Poems (Henderson)/The Pestilence—1878
THE PESTILENCE—1878.
O'er the Southwest's tropic beauty, Swept the cold grim hand of Death,Came the yellow simoom filling; All the land with poisonous breath.Slowly creeping to the hearthstones, Where the brightest and the best,Filled the home with mirth and gladness, Sweetest joy and happiness.
Oh! the anguished moans of sorrow, From the mother's lips that came,When one by one her tiny nestlings, Burned beneath its wasting flame.And the bride of yesterday, Gay with marriage robe and wreath,Left the strong true arms that held her, For the cold embrace of Death.
Oh! a great and awful stillness, Shadowed all the weary land,All the avenues of Commerce, Shut by that devouring hand. For in every home the faces, Of the dead lay stark and white,And the great sun glaring hotly, Down upon the maddening sight.
There the father watched and waited, Till he saw the children fall,And the mother struggling vainly, In the yellow demon's thrall.There the faces of the living, Smitten seemed with Heaven's wrath,And their wan white lips would quiver, As they trod stern Duty's path.
Mingled with the groans and anguish, That from dying lips there came,Sweetly fell the prayers and blessing, Of the martyr-saints that came,From the North, the East, the West, Forth from homes of wealth and ease,Smoothing pillows of the dying, Braving peril and disease.
Oh! the blessed name of woman, How it thrilled the sufferer's ears,How her gentle touch of blessing, Quieted the sick one's fears.And the black-robed saints who lingered, Till they fell beneath the touch,Of the grim destroyer, never, Murmuring, but loving much,
They in Heaven a glorious crowning, From the Father's hand receive,For they followed in His footsteps, Who had known all earthly grief.Oh! the columned smoke of battle, Rolled away in Heaven's blue,And the blood of brethren blended, On the bunch-grass wet with dew,
Glows no more, no more there rankles, In brave Southern hearts the bane,Of any smouldering fire of passion, That a breath shall fan to flame.For the breaches of the old-time, That red-handed War had made,All were bridged by Northern hands, And the graves that newly made,Hold the remnants of that struggle, Blue and gray together laid,In that darkened time of terror, Were wreathed with bays that never fade.
Tears of anguish wrung from hearts, That had wept their fountains dry,And the lands that held apart, Joined hand and heart that day.From the North, the white sail drifted, Bearing healing on its wing,Freighted with the cooling nectar, The sufferer's boon of blessing.
Oh! the pestilence hath passed, And its trace of death is there,Thousand homes left desolate, All despite the anguished prayer.But the blue and gray are blended, And the old flag waveth fair,God's own hand hath wrought the weaving, Of the strands of peace and prayer.
