Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/Home of the Duellist
HOME OF THE DUELLIST.
The mother sat beside her fire,
Well trimm'd it was and bright,
While loudly moan'd the forest-pines
Amid that wintry night.
She heard them not, those wind-swept pines,
For o'er a scroll she hung,
That bore her husband's voice of love,
As when that love was young.
And thrice her son, beside her knee,
Besought her favouring eye,
And thrice her lisping daughter spoke,
Before she made reply.
"O, little daughter, many a kiss
Lies in this treasured line;
And, boy, a father's blessed prayers,
And counsels fond, are thine.
"Thou hast his high and arching brow,
Thou hast his eye of flame;
And be the purpose of thy soul,
Thy sun-bright course, the same."
And, as she drew them to her arms,
Down her fair cheek would glide
A gushing tear like diamond spark,
A tear of love and pride.
She took her baby from its rest,
And laid it on her knee:
"Thou ne'er hast seen thy sire," she said,
"But he'll be proud of thee:
"Yes, he'll be proud of thee, my dove,
The lily of our line,
I know what eye of blue he loves,
And such an eye is thine."
"Where is my father gone, mamma?
Why does he stay so long?"
"He's far away in Congress' Hall,
Amid the noble throng:
"He's in the lofty Congress' Hall,
To swell the high debate,
And help to frame those equal laws
That make our land so great.
"But ere the earliest violets bloom
We in his arms shall be,
So go to rest, my children dear,
And pray for him and me."
The snow-flakes rear'd their drifted mound
O'er hill and valley deep,
But nought amid that peaceful home
Disturb'd the dews of sleep;
For lightly, like an angel's dream,
The trance of slumber fell,
Where innocence and holy love
Maintain'd their guardian spell.
Another eve—another scroll.
Wist ye what words it said?
Two words, two awful words it bore,
The duel! and the dead!
The duel? and the dead? How dim
Was that young mother's eye,
How fearful was her lengthen'd swoon,
How wild her piercing cry.
There's many a wife whose bosom's lord
Is in his prime laid low,
Ingulf'd beneath the wat'ry main,
Where bitter tempests blow;
Or crush'd amid the battle-field,
Where slaughter'd thousands rest;
Yet know they of the speechless pang
That rives her bleeding breast?
Who lies so powerless on her couch,
Transfix'd by sorrow's sting?
Her infant in its nurse's arms,
Like a forgotten thing.
A dark-hair'd boy is at her side
He lifts his eagle-eye:
"Mother! they say my father's dead;
How did my father die?"
Again the spear-point in her breast!
Again that shriek of pain!
"Child! thou hast riven thy mother's soul:
Speak not those words again."
"Speak not those words again, my son!"
What boots the fruitless care?
They're written wheresoe'er she turns,
On ocean, earth, or air:
They're sear'd upon her shrinking heart,
That bursts beneath its doom:
The duel! and the dead! they haunt
The threshold of her tomb.
Yes, through her brief and weary years
That broken heart she bore,
And on her desolated cheek
The smile sat never more.