Selections from the American Poets/The Soldier's Visit to His Family
THE SOLDIER'S VISIT TO HIS FAMILY.
And there the stranger stays beneath that oak,Whose shatter'd majesty hath felt the strokeOf heaven's own thunder—yet it proudly heaves,A giant sceptre wreathed with blasted leaves—As though it dared the elements, and stoodThe guardian of that cot, the monarch of that wood. Beneath its venerable vault he stands:And one might think, who saw his outstretch'd hands,That something more than soldiers e'er may feel,Had touch d him with its holy, calm appeal:That yonder wave—the heaven—the earth—the airHad call'd upon his spirit for her prayer.His eye goes dimly o'er the midnight scene;The oak—the cot—the wood—the faded green—The moon—the sky—the distant moving light—All! all are gathering on his dampen'd sight.His warrior helm and plume, his fresh-dyed blade,Beneath a window on the turf are laid;The panes are ruddy through the clambering vinesAnd blushing leaves, that Summer intertwinesIn warmer tints than e'er luxuriant Spring,O'er flower-imbosom'd roof led wandering. His pulses quicken: for a rude old doorIs open'd by the wind: he sees the floor,Strew'd with white sand, on which he used to traceHis boyhood's battles, and assign a placeTo charging hosts, and give the Indian yell,And shout to hear his hoary grandsire tellHow he had fought with savages, whose breathHe felt upon his cheek like mildew till his death. Hark! that sweet song, how full of tenderness!Oh! who would breathe in this voluptuous pressOf lulling thoughts! so soothing and so low,Like singing fountains in their faintest flow:It is as if some holy, lovely thing,Within our very hearts were murmuring.The soldier listens, and his arms are press'dIn thankfulness, and trembling on his breast:Now, on the very window where he standsAre seen a clambering infant's rosy hands:And now—ah Heaven! blessings on that smile!Stay, soldier, stay! oh linger yet a while!An airy vision now appears, with eyesAs tender as the blue of weeping skies:Yet sunny in their radiance, as that blueWhen sunset glitters on its falling dew:With form—all joy and dance—as bright and freeAs youthful nymph of mountain liberty,Or naked angels dream'd by poesy:A blooming infant to her heart is press'd,And ah! a mother's song is lulling it to rest. A single bound! our chief is standing by,Trembling from head to foot with ecstasy:"Bless thee!" at length he murmur'd, "bless thee, love!My wife! my boy!" Their eyes are raised above.His soldier's tread of sounding strength is gone,A choking transport drowns his manly tone.He sees the closing of that mild blue eye,His bosom echoes to a faint low cry:His glorious boy springs freshly from his sleep;Shakes his thin sun-curls, while his eyebeams leap As half in fear, along the stranger's dress,Then, half advancing, yields to his caress:Then peers beneath his locks, and seeks his eyeWith the clear look of radiant infancy,The cherub smile of love, the azure of the sky. The stranger now is kneeling by the sideOf that young mother, watching for the tideOf her returning life: it comes: a glowGoes faintly, slowly o'er her cheek and brow:A rising of the gauze that lightly shroudsA snowy breast, like twilight's melting clouds,In nature's pure, still eloquence, betraysThe feelings of the heart that reels beneath his gaze.