| |
| IN a ferny byway | |
| Near the great South-Wessex Highway, | |
| A homestead raised its breakfast-smoke aloft; | |
| The dew-damps still lay steamless, for the sun had made no sky-way, | |
| And twilight cloaked the croft. | 5 |
| |
| ’Twas hard to realize on | |
| This snug side the mute horizon | |
| That beyond it hostile armaments might steer, | |
| Save from seeing in the porchway a fair woman weep with eyes on | |
| A harnessed Volunteer. | 10 |
| |
| In haste he’d flown there | |
| To his comely wife alone there, | |
| While marching south hard by, to still her fears, | |
| For she soon would be a mother, and few messengers were known there | |
| In these campaigning years. | 15 |
| |
| ’Twas time to be Good-bying, | |
| Since the assembly-hour was nighing | |
| In royal George’s town at six that morn; | |
| And betwixt its wharves and this retreat were ten good miles of hieing | |
| Ere ring of bugle-horn. | 20 |
| |
| “I’ve laid in food, Dear, | |
| And broached the spiced and brewed, Dear; | |
| And if our July hope should antedate, | |
| Let the char-wench mount and gallop by the halterpath and wood, Dear, | |
| And fetch assistance straight. | 25 |
| |
| “As for Buonaparte, forget him; | |
| He’s not like to land! But let him, | |
| Those strike with aim who strike for wives and sons! | |
| And the war-boats built to float him; ’twere but wanted to upset him | |
| A slat from Nelson’s guns! | 30 |
| |
| “But, to assure thee, | |
| And of creeping fears to cure thee, | |
| If he should be rumored anchoring in the Road, | |
| Drive with the nurse to Kingsbere; and let nothing thence allure thee | |
| Till we’ve him safe-bestowed. | 35 |
| |
| “Now, to turn to marching matters:— | |
| I’ve my knapsack, firelock, spatters, | |
| Crossbelts, priming-horn, stock, bay’net, blackball, clay, | |
| Pouch, magazine, flints, flint-box that at every quick-step clatters; | |
| …My heart, Dear; that must stay!” | 40 |
| |
| —With breathings broken | |
| Farewell was kissed unspoken, | |
| And they parted there as morning stroked the panes; | |
| And the Volunteer went on, and turned, and twirled his glove for token, | |
| And took the coastward lanes. | 45 |
| |
| When above He’th Hills he found him, | |
| He saw, on gazing round him, | |
| The Barrow-Beacon burning—burning low, | |
| As if, perhaps, uplighted ever since he’d homeward bound him; | |
| And it meant: Expect the Foe! | 50 |
| |
| Leaving the byway, | |
| And following swift the highway, | |
| Car and chariot met he, faring fast inland; | |
| “He’s anchored, Soldier!” shouted some: | |
| “God save thee, marching thy way, | 55 |
| Th’lt front him on the strand!” | |
| |
| He slowed; he stopped; he paltered | |
| Awhile with self, and faltered, | |
| “Why courting misadventure shoreward roam? | |
| To Molly, surely! Seek the woods with her till times have altered; | 60 |
| Charity favors home. | |
| |
| “Else, my denying | |
| He would come she’ll read as lying— | |
| Think the Barrow-Beacon must have met my eyes— | |
| That my words were not unwareness, but deceit of her, while trying | 65 |
| My life to jeopardize. | |
| |
| “At home is stocked provision, | |
| And to-night, without suspicion, | |
| We might bear it with us to a covert near; | |
| Such sin, to save a childing wife, would earn it Christ’s remission, | 70 |
| Though none forgive it here!” | |
| |
| While thus he, thinking, | |
| A little bird, quick drinking | |
| Among the crowfoot tufts the river bore, | |
| Was tangled in their stringy arms, and fluttered, well-nigh sinking, | 75 |
| Near him, upon the moor. | |
| |
| He stepped in, reached, and seized it, | |
| And, preening, had released it | |
| But that a thought of Holy Writ occurred, | |
| And Signs Divine ere battle, till it seemed him Heaven had pleased it | 80 |
| As guide to send the bird. | |
| |
| “O Lord, direct me!… | |
| Doth Duty now expect me | |
| To march a-coast, or guard my weak ones near? | |
| Give this bird a flight according, that I thence know to elect me | 85 |
| The southward or the rear.” | |
| |
| He loosed his clasp; when, rising, | |
| The bird—as if surmising— | |
| Bore due to southward, crossing by the Froom, | |
| And Durnover Great-Field and Fort, the soldier clear advising— | 90 |
| Prompted he wist by Whom. | |
| |
| Then on he panted | |
| By grim Mai-Don, and slanted | |
| Up the steep Ridge-way, hearkening betwixt whiles, | |
| Till, nearing coast and harbor, he beheld the shore-line planted | 95 |
| With Foot and Horse for miles. | |
| |
| Mistrusting not the omen, | |
| He gained the beach, where Yeomen, | |
| Militia, Fencibles, and Pikemen bold, | |
| With Regulars in thousands, were enmassed to meet the Foemen, | 100 |
| Whose fleet had not yet shoaled. | |
| |
| Captain and Colonel, | |
| Sere Generals, Ensigns vernal, | |
| Were there, of neighbor-natives, Michel, Smith, | |
| Meggs, Bingham, Gambier, Cunningham, roused by the hued nocturnal | 105 |
| Swoop on their land and kith. | |
| |
| But Buonaparte still tarried; | |
| His project had miscarried; | |
| At the last hour, equipped for victory, | |
| The fleet had paused; his subtle combinations had been parried | 110 |
| By British strategy. | |
| |
| Homeward returning | |
| Anon, no beacons burning, | |
| No alarms, the Volunteer, in modest bliss, | |
| Te Deum sang with wife and friends: “We praise Thee, Lord, discerning | 115 |
| That Thou hast helped in this!” | |
| |
