(A Romaunt of the late Rebellion in the U.S.A.)
I.
The Southern sun with his deep flood of light
Was slowly sinking, and the moated tide
Hung heavy o’er the dusky brow of night.
Along the gilded west rose far and wide
A range of hills; a vale on either side
Where rich magnolias grew, stretched far adown;
And in this hollow vale might be descried,
Where long the rose and hyacinth hath blown,
A modest cabin’s roof with woodbine overgrown.
II.
Within this cabin, on a summer’s eve,
Upon a couch a wounded soldier lay;
Propped up beside a window to relieve
His aching brow, he watched the dying day.
Anon his eyes would follow far away
The burnished dove disport on gilded wing,
Then nearer the gay oriole swoop at play;
And heard the while the merry mock-bird sing,
Till Slumber o’er his brow her leaden chain would fling.
III.
Then in fond dreams his Fancy oft would trace
His Northern home beside the winding stream,
A mother’s fervent kiss and long embrace,
A sister’s streaming tears, or the mild beam
Of fairer eyes, where love-lit thoughts would seem
To melt in tears. Oh, pictured vision bright!
Too soon to fade,—gone with the fleeting dream,
Like shooting stars that fade away in night,
And leave no trace behind to mark their sudden flight.
IV.
Oft would he start in wild delirium,
And grasp with frenzied hand the fancied blade,
As if he heard the regimental drum
Sounding to arms; for dire Fever preyed
Upon his young life’s blood, and oft betrayed
That Death with dragon mouth stood yawning nigh,
Eager to seize his prey, nor would be stayed
By Art’s firm hand or Pity’s tear-dewed eye,
From his dread course, fell Demon of eternity.
V.
And as the fitful dream of parting life
Thus came and went, there watched beside
The dying soldier’s couch of pain and strife
A gentle maid. In eager haste she tried,
As oft would rise and ebb life’s surging tide,
To check the pulse, to soothe the heart’s distress,
To minister the potion that would hide
Anguish and pain in deep forgetfulness;—
Irene performed the while such task of tenderness.
VI.
Hers was an aspect singularly mild,
With radiant brow deep-arched, obscurely clear,
And dark affrayed eyes, half-meek, half-wild,
That told the fount of pity welling near.
Twice gazed you on that face ere ’twould appear
That Time had all too early cast his pall
O’er the bright blooms that Youth and Beauty wear;
For mingled there hope, grief, doubt, fear, and all
That turn the human heart to tenderness—or gall.
VII.
The day declined, night’s dusky mantle fell,
And evening’s hush lay lightly o’er the vale;
Still watched Irene like hermit in his cell.
The bright moon rose, and twilight ’gan to fail
As the soft beams fell gently o’er the dale;
And still she watched with fixed, inquiring view
Upon the soldier’s face upturned and pale,—
Alike his name, his lot, his fate, none knew,
Save by the badge he wore,—the Northern coat of blue.
VIII.
Scarce yestermorn it was since he had come,
Languid and faint from wounds and bitter woe,
Unto the portals of that Southern home,
Which, like the Southern heart, can ne’er forego
The sight of wretchedness, even in a foe,
A mortal foe, when hapless Pity calls
The generous heart unconsciously to show
The claims of mercy ere the mandate falls,
Or soothe the shriveled heart that suffering woe enthralls.
IX.
Still watched Irene; the bright moon higher rose,
And swung above the vale beneath a cloud.
“How like the orb of hope that rising glows
Fair, ’neath some sullen gloom that would enshroud
All that is bright in life!” Thus, half aloud,
The maiden spoke; then silence fell again,
And the soft light gleamed o’er her head, as bowed
She ’neath that aching, sinking sense of pain,
When hope hath sunk from view, and life itself is vain.
X.
Yet not for him unconscious slumbering there
The maiden mourned; far, far her thoughts were sped
With one who late had gone albeit to share
A soldier’s lot, fame—or a grave instead;
Perchance ’twere both, his fate was still unread.
’Tis thus suspense ill brooks the heart’s control:
She turned unto the casement half in dread,
As if her thoughts the night-winds could condole;
Her smothered words bespeak the anguish of her soul.
XI.
“O thou pale moon, arrayed in sombre hues,
Thou lookest o’er the earth in awe sublime,
Like some sad, pitying spirit when it views
The mortal clod that linked it once to time.
Oh, tell me, for ’tis said that in thy clime
Fate’s mystic scroll is seen for e’er unrolled,
Tell me he lives. Ah, no!—I hear the chime
That speaks the death-note of the brave and bold;
Let fate take back her scroll, the tale must not be told.”
XII.
Time measures woe; her reign he oft makes brief,
Oft lights the smile that decks the shining tear,
When Hope would fling aside the web of grief,
And over all would in full view appear.
’Twas thus Irene could dash aside all fear,
Could see returning from the unequal strife
Her best beloved, the beauteous South so dear
To both triumphant still, and honors rife
Bestrewn along the path to deck their future life.
XIII.
Away delusive dream!—the soldier wakes,
And round him casts a strange, bewildered eye,
Pale o’er his couch the struggling moonlight breaks;
Irene, half-startled, checks the smothering sigh,
Looks strangely round, nor scarce can wonder why
Slumber hath flown. Then turns she most in fright
To where the scarce-seen lamp is smouldering by,—
Flushed o’er the room a tide of yellow light,
As fled the darkened shades back to the wings of night.
XIV.
The soldier spoke, his accents feebly fell,
Irene drew near to catch what he might say.
“I have short time for what I fain would tell,”
He thus began, “this tenement of clay
Must soon dissolve—flit life and light away.
It is a tale to fright thy timid ear,
And yet a burden on my soul doth weigh,
That will not let it part. Nay, do not fear;
Though shadows cloud my mind, soon light will reappear.”
XV.
“Southward we turned.” He paused; then soon began,
“But three days since, albeit it may be more,
By chance we faced the foe, I slew a man;—
Oh, start not, gentle maid,—’twill soon be o’er.
He stood a sentry at the post which bore
His trust. We took the army by surprise;
’Twas night, and few there were; perchance three-score
Prisoners were made. Nay, hide not thus thine eyes;
Remorse can rend a heart that Pity would despise.
XVI.
“The skirmish o’er, by chance I found my way
To where the sentry fell, thinking ’twere best
If yet he lived. I had not meant to slay—
He turned on me—my sword pierced through his breast.
Oh! even at times a soldier’s heart’s oppressed
With pity, too. I saw him writhing still
In agony. The gaping wound undressed
Was pouring out his life. My heart grows chill
Even yet; O God! I thought how slight a thing can kill.
XVII.
“I stooped beside and strove to staunch the wound.
‘’Tis vain,’ he said, ‘a trust I’ll give to thee.’
He bade me loose a packet which was bound
Beneath his cloak. ‘I charge thee take,’ said he,
‘This token to the one who gave it me;
Her picture it contains. Tell her I died
While at the post of duty. Thou mayest see
Her name within.’ He turned upon his side,
And slowly ebbed away life’s dim-receding tide.
XVIII.
“I sought a furlough then, but ere ’twas given
Occasion thrust a battle in my way.
We fought, I know not how, but far were driven;
I, wounded, fell; then fled from me the ray
That reason beams. I knew no more till day
Dawned on me here; and now I hear the calling
Of voices strange; and moans, death-dying, lay
Their weight upon my soul, as deeply palling
The tired senses, come clogged shadows thickly falling.
XIX.
“Still let me cling to life; though hope be fled,
That mission I would fill for him whose hand
Gave me the charge; but even that hope is dead,
And from the glass of time the sliding sand
Is almost run. Oh, thou mayest understand
And yet fulfil my unavailing vow.
While yet I breathe on life’s uncertain strand,
To thee I give the sacred trust. Even now
Death’s touch is at my heart, his chill is on my brow.”
XX.
The faltering voice Irene no longer heard.
She saw the picture she had given to him
Her heart most yearned to reach. Then all appeared
Dark and confused; the while her senses swim,
The light burns blue, and waning visions dim
Flit o’er her mind; and voices distant seem
Like troubled waters moaning, phantoms grim,
Shades horrible; then reason’s flickering beam
Lit up—all, all as ’twere a wild, distempered dream.
XXI.
Oh! there are moments of our life a part,
When the soul’s passion is too vast, too deep
For Sorrow’s shafts to pierce the quivering heart;
Feeling is numbed in a half-conscious sleep,
In aching weariness the senses steep,
And a cold chill like death-breath freezes o’er
The fount of tears, and will not let one weep.
Then pent within the spirit’s inmost core
The fire burns but consumes not, burning evermore.
XXII.
Reason returns again, but ever gone
Are hope and happiness,—withered the bloom,
The last flower plucked, but still the stalk lives on,
A living death; the lone sepulchral tomb
Less hopeless is.—Thus fell the blasting doom
Upon Irene. Rayless the gathering night
Which settled o’er her soul engulfed in gloom:
She turned away like one whose vacant sight
All things can dimly see, yet naught can see aright.
XXIII.
Full well she knew the hand that dealt her doom
Lay there outstretched in pleading helplessness;
Should she withhold the potion, death would come
Outreaching time, dark thoughts; but who could guess
If e’er they broke upon her soul’s distress?
The night was long, but longer still even then
The night that wrapped her life. Deep shades depress
Her very thoughts in sighs. Nor tongue, nor pen,
Alas! hath Grief to tell that tale of woe again.
XXIV.
Long, long the night; its hours crept slowly by,
Each burdened by the weary weight of years;—
The soldier slept, but o’er the closing eye
Of mortal life fell that deep gloom which wears
The mask of death in Life’s dim vale of tears:
He slept; but ere the Dawn in mantle gray,
Who in the east her purple dome uprears
Each morn, had brought to man another day,
Cold in the embrace of death the soldier slept for aye.
XXV.
All through the long, long night Irene alone
Her vigil kept, and oft she strove in vain,
Ere the slow-ebbing tide of life had gone,
With gentle touch to chase away dull Pain
Which o’er the soldier’s brow his heavy chain
Had thrown. But, oh! it seemed as though
The weight of three-score years of Sorrow’s reign
Had fallen upon her life;—that night of woe,
Had turned her raven hair white as the wintry snow!