Lucile [82]
he won Working only for home, love, and duty. One son Matilda had borne him; but scarce had the boy, With all Eton yet fresh in his full heart's frank joy, The darling of young soldier comrades, just glanced Down the glad dawn of manhood at life, when it chanced That a blight sharp and sudden was breath'd o'er the bloom Of his joyous and generous years, and the gloom Of a grief premature on their fair promise fell: No light cloud like those which, for June to dispel, Captious April engenders; but deep as his own Deep nature. Meanwhile, ere I fully make known The cause of this sorrow, I track the event. When first a wild war-note through England was sent, He, transferring without either token or word, To friend, parent, or comrade, a yet virgin sword, From a holiday troop, to one bound for the war, Had march'd forth, with eyes that saw death in the star Whence others sought glory. Thus fighting, he fell On the red field of Inkerman; found, who can tell By what miracle, breathing, though shatter'd, and borne To the rear by his comrades, pierced, bleeding, and torn. Where for long days and nights, with the wound in his side, He lay, dark.
IX.
But a wound deeper far, undescried, The young heart was rankling; for there, of a truth, In the first earnest faith of a pure pensive youth, A love large as life, deep and changeless as death, Lay ensheath'd: and that love, ever fretting its sheath, The frail scabbard of life pierced and wore through and through. There are loves in man's life for which time can renew All that time may destroy. Lives there are, though, in love, Which cling to one faith, and die with it; nor move, Though earthquakes may shatter the shrine. Whence or how Love laid claim to this young life, it matters not now.
X.
Oh is it a phantom? a dream of the night? A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight? The wind wailing ever, with motion uncertain, Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tattered curtain, To and fro, up and down. But it is not the wind That is lifting it now: and it is not the mind That hath moulded that vision. A pale woman enters, As wan as the lamp's waning light, which concenters Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmer There, all in a slumberous and shadowy glimmer, The sufferer sees that still form floating on, And feels faintly aware that he is not alone. She is flitting before him. She pauses. She stands By his bedside all silent. She lays her white hands On the brow of the boy. A light finger is pressing Softly, softly the sore wounds: the hot blood-stain'd dressing Slips from them. A comforting quietude steals Through the rack'd weary frame; and, throughout it, he feels The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighborhood. Something smooths the toss'd pillow. Beneath a gray hood Of rough serge, two intense tender eyes are bent o'er him, And thrill through and through him. The sweet form before him, It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil keeping! A soft voice says . . . "Sleep!" And he sleeps: he is sleeping.
XI.
He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there. Still that pale woman moves not. A minist'ring care Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering The aspect of all things around him. Revering Some power unknown, and benignant, he bless'd In silence the sense of salvation. And rest Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly Sigh'd . . . "Say what thou art, blessed dream of a saintly And minist'ring spirit!" A whisper serene Slid, softer than silence . . . "The Soeur Seraphine, A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy sire, For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave. Thou didst not shun death: shun not life: 'Tis more brave To live than to die. Sleep!" He sleeps: he is
IX.
But a wound deeper far, undescried, The young heart was rankling; for there, of a truth, In the first earnest faith of a pure pensive youth, A love large as life, deep and changeless as death, Lay ensheath'd: and that love, ever fretting its sheath, The frail scabbard of life pierced and wore through and through. There are loves in man's life for which time can renew All that time may destroy. Lives there are, though, in love, Which cling to one faith, and die with it; nor move, Though earthquakes may shatter the shrine. Whence or how Love laid claim to this young life, it matters not now.
X.
Oh is it a phantom? a dream of the night? A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight? The wind wailing ever, with motion uncertain, Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tattered curtain, To and fro, up and down. But it is not the wind That is lifting it now: and it is not the mind That hath moulded that vision. A pale woman enters, As wan as the lamp's waning light, which concenters Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmer There, all in a slumberous and shadowy glimmer, The sufferer sees that still form floating on, And feels faintly aware that he is not alone. She is flitting before him. She pauses. She stands By his bedside all silent. She lays her white hands On the brow of the boy. A light finger is pressing Softly, softly the sore wounds: the hot blood-stain'd dressing Slips from them. A comforting quietude steals Through the rack'd weary frame; and, throughout it, he feels The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighborhood. Something smooths the toss'd pillow. Beneath a gray hood Of rough serge, two intense tender eyes are bent o'er him, And thrill through and through him. The sweet form before him, It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil keeping! A soft voice says . . . "Sleep!" And he sleeps: he is sleeping.
XI.
He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there. Still that pale woman moves not. A minist'ring care Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering The aspect of all things around him. Revering Some power unknown, and benignant, he bless'd In silence the sense of salvation. And rest Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly Sigh'd . . . "Say what thou art, blessed dream of a saintly And minist'ring spirit!" A whisper serene Slid, softer than silence . . . "The Soeur Seraphine, A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy sire, For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave. Thou didst not shun death: shun not life: 'Tis more brave To live than to die. Sleep!" He sleeps: he is