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The Soldier’s Visit to His Family.
AND there the stranger stays: beneath that oak. | |
| Whose shatter’d majesty hath felt the stroke | |
| Of heaven’s own thunder—yet it proudly heaves | |
| A giant sceptre wreathed with blasted leaves— | |
| As though it dared the elements, and stood | 5 |
| The guardian of that cot—the monarch of that wood. | |
| Beneath its venerable vault he stands: | |
| And one might think, who saw his outstretch’d hands, | |
| That something more than soldiers e’er may feel, | |
| Had touch’d him with its holy, calm appeal: | 10 |
| That yonder wave—the heaven—the earth—the air | |
| Had call’d upon his spirit for her prayer. | |
| His eye goes dimly o’er the midnight scene: | |
| The oak—the cot—the wood—the faded green— | |
| The moon—the sky—the distant moving light— | 15 |
| All! all are gathering on his dampen’d sight. | |
| His warrior-helm and plume, his fresh-dyed blade | |
| Beneath a window, on the turf are laid; | |
| The panes are ruddy through the clambering vines | |
| And blushing leaves, that Summer intertwines | 20 |
| In warmer tints than e’er luxuriant Spring, | |
| O’er flower-embosom’d roof led wandering. | |
| His pulses quicken—for a rude old door | |
| Is open’d by the wind: he sees the floor | |
| Strew’d with white sand, on which he used to trace | 25 |
| His boyhood’s battles—and assign a place | |
| To charging hosts—and give the Indian yell— | |
| And shout to hear his hoary grandsire tell, | |
| How he had fought with savages, whose breath | |
| He felt upon his cheek like mildew till his death. | 30 |
| Hark!—that sweet song!—how full of tenderness! | |
| O, who would breathe in this voluptuous press | |
| Of lulling thoughts!—so soothing and so low; | |
| Like singing fountains in their faintest flow— | |
| It is as if some holy—lovely thing, | 35 |
| Within our very hearts were murmuring. | |
| The soldier listens, and his arms are prest | |
| In thankfulness, and trembling on his breast: | |
| Now—on the very window where he stands | |
| Are seen a clambering infant’s rosy hands: | 40 |
| And now—ah heaven!—blessings on that smile!— | |
| Stay, soldier stay—O, linger yet awhile! | |
| An airy vision now appears, with eyes— | |
| As tender as the blue of weeping skies: | |
| Yet sunny in their radiance, as that blue | 45 |
| When sunset glitters on its falling dew: | |
| With form—all joy and dance—as bright and free | |
| As youthful nymph of mountain Liberty: | |
| Or naked angels dreamt by poesy: | |
| A blooming infant to her heart is prest; | 50 |
| And ah—a mother’s song is lulling it to rest! | |
| A youthful mother! God of heaven! | |
| A thing beneath the skies, so holy or so fair! | |
| A single bound! our chief is standing by | |
| Trembling from head to foot with ecstacy— | 55 |
| “Bless thee!” at length he murmur’d—“bless thee, love! | |
| “My wife!—my boy:”—Their eyes are raised above. | |
| His soldier’s tread of sounding strength is gone: | |
| A choking transport drowns his manly tone. | |
| He sees the closing of that mild, blue eye, | 60 |
| His bosom echoes to a faint low cry: | |
| His glorious boy springs freshly from his sleep; | |
| Shakes his thin sun-curls, while his eye-beams leap | |
| As half in fear, along the stranger’s dress, | |
| Then, half advancing, yields to his caress:— | 65 |
| Then, peers beneath his locks, and seeks his eye | |
| With the clear look of radiant infancy, | |
| The cherub smile of love, the azure of the sky. | |
| The stranger now is kneeling by the side | |
| Of that young mother,—watching for the tide | 70 |
| Of her returning life:—it comes—a glow | |
| Goes—faintly—slowly—o’er her cheek and brow: | |
| A rising of the gauze that lightly shrouds | |
| A snowy breast—like twilight’s melting clouds— | |
| In nature’s pure, still eloquence, betrays | 75 |
| The feelings of the heart that reels beneath his gaze. | |
| She lives! she lives—see how her feelings speak, | |
| Through what transparency of eye and cheek! | |
| Her color comes and goes, like that faint ray, | |
| That flits o’er lilies at the close of day. | 80 |
| O, nature, how omnipotent!—that sigh— | |
| That youthful mother in her ecstacy, | |
| Feels but the wandering of a husband’s eye. | |
| Her lip now ripens, and her heaving breast | |
| Throbs wildly in its light, and now subsides to rest. * * * * | 85 |
| ’T is dark abroad. The majesty of night | |
| Bows down superbly from her utmost height: | |
| Stretches her starless plumes across the world; | |
| And all the banners of the wind are furl’d. | |
| How heavily we breathe amid such gloom! | 90 |
| As if we slumber’d in creation’s tomb. | |
| It is the noon of that tremendous hour, | |
| When life is helpless, and the dead have power: | |
| When solitudes are peopled: when the sky | |
| Is swept by shady wings that, sailing by, | 95 |
| Proclaim their watch is set; when hidden rills | |
| Are chirping on their course; and all the hills | |
| Are bright with armor:—when the starry vests | |
| And glittering plumes, and fiery twinkling crests | |
| Of moon-light sentinels, are sparkling round, | 100 |
| And all the air is one rich floating sound: | |
| When countless voices, in the day unheard, | |
| Are piping from their haunts: and every bird | |
| That loves the leafy wood, and blooming bower, | |
| And echoing cave, is singing to her flower: | 105 |
| When every lovely—every lonely place, | |
| Is ringing to the light and sandal’d pace | |
| Of twinkling feet; and all about, the flow | |
| Of new-born fountains murmuring as they go: | |
| When watery tunes are richest—and the call | 110 |
| Of wandering streamlets, as they part and fall | |
| In foaming melody, is all around: | |
| Like fairy harps beneath enchanted ground, | |
| Sweet drowsy distant music! like the breath | |
| Of airy flutes that blow before an infant’s death. | 115 |
| It is that hour when listening ones will weep | |
| And know not why: when we would gladly sleep | |
| Our last—last sleep; and feel no touch of fear,— | |
| Unconscious where we are—or what is near, | |
| Till we are startled by a falling tear, | 120 |
| That unexpected gather’d in our eye, | |
| While we were panting for yon blessed sky: | |
| That hour of gratitude—of whispering prayer, | |
| When we can hear a worship in the air: | |
| When we are lifted from the earth, and feel | 125 |
| Light fanning wings around us faintly wheel, | |
| And o’er our lids and brow a blessing steal: | |
| And then—as if our sins were all forgiven— | |
| And all our tears were wiped—and we in heaven | |
| It is that hour of quiet ecstacy, | 130 |
| When every ruffling wind, that passes by | |
| The sleeping leaf, makes busiest minstrelsy; | |
| When all at once! amid the quivering shade, | |
| Millions of diamond sparklers are betray’d! | |
| When dry leaves rustle, and the whistling song | 135 |
| Of keen-tuned grass, comes piercingly along: | |
| When windy pipes are heard—and many a lute | |
| Is touch’d amid the skies, and then is mute: | |
| When even the foliage on the glittering steep, | |
| Of feathery bloom—is whispering in its sleep: | 140 |
| When all the garlands of the precipice, | |
| Shedding their blossoms, in their moonlight bliss, | |
| Are floating loosely on the eddying air, | |
| And breathing out their fragrant spirits there: | |
| And all their braided tresses fluttering—bright, | 145 |
| Are sighing faintly to the shadowy light: | |
| When every cave and grot—and bower and lake, | |
| And drooping floweret-bell, are all awake: | |
| When starry eyes are burning on the cliff | |
| Of many a crouching tyrant too, as if | 150 |
| Such melodies were grateful even to him: | |
| When life is loveliest—and the blue skies swim | |
| In lustre, warm as sunshine—but more dim: | |
| When all the holy sentinels of night | |
| Step forth to watch in turn, and worship by their light. | 155 |
| Such is the hour!—the holy, breathless hour, | |
| When such sweet minstrelsy hath mightiest power; | |
| When sights are seen, that all the blaze of day | |
| Can never rival, in its fierce display: | |
| Such is the hour—yet not a sound is heard; | 160 |
| No sights are seen—no melancholy bird | |
| Sings tenderly and sweet; but all the air | |
| Is thick and motionless—as if it were | |
| A prelude to some dreadful tragedy; | |
| Some midnight drama of an opening sky! | 165 |
| The genius of the mountain, and the wood; | |
| The stormy eagle, and her rushing brood; | |
| The fire-eyed tenant of the desert cave; | |
| The gallant spirit of the roaring wave; | |
| The star-crown’d messengers that ride the air; | 170 |
| The meteor watch-light, with its streamy hair, | |
| Threatening and sweeping redly from the hill; | |
| The shaking cascade—and the merry rill | |
| Are hush’d to slumber now—and heaven and earth are still. | |
| And now the day-light comes:—slowly it rides, | 175 |
| In ridgy lustre o’er the cloudy tides, | |
| Like the soft foam upon the billow’s breast; | |
| Or feathery light upon a shadowy crest; | |
| The morning breezes from their slumbers wake, | |
| And o’er the distant hill-tops cheerly shake | 180 |
| Their dewy locks, and plume themselves, and poise | |
| Their rosy wings, and listen to the noise | |
| Of echoes wandering from the world below: | |
| The distant lake, rejoicing in its flow: | |
| The bugle’s ready cry: the laboring drum: | 185 |
| The neigh of steeds—and the incessant hum | |
| That the bright tenants of the forest send: | |
| The sunrise gun: the heave—the wave—and bend | |
| Of everlasting trees, whose busy leaves | |
| Rustle their song of praise, while ruin weaves | 190 |
| A robe of verdure for their yielding bark; | |
| While mossy garlands—rich, and full, and dark, | |
| Creep slowly round them. Monarchs of the wood! | |
| Whose mighty spectres sway the mountain brood! | |
| Whose aged bosoms, in their last decay, | 195 |
| Shelter the wing’d idolators of day; | |
| Who, ’mid the desert wild, sublimely stand, | |
| And grapple with the storm-god hand to hand! | |
| Then drop like weary pyramids away; | |
| Stupendous monuments of calm decay! | 200 |
| As yet the warring thunders have not rent | |
| The swimming clouds, the brightening firmament, | |
| The lovely mists that float around the sky— | |
| Ruddy and rich with fresh and glorious dye, | |
| Like hovering seraph wings—or robe of poesy! | 205 |
| Now comes the sun forth! not in blaze of fire: | |
| With rainbow-harness’d coursers, that respire | |
| An atmosphere of flame. No chariot whirls | |
| O’er reddening clouds. No sunny flag unfurls | |
| O’er rushing smoke. No chargers in array | 210 |
| Scatter through heaven and earth their fiery spray. | |
| No shouting charioteer, in transport flings | |
| Ten thousand anthems, from tumultuous strings: | |
| And round and round, no fresh-plumed echoes dance: | |
| No airy minstrels in the flush light glance: | 215 |
| No rushing melody comes strong and deep: | |
| And far away no fading winglets sweep: | |
| No boundless hymning o’er the blue sky rings, | |
| In hallelujahs to the King of kings: | |
| No youthful hours are seen. No riband lash, | 220 |
| Flings its gay stripings like a rainbow flash, | |
| While starry crowns, and constellations fade | |
| Before the glories of that cavalcade, | |
| Whose trappings are the jewelry of heaven, | |
| Embroider’d thickly on the clouds of even. | 225 |
| No!—no!—he comes not thus in pomp, and light! | |
| A new creation bursting out of night! | |
| But he comes darkly forth! in storm array’d— | |
| Like the red tempest marshall’d in her shade, | |
| When mountains rock; and thunders travelling round, | 230 |
| Hold counsel in the sky—and midnight trumps resound. | |
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