Poems (Eaton)/My Soldier-Son
MY SOLDIER-SON.[1]
THE sweet spring comes, whose gentle hand Unlocks the chains from shore and stream,And flushed with joy, the freed earth stands Triumphant in the morning's beam;And songs of birds, and hum of bees, And murmuring water's lulling sound,Are borne on every passing breeze, That scatters joy and fragrance round.
Life starts anew in all its forms; The merest creeping thing that moves,Basks in the self-same ray that warms Sweet birds, that soaring chant their loves.And shall not spring unclose the eyes Of him, who weary sank to rest,And sought, from wintry storms and skies, Deep refuge in earth's sheltering breast?
O, loved of many hearts, awake! Our longing souls thy presence crave,Shake off thy death-cold sleep, and break The bands and silence of the grave.Come with the sunlight—wert thou here, Sunshine would reign throughout our home—Come with the smiling spring to cheer The hearts that wait thee, loved one, come.
O for one life-glance from those eyes, Oh for one tone of that dear voice,To quell the murmuring thoughts that rise, And bid our chastened hearts rejoice—How can we longer yield thee up To the dark keeping of the grave?How can we drink the bitter cup, So deeply filled with sorrow's wave?
Is love's entreaty slow to break The chilling silence of thy rest?O, for the eloquence to wake The patriot fire within thy breast.Thou, who didst lay on country's shrine Thy dearest hopes, thy life, thy all,The true and manly heart like thine Heard not unmoved, that country's call.
What! sleeping ere the toil is o'er, And the decisive battle won?At duty's summons sleep no more, Awake and arm, my soldier-son!Arm thee! for treason sows its seed And rears its form throughout the land—Now is thy country's sorest need, Come to her aid with ready hand.
Oh, ne'er till now hath voice of love Failed of its echo in thine own:Never till now hath duty proved Too weak to rouse thee, soldier-son!To call thee back is more than vain, Since mightier strength than that of earthHath bound thee with unyielding chain, And given thy spirit higher birth.
A father's sorrow-stricken heart Laments, my soldier-son, with mine—And brothers mourn the cruel dart, That pierced a life so dear as thine—And widowed, orphaned, wail is heard, That tells of hopes untimely flown,By which life's bitterest depths are stirred And souls left quivering, bleeding, lone.
Oh mocking spring! whose sunny smile Restores the lives of little worth,But weak and powerless proves the while To raise the noblest ones of earth.Oh joyous birds, whose hopeful strains Make vocal all the air with glee,Win our departed back again, Or all your songs are mockery.
But yet shall come a glorious spring, Foretold by sacred pitying grace,Rich with the destinies it brings For the long-severed of our race—When triumph-shouts and angel-strains Proclaim the last great victory won—In that blest time we'll meet again, To part no more, my soldier-son.
Glen-Echo Home, May, 1863.
- ↑ Arthur G. Eaton, of the Ninth Vermont Volunteers, died November 8th, 1862.