the love that they bore to their children,--their wives, By the homes left behind them, whose joys they had shared, By the God that should judge them,--that mine should be spared.

"As well might I plead with the whirlwind to stay As it crashingly cuts through the forest its way! I know that my eye flashed a passionate ire, As they scornfully flung me their answer of--fire!

"Why harrow your heart with the grief and the pain? Why paint you the picture that's scorching my brain? Why speak of the night when I stood on the lawn, And watched the last flame die away in the dawn? 'Tis over,--that vision of terror,--of woe! Its horrors I would not recall;--let them go! I am calm when I think what I suffered them for; I grudge not the quota _I_ pay to the war!

"But, Douglass!--deep down in the core of my heart, There's a throbbing, an aching, that will not depart; For memory mourns, with a wail of despair, The loss of her treasures,--the subtle, the rare, Precious things over which she delighted to pore, Which nothing,--ah! nothing, can ever restore!

"The rose-covered porch, where I sat as your bride-- The hearth, where at twilight I leaned at your side-- The low-cushioned window-seat, where I would lie, With my head on your knee, and look out on the sky:-- The chamber all holy with love and with prayer, The motherhood memories clustering there-- The vines that _your_ hand has delighted to train, The trees that _you_ planted;--Oh! never again Can love build us up such a bower of bliss; Oh! never can home be as hallow'd as this!

"Thank God! there's a dwelling not builded with hands, Whose pearly foundation, immovable stands; There struggles, alarms, and disquietudes cease, And the blissfulest balm of the spirit is--peace! Small trial 'twill seem when our perils are past, And we enter the house of our Father at last,-- Light trouble, that here, in the night of our stay, The blast swept our wilderness lodging away!

"The children--dear hearts!--it is touching to see My Beverly's beautiful kindness to me; So buoyant his mein--so heroic--resigned-- The boy has the soul of his father, I find! Not a childish complaint or regret have I heard,-- Not even from Archie, a petulant word: Once only--a tear moistened Sophy's bright cheek: '_Papa has no home now!_'--'twas all she could speak.

"A stranger I wander midst strangers; and yet I never,--no, not for a moment forget That my heart has a home,--just as real, as true, And as warm as if Beechenbrook sheltered me too. God grant that this refuge from sorrow and pain-- This blessedest haven of peace, may remain! And, then, though disaster, still sharper, befall, I think I can patiently bear with it all: For the rarest, most exquisite bliss of my life Is wrapped in a word, Douglass ... I am your wife!"

IX.

When fierce and fast-thronging calamities rush Resistless as destiny o'er us, and crush The life from the quivering heart till we feel Like the victim whose body is broke on the wheel-- When we think we have touched the far limit at last, --One throe, and the point of endurance is passed-- When we shivering hang on the verge of despair-- There still is capacity left us to bear.

The storm of the winter, the smile of the Spring, No respite, no pause, and no hopefulness bring; The demon of carnage still breathes his hot breath, And fiercely goes forward the harvest of death.

Days painfully drag their slow burden along; And the pulse that is beating so steady and strong, Stands still, as there comes, from the echoing shore Of the winding and clear Rappahannock, the roar Of conflict so fell, that the silvery flood Runs purple and rapid and ghastly with blood.

--Grand army of martyrs!--though victory waves Them onward, her march must be over _their_ graves: They feel it--they know it,--yet steadier each Close phalanx moves into the desperate breach: Their step does not falter--their faith does not yield,-- For yonder, supreme o'er the fiercely-fought field, Erect in his leonine grandeur, they see The proud and magnificent calmness of LEE!

'Tis morn--but the night has brought Alice no rest: The roof seems to press like a weight on her breast; And she wanders forth, wearily lifting her eye, To seek for relief 'neath the calm of the sky.

The air of the forest is spicy and sweet, And dreamily babbles a brook at her feet; Her children are 'round her, and sunshine and flowers, Try vainly to banish the gloom of the hours. With a volume she fain her wild thoughts would assuage, But her vision can trace not a line on the page, And the poet's dear strains, once so soft to her ear, Have lost all their mystical power to cheer.

The evening approaches--the pressure--the woe Grows drearer and heavier,--yet she must go, And stifle between the dead walls, as she may, The heart that scarce breathed in the free, open day.

She reaches the dwelling that serves as her home; A horseman awaits at the entrance;--the foam Is flecking the sides of his fast-ridden steed, Who pants, over-worn with exhaustion and speed; And Alice for support to Beverly clings, As the soldier delivers the letter he brings.

Her ashy lips move, but the words do not come, And she stands in her whiteness, bewildered and dumb: She turns to the letter with hopeless appeal, But her fingers are helpless to loosen the seal: She lifts her dim eyes with a look of despair,-- Her hands for a moment are folded in prayer; The strength she has sought is vouchsafed in her need: --"I think I can bear it now, Beverly ... read."

The boy, with the resolute nerve of a man, And a voice which he holds as serene as he can, Takes quietly from her the letter, and reads:--

"Dear Madam,--My heart in its sympathy bleeds For the pain that my tidings must bear you: may God Most tenderly comfort you, under His rod!

"This morning, at daybreak, a terrible charge Was made on the enemy's centre: such large And fresh reinforcements were held at his back, He stoutly and stubbornly met the attack.

"Our cavalry bore themselves splendidly:--far In front of his line galloped Colonel Dunbar; Erect in his stirrups,--his sword flashing high, And the look of a conqueror kindling his eye, His silvery voice rang aloft through the roar Of the musketry poured from the opposite shore: --'Remember the Valley!--remember your wives! And on to your duty, boys!--on--with your lives!'

"He turned, and he paused, as he uttered the call-- Then reeled in his seat, and fell,--pierced by a ball.

"He lives and he breathes yet:--the surgeons declare, That the balance is trembling 'twixt hope and despair. In his blanket he lies, on the hospital floor,-- So calm, you might deem all his agony o'er; And here, as I write, on his face I can see An expression whose radiance is startling to me. His faith is sublime:--he relinquishes life, And craves but one blessing,--_to look on his wife!_"

The Chaplain's recital is ended:--no word From Alice's white, breathless lips has been heard; Till, rousing herself from her passionless woe, She simply and quietly says--"I will go."

There are moments of anguish so deadly, so deep-- That numbness seems over the senses to creep, With interposition, whose timely relief, Is an anodyne-draught to the madness of grief. Such mercy is meted to Alice;--her eye That sees as it saw not, is vacant and dry: The billows' wild fury sweeps over her soul, And she bends to the rush with a passive control.

Through the dusk of the night--through the glare of the day, She urges, unconscious, her desolate way: One image is ever her vision before, --That blanketed form on the hospital floor!

Her journey is ended; and yonder she sees The spot where _he_ lies, looming white through the trees: Her torpor dissolves with a shuddering start, And a terrible agony clutches her heart.

The Chaplain advances to meet her:--he draws Her silently onward;--no question--no pause-- Her finger she lays on her lip;--if she spake, She knows that the spell that upholds her, would break.

She has strength to go forward; they enter the door,-- And there, on the crowded and blood-tainted floor, Close wrapped in his blanket, lies Douglass:--his brow Wore never a look so seraphic as now! She stretches her arms the dear form to enfold,-- God help her!..., she shrieks ..., it is silent and cold!

X.

"Break, my heart, and ease this pain-- Cease to throb, thou tortured brain; Let me die,--since he is slain, --Slain in battle!

Blessed brow, that loved to rest Its dear whiteness on my breast-- Gory was the grass it prest, --Slain in battle!

Oh! that still and stately form-- Never more will it be warm; Chilled beneath that iron storm, --Slain in battle!

Not a pillow for his head-- Not a hand to smooth his bed-- Not one tender parting said, --Slain in battle!

Straightway from that bloody sod, Where the trampling horsemen trod-- Lifted to the arms of God; --Slain in battle!

Not my love to come between, With its interposing screen-- Naught of earth to intervene; --Slain in battle!

Snatched the purple billows o'er, Through the fiendish rage and roar, To the far and peaceful shore; --Slain in battle!

_Nunc demitte_--thus I pray-- What else left for me to say, Since my life is reft away? --Slain in battle!

Let me die, oh! God!--the dart Rankles deep within my heart,-- Hope, and joy, and peace, depart; --Slain in battle!"

'Tis thus through her days and her nights of despair, Her months of bereavement so bitter to bear, That Alice moans ever. Ah! little they know, Who look on that brow, still and white as the snow, Who watch--but in vain--for the sigh or the tear, That only comes thick when no mortal is near,-- Who whisper--"How gently she bends to the rod!" Because all her heart-break is kept for her God,-- Ah! little _they_ know of the tempests that roll Their desolate floods through the depths of her soul!

Afar in our sunshiny homes on the shore, We heed not how wildly the billows may roar; We smile at our firesides, happy and free, While the rich-freighted argosy founders at sea! Though wrapped in the weeds of her widowhood, pale,-- Though life seems all sunless and dim through the veil That drearily shadows her sorrowful brow,-- Is the cause of her country less dear to her now? Does the patriot-flame in her heart cease to stir,-- Does she feel that the conflict is over for her? Because the red war-tide has deluged her o'er,-- Has wreaked its wild wrath, and can harm _her_ no more,-- Does she stand, self-absorbed, on the wreck she has braved, Nor care if her country be lost or be saved?

By her pride in the soil that has given her birth-- By her tenderest memories garnered on earth-- By the legacy blood-bought and precious, which she Would leave to her children--the right to be free,-- By the altar where once rose the hymn and the prayer; By the home that lies scarred in its solitude there,-- By the pangs she has suffered,--the ills she has borne,-- By the desolate exile through which she must mourn,-- By the struggles that hallow this fair Southern sod, By the vows she has breathed in the ear of her God,-- By the blood of the heart that she worshipped,--the life That enfolded her own; by her love, as his wife; By his death on the battle-field, gallantly brave,-- By the shadow that ever will wrap her--his grave-- By the faith she reposes, oh! Father! in Thee, She claims that her glorious South MUST be free!

VIRGINIA.

A SONNET.

Grandly thou fillest the world's eye to-day, My proud Virginia! When the gage was thrown-- The deadly gage of battle--thou, alone, Strong in thy self-control, didst stoop to lay The olive-branch thereon, and calmly pray We might have peace, the rather. When the foe Turned scornfully upon thee,--bade thee go, And whistled up his war-hounds, then--the way Of duty full before thee,--thou didst spring Into the centre of the martial ring-- Thy brave blood boiling, and thy glorious eye, Shot with heroic fire, and swear to claim Sublimest victory in God's own name,-- Or, wrapped in robes of martyrdom,--to die!

JACKSON.

A SONNET.

Thank God for such a Hero!--Fearless hold His diamond character beneath the sun, And brighter scintillations, one by one, Come flashing from it. Never knight of old Wore on serener brow, so calm, yet bold, Diviner courage: never martyr knew Trust more sublime,--nor patriot, zeal more true,-- Nor saint, self-abnegation of a mould Touched with profounder beauty. All the rare, Clear, starry points of light, that gave his soul Such lambent lustre, owned but one sole aim,-- Not for himself, nor yet his country's fame, These glories shone: he kept the clustered whole A jewel for the crown that Christ shall wear!

DIRGE FOR ASHBY.

Heard ye that thrilling word-- Accent of dread-- Flash like a thunderbolt, Bowing each head-- Crash through the battle dun, Over the booming gun-- "_Ashby, our bravest one_,-- _Ashby is dead!_"

Saw ye the veterans-- Hearts that had known Never a quail of fear, Never a groan-- Sob 'mid the fight they win, --Tears their stern eyes within,-- "Ashby, our Paladin, Ashby is gone!"

Dash,--dash the tear away-- Crush down the pain! "_Dulce et decus_," be Fittest refrain! Why should the dreary pall Round him be flung at all? Did not our hero fall Gallantly slain?

Catch the last word of cheer Dropt from his tongue; Over the volley's din, Loud be it rung-- "_Follow me! follow me!_"-- Soldier, oh! could there be Pæan or dirge for thee, Loftier sung!

Bold as the Lion-heart, Dauntless and brave; Knightly as knightliest Bayard could crave; Sweet with all Sidney's grace-- Tender as Hampden's face-- Who--who shall fill the space Void by his grave?

'Tis not _one_ broken heart, Wild with dismay; Crazed with her agony, Weeps o'er his clay: Ah! from a thousand eyes Flow the pure tears that rise; Widowed Virginia lies Stricken to-day!

Yet--though that thrilling word-- Accent of dread-- Falls like a thunderbolt, Bowing each head-- Heroes! be battle done Bravelier every one, Nerved by the thought alone-- _Ashby is dead!_

STONEWALL JACKSON'S GRAVE.[A]

A simple, sodded mound of earth, Without a line above it; With only daily votive flowers To prove that any love it: The token flag that silently Each breeze's visit numbers, Alone keeps martial ward above The hero's dreamless slumbers.

No name?--no record? Ask the world; The world has read his story-- If all its annals can unfold A prouder tale of glory:-- If ever merely human life Hath taught diviner moral,-- If ever round a worthier brow Was twined a purer laurel!

A twelvemonth only, since his sword Went flashing through the battle-- A twelvemonth only, since his ear Heard war's last deadly rattle-- And yet, have countless pilgrim-feet The pilgrim's guerdon paid him, And weeping women come to see The place where they have laid him.

Contending armies bring, in turn, Their meed of praise or honor, And Pallas here has paused to bind The cypress wreath upon her: It seems a holy sepulchre, Whose sanctities can waken Alike the love of friend or foe,-- Of Christian or of pagan.

THEY come to own his high emprise, Who fled in frantic masses, Before the glittering bayonet That triumphed at Manassas: Who witnessed Kernstown's fearful odds, As on their ranks he thundered, Defiant as the storied Greek, Amid his brave three hundred!

They well recall the tiger spring, The wise retreat, the rally, The tireless march, the fierce pursuit, Through many a mountain valley: Cross Keys unlock new paths to fame, And Port Republic's story Wrests from his ever-vanquish'd foes, Strange tributes to his glory.

Cold Harbor rises to their view,-- The Cedars' gloom is o'er them; Antietam's rough and rugged heights, Stretch mockingly before them: The lurid flames of Fredericksburg Right grimly they remember, That lit the frozen night's retreat, That wintry-wild December!

The largess of their praise is flung With bounty, rare and regal; --Is it because the vulture fears No longer the dead eagle? Nay, rather far accept it thus,-- An homage true and tender, As soldier unto soldier's worth,-- As brave to brave will render,

But who shall weigh the wordless grief That leaves in tears its traces, As round their leader crowd again, The bronzed and veteran faces! The "Old Brigade" he loved so well-- The mountain men, who bound him With bays of their own winning, ere A tardier fame had crowned him;

The legions who had seen his glance Across the carnage flashing, And thrilled to catch his ringing "_charge_" Above the volley crashing;-- Who oft had watched the lifted hand, The inward trust betraying, And felt their courage grow sublime, While they beheld him praying!

Good knights and true as ever drew Their swords with knightly Roland; Or died at Sobieski's side, For love of martyr'd Poland; Or knelt with Cromwell's Ironsides; Or sang with brave Gustavus; Or on the plain of Austerlitz, Breathed out their dying AVES!

Rare fame! rare name!--If chanted praise, With all the world to listen,-- If pride that swells a nation's soul,-- If foemen's tears that glisten,-- If pilgrims' shrining love,--if grief Which nought may soothe or sever,-- If THESE can consecrate,--this spot Is sacred ground forever!

[A] In the month of June the singular spectacle was presented at Lexington, Va., of two hostile armies, in turn, reverently visiting Jackson's grave.

WHEN THE WAR IS OVER.

A CHRISTMAS LAY.

I.

Ah! the happy Christmas times! Times we all remember;-- Times that flung a ruddy glow O'er the gray December;-- Will they never come again, With their song and story? Never wear a remnant more Of their olden glory? Must the little children miss Still the festal token? Must their realm of young romance All be marred and broken? Must the mother promise on, While her smiles dissemble, And she speaks right quietly, Lest her voice should tremble:--

"Darlings! wait till father comes-- Wait--and we'll discover Never were such Christmas times, When the war is over!"

II.

Underneath the midnight sky, Bright with starry beauty, Sad, the shivering sentinel Treads his round of duty: For his thoughts are far away, Far from strife and battle, As he listens dreamingly, To his baby's prattle;-- As he clasps his sobbing wife, Wild with sudden gladness, Kisses all her tears away-- Chides her looks of sadness-- Talks of Christmas nights to come,-- And his step grows lighter, Whispering, while his stiffening hand Grasps his musket tighter:--

"Patience, love!--keep heart! keep hope! To your weary rover, What a home our home will be, When the war is over!"

III.

By the twilight Christmas fire, All her senses laden With a weight of tenderness, Sits the musing maiden: From the parlor's cheerful blaze, Far her visions wander, To the white tent gleaming bright, On the hill-side yonder. Buoyant in her brave, young love, Flushed with patriot honour, No misgiving, no fond fear, Flings its shade upon her. Though no mortal soul can know Half the love she bears him, Proudly, for her country's sake, From her heart she spares him.

--God be thanked!--she does not dream, That her gallant lover Will be in a soldier's grave, When the war is over!

IV.

'Midst the turmoil and the strife Of the war-tide's rushing, Every heart its separate woe In its depths is hushing. Who has time for tears, when blood All the land is steeping? --In our poverty we grudge Even the waste of weeping! But when quiet comes again, And the bands, long broken, Gather round the hearth, and breathe Names now seldom spoken-- _Then_ we'll miss the precious links-- Mourn the empty places-- Read the hopeless "_Nevermore_," In each other's faces!

--Oh! what aching, anguish'd hearts O'er lone graves will hover, With a new, fresh sense of pain, When the war is over!

V.

Stern endurance, bitterer still, Sharp with self-denial, Fraught with loftier sacrifice, Fuller far of trial-- Strews our flinty path of thorns-- Marks our bloody story-- Fits us for the victor's palm-- Weaves our robe of glory! Shall we faint with God above, And His strong arm under-- And the cold world gazing on, In a maze of wonder? No! with more resistless march, More resolved endeavor, Press we onward--struggle still, Fight and win forever!

--Holy peace will heal all ills, Joy all losses cover, Raptures rend our Southern skies, When the war is over!

VIRGINIA CAPTA.

APRIL 9TH, 1865.

I.

Unconquered captive!--close thine eye, And draw the ashen sackcloth o'er, And in thy speechless woe deplore The fate that would not let thee die!

II.

The arm that wore the shield, strip bare; The hand that held the martial rein, And hurled the spear on many a plain-- Stretch--till they clasp the shackles there!

III.

The foot that once could crush the crown, Must drag the fetters, till it bleed Beneath their weight:--thou dost not need It now, to tread the tyrant down.

IV.

Thou thought'st him vanquish'd--boastful trust! --His lance, in twain--his sword, a wreck-- But with his heel upon thy neck, He holds _thee_ prostrate in the dust!

V.

Bend though thou must, beneath his will, Let not one abject moan have place; But with majestic, silent grace, Maintain thy regal bearing still.

VI.