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قراءة كتاب Beechenbrook A Rhyme of the War
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 3
her children, the mother must smile.
With matronly cares,—those relentless demands
On the strength of her heart and the skill of her hands,—
The hours come tenderly, ceaselessly fraught,
And leave her small space for the broodings of thought.
Thank God!—busy fingers a solace can find,
To lighten the burden of body or mind;
And Eden's old curse proves a blessing instead,—
"In the sweat of thy brow shalt thou toil for thy bread."
For the bless'd relief in all labours that lurk,
Aye, thank Him, unhappy ones,—thank Him for work!
To lighten the burden of body or mind;
And Eden's old curse proves a blessing instead,—
"In the sweat of thy brow shalt thou toil for thy bread."
For the bless'd relief in all labours that lurk,
Aye, thank Him, unhappy ones,—thank Him for work!
Thus Alice engages her thoughts and her powers,
And industry kindly lends wings to the hours:
Poor, petty employments they sometimes appear,
And on her bright needle there plashes a tear,—
Half shame and half passion;—what would she not dare
Her fervid compatriots' struggles to share?
It irks her,—the weakness of womanhood then,—
Yet such are the tears that make heroes of men!
And industry kindly lends wings to the hours:
Poor, petty employments they sometimes appear,
And on her bright needle there plashes a tear,—
Half shame and half passion;—what would she not dare
Her fervid compatriots' struggles to share?
It irks her,—the weakness of womanhood then,—
Yet such are the tears that make heroes of men!
She feels the hot blood of the nation beat high;
With rapture she catches the rallying cry:
From mountain and valley and hamlet they come!
On every side echoes the roll of the drum.
A people as firm, as united, as bold,
As ever drew blade for the blessings they hold,
Step sternly and solemnly forth in their might,
And swear on their altars to die for the right!
With rapture she catches the rallying cry:
From mountain and valley and hamlet they come!
On every side echoes the roll of the drum.
A people as firm, as united, as bold,
As ever drew blade for the blessings they hold,
Step sternly and solemnly forth in their might,
And swear on their altars to die for the right!
The clangor of muskets,—the flashing of steel,—
The clatter of spurs on the stout-booted heel,—
The waving of banners,—the resonant tramp
Of marching battalions,—the fiery stamp
Of steeds in their war-harness, newly decked out,—
The blast of the bugle,—the hurry, the shout,—
The terrible energy, eager and wild,
That lights up the face of man, woman and child,—
That burns on all lips, that arouses all powers;
Did ever we dream that such times would be ours?
The clatter of spurs on the stout-booted heel,—
The waving of banners,—the resonant tramp
Of marching battalions,—the fiery stamp
Of steeds in their war-harness, newly decked out,—
The blast of the bugle,—the hurry, the shout,—
The terrible energy, eager and wild,
That lights up the face of man, woman and child,—
That burns on all lips, that arouses all powers;
Did ever we dream that such times would be ours?
One thought is absorbing, with giant control,—
With deadliest earnest, the national soul:—
"The right of self-government, crown of our pride,—
Right, bought with the sacredest blood,—is denied!
Shall we tamely resign what our enemy craves?
No! martyrs we may be!—we cannot be slaves!"
With deadliest earnest, the national soul:—
"The right of self-government, crown of our pride,—
Right, bought with the sacredest blood,—is denied!
Shall we tamely resign what our enemy craves?
No! martyrs we may be!—we cannot be slaves!"
Fair women who naught but indulgence have seen,
Who never have learned what denial could mean,—
Who never have learned what denial could mean,—
Who deign not to clipper their own dainty feet,
Whose wants swarthy handmaids stand ready to meet,
Whose fingers decline the light kerchief to hem,—
What aid in this struggle is hoped for from them?
Whose wants swarthy handmaids stand ready to meet,
Whose fingers decline the light kerchief to hem,—
What aid in this struggle is hoped for from them?
Yet see! how they haste from their bowers of ease,
Their dormant capacities fired,—to seize
Every feminine weapon their skill can command,—
To labor with head, and with heart, and with hand.
They stitch the rough jacket, they shape the coarse shirt,
Unheeding though delicate fingers be hurt;
They bind the strong haversack, knit the grey glove,
Nor falter nor pause in their service of love.
Their dormant capacities fired,—to seize
Every feminine weapon their skill can command,—
To labor with head, and with heart, and with hand.
They stitch the rough jacket, they shape the coarse shirt,
Unheeding though delicate fingers be hurt;
They bind the strong haversack, knit the grey glove,
Nor falter nor pause in their service of love.
When ever were people subdued, overthrown,
With women to cheer them on, brave as our own?
With maidens and mothers at work on their knees,
When ever were soldiers as fearless as these?
With women to cheer them on, brave as our own?
With maidens and mothers at work on their knees,
When ever were soldiers as fearless as these?
June's flower-wreathed sceptre is dropped with a sigh,
And forth like an empress steps stately July:
She sits all unveiled, amidst sunshine and balms,
As Zenobia sat in her City of Palms!
And forth like an empress steps stately July:
She sits all unveiled, amidst sunshine and balms,
As Zenobia sat in her City of Palms!
Not yet has the martial horizon grown dun,
Not yet has the terrible conflict begun:
But the tumult of legions,—the rush and the roar,
Break over our borders, like waves on the shore.
Along the Potomac, the confident foe
Stands marshalled for onset,—prepared, at a blow,
To vanquish the daring rebellion, and fling
Utter ruin at once on the arrogant thing!
Not yet has the terrible conflict begun:
But the tumult of legions,—the rush and the roar,
Break over our borders, like waves on the shore.
Along the Potomac, the confident foe
Stands marshalled for onset,—prepared, at a blow,
To vanquish the daring rebellion, and fling
Utter ruin at once on the arrogant thing!
How sovran the silence that broods o'er the sky,
And ushers the twenty-first morn of July;
—Date, written in fire on history's scroll,—
—Date, drawn in deep blood-lines on many a soul!
And ushers the twenty-first morn of July;
—Date, written in fire on history's scroll,—
—Date, drawn in deep blood-lines on many a soul!
There is quiet at Beechenbrook: Alice's brow
Is wearing a Sabbath tranquility now,
As softly she reads from the page on her knee,—
"Thou wilt keep him in peace who is stayed upon Thee!"
When Sophy bursts breathlessly into the room,—
"Oh! mother! we hear it,—we hear it!.., the boom
Of the fast and the fierce cannonading!—it shook
The ground till it trembled, along by the brook."
Is wearing a Sabbath tranquility now,
As softly she reads from the page on her knee,—
"Thou wilt keep him in peace who is stayed upon Thee!"
When Sophy bursts breathlessly into the room,—
"Oh! mother! we hear it,—we hear it!.., the boom
Of the fast and the fierce cannonading!—it shook
The ground till it trembled, along by the brook."
One instant the listener sways in her seat,—
The paralysed heart has forgotten to beat;
The next, with the speed and the frenzy of fear,
She gains the green hillock, and pauses to hear.
The paralysed heart has forgotten to beat;
The next, with the speed and the frenzy of fear,
She gains the green hillock, and pauses to hear.
Again and again the reverberant sound
Is fearfully felt in the tremulous ground;
Again and again on their senses it thrills,
Like thunderous echoes astray in the hills.
Is fearfully felt in the tremulous ground;
Again and again on their senses it thrills,
Like thunderous echoes astray in the hills.
On tip-toe,—the summer wind lifting his hair,
With nostril expanded, and scenting the air
Like a mettled young war-horse that tosses his mane,
And frettingly champs at the bit and the rein,—
Stands eager, exultant, a twelve-year-old boy,
His face all aflame with a rapturous
With nostril expanded, and scenting the air
Like a mettled young war-horse that tosses his mane,
And frettingly champs at the bit and the rein,—
Stands eager, exultant, a twelve-year-old boy,
His face all aflame with a rapturous