The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics Part 12

After All.[1]

The apples are ripe in the orchard, The work of the reaper is done, And the golden woodlands redden In the blood of the dying sun.

At the cottage door the grandsire Sits, pale, in his easy-chair, While a gentle wind of twilight Plays with his silver hair.

A woman is kneeling beside him; A fair young head is prest, In the first wild pa.s.sion of sorrow, Against his aged breast.

And far from over the distance The faltering echoes come, Of the flying blast of trumpet, And the rattling roll of drum.

And the grandsire speaks in a whisper: "The end no man can see; But we give him to his country, And we give our prayers to Thee."

The violets star the meadows, The rose-buds fringe the door, And over the gra.s.sy orchard The pink-white blossoms pour.

But the grandsire's chair is empty, The cottage is dark and still, There's a nameless grave in the battle-field, And a new one under the hill.

And a pallid, tearless woman By the cold hearth sits alone, And the old clock in the corner Ticks on with a steady drone.

WILLIAM WINTER.

[1] From "Wanderers," copyright, 1892, by Macmillan and Co.

The Song of the Camp.

"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay grim and threatening under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belch'd its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said: "We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side, Below the smoking cannon: Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame; Forgot was Britain's glory: Each heart recall'd a different name, But all sang "Annie Laurie."

Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender pa.s.sion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,-- Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier's cheek Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burn'd The b.l.o.o.d.y sunset's embers, While the Crimean valleys learn'd How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of h.e.l.l Rain'd on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot, and burst of sh.e.l.l, And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim For a singer dumb and gory; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of "Annie Laurie."

Sleep, soldiers! still in honor'd rest Your truth and valor wearing: The bravest are the tenderest,-- The loving are the daring.

B. TAYLOR.

In the Hospital.

I lay me down to sleep, With little thought or care Whether my waking find Me here or there.

A bowing, burdened head, That only asks to rest, Unquestioning, upon A loving breast.

My good right hand forgets Its cunning now.

To march the weary march I know not how.

I am not eager, bold, Nor strong--all that is past; I am ready not to do At last, at last.

My half day's work is done, And this is all my part; I give a patient G.o.d My patient heart,

And grasp His banner still, Though all its blue be dim; These stripes, no less than stars, Lead after Him.

M.W. HOWLAND.

Under the Violets.

Her hands are cold; her face is white; No more her pulses come and go; Her eyes are shut to life and light;-- Fold the white vesture, snow on snow, And lay her where the violets blow.

But not beneath a graven stone, To plead for tears with alien eyes; A slender cross of wood alone Shall say, that here a maiden lies In peace beneath the peaceful skies.

And gray old trees of hugest limb Shall wheel their circling shadows round To make the scorching sunlight dim That drinks the greenness from the ground, And drop their dead leaves on her mound.

When o'er their boughs the squirrels run, And through their leaves the robins call, And, ripening in the autumn sun, The acorns and the chestnuts fall, Doubt not that she will heed them all.

For her the morning choir shall sing Its matins from the branches high, And every minstrel voice of Spring, That trills beneath the April sky, Shall greet her with its earliest cry.

When, turning round their dial-track, Eastward the lengthening shadows pa.s.s, Her little mourners, clad in black, The crickets, sliding through the gra.s.s, Shall pipe for her an evening ma.s.s.

At last the rootlets of the trees Shall find the prison where she lies, And bear the buried dust they seize In leaves and blossoms to the skies.

So may the soul that warmed it rise!

If any, born of kindlier blood, Should ask, What maiden lies below?