Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/The Volunteer
POEMS
BY FRANCES A. FULLER.
THE VOLUNTEER.
"Night hath made many bards, she is so lovely;"
But in the South's bright clime, of which I speak,
Night holds her court in glory. There she seems
To center all her softness and her light,
To make a focus of her loveliness;
And weaving in her dark veil myriad stars,
Blending their clear light with the softer beams
Of a most queenly moon, she strives to make
Atonement for the burning glare of day
With such a world of sweetness, poetry,
Flowers and perfume, witching light and shade,
Murmuring music, and soft falling dew,
As would have made a gala-night in Eden.
'Twas such a night as this, when o'er the earth
Stole every form of loveliness. The air
Sighed faintly with its burden of perfume,
And lifted on its wings the golden light
That streamed in waving pennons, fluttering
To the slow motion of some zephyr's wing.
Night's sensitive flowers had oped their starry eyes,
Undaunted by the moon's love-looking face,
And breathed their sweetness to the gentle wind
As coyly, yet as tenderly as girls
Whisper the first confession of their love.
All 'neath that sky was loveliness and peace,
Save where upon a wide and grove-bound plain
Lay the white tents of soldiers, and the drum
Beat the tattoo that warned them to repose,
Or the guard's sleepless vigil.
But one heard
The solemn beat of that tattooing drum,
To whom e'en weariness, and a day's toil
Beneath a torrid sun, could not win sleep.
He with the form towering and graceful,
And yet delicate—a boy in seeming.
The high pale brow, and the dark wavy hair,
Have a fine placid beauty; but the eye,
Save now, when tears are in it, has a fire
That makes the face seem fearful; and the lip,
Used to compression, has the bent of scorn—
A dark, fierce, bitter scorn—the scorn of hate.
But he is softened now; the scene, the time,
Have found a soul-spring in his stormy being;
And thoughts have come of a time like to this,
When he was sinless, and when love first fell
Upon his wayward heart. But like the dew
Within the calyx of some noxious flower,
It but distilled its poison, and his soul
Steeped deadliness within it. She he loved
Was like a star to him, she was so pure;
A fair young creature, with a quiet face,
And an eye clear as heaven, and as starry.
Yet was there beauty in her quietness;
As a lake, when 'tis waveless, looks most deep.
And her he loved—and 'twas perchance because
That she was so unlike him that she gave
More scope to his impetuous nature than would one
Who could be wild as he was. But he loved—
No, worshiped had been better said than loved—
For he had set her image in his heart,
And bowed him down like an idolater,
In impious adoration, ere he knew
Or hardly cared to know, that she would look
With warmth upon his passion. He dream'd not
That one so gentle could turn from the power
Of the same spell that bound him. But he found,
Too late to save his peace, her heart preferred
The homage of another. Then sprang forth
The demon in his nature. With a howl
He fled through night and darkness, recking not
Of men's thoughts or of danger. On he went,
Gnashing his teeth with rage, and hissing out
Curses upon his rival. Thus was spent
The first burst of his fury; then there came
A darker spirit, with a deadlier aim,
And counseled with the demon in his heart,
And it consented. Ere the stars had looked
Upon another meeting of the lovers,
One slept in death; and he, the assassin, stole
A look of triumph on his bloody work,
Then fled to serve his COUNTRY! He saw not
His bitterest revenge, the helpless grief
Of her who died of madness.
'Twas this, the story of her pitiful death,
And her long suffering first, that woke once more
The inner wells of feeling, and drew tears,
The first had moistened his wild, burning eye
For many terrible months. For hours he wept,
Till drowsiness, like a nepenthe, soothed
His wakened feeling, and sleep came with dreams.
In thought he wandered weary o'er the earth,
Seeking a place to hide himself from men;
But all the world was peopled, and the crowds
That met him everywhere, all looked on him
With their astonished eyes, as if to say,
"How! art thou here?" and children shrunk away,
And peered at him from out each window nook,
Mocking at him, yet fearing to be seen.
Nowhere was solitude; he had grown old
Seeking for rest that he might never find;
And now he sat him on a church's steps,
Fainting from utter helplessness and want.
A crowd swept by him. On, with stately step,
Came a procession, headed by a bier
Shrouded with sable drapery of grief.
They were the first that had not heeded him,
And wondering with a strange happiness
If he had not been dreaming all his woe,
He followed the procession to the vault,
Beneath the marble pavement of the church,
And saw them lift the coffin-lid once more
Ere its pale inmate perished from their sight;
When lo! the corpse sat upright, and its hand,
Wasted and fleshless, pointed straight at him;
And the eyes gazed with terror; and the lips
Breathed a low wail of fear, and, quivering, closed;
Then the corpse sank back motionless again.
Enough for him. Even the haggard face,
And hair more white than silver, could not make
His heart deceive him. 'Twas her altered form.
The crowd turned to him when that bony hand
Pointed him out, and when surprise was past,
Rushed with a yell upon him. Thus he woke.
The morning drum proclaimed the time was near
When deadly contest between foe and foe
Required his soldier's spirit, and he shook
The influence from him of that dreadful dream,
And went forth to the struggle.
Night came again, and closed the scene of strife;
But not a night of beauty. 'Twould have mocked
Too much the desolation of the blood-stained earth,
Had beaming skies looked on it. Flying clouds
Belted the moon with mourning; and the wind
Moaned hoarsely through the tree-tops, that bent low
To evade its rising fury. In this hour
A dying wretch uplifted his pale face,
Praying for that wherewith to quench his thirst,
And cool his burning fever; and there came
In answer to his prayer a gentle hand
Bearing the draught of water; and a voice
Of sympathy in foreign accent bade
The sufferer take courage, and revive.
But death was at his heart, and gasping out
The name of her whom he had doubly murdered,
He quivered in his agony, and died.
And the kind Mexic woman, with a sigh,
Kept on her way in mercy, giving life
Alike to foe or countryman; and all
Raised their weak hands, and blessed her as she passed.