Beechenbrook | Page 5

sunshine are o'er?
Do they feel
that their island of beauty at last
Must be rent by the tempest,--be
swept by the blast?
Do they dream that afar, on the wild, wintry main,

Their love-freighted bark must be driven again?
--Bless God for the wisdom that curtains so tight
To-morrow's
enjoyments or griefs from our sight!
Bless God for the ignorance,
darkness and doubt,
That girdle so kindly our future about!
The crutches are brought, and the invalid's strength
Is able to measure
the lawn's gravel'd length;
And under the beeches, once more he
reclines,
And hears the wind plaintively moan through the pines;

His children around him, with frolic and play,
Cheat autumn's mild
listlessness out of the day;
And Alice, the sunshine all flecking her
book,
Reads low to the chime of the murmuring brook.
But the world's rushing tide washes up to his feet,
And leaps the soft
barriers that bound his retreat;
The tumult of camps surges out on the
breeze,
And ever seems mocking his Capuan ease.
He dare not be
happy, or tranquil, or blest,
While his soil by the feet of invaders is
prest:
What brooks it though still he be pale as a ghost?
--If he
languish or fail, let him fail at his post.
The gums by the brook-side are crimson and brown;
The leaves of the

ash flicker goldenly down;
The roses that trellis the porches, have lost

Their brightness and bloom at the touch of the frost;
The
ozier-twined seat by the beeches, no more
Looks tempting, and
cheerful, and sweet, as of yore;
The water glides darkly and
mournfully on,
As Alice sits watching it:--Douglass has gone!
IV.
"I am weary and worn,--I am hungry and chill,
And cuttingly strikes
the keen blast o'er the hill;
All day I have ridden through snow and
through sleet,
With nothing,--not even a cracker to eat;
But now, as
I rest by the bivouac fire,
Whose blaze leaps up merrily, higher and
higher,
Impatient as Roland, who neighs to be fed,--
For Caleb to
bring me my bacon and bread,--
I'll warm my cold heart, that is
aching and lone,
By thinking of you, love,--my Alice,--my own!
"I turn a deaf ear to the scream of the wind,
I leave the rude camp and
the forest behind;
And Beechenbrook, wrapped in its raiment of white,

Is tauntingly filling my vision to-night.
I catch my sweet little ones'
innocent mirth,
I watch your dear face, as you sit at the hearth;
And
I know, by the tender expression I see,
I know that my darling is
musing of me.
Does her thought dim the blaze?--Does it shed through
the room A chilly, unseen, and yet palpable gloom?
Ah! then we are
equal! You share all my pain,
And _I_ halve your blessedness with
you again!
"Don't think that my hardships are bitter to bear;
Don't think I repine
at the soldier's rough fare;
If ever a thought so unworthy steals on,
I
look upon Ashby,--and lo! it is gone!
Such chivalry, fortitude, spirit
and tone,
Make brighter, and stronger, and prouder, my own.
Oh!
Beverly, boy!--on his white steed, I ween,
A princelier presence has
never been seen;
And as yonder he lies, from the groups all apart,
I
bow to him loyally,--bow with my heart.

"What brave, buoyant letters you write, sweet!--they ring Through my
soul like the blast of a trumpet, and bring
Such a flame to my eye,
such a flush to my cheek,--
That often my hand will unconsciously
seek
The hilt of my sword as I read,--and I feel
As the warrior does,
when he flashes the steel
In fiery circles, and shouts in his might,

For the heroes behind him, to follow its light!
True wife of a
soldier!--If doubt or dismay
Had ever, within me, one instant held
sway,
Your words wield a spell that would bid them be gone,
Like
bodiless ghosts at the touch of the dawn.
"Could the veriest craven that cowers and quails
Before the vast
horde that insults and assails
Our land and our liberties,--could he
to-night,
Sit here on the ice-girdled log where I write,
And look on
the hopeful, bright brows of the men,
Who have toiled all the day
over mountain, through glen,-- Half-clothed and unfed,--would he
doubt?--would he dare, In the face of such proof, yield again to
despair?
"The hum of their voices comes laden with cheer,
As the wind wafts
a musical swell to my ear,--
Wild, clarion catches,--now flute-like
and low;
--Would you like me to give you their Song of the Snow?
Halt!--the march is over!
Day is almost done;
Loose the cumbrous
knapsack,
Drop the heavy gun:
Chilled and wet and weary,

Wander to and fro,
Seeking wood to kindle
Fires amidst the snow.
Round the bright blaze gather,
Heed not sleet nor cold,--
Ye are
Spartan soldiers,
Stout and brave and bold:
Never Xerxian army

Yet subdued a foe,
Who but asked a blanket
On a bed of snow.
Shivering midst the darkness
Christian men are found,
There
devoutly kneeling
On the frozen ground,--
Pleading for their country,
In its hour of woe,--
For its soldiers
marching
Shoeless through the snow.

Lost in heavy slumbers,
Free from toil and strife;
Dreaming of their
dear ones,--
Home, and child, and wife;
Tentless they are lying,

While the fires burn low,--
Lying in their blankets,
Midst