War Drums (Scharkie)/Alice

by Louis Edward Scharkie

For works with similar titles, see Alice.

ALICE.

We stood at the garden gate;
 He kissed me, and then turned to go.
How I loved him—heav'ns! a fate
 So bitter, none could scarcely know.
Ah! he towered so proud in view,
 When the rising moonlight crowned him.
Looked he, then, so good and true,
 All my woman's heart went round him.

When he left me, love grew in me,
 Like a fountain, full and clear,
Whose bright music sought to win me
 To a regal atmosphere.
Far, on fancy's wings, I floated;
 Built a mansion near the stars—
Purple-folded, crimson-moated,
 Flashing under twilight bars.

Earth was air, and air was motion;
 Birds were seraphs singing grand;
Crisping foam-flakes of the ocean,
 Turned to kisses on the sand.
Spicy cloudlets, o'er the mountains,
 Were his messengers to me;
Sunlight in the splashing fountains,
 Flashed his thoughts across the sea.

From the lattice in my palace,
 From my palace in the clouds,
I, the single-hearted Alice,
 Saw no solemn range of clouds;
Saw no funeral cortege rolling
 From the foam-wet shore to me;
Heard no solemn sea-bell tolling,
 Slowly, for the dead at sea.

All the world was full of ringing;
 Full of swinging, merry bells;
Full of golden sunrise, bringing
 Fragrance from its purple wells.
Bright and pure, his love was on me,
 And my heart was blithe and free;
Blithe, was Louis' love that won me,
 E'er his ship went out to sea.

But, alas! my house grew shrouded
 With a driving mist and hail.
Round it, bitter sea-clouds crowded,
 Driven by an icy gale.
Roared, the sea, along the shingle;
 Howled the tempest; shrieked the bird;
Wreck and terror seemed to mingle,
 When the minute gun was heard.

Ah! I see the misty glimmer
 Of the lanterns on the shore.
How the thunder-peals grew dimmer
 In the rising breakers' roar.
Death, that night, was on the surges,
 Trampling on the foaming lines;
Winds were howling dismal dirges,
 Where they caught the whining pines.

Death, that night, was on the surges;
 Plumes were tossing in the gale;
Winds, wide-howling dismal dirges,
 Seemed to bear the mournful tale.
Ah! I see the foam-wreath curling,
 Where he sunk beneath the wave;
Hear the dreary thunder hurling
 Hisses on his lonely grave.

Bitter years will break, and sever
 Bitterer memories of the wave;
And the seas will rock, forever,
 Louis, in his green sea-grave.
But my love will never weary,
 Never droop at boding ill;
Tho' the years be dark and dreary,
 All my heart is with him still.