Beechenbrook is a Webnovel created by Margaret Junkin Preston.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
A simple, sodded mound of earth, Without a line above it; With only daily votive flowers To prove that any love it: The token flag that silently Each breeze’s visit numbers, Alone keeps martial ward above The hero’s dreamless slumbers.
No name?–no record? Ask the world; The world has read his story– If all its annals can unfold A prouder tale of glory:– If ever merely human life Hath taught diviner moral,– If ever round a worthier brow Was twined a purer laurel!
A twelvemonth only, since his sword Went flashing through the battle– A twelvemonth only, since his ear Heard war’s last deadly rattle– And yet, have countless pilgrim-feet The pilgrim’s guerdon paid him, And weeping women come to see The place where they have laid him.
Contending armies bring, in turn, Their meed of praise or honor, And Pallas here has paused to bind The cypress wreath upon her: It seems a holy sepulchre, Whose sanct.i.ties can waken Alike the love of friend or foe,– Of Christian or of pagan.
THEY come to own his high emprise, Who fled in frantic ma.s.ses, Before the glittering bayonet That triumphed at Mana.s.sas: Who witnessed Kernstown’s fearful odds, As on their ranks he thundered, Defiant as the storied Greek, Amid his brave three hundred!
They well recall the tiger spring, The wise retreat, the rally, The tireless march, the fierce pursuit, Through many a mountain valley: Cross Keys unlock new paths to fame, And Port Republic’s story Wrests from his ever-vanquish’d foes, Strange tributes to his glory.
Cold Harbor rises to their view,– The Cedars’ gloom is o’er them; Antietam’s rough and rugged heights, Stretch mockingly before them: The lurid flames of Fredericksburg Right grimly they remember, That lit the frozen night’s retreat, That wintry-wild December!
The largess of their praise is flung With bounty, rare and regal; –Is it because the vulture fears No longer the dead eagle?
Nay, rather far accept it thus,– An homage true and tender, As soldier unto soldier’s worth,– As brave to brave will render,
But who shall weigh the wordless grief That leaves in tears its traces, As round their leader crowd again, The bronzed and veteran faces!
The “Old Brigade” he loved so well– The mountain men, who bound him With bays of their own winning, ere A tardier fame had crowned him;
The legions who had seen his glance Across the carnage flashing, And thrilled to catch his ringing “_charge_”
Above the volley crashing;– Who oft had watched the lifted hand, The inward trust betraying, And felt their courage grow sublime, While they beheld him praying!
Good knights and true as ever drew Their swords with knightly Roland; Or died at Sobieski’s side, For love of martyr’d Poland; Or knelt with Cromwell’s Ironsides; Or sang with brave Gustavus; Or on the plain of Austerlitz, Breathed out their dying AVES!
Rare fame! rare name!–If chanted praise, With all the world to listen,– If pride that swells a nation’s soul,– If foemen’s tears that glisten,– If pilgrims’ shrining love,–if grief Which nought may soothe or sever,– If THESE can consecrate,–this spot Is sacred ground forever!
[A] In the month of June the singular spectacle was presented at Lexington, Va., of two hostile armies, in turn, reverently visiting Jackson’s grave.
WHEN THE WAR IS OVER.
A CHRISTMAS LAY.
I.
Ah! the happy Christmas times!
Times we all remember;– Times that flung a ruddy glow O’er the gray December;– Will they never come again, With their song and story?
Never wear a remnant more Of their olden glory?
Must the little children miss Still the festal token?
Must their realm of young romance All be marred and broken?
Must the mother promise on, While her smiles dissemble, And she speaks right quietly, Lest her voice should tremble:–
“Darlings! wait till father comes– Wait–and we’ll discover Never were such Christmas times, When the war is over!”
II.
Underneath the midnight sky, Bright with starry beauty, Sad, the shivering sentinel Treads his round of duty: For his thoughts are far away, Far from strife and battle, As he listens dreamingly, To his baby’s prattle;– As he clasps his sobbing wife, Wild with sudden gladness, Kisses all her tears away– Chides her looks of sadness– Talks of Christmas nights to come,– And his step grows lighter, Whispering, while his stiffening hand Grasps his musket tighter:–
“Patience, love!–keep heart! keep hope!
To your weary rover, What a home our home will be, When the war is over!”
III.
By the twilight Christmas fire, All her senses laden With a weight of tenderness, Sits the musing maiden: From the parlor’s cheerful blaze, Far her visions wander, To the white tent gleaming bright, On the hill-side yonder.
Buoyant in her brave, young love, Flushed with patriot honour, No misgiving, no fond fear, Flings its shade upon her.
Though no mortal soul can know Half the love she bears him, Proudly, for her country’s sake, From her heart she spares him.
–G.o.d be thanked!–she does not dream, That her gallant lover Will be in a soldier’s grave, When the war is over!
IV.
‘Midst the turmoil and the strife Of the war-tide’s rushing, Every heart its separate woe In its depths is hushing.
Who has time for tears, when blood All the land is steeping?
–In our poverty we grudge Even the waste of weeping!
But when quiet comes again, And the bands, long broken, Gather round the hearth, and breathe Names now seldom spoken– _Then_ we’ll miss the precious links– Mourn the empty places– Read the hopeless “_Nevermore_,”
In each other’s faces!
–Oh! what aching, anguish’d hearts O’er lone graves will hover, With a new, fresh sense of pain, When the war is over!
V.
Stern endurance, bitterer still, Sharp with self-denial, Fraught with loftier sacrifice, Fuller far of trial– Strews our flinty path of thorns– Marks our b.l.o.o.d.y story– Fits us for the victor’s palm– Weaves our robe of glory!
Shall we faint with G.o.d above, And His strong arm under– And the cold world gazing on, In a maze of wonder?
No! with more resistless march, More resolved endeavor, Press we onward–struggle still, Fight and win forever!
–Holy peace will heal all ills, Joy all losses cover, Raptures rend our Southern skies, When the war is over!
VIRGINIA CAPTA.
APRIL 9TH, 1865.
I.
Unconquered captive!–close thine eye, And draw the ashen sackcloth o’er, And in thy speechless woe deplore The fate that would not let thee die!
II.