CCLXXVI THE GOOD PART THAT SHALL NOT BE She dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, In valleys green and cool, And all her hope and all her pride Her soul, like the transparent air And thus she walks among her girls 5 ΙΟ She reads to them at eventide Of One who came to save; To cast the captives' chains aside, 15 And oft the blessèd time foretells When all men shall be free; And following her belovèd Lord In decent poverty, She makes her life one sweet record 20 For she was rich, and gave up all 25 To break the iron bands Of those who waited in her hall, And laboured in her lands. Long since beyond the Southern Sea Now earns her daily bread. It is their prayers which never cease, 309 35 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. CCLXXVII IN WAR TIME. The flags of war like storm-birds fly, The charging trumpets blow; Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, No earthquake strives below. And, calm and patient, Nature keeps Her ancient promise well, Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps And still she walks in golden hours 5 Ah! eyes may well be full of tears, And hearts with hate are hot; But even-paced come round the years, 20 She meets with smiles our bitter grief, Still, in the cannon's pause we hear She knows the seed lies safe below Above this stormy din, We too would hear the bells of cheer Ring peace and freedom in! John George Whittier. CCLXXVIII COME UP FROM THE FIELDS, FATHER. Come up from the fields, father; here's a letter from our Pete, And come to the front door, mother; here's a letter from thy dear son. Lo, 'tis autumn; Lo where the fields, deeper green, yellower and redder, Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages, with leaves fluttering in the moderate wind; 5 Where apples ripe in the orchards hang, and grapes on the trellised vines (Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines? Smell you the buckwheat, where the bees were lately buzzing?) Above all, lo! the sky, so calm, so transparent after the rain and with wondrous clouds; Below too all calm, all vital and beautiful-and the farm prospers well. Down in the fields all prospers well; ΙΟ But now from the fields come, father-come at the daughter's call; And come to the entry, mother-to the front door come, right away. Fast as she can she hurries-something ominous—her steps trembling; She does not tarry to smooth her white hair, nor adjust her сар. Open the envelope quickly; Oh this is not our son's writing, yet his name is signed. 15 Oh a strange hand writes for our dear son-oh stricken mother's soul ! All swims before her eyes-flashes with black-she catches the main words only; Sentences broken-gunshot wound in the breast-cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital, At present low, but will soon be better. Ah! now the single figure to me 20 Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio, with all its cities and farms, Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint, 25 Grieve not so, dear mother (the just grown daughter speaks through her sobs; The little sisters huddle around, speechless and dismayed). See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better. Alas, poor boy, he will never be better (nor, may be, needs to be better, that brave and simple soul). While they stand at home at the door he is dead already, 30 The only son is dead. But the mother needs to be better; She, with thin form, presently drest in black; By day her meals untouched-then at night fitfully sleeping, often waking, In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing, 35 Oh, that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life, escape and withdraw To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son. CCLXXIX Walt Whitman. SONNET. Through the night, through the night, In the saddest unrest, Wrapt in white, all in white, With her babe on her breast, Walks the mother so pale, Staring out on the gale Through the night! Through the night, through the night, Where the sea lifts the wreck, Land in sight, close in sight! Drawing on to his grave Through the night! Richard Henry Stoddard. |