Dreams and Days | Page 7

bleeding feet that spurned the flinty pain;?One thought always throbbing through her brain:?"They shall never say, 'He was afraid,'--?They shall never cry, 'The coward stayed!'"
VIII
Now the wilderness is passed;?Now the first hut reached, at last.
Ho, dwellers by the frontier trail,?Come forth and greet the bride of war!?From cabin and rough settlement?They come to speed her on her way--?Maidens, whose ruddy cheeks grow pale?With pity never felt before;?Children that cluster at the door;?Mothers, whose toil-worn hands are lent?To help, or bid her longer stay.?But through them all she passes on,?Strangely martial, fair and wan;?Nor waits to listen to their cheers?That sound so faintly in her ears.?For now all scenes around her shift,?Like those before a racer's eyes?When, foremost sped and madly swift,?Quick stretching toward the goal he flies,?Yet feels his strength wane with his breath,?And purpose fail 'mid fears of death,--
Till, like the flashing of a lamp,?Starts forth the sight of Arnold's camp,--?The bivouac flame, and sinuous gleam?Of steel,--where, crouched, the army waits,?Ere long, beyond the midnight stream,?To storm Quebec's ice-mounded gates.
IX
Then to the leader she was brought,?And spoke her simply loyal thought.?If, 'mid the shame of after-days,?The man who wronged his country's trust?(Yet now in worth outweighed all praise)?Remembered what this woman wrought,?It should have bowed him to the dust!?"Humbly my soldier-husband tried?To do his part. He served,--and died.?But honor did not die. His name?And honor--bringing both, I came;?And this his rifle, here, to show,?While far away the tired heart sleeps,?To-day his faith with you he keeps!"
Proudly the war bride, ending so,?Sank breathless in the dumb white snow.
A RUNE OF THE RAIN
O many-toned rain!?O myriad sweet voices of the rain!?How welcome is its delicate overture?At evening, when the moist and glowing west?Seals all things with cool promise of night's rest.
At first it would allure?The earth to kinder mood,?With dainty flattering?Of soft, sweet pattering:?Faintly now you hear the tramp?Of the fine drops, falling damp?On the dry, sun-seasoned ground?And the thirsty leaves, resound.?But anon, imbued?With a sudden, bounding access?Of passion, it relaxes?All timider persuasion.?And, with nor pretext nor occasion,?Its wooing redoubles;?And pounds the ground, and bubbles?In sputtering spray,?Flinging itself in a fury?Of flashing white away;?Till the dusty road,?Dank-perfumed, is o'erflowed;?And the grass, and the wide-hung trees,?The vines, the flowers in their beds,--?The virid corn that to the breeze?Rustles along the garden-rows,--?Visibly lift their heads,?And, as the quick shower wilder grows,?Upleap with answering kisses to the rain.
Then, the slow and pleasant murmur?Of its subsiding,?As the pulse of the storm beats firmer,?And the steady rain?Drops into a cadenced chiding!?Deep-breathing rain,?The sad and ghostly noise?Wherewith thou dost complain---?Thy plaintive, spiritual voice,?Heard thus at close of day?Through vaults of twilight gray--?Vexes me with sweet pain;?And still my soul is fain?To know the secret of that yearning?Which in thine utterance I hear returning.?Hush, oh hush!?Break not the dreamy rush?Of the rain:?Touch not the marring doubt?Words bring to the certainty?Of its soft refrain;?But let the flying fringes flout?Their drops against the pane,?And the gurgling throat of the water-spout?Groan in the eaves amain.
The earth is wedded to the shower;?Darkness and awe gird round the bridal hour!
II
O many-toned rain!?It hath caught the strain?Of a wilder tune,?Ere the same night's noon,?When dreams and sleep forsake me,?And sudden dread doth wake me,?To hear the booming drums of heaven beat?The long roll to battle; when the knotted cloud,?With an echoing loud,?Bursts asunder?At the sudden resurrection of the thunder;?And the fountains of the air,?Unsealed again, sweep, ruining, everywhere,?To wrap the world in a watery winding-sheet.
III
O myriad sweet voices of the rain!?When the airy war doth wane,?And the storm to the east hath flown,?Cloaked close in the whirling wind,?There's a voice still left behind?In each heavy-hearted tree,?Charged with tearful memory?Of the vanished rain:?From their leafy lashes wet?Drip the dews of fresh regret?For the lover that's gone!?All else is still;?Yet the stars are listening,?And low o'er the wooded hill?Hangs, upon listless wing?Outspread, a shape of damp, blue cloud,?Watching, like a bird of evil?That knows nor mercy nor reprieval,?The slow and silent death of the pallid moon.
IV
But soon, returning duly,?Dawn whitens the wet hilltops bluely.?To her vision pure and cold?The night's wild tale is told?On the glistening leaf, in the mid-road pool,?The garden mold turned dark and cool,?And the meadows' trampled acres.?But hark, how fresh the song of the winged music-makers!?For now the moanings bitter,?Left by the rain, make harmony?With the swallow's matin-twitter,?And the robin's note, like the wind's in a tree.?The infant morning breathes sweet breath,?And with it is blent?The wistful, wild, moist scent?Of the grass in the marsh which the sea nourisheth:?And behold!?The last reluctant drop of the storm,?Wrung from the roof, is smitten warm?And turned to gold;?For in its veins doth run?The very blood of the bold, unsullied sun!
BREAKERS
Far out at sea there has been a storm,?And still, as they roll their liquid acres,?High-heaped the billows lower and glisten.?The air is laden, moist, and