Beechenbrook | Page 2

instant reply:
But dear as you are, Love,--my life and my
light,--
I would not consent to your stay, if I might:
No!--arm for
the conflict, and on, with the rest;
Virginia has need of her 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,