Poems (Dorr)/From Exile
FROM EXILE
Paris, September 3, 1879
(A Mother speaks)Ah, dear God, when will it be day?I cannot sleep, I cannot pray.Tossing, I watch the silent starsMount up from the horizon bars:Orion with his flaming sword,Proud chieftain of the glorious horde;Auriga up the lofty archPursuing still his stately march—So patient and so calm are they.Ah, dear God! when will it be day?
O Mary, Mother! Hark! I hearA cock crow through the silence clear!The dawn's faint crimson streaks the east,And, afar off, I catch the leastLow murmur of the city's stirAs she shakes off the dreams of her!List! there's a sound of hurrying feetFar down below me in the street.Thank God! the weary night is past,The morning comes—'tis day at last.
Wake, Rosalie! Awake! arise!The sun is up, it gilds the skies.She does not stir. The young sleep sound As dead men in their graves profound.Ho, Rosalie! At last? Now haste!To-day there is no time to waste.Bring me fresh water. Braid my hair.Hand me the glass. Once I was fairAs thou art. Now I look so oldIt seems my death-knell should be tolled.
Ill? No! (I want no wine.) So pale?Like a white ghost, so wan and frail?Well, that's not strange. All night I layWaiting and 'watching for the day.But—there! I'll drink it; it may makeMy cheeks burn brighter for his sakeWho comes to-day. My boy! my boy!How can I bear the unwonted joy?I, who for eight long years have weptWhile happier mothers smiling slept;While others decked their sons first-bornFor dance, or fête, or bridal morn,Or proudly smiled to see them standThe stateliest pillars of the land!For he, so gallant and so gay,As young and debonair as they,My beautiful, brave boy, my life,Went down in the unequal strife!The right or wrong? Oh, what care I?The good God judgeth up on high.
And now He gives him back to me!I tremble so—I scarce can see.How full the streets are! I will waitHis coming here beside this gate,From which I watched him as he went,Eight years ago, to banishment. Let me sit down. Speak, Rosalie, whenYou see a band of stalwart men,With one fair boy among them—oneWith bright hair shining in the sun,Red, smiling lips, and eager eyes,Blue as the blue of summer skies.My boy! my boy!—Why come they not?O Son of God! hast Thou forgotThy Mother's agony? Yet she,Was she not stronger far than we,We common mothers? Could she knowFrom her far heights such pain and woe?—Run farther down the street, and seeIf they're not coming, Rosalie!
Mother of Christ! how lag the hours!What? just beyond the convent towers,And coming straight this way? O heart,Be still and strong, and bear thy part,Thy new part, bravely. Hark! I hearAbove the city's hum the nearSlow tread of marching feet; I see—Nay, I can not see, Rosalie;Your eyes are younger. Is he there,My Antoine, with his sunny hair?It is like gold; it shines in the sun:Surely you see it? What? Not one—Not one bright head? All old, old men,Gray-haired, gray-bearded, gaunt? Then—thenHe has not come—he is ill, or dead!O God, that I were in thy stead,My son! my son! Who touches me?Your pardon, sir. I am not sheFor whom you look. Go farther onEre yet the daylight shall be gone. "Mother!" Who calls me "Mother?"You are not he—my Antoine! You—A bowed, gray-bearded man, while heWas a mere boy who went from me,Only a boy! I'm sorry, sir.God bless you! Soon you will find herFor whom you seek. But I—ah, I—Still must I call and none reply!You—kiss me? Antoine? O my son!Thou art mine own, my banished one!