 | Poems by Elizabeth Akers (Florence Percy) |  |
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THE RETURN OF THE REGIMENT.
The bells boom out to the cloudy sky,
The deep drums beat tumultuously,
And the martial music's crash and cry
Make all the city dumb;
There are tender eyes at every pane,
And, spite of wind and sifting rain,
From square and alley, street and lane,
The eager people come.
The deep drums beat tumultuously,
And the martial music's crash and cry
Make all the city dumb;
There are tender eyes at every pane,
And, spite of wind and sifting rain,
From square and alley, street and lane,
The eager people come.
What do they come to seek and see?
Why do they gaze so earnestly?
What may the strange attraction be?
A handful of haggard men!
Men who have stepped in crimson stains
Warmly flowing from traitorous veins,—
Soldiers from red Antietam's plains,
Heroes of battles ten.
Why do they gaze so earnestly?
What may the strange attraction be?
A handful of haggard men!
Men who have stepped in crimson stains
Warmly flowing from traitorous veins,—
Soldiers from red Antietam's plains,
Heroes of battles ten.
Ah, it is only a little while
Since in unbroken rank and file,
Cheered by many a nod and smile
From thousands as they passed by,
Fresh in their unstained uniform,
Eyes all hopeful and hearts all warm,
They went to meet the Southern storm,
To triumph—or to die.
Since in unbroken rank and file,
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From thousands as they passed by,
Fresh in their unstained uniform,
Eyes all hopeful and hearts all warm,
They went to meet the Southern storm,
To triumph—or to die.
Fourteen months have passed since then,—
Fourteen months, and battles ten,—
The men are old, and the boys are men,
Grown grave before their time;
And in their features the gazer sees
The bitter wisdom of times like these,
The sharply-cut experiences
Which make men's lives sublime.
Fourteen months, and battles ten,—
The men are old, and the boys are men,
Grown grave before their time;
And in their features the gazer sees
The bitter wisdom of times like these,
The sharply-cut experiences
Which make men's lives sublime.
Mute and strange are their faces all;
Nothing less than a battle-call,
With boom of cannon and shriek of ball,
Could shake their even breath;
Written in every line and curve
Are tales of courage and iron nerve,—
Of fire-tried hearts that never swerve
From danger or from death.
Nothing less than a battle-call,
With boom of cannon and shriek of ball,
Could shake their even breath;
Written in every line and curve
Are tales of courage and iron nerve,—
Of fire-tried hearts that never swerve
From danger or from death.
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Haggard with toil, fatigue, and pain,
Soiled and smoky with battle-stain,
Back they come to their homes again,
Changed as by many years;
But leaning out from the gazing bands
Many a woman silent stands,
Who longs to grasp their hard, brown hands,
And wash them white with tears!
Soiled and smoky with battle-stain,
Back they come to their homes again,
Changed as by many years;
But leaning out from the gazing bands
Many a woman silent stands,
Who longs to grasp their hard, brown hands,
And wash them white with tears!
Their banner wide in the wind unrolls,
Tattered and ragged with bullet-holes;
Think of the strong, heroic souls
Who hailed it as their pride;
And with their faint and anguished eyes,
Lifted in deathful agonies,
Saw it between them and the skies,
Blessed it, and blessing died!
Tattered and ragged with bullet-holes;
Think of the strong, heroic souls
Who hailed it as their pride;
And with their faint and anguished eyes,
Lifted in deathful agonies,
Saw it between them and the skies,
Blessed it, and blessing died!
Many a cheek at the memory pales;
The jubilant music faints and fails,
Dying in low and mournful wails
For those whose graves are green;
The crowd grows still with a conscious dread,
So still that you almost hear the tread,
The ghostly tread of the gallant dead
Who walk in the ranks unseen.
The jubilant music faints and fails,
Dying in low and mournful wails
For those whose graves are green;
The crowd grows still with a conscious dread,
So still that you almost hear the tread,
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Who walk in the ranks unseen.
Crippled and mangled in trunk and limb
Are these, whose souls have passed the brim
Of that wide sea which, strange and dim,
Knows no returning flow;
Solemn and still, in strange array,
Pallid with illness, and gaunt and gray,—
The ghosts of those who went away
But fourteen months ago!
Are these, whose souls have passed the brim
Of that wide sea which, strange and dim,
Knows no returning flow;
Solemn and still, in strange array,
Pallid with illness, and gaunt and gray,—
The ghosts of those who went away
But fourteen months ago!
The eyes of women and lips of men
Welcome the soldiers of battles ten,
Coming back to their homes again,
Sobered, but not dismayed.
Uncover your head and hold your breath;
This boon not every lifetime hath,—
To look on men who have walked with death,
And have not been afraid!
Welcome the soldiers of battles ten,
Coming back to their homes again,
Sobered, but not dismayed.
Uncover your head and hold your breath;
This boon not every lifetime hath,—
To look on men who have walked with death,
And have not been afraid!
| Poems by Elizabeth Akers (Florence Percy) | |