Poems (Trask)/Consecration

by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

CONSECRATION.

Love is the life of a woman; her chiefest of blessings; her all!
 Lacking its sweets, her existence of full perfection is shorn;
Love, the wonderful alchemist, changes to honey life's gall,—
 Transforms the sad gloom of midnight into the gold blush of morn!

What shall requite her for Love's loss? oh, what shall suffice her instead?
 What shall comfort and quiet her when loveless and desolate?
What shall recall her to life again when her heart's fibres are dead?
 Oh, it is fearful to live with nothing for which you can wait!

Country? Yes, country is dear to me! from its bland airs I draw breath.
 Prosper it, God of our fathers! now in its bitterest need!
Sustain it! save it from tottering down to dishonorable death!
 Uphold it! restore it, unbroken! oh, give us heed!

I am weak; I confess it,—courage will fail me, must I yield up
 All that I own of earth's glory,—all that I hold dear, and prize?
Heaven's beneficent gift to me,—my soul's blest anchor of hope?
 Smile as I offer it,—clothed, crowned, for the fell sacrifice?

True, they soothe me with fair words; he will win honor, glory, and fame;
 He will come back to me covered with victory's proud scars;
I shall blush red with my pride when the multitude shout forth his name!
 My daring hero! my valiant knight! home returned from the wars!

Well, it may be so, but—if!—oh, that terrible, shuddering doubt!
 Creeping into my breast,—paralyzing to marble my heart!
No! no! it is useless! impotent I to cast the intruder out!
 Cease urging,—ask it not of me; we cannot exist apart!

Will Fame assuage death's anguish? will it make more enticing the grave?
 Will it dry up a tear, hush a sob, or tear from sorrow a pain?
Will it make less chilly and dreadful the ice-cold touch of the wave
 That launches the fearsome mortal out on the unexplored main?

I sleep, and my dreams they are troubled,—I hear the rolling of drums,
 The martial blast of the trumpet, the rush of caparisoned steeds;
I see the gray smoke of the conflict, the red hot fog of the guns,
 The crimson stains of the greensward, where many a true heart bleeds!

Aloft, like the gold gleam of sunlight, the banners flash on the air,
 Above the strife and the carnage where men to demons are turned;
I see the glitter of broadswords, the horrible eye of despair!
 Oh, God of Heaven! that honors should be so terribly earned!

I walk o'er the dread plain at midnight, my feet are wet with the gore!
 I shudder at dead men's faces gazing blankly up to the sky,
With eyes that see not the calm stars, with eyes that shall see nevermore!
 Ah me! it is dreadful! dreadful! going to battle to die!

But some wives must bear it, some hearts suffer and break:
 Why shall not I doom my life to darkness as well? I shall not be alone;
I will be brave, I will conquer! I will not give voice to a sigh!
 Go forth! and God keep thee! thou only and idolized one!

I will kiss him my last, and my lips shall not quiver nor shrink;
 I will chill not his ardor; his great heart, so loyal and true,
Shall not beat one throb slower for me, shall not with heaviness sink
 For my grief, or my tears. I will show what a woman can do!

And if the worst comes,—if he falls,—so let it be! Great grief is dumb!
 Who shall proclaim my bereavement unto the people?
Not I! He will be lonesome with waiting,—I shall be speedy to come;
 There will be left to me this, thank God! blessed comfort to die!