4516966Poems — Night After the BattleSarah Elizabeth Carmichael
NIGHT AFTER THE BATTLE.
I waited there on the battle field when the tumult of strife was done; There with the dead, while the black-browed earth reeled dizzily over the sun, And the sullen moments crept away, with a noiseless, ghostly tread; There, with the pallid poppy leaves of slumber around me spread On the hand, and brow, and lip, and heart, of the dying and the dead. The wound on my head ached wearily; the wound on my bosom bled, Till I scarce could pray with the fainting lip, where the passionate fever fed. Vet, oh! how I longed for a drop of dew from the clear, cold, starry skies, To cool the heavy lids that pressed hot on my sleepless eyes.
A boy—ah, yes, he was little more—slept in a death-trance there, So near that his rigid fingers twined a lock of my matted hair; And one, in the form of a manhood's prime, threw his strong arm over my breast; It thrilled me once with its power of pain, then crushed with its weight of rest; And I heard, in the silence, the low drip, drip, of a heart that was weeping near, And struggled—but vainly—to stir my lip, and pray for a deafened ear.
Oh! ye who waltz with the jeweled night to pleasure's quick music-beat, And find the day where its fingers white strew blossoms around your feet, Ye never can make your moments reach, by eking them out for years, A power of expression to meet the speech of a night like that appears: I know that the strong, deep pulse of Time quietly, steadily throbs, Though its breath is shortened to laughter's trills, or drawn to the length of sobs; Yet, oh! that fathomless gulf that surged between two shores of light, Seemed like a century's pain compressed and coiled up into a night.
I thought, while I stayed on that battle field, of the waste around me there, And bared my bleeding heart, that God might read its muttered prayer; A prayer that asked for a fiery rod of lightnings in His hand, To strike the sod where the traitor trod, and burn his track from the land; A prayer that sued for the drops of rain in the eyes of the coining years, To quench the sensuous smile of earth with a weight of heaven's pure tears.
Columbia—oh! my country, weep!—weep!—thou art blind, insane! Thy dear eyes stare, and thy hollow laugh is worse than a shriek of pain. Why is the voice of thy revelry ringing through home and hall, While lustrous drops of thy precious life bleed on thy joys' black pall?
Why does thy forehead hide its woe under a weight of gems, While every hour treads down the worth of a thousand diadems? Where are the sacred, beautiful words—sister, mother, and wife? And the prayer of faith, valor's white shield, that strengthens the arm in strife? Seek for the words where a painted cheek blossoms out in the bowers, Where the atmosphere of a putrid mirth withers all purer flowers; Seek for the prayer where a mimic phrase copies a sentiment, And goes up from a lip mechanically moved to an ear unheeding bent.
Columbia, weep for the heartlessness, the selfishness, the pride, That bridges thy billowy wave of life, and scatters its surges wide! Thy triumph waits on the farther shore; but, oh! till thy conquest comes, Mix not the tremble of ivory keys with the passion- ate throb of drums! Let every pulse in the nation's heart beat to the same deep strain— War, strong war, while it must be war peace that we can retain; Let us have no soulless pageantry, let us have no mimic strife, We do not fence for a jeweled glove—we fight for a nation's life.
