 | Poems by Elizabeth Akers (Florence Percy) |  |
234
PROMOTED.
Dead, ere existence reached its perfect prime,
A hero-martyr. In his morning years
He gathered up the riches of his life,
His fair, fresh youth, his high and noble hopes,
All that had been, or was, or would be dear,—
All that is possible to strong young souls,
And laid them at his suffering country's feet;
Saying, as fondly as a lover might,
“All, even to my life, is hers I love,
And so my country's.” When her sorest need
Demanded at his hands the uttermost,
Behold how cheerfully he yielded it,
Dying as calmly as one falls asleep
After the perils of the day are past,
And silver-sweet the evening bugle-call
Speaks peace and rest.
A hero-martyr. In his morning years
He gathered up the riches of his life,
His fair, fresh youth, his high and noble hopes,
All that had been, or was, or would be dear,—
All that is possible to strong young souls,
And laid them at his suffering country's feet;
Saying, as fondly as a lover might,
“All, even to my life, is hers I love,
And so my country's.” When her sorest need
Demanded at his hands the uttermost,
Behold how cheerfully he yielded it,
Dying as calmly as one falls asleep
After the perils of the day are past,
And silver-sweet the evening bugle-call
Speaks peace and rest.
The world lost much, what time our hero died,
For rarely has it owned a man like him,—
As pure of purpose, in these soiling times,
And single-hearted as a diamond,
The core of whose transparent soul is light;
His was as tender as a woman's heart,—
His nature sweet and artless as a child's,
Yet strong and helpful. In his serious eyes
There shone the record of a clean, fair life
Which had no shame to hide, no stain to weep;
He earned this sudden honor valiantly,
The quick promotion of a glorious death,—
“Killed in the advance, while leading on his men.”
And would our selfish grief deny it him,
And long to call him back? No, warrior-saint;
Put on thy crown!
For rarely has it owned a man like him,—
235
And single-hearted as a diamond,
The core of whose transparent soul is light;
His was as tender as a woman's heart,—
His nature sweet and artless as a child's,
Yet strong and helpful. In his serious eyes
There shone the record of a clean, fair life
Which had no shame to hide, no stain to weep;
He earned this sudden honor valiantly,
The quick promotion of a glorious death,—
“Killed in the advance, while leading on his men.”
And would our selfish grief deny it him,
And long to call him back? No, warrior-saint;
Put on thy crown!
I do not know the place where he was laid,
After the long day's dreadful work was done.
They buried him upon the battle's brink,
His war-worn comrades,—gently, reverently,
With his young laurels fresh about his brow,—
And I might search there all the summer's day
Nor ever find him. But it is enough
To know his tender body is at rest,
And that the cannon will not break his sleep.
His name is safe among the shining names;
His soul is safe in the good Father's care;
And in the hush of this wet, fragrant night,
After the dust, the battle, and the heat,
The loving rain drops cool upon his grave,
And the veiled stars will watch there till the day.
Dear heart, sleep well!
After the long day's dreadful work was done.
They buried him upon the battle's brink,
His war-worn comrades,—gently, reverently,
With his young laurels fresh about his brow,—
And I might search there all the summer's day
Nor ever find him. But it is enough
To know his tender body is at rest,
And that the cannon will not break his sleep.
236
His soul is safe in the good Father's care;
And in the hush of this wet, fragrant night,
After the dust, the battle, and the heat,
The loving rain drops cool upon his grave,
And the veiled stars will watch there till the day.
Dear heart, sleep well!
Death, the great purifier, scarce could make
His face more pure; and yet I long to know
The added beauty which it printed there.
But that sweet sorrow will not come to me,
I can but keep his features as they were.
I know the fatal bullet dared not strike
The brow whereon his mother left her kiss;
I hope there is no blood-stain on his cheek;
I hope his lips still keep their tender smile,
That his true hand yet rests upon his sword,
And that anemones and violets,
Taught by the grateful year that is to come,
Will find the nameless pillow where he lies,
And wrap him in the colors which he loved,—
The colors in whose dear defence he died,
Red, white, and blue!
His face more pure; and yet I long to know
The added beauty which it printed there.
But that sweet sorrow will not come to me,
I can but keep his features as they were.
I know the fatal bullet dared not strike
The brow whereon his mother left her kiss;
I hope there is no blood-stain on his cheek;
I hope his lips still keep their tender smile,
That his true hand yet rests upon his sword,
And that anemones and violets,
Taught by the grateful year that is to come,
Will find the nameless pillow where he lies,
And wrap him in the colors which he loved,—
The colors in whose dear defence he died,
Red, white, and blue!
| Poems by Elizabeth Akers (Florence Percy) | |