Poems by the late John Bethune With a sketch of the author's life, by his brother |
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THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. |
 | Poems by the late John Bethune |  |
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THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.
Ye few, who nobly born an' bred
At lordly board—in lordly bed—
Deem that no noble feeling
Can settle on the poor man's head,
Or glad his humble shieling;
Even if to move you it should fail,
Amid the playthings and the pranks
Of elevated life,
I pray you listen to the tale
Of a poor soldier of the ranks,
And of his faithful wife.
At lordly board—in lordly bed—
Deem that no noble feeling
Can settle on the poor man's head,
Or glad his humble shieling;
Even if to move you it should fail,
Amid the playthings and the pranks
Of elevated life,
I pray you listen to the tale
Of a poor soldier of the ranks,
And of his faithful wife.
The British banner waved on high,
And British swords below:
Was this a sight for woman's eye,
Which melts o'er every woe?
And round and round, from rank and file,
The musket volleys play'd;
And, scattering death for many a mile,
The ceaseless cannonade
Thunder'd, with deafening shouts between,
Of charging columns, and the din
Of many a bickering blade.
And British swords below:
Was this a sight for woman's eye,
Which melts o'er every woe?
And round and round, from rank and file,
The musket volleys play'd;
And, scattering death for many a mile,
The ceaseless cannonade
Thunder'd, with deafening shouts between,
Of charging columns, and the din
Of many a bickering blade.
Were these meet sounds for woman's ears—
Those inlets of delights and fears
So delicate, so slight,
That they appear as only made
To listen, in some silvan shade,
To Zephyrs breathing light?
Rank after rank was swept away
And stiffening in their gore,
Or struggling in their life-blood lay
Thousands of gallant men,
Who fell to rise no more;
While heedless o'er their mangled slain
The routed squadron fled
To rally in the rear,
And when they turn'd to charge again,
Regardless of their kindred dead,
And friends and comrades dear,
They dash'd with doubly reckless tread,
And spirit-maddening cheer.
Those inlets of delights and fears
So delicate, so slight,
That they appear as only made
To listen, in some silvan shade,
To Zephyrs breathing light?
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And stiffening in their gore,
Or struggling in their life-blood lay
Thousands of gallant men,
Who fell to rise no more;
While heedless o'er their mangled slain
The routed squadron fled
To rally in the rear,
And when they turn'd to charge again,
Regardless of their kindred dead,
And friends and comrades dear,
They dash'd with doubly reckless tread,
And spirit-maddening cheer.
Was this a part for woman's heart,
That timid thing, to bear?
Could aught so soft—so fearful oft—
In female form, be there?
That timid thing, to bear?
Could aught so soft—so fearful oft—
In female form, be there?
Yes—there a heart as kind, as true,
As warm as ever shed
The pearly drops of Pity's dew
Above the living or the dead,
Borne, by its wild excess of love,
Amid the conflicts' heat,
Though timid as the turtal dove,
In sickening anguish beat.
As warm as ever shed
The pearly drops of Pity's dew
Above the living or the dead,
Borne, by its wild excess of love,
Amid the conflicts' heat,
Though timid as the turtal dove,
In sickening anguish beat.
There was a youthful soldier's wife
Beside her bleeding husband kneeling,
Regardless of the thickening strife—
Lost in that extacy of feeling
Which gathers round the bursting heart
A moment ere all hope depart.
Beside her bleeding husband kneeling,
Regardless of the thickening strife—
Lost in that extacy of feeling
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A moment ere all hope depart.
And swords might clash, and cannons roll,
Unheard, unheeded, in her ears:
Her's was that agony of soul
Which neither feels, nor sees, nor hears,
Save that one image of despair—
The object of its hopes and fears.
And her devoted love was there,
Expiring where he fell,
And murmuring to her tender care
A long and last farewell.
Unheard, unheeded, in her ears:
Her's was that agony of soul
Which neither feels, nor sees, nor hears,
Save that one image of despair—
The object of its hopes and fears.
And her devoted love was there,
Expiring where he fell,
And murmuring to her tender care
A long and last farewell.
Her eye but saw the death-wound deep
That gash'd his manly chest;
Her ear but heard the life-drops drip
On her own burning breast;
And still she strove to staunch their flow,
And bathed his quivering lip
With water from the spring,
(That last sad solace of his woe,)
Which he had lost the power to sip,
Though close beside him murmuring.
That gash'd his manly chest;
Her ear but heard the life-drops drip
On her own burning breast;
And still she strove to staunch their flow,
And bathed his quivering lip
With water from the spring,
(That last sad solace of his woe,)
Which he had lost the power to sip,
Though close beside him murmuring.
His moans grew more convulsed and low,
His breath more deeply drawn and slow;
But still his glazing eye
Gazed sadly on his helpless wife,
And even when all grew vacancy,
Its rayless, sightless, changeless stare,
As if his love outlasted life,
Was fixed on his young widow there.
And must stern hands that mourner tear
From that beloved dead?
Must she, the victim of despair,
Back to her native land be led,
In solitude to pine?
Must those who never parted part?
No—Heaven forbade a doom so dread,
And sent, as fortune more benign,
The ball which whistled to the heart.
His breath more deeply drawn and slow;
But still his glazing eye
Gazed sadly on his helpless wife,
And even when all grew vacancy,
Its rayless, sightless, changeless stare,
310
Was fixed on his young widow there.
And must stern hands that mourner tear
From that beloved dead?
Must she, the victim of despair,
Back to her native land be led,
In solitude to pine?
Must those who never parted part?
No—Heaven forbade a doom so dread,
And sent, as fortune more benign,
The ball which whistled to the heart.
She sunk upon her soldier's clay
And lock'd him in a last embrace;
And breast to breast, and face to face,
All lifeless there they lay:
Their faithful blood together flow'd
In one untainted stream;
Their souls, united, rose to God
Like one relucent beam.
And lock'd him in a last embrace;
And breast to breast, and face to face,
All lifeless there they lay:
Their faithful blood together flow'd
In one untainted stream;
Their souls, united, rose to God
Like one relucent beam.
No name was carved, nor column raised,
On that red field, to tell
Where Love's last glorious look was gazed,
And Love's young martyr fell;
But when the veteran victors came,
With slow and mournful tread,
From gathering vultures to reclaim
Their loved and honoured dead,
Then wept the generous hearted and the brave,
As o'er that youthful pair they sadly spread
The blood-soak'd earth of their untimely grave—
The covering of their last connubial bed!
On that red field, to tell
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And Love's young martyr fell;
But when the veteran victors came,
With slow and mournful tread,
From gathering vultures to reclaim
Their loved and honoured dead,
Then wept the generous hearted and the brave,
As o'er that youthful pair they sadly spread
The blood-soak'd earth of their untimely grave—
The covering of their last connubial bed!
Though silent was the trump of fame,
And mute the muse's lay
O'er that young matron's humble name,
And o'er her dying day,
The proudest belle in Beauty's mart,
Or bower of regal life,
Might learn a lesson of the heart
From that poor soldier's wife,
Who fearlessly in duty fell
With her own soldier boy,
'Mid cannon's roar, and battle's yell,
On the field of Fontenoy.
And mute the muse's lay
O'er that young matron's humble name,
And o'er her dying day,
The proudest belle in Beauty's mart,
Or bower of regal life,
Might learn a lesson of the heart
From that poor soldier's wife,
Who fearlessly in duty fell
With her own soldier boy,
'Mid cannon's roar, and battle's yell,
On the field of Fontenoy.
| Poems by the late John Bethune | |