Beechenbrook | Page 8

of the spear!?He thinks of his darling, dead mother;--the light?Of the Heavenly City falls full on his sight:?And under the rows of the palms, by the brim?Of the river--he knows she is waiting for him.
But the present comes back;--and on Alice's ear,?Fall whispers like these, as she pauses to hear:
"Only a private;--and who will care?When I may pass away,--?Or how, or why I perish, or where?I mix with the common clay??They will fill my empty place again,?With another as bold and brave;?And they'll blot me out, ere the Autumn rain?Has freshened my nameless grave.
Only a private:--it matters not,?That I did my duty well;?That all through a score of battles I fought,?And then, like a soldier, fell:?The country I died for,--never will heed?My unrequited claim;?And history cannot record the deed,?For she never has heard my name.
Only a private;--and yet I know,?When I heard the rallying call,?I was one of the very first to go,?And ... I'm one of the many who fall:?But, as here I lie, it is sweet to feel,?That my honor's without a stain;--?That I only fought for my Country's weal,?And not for glory or gain.
Only a private;--yet He who reads?Through the guises of the heart,?Looks not at the splendour of the deeds,?But the way we do our part;?And when He shall take us by the hand,?And our small service own,?There'll a glorious band of privates stand?As victors around the throne!"
The breath of the morning is heavy and chill,?And gloomily lower the mists on the hill:?The winds through the beeches are shivering low,?With a plaintive and sad miserere of woe:?A quiet is over the Cottage,--a dread?Clouds the children's sweet faces,--Macpherson is dead!
VII.
'Tis Autumn,--and Nature the forest has hung?With arras more gorgeous than ever was flung?From Gobelin looms,--all so varied, so rare,?As never the princeliest palaces were.?Soft curtains of haze the far mountains enfold,?Whose warp is of purple, whose woof is of gold,?And the sky bends as peacefully, purely above,?As if earth breathed an atmosphere only of love.
But thick as white asters in Autumn, are found?The tents all bestrewing the carpeted ground;?The din of a camp, with its stir and its strife,?Its motley and strange, multitudinous life,?Floats upward along the brown slopes, till it fills?The echoing hollows afar in the hills.
'Tis the twilight of Sabbath,--and sweet through the air, Swells the blast of the bugle, that summons to prayer:?The signal is answered, and soon in the glen?Sits Colonel Dunbar in the midst of his men.
The Chaplain advances with reverent face,?Where lies a felled oak, he has chosen his place;?On the stump of an ash-tree the Bible he lays,?And they bow on the grass, as he solemnly prays.
Underneath thine open sky,?Father, as we bend the knee,?May we feel thy presence nigh,?--Nothing 'twixt our souls and thee!
We are weary,--cares and woes?Lay their weight on every breast,?And each heart before thee knows,?That it sighs for inward rest.
Thou canst lift this weight away,?Thou canst bid these sighings cease;?Thou canst walk these waves and say?To their restless tossings--"Peace!"
We are tempted;--snares abound,--?Sin its treacherous meshes weaves;?And temptations strew us round,?Thicker than the Autumn leaves.
Midst these perils, mark our path,?Thou who art 'the life, the way;'?Rend each fatal wile that hath?Power to lead our souls astray.
Prince of Peace! we follow Thee!?Plant thy banner in our sight;?Let thy shadowy legions be?Guards around our tents to-night."
Through the aisles of the forest, far-stretching and dim As a cloister'd Cathedral, the notes of a hymn?Float tenderly upward,--now soft and now clear,?As if twilight had silenced its breathing to hear;?Now swelling, a lofty, triumphant refrain,--?Now sobbing itself into sadness again.
The Bible is opened, and stillness profound?Broods over the listeners scattered around;?And warning, and comfort, and blessing, and balm,?Distil from the beautiful words of the Psalm.?Then simply and earnestly pleading,--his face?Lit up with persuasive and eloquent grace,?The Chaplain pours forth, from the warmth of his heart, His words of entreaty and truth, ere they part.
"I see before me valiant men,?With courage high and true,?Who fight as only heroes fight,?And die, as heroes do.
Your serried ranks have never quailed?Before the battle-shock,?Whose maddest fury beats and breaks?Like foam against the rock.
Ye've borne the deadly brunt of war,?Through storm, and cold, and heat,?Yet never have ye turned your backs?Nor fled before defeat.
Behind you lie your cheerful homes,?And all of sweet or fair,--?The only remnants earth has left?Of Eden-life, are there.
Ye know that many a once bright cheek?Consuming care, makes wan;?Ye know the old, dear happiness?That blest your hearths,--is gone.
Ye see your comrades smitten down,--?The young, the good, the brave,--?Ye feel, the turf ye tread to-day,?May be to-morrow's grave.
Yet not a murmur meets the ear,?Nor discontent has sway,?And not a sullen brow is seen,?Through all the camp to-day.
No Greek, in Greece's palmiest days,?His javelin ever threw,?Impelled by more heroic zeal,?Or nobler aim than you.
No mailed warrior ever bore?Aloft his shining lance,?More proudly through the tales that fire?The