 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
GOING HOME.
It matters little whose the negligence,
If engineer or switchman were at fault—
A crash within the tunnel, known from thence
Through all the country round as “Deadman's Vault;”
And so, brought from the darkness into day,
Twelve mangled victims, dead or dying, lay.
If engineer or switchman were at fault—
A crash within the tunnel, known from thence
Through all the country round as “Deadman's Vault;”
And so, brought from the darkness into day,
Twelve mangled victims, dead or dying, lay.
They sent for me to learn if human art
Could save the lives of such as were not past
The surgeon's skill, and doing there my part
In mercy's work, I came upon at last
One hapless sufferer, crushed in every limb—
A shattered wreck, there was no hope for him.
Could save the lives of such as were not past
The surgeon's skill, and doing there my part
In mercy's work, I came upon at last
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A shattered wreck, there was no hope for him.
True, he was young in years, and youth is strong,
But drink had stolen all vigor from his frame;
Whether through weakness, or to drown a wrong,
Or sink the memory of some deed of shame,
He fell so low, 'tis useless now to pry—
He could not bear the shock, and so must die.
But drink had stolen all vigor from his frame;
Whether through weakness, or to drown a wrong,
Or sink the memory of some deed of shame,
He fell so low, 'tis useless now to pry—
He could not bear the shock, and so must die.
He seemed to know it too. “No use in skill,”
He told me calmly, “for my race is run;
A life ill-spent could only end in ill;
I shall not live to see the setting sun.”
“I'll write—” I said. He stopped me there. “Not so!
'Twould kill my mother—she must never know.
He told me calmly, “for my race is run;
A life ill-spent could only end in ill;
I shall not live to see the setting sun.”
“I'll write—” I said. He stopped me there. “Not so!
'Twould kill my mother—she must never know.
“I've been a wanderer with no aim in life,
Not even to live, and now my life is lost;
I'm old in heart, if not in years; the strife
Waged in the past is over to my cost.
But promise this: When I am laid to rest,
That none remove what lies upon my breast.”
Not even to live, and now my life is lost;
I'm old in heart, if not in years; the strife
Waged in the past is over to my cost.
But promise this: When I am laid to rest,
That none remove what lies upon my breast.”
I promised him, then crept upon his eye
The film of death, his breath grew short and fast,
He gasped and shuddered, drew a heavy sigh—
“Mother,” he murmured, “I am home at last!”
Through the prone body came a sudden thrill,
His fingers clenched, unclosed—then all grew still.
The film of death, his breath grew short and fast,
He gasped and shuddered, drew a heavy sigh—
“Mother,” he murmured, “I am home at last!”
Through the prone body came a sudden thrill,
His fingers clenched, unclosed—then all grew still.
I found a packet on his breast where lay
A well-worn letter and a tress of hair;
The hair was fine and soft and silver-grey;
The writing in the letter neat and fair.
“Dear son,” it said; no date, no place it bore;
'Twas signed “your loving mother,” and no more.
A well-worn letter and a tress of hair;
The hair was fine and soft and silver-grey;
The writing in the letter neat and fair.
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'Twas signed “your loving mother,” and no more.
I did not read it; what therein was writ
God knows, she knew, and knew the dead; I gave
The packet rest upon his bosom; it
Went with its owner to his nameless grave.
None ever knew his name; he sleeps alone;
The turf is o'er his body, but no stone.
God knows, she knew, and knew the dead; I gave
The packet rest upon his bosom; it
Went with its owner to his nameless grave.
None ever knew his name; he sleeps alone;
The turf is o'er his body, but no stone.
And she, that loving mother, she shall wait
While lingers life, her prodigal's return;
For him remains unlatched the yearning gate,
For him the fire shall glow, the lamp shall burn;—
Nor shall she know that he, her hope and pride,
Fixing his thoughts on her in dying, died.
While lingers life, her prodigal's return;
For him remains unlatched the yearning gate,
For him the fire shall glow, the lamp shall burn;—
Nor shall she know that he, her hope and pride,
Fixing his thoughts on her in dying, died.
And who would tell her? Who all hope would crush?
She lives expectant, and such life is joy;
And when alone she sits, upon her rush
Sweet, pleasant memories of her wandering boy.
So shall she live and love and watch and pray—
She shall know all upon the final day.
She lives expectant, and such life is joy;
And when alone she sits, upon her rush
Sweet, pleasant memories of her wandering boy.
So shall she live and love and watch and pray—
She shall know all upon the final day.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |