Beechenbrook | Page 2

bravest and best!?My heart--it must bleed, and my cheek will be wet,?Yet never, believe me, with selfish regret:?My ardor abates not one jot of its glow,?Though the tears of the wife and the woman will flow.
"Our cause is so holy, so just, and so true,--?Thank God! I can give a defender like you!?For home, and for children,--for freedoms--for bread,-- For the house of our God,--for the graves of our dead,-- For leave to exist on the soil of our birth,--?For everything manhood holds dearest on earth:?When these are the things that we fight for--dare I?Hold back my best treasure, with plaint or with sigh??My cheek would blush crimson,--my spirit be galled,?If he were not there when the muster was called!?When we pleaded for peace, every right was denied;?Every pressing petition turned proudly aside;?Now God judge betwixt us!--God prosper the right!?To brave men there's nothing remains, but to fight:?I grudge you not, Douglass,--die, rather than yield,--?And like the old heroes,--come home on your shield!"
The morning is breaking:--the flush of the dawn?Is warning the soldier, 'tis time to be gone;?The children around him expectantly wait,--?His horse, all caparisoned, paws at the gate:?With face strangely pallid,--no sobbings,--no sighs,--?But only a luminous mist in her eyes,?His wife is subduing the heart-throbs that swell,?And calming herself for a quiet farewell.
There falls a felt silence:--the note of a bird,?A tremulous twitter,--is all that is heard;?The circle has knelt by the holly-bush there,--?And listen,--there comes the low breathing of prayer.
"Father! fold thine arms of pity?Round us as we lowly bow;?Never have we kneeled before Thee?With such burden'd hearts as now!
Joy has been our constant portion,?And if ill must now befall,?With a filial acquiescence,?We would thank thee for it all.
In the path of present duty,?With Thy hand to lean upon,?Questioning not the hidden future,?May we walk serenely on.
For this holy, happy home-love,?Purest bliss that crowns my life,--?For these tender, trusting children,--?For this fondest, faithful wife,--
Here I pour my full thanksgiving;?And, when heart is torn from heart,?Be our sweetest tryst-word, 'Mizpah,'--?Watch betwixt us while we part!
And if never round this altar,?We should kneel as heretofore,--?If these arms in benediction?Fold my precious ones no more,--
Thou, who in her direst anguish,?Sooth'dst thy mother's lonely lot,?In thy still unchanged compassion,?Son of Man! forsake them not!"
The little ones each he has caught to his breast,?And clasped them, and kissed them with fervent caress;?Then wordless and tearless, with hearts running o'er,?They part who have never been parted before:?He springs to his saddle,--the rein is drawn tight,--?And Beechenbrook Cottage is lost to his sight.
II.
The feathery foliage has broadened its leaves,?And June, with its beautiful mornings and eves,?Its magical atmosphere, breezes and blooms,?Its woods all delicious with thousand perfumes,--?First-born of the Summer,--spoiled pet of the year,--?June, delicate queen of the seasons, is here!
The sadness has passed from the dwelling away,?And quiet serenity brightens the day:?With innocent prattle, her toils to beguile,?In the midst of her children, the mother must smile.?With matronly cares,--those relentless demands?On the strength of her heart and the skill of her hands,-- The hours come tenderly, ceaselessly fraught,?And leave her small space for the broodings of thought.
Thank God!--busy fingers a solace can find,?To lighten the burden of body or mind;?And Eden's old curse proves a blessing instead,--?"In the sweat of thy brow shalt thou toil for thy bread." For the bless'd relief in all labours that lurk,?Aye, thank Him, unhappy ones,--thank Him for work!
Thus Alice engages her thoughts and her powers,?And industry kindly lends wings to the hours:?Poor, petty employments they sometimes appear,?And on her bright needle there plashes a tear,--?Half shame and half passion;--what would she not dare?Her fervid compatriots' struggles to share??It irks her,--the weakness of womanhood then,--?Yet such are the tears that make heroes of men!
She feels the hot blood of the nation beat high;?With rapture she catches the rallying cry:?From mountain and valley and hamlet they come!?On every side echoes the roll of the drum.?A people as firm, as united, as bold,?As ever drew blade for the blessings they hold,?Step sternly and solemnly forth in their might,?And swear on their altars to die for the right!
The clangor of muskets,--the flashing of steel,--?The clatter of spurs on the stout-booted heel,--?The waving of banners,--the resonant tramp?Of marching battalions,--the fiery stamp?Of steeds in their war-harness, newly decked out,--?The blast of the bugle,--the hurry, the shout,--?The terrible energy, eager and wild,?That lights up the face of man, woman and child,--?That burns on all lips, that arouses all powers;?Did ever we dream that such times would be ours?
One thought is absorbing, with giant control,--?With deadliest earnest, the national soul:--?"The right of self-government, crown of our pride,--?Right, bought with the sacredest blood,--is denied!?Shall we tamely resign what our enemy craves??No! martyrs we may_ be!--we _cannot be slaves!"?Fair women who naught but indulgence have seen,?Who never have learned what denial could mean,--
Who deign not to clipper