The Writings of Bret Harte standard library edition |
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ST. VALENTINE IN CAMP |
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 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
ST. VALENTINE IN CAMP
We had borne the wintry sieges in our swamp-encircled camp,
When a step surprised the sentry in his measured tread and tramp,
When a step surprised the sentry in his measured tread and tramp,
And across the broad abatis swarmed the skirmishes of spring,
And the ivy's scaling ladders on the scarp hung quivering;
And the ivy's scaling ladders on the scarp hung quivering;
Till the bold invader's colors shook on every rocky wall,
And the buds with wedding carols drowned the bugle's warning call.
And the buds with wedding carols drowned the bugle's warning call.
Then a sudden vision thrilled me, and I seemed to stand again
With my hand upon the ploughshare on the far New England plain.
With my hand upon the ploughshare on the far New England plain.
371
Blithely sang the lark above me, and among the gathered kine
Sang the milkmaid in the farmyard, sang the song of Valentine;
Sang the milkmaid in the farmyard, sang the song of Valentine;
Or across the distant meadow, as of old she seemed to glide—
She whose troth with mine was plighted when we wandered side by side.
She whose troth with mine was plighted when we wandered side by side.
Where the wanton winds of summer stirred the maple's leafy crown,
Or the gusty breath of Autumn shook the rugged walnuts down.
Or the gusty breath of Autumn shook the rugged walnuts down.
But between me and my vision rise the graves upon the hill
Where my comrades lie together, and the winds are hushed and still.
Where my comrades lie together, and the winds are hushed and still.
They to whom the lark's blithe carol, and the songs of love are dead;
Vain to them the white encampment of the crocus o'er their head;
Vain to them the white encampment of the crocus o'er their head;
And my cheek is flushed with crimson—better that a stranger's hand
Guide the coulter in the furrow, if mine own shall wield the brand!
Guide the coulter in the furrow, if mine own shall wield the brand!
What to me the rattling walnuts in Love's consecrated shade,
Who have heard the bullets dropping in the dusky ambuscade?
Who have heard the bullets dropping in the dusky ambuscade?
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What to me if greenly flourish newer life within the wood,
If the baby leaves are nourished in the dew of brothers' blood?
If the baby leaves are nourished in the dew of brothers' blood?
Blithely lift your tuneful voices, blithely sing and merrily
Chant your marriage morning pæans, O ye birds, but not for me!
Chant your marriage morning pæans, O ye birds, but not for me!
Till the Nation's dreary winter shall have passed, and time shall bring
Through the Autumn's smoke of battle glimpses of the Nation's Spring;
Through the Autumn's smoke of battle glimpses of the Nation's Spring;
Till a people's benediction mingle with the songs above,
That shall hail the glad espousals of a long estrangèd love;
That shall hail the glad espousals of a long estrangèd love;
Then a symbol of that Union shall my darling fitly wear,
Hickory leaves and orange blossoms wreathed together in her hair.
Hickory leaves and orange blossoms wreathed together in her hair.
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |