Classic Poem

'Twas midnight in the soldier's shed,
Where lay upon his burning bed
The sufferer, to whose fever-glow
Most welcome came the gusts of snow,
On searching night-winds, icy thin,
Through every cranny blowing in,
Filling the place with frequent mist,
That round the one poor taper hissed.

Close at his side an aged man
Sat, like a good Samaritan,
Pouring the sacred oil and balm,
His pains and spirit-wounds to calm.
A cloth about his brow was bound,
To shield a deep and stubborn wound,
While round his neck the intruding air
Lifted and fanned his thin gray hair.
Across his knees his warrior sword
Sustained the book o'er which he pored:
The leaves were yellow, old, and stained,
And oft by fluttering, rude winds stirred,
But still his aged eyesight strained
To read the sacred, unstained Word.

But who was she who knelt beside,
And held the sick man's hand in hers,
Feeling such pain as only stirs
The breast where love and truth abide?
It needs but one glance to suffice
To know those large and dewy eyes;
But keener sight 'twould take, I ween,
To recognize that altered mien
Of him whose features scarcely prove
The Edga of her hope and love.

But saddest of her painful lot
To look into those eyes which burned,
To find no answering look returned, —
Those eyes whose gladness ever flew
In love to hers, with pleasure new: —
Alas! alas! he knew her not!
A moment thus in prayers and tears
Her bosom poured its flood of fears;
But, conscious that, though blind with pain
His heart was hers, and hers alone.
She summoned strength, and stood again
Strong in his love and in her own.
As one who on a battle-plain,
Feeling his life-blood dew the ground,
Seizes the scarf which love had bound
With trembling hands his breast around,
And thrusts it in the bleeding wound
To staunch the crimson tide of life,
Then springs anew to join the strife,
To give, perchance, the fatal blow
Which lays the invading foeman low, —
So rose the maid, and firmly prest
His love into her bleeding breast,
And strove, with all such hands can do,
To win him back to health anew.

It was a charmed sight to see
How lovingly she came and went, —
How like a sunbeam, silently,
She cheered and warmed that winter tent.
Her cloak of fur around the wall
She hung, to intercept the blast;
Across the door was spread her shawl,
And every cranny was made fast.

Nor here alone her care was given:
She daily passed from shed to shed;
The early morn, the noon, the even,
Still found her near some sufferer's bed.
And striving oft, as she had striven,
There praying mid the sick and dead,
She saw the chieftain's bowing head,
And heard his word of courage said:
Where'er they smiled there seemed to spread
The soft and healing breath of Heaven.

Not fruitless was her constant care,
And not unheard her daily prayer:
The blackest cloud of all was past;
New sunshine filled the winter skies;
Hope came to Edgar's couch at last:
No more her face his glance denies;
His soul responded through his eyes
With all the warmth which love supplies.

And with the first returning breath —
A breath as sweet as that which stirs
Through April boughs, when all the woods
Feel the first thrill of promised buds —
He owned his soul was doubly hers,
Since she had called it back from death.

One day, as by the scanty fire
She strove to make it sparkle higher,
The while her patient's slender form
Was propt beside, and mantled warm,
The old man, Edgar's patriot sire,
Entered with overshadowed brow,
And said, " Sweet daughter, come with me
I fear another couch may now
Lay claim to your fidelity.
The strange wild woman you so oft
Encountered in your winter round,
And who so frequently you found
Soothing the sick with accents soft, —
Accents which suited not the dress,
So fitted for the wilderness, —
Now lies a victim to the spell
Which she in others strove to quell,
With fever sorely racked and thrilled,
Mid kindly hands, but all unskilled.

I have not yet forgot the day
When on the battle-field I lay
Almost in death, she was the first
To slake my fever-flame of thirst,
Or how within the secret cave
She tended me so well and long,
Cheering me oft with some wild stave
Of ballad or of mountain-song,
And oft, as though I were a child,
(There's something in her brain amiss,)
Telling some legend strange and wild.
For this — — But nay, — it needs not this
To wake compassion in your eyes: —
A human creature suffering lies. "

Then Esther rose, and joined her guide,
And reached the shed where Nora lay;
But, when she stood by Nora's side,
Her heart of courage sank away.
For, oh, it was a piteous sight
To see those eyes so strangely bright,
And all that flood of scattered hair
As blown by winds of wild despair,
And all the trappings of her dress
Flung wide by hands of hot distress!

There Ugo by the wagoner stood,
And both in anxious, gloomy mood;
She stared upon the wondering child,
Then wept as o'er some burning thought.
Then gazed at Ringbolt strangely wild,
And laughed, as though her pain were naught.
The saddest of all sounds that flow
Is laughter forced from deeps of woe.

A moment on the maid she glanced,
As if her spirit hung entranced,
And now, with curious, searching scan,
Surveyed the pitying, gray-haired man,
And spoke with low, mysterious air: —
" Thou poor young bride, beware! beware!
Oh, wed not with that cold white hair:
That summer smile is but device: —
His breast is snow, his heart is ice.
Oh, cold was the bridegroom,
All frozen with pride! —
He first slew her lover,
Then made her his bride.
Ringbolt, how goes the battle? Ho!
Fly, Ugo! — fly! the foe! — the foe!
A stealthy trick! — but they shall know
The stricken can return the blow!
The tyrant and his host shall flee, —
When patriots strike, they shall be free!
Our flag like a meteor
Sweeps down through the fight:
It brightens the valley
And burns on the height.
Oh, did you not see
How it sprung like a flame
When the voice of the nation
Called Freedom by name?
On the soul of the tyrant
That mighty name fell,
As in Gessler's heart quivered
The arrow of Tell! "

Thus sang she, and fell back with breath
Drawn faint, as through the lips of death:
The life within the frame consumed
Seemed scarce again to be illumed.
Then Ringbolt gazed on her with eye
Of pain, — almost of agony, —
And said, with heavy, solemn tongue,
" 'Tis hard for one so good and young
To suffer thus! The poor white dove
Was murdered by a falcon's love! "
Then Esther said, " Indeed, my friends,
It is a sight which sadly sends
The blood back on the heart, to see
Such depths of human misery.
Oh, surely this wild, dismal camp
Is all too rough and cold and damp:
'Twere better if she were conveyed
And in some quiet chamber laid,
Mid hands that know to tend and spread
The comforts of a sufferer's bed,
Where pity only holds control,
With not a sound to vex the soul.
And such a room my heart allows,
Within a well-provided house,
And well I know her couch will find
The hands attendant, gentle, kind;
For Hulda, ever good and mild,
Will guard her as she were her child.
Haste, Ugo, haste, and bring the sleigh,
And let her be enwrapt straightway:
'Tis but a short two hours ride;
So easily her course shall glide,
So deep shall be her bed of fur,
So soft and noiseless be the stir,
That she may sleep and never know
How swiftly fly the miles below. "
A moment there was seen to go
O'er Ringbolt's face a blackening cloud:
At length his nodding forehead bowed:
" Perchance, " he said, " 'twere better so. "

The sleigh was brought, and many a fold
Of fur and blanket wrapt her form;
And now within the wagoner's hold,
Like a light infant, close and warm,
She lay, — and thus, beside the maid,
To Berkley Mansion was conveyed.

He bore her up the shadowy stair,
The wildered sufferer knew not where,
And in a chamber warm and large
He left her in kind Hulda's charge.

A cup of wine, — bluff words of thanks, —
If Esther would regain the camp,
Ugo must be her guard and guide, —
The great hall heard his heavy tramp,
The deep snow marked his giant stride,
Which led him up the Schuylkill banks
To join again his waiting ranks.