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73
A SUFFERER.
War I have seen and its victims: the wounded slowly emerging,One by one, from their beds, seeking the quickening sun;
Girded no more with the sword, but learning to manage their crutches,
Stopping at intervals short, wistfully looking around;
Spectres, haggard and pale, and armless and legless, whom nature,
Using the breeze of the spring, gently was trying to cure.
Yet these victims of war, thus crawling about in the sunshine,
Are not the sole who drag on, maimed in the morning of life.
Other cripples there are, whose story is sadly inglorious,
Not stricken down at a blow, living for years in suspense:
Wearing no medal or cross, and knowing nor brevet nor pension:
Maimed by the Powers above, not by the engines of men.
Few cast a glance on the wretches sustaining a combat unequal,
Yielding by inches the ground, doomed to a certain defeat;
Cheered by no bugle or drum, led on by no fluttering standard,
Hearing not Victory's shout, as in the battle they sink;
Bed is their battle-field dull, their witness the nurse and the doctor;
Patient and brave though they be, men have no laurels for them.
Yes, there are many like this; and especially one at this moment
Maybe I have in my thoughts; often I see him, alas!
Lifted by men on a chair, and with gentleness placed in a carriage,
Just like a victim of war; only no glory is his.
74
Which by this youth were sustained, ere he accepted his lot?
Short is the story indeed. The youth was of temper too ardent;
Talents he knew he possessed such as led men to success;
Yet not unworthy his aims; and pure was his youthful ambition;
Nought but the great and the good found in his wishes a place.
Home and its sweets he abandoned, and mixed in the world's competition;
Others he passed in the race; destined he seemed for a prize.
Work he desired and loved, and occasions he sought for distinction;
Only too many there came—all was too dearly bought—
Then by degrees imperceptible, fell o'er his pathway a shadow,
Seen and suspected by none, darkening daily his life.
Then came the weeks of despair: the walk that grew shorter and shorter
Steadily, day by day, till he could take it no more.
Yet he the secret preserved. And then came that wildest of struggles,
Fought with a foe all unseen, only to keep on his feet.
Bound half divine to the earth, man clings to his physical powers
Hard as the sailor that drowns clings to the wreck of his ship.
Fiercely he strives to retain, when one of these powers essential,
Given by Nature herself, bids him eternal adieu;
Only when all is too late, does the wretch for the commonest blessing,
Just when it slips from his grasp, feel this ineffable love.
Then for an hour's delay, a year of his life would he barter,
Measuring only too well all that awaits him of woe.
Yet when the loss is complete, he subsides into patience and sadness,
Bearing his burden in peace, writhing in spirit no more;
Helpless and guiltless he lives, and the worthiest parts of his being
Grow and develop with time, bearing a fruit that is sweet.
Higher he looks for the good which the world can no longer afford him;
Less of a man than before, nearer the angels he stands.
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