When the days were all sweetness, and the violets blue
Ran riot o'er hillside, and the world was made new
By shower and sunshine; and the spring's tender green
Was in crumpled leaf, grass-blade and emerald turf seen;
When the birds trilled with rapture and the wild wood-lands rang
With the musical songs that the feathered tribes sang—
Came the wild crash of cannon, the loud call to arms,
The shriek of the bugle and war's dread alarms.
In a rambling, brown farm-house where the maples and pines
Touched hands o'er the roof-tree, and the long slanting lines
Of sunlight, stole through to a low, home-like room,
Came the war cry and call, like a knell or death doom.
There two sons cheered a lonely, white-haired father's heart,
And they and one daughter of his life were a part;
For the mother had faded away from their sight,
And with her their joy and the home's dearest light.
Still, he lived for his children, the truth and the right,
But his heart was sore stricken that terrible night.
The eldest son rose when the war tiding's came;
"My father, I would not go forth for pleasure or fame,
But my country calls me, you will not bid me stay,
When my stout arm is ready, my heart strong for the fray.
You've no need of my service, you will not be bereft;
You have daughter and home and your "Benjamin" left."
The father was brave in that soul-trying strait,
His heart, too, was loyal, his soul strong and great.
"It shall be as God wills. Go! Shun evil! Be good!
You're my son and a soldier; be that, understood."
And he knew as he gazed on the noble old face,
That his sire would share in his fame or disgrace.
Then he girded his loins and marched to the fray
And left a sad house-hold behind him that day.
* * * *
One night when the harvest was gold in the field,
And the garners o'erflowed with their generous yield,
The youngest son said, with face reverent and grave:
"My father! one son to your country you gave,
Freely gave; now," he said, "she calls for one more;
You would not withhold, or keep strength in store
That is needed to save the old flag from disgrace—"
He paused, for the look in the father's pale face
Awed his heart; with one look he turned slowly away,
And walked 'neath the pines till the evening was gray.
But his Benjamin went to the war; and a gloom
Fell o'er the small household; and each sunny room
Felt a shadow and chill, and the sister sobbed low
In her prayers by her bedside; but a faint after-glow
Of pride in his sons, did the brave sire sustain,
Which no woman can feel for her heart's bitter pain.
* * * *
But the months wore away and the war dragged along,
Joy went out of the home, and the song
Struck a minor key ever; while a low note of pain
Sobbed and wailed evermore 'neath the bugle's sweet strain.
You all know the story of the long, cruel war,
How they followed the flag like the wise men the star.
You know of the carnage, the wounds and the pain,
The long, weary march and the battles again;
How the boys, worn and sick, fell out by the way,
Nor crept into camp 'til the dawn of the day.
How foot-sore and weary, they still struggled through
More days of hard marching, brave, loyal and true.
* * * *
Poor Benjamin! Son of his sire's old age!
His name is recorded on history's page
As one of the faithful; but disease racked his frame,
And he fell from the ranks without glory or fame,
Then came long weary days, of longing for night,
And the long nights of pain and the longing for light;
The fever-tossed hours, the weakness and chill,
The sinking of heart and the fainting of will.
Then a move further north near the borders of home,
And the hope of a furlough to lighten the gloom;
Then the long dragging days of hope oft deferred.
The watching and waiting for promise or word
Unfulfilled as before; but something to cheer
The lone heart in its weakness and doubting and fear.
The furlough at last! He forgot all his pain,
His weakness and trembling. An out-going train
Bore him forth from his prison without conduct or aid-
There were none to be anxious, or care, or afraid.
Long hours of travel, one night waiting for day,
When he slept but to dream that his train sped away
Vnd left him behind, forever to roam
In a hospital ward, still seeking his home.
* * * *
At the old home again! and his sister's fond eyes
Ever watching his coming, the blue coat espies,
And fares forth to meet him, but a wan, haggard face
Looked into her own, where not even a trace
Of the brother she loved, could her famished eyes see,
And she shrank from his presence, and turning to flee
The beloved voice hears, the same tender tone,
And quick as a thought to his fond arms has flown.
She guides him, white, trembling, and weak, to the door,
He crosses the threshold and sinks to the floor.
In the strong, tender arms of the sister and maid,
The frail form is lifted, on his mother's bed laid;
And once more at home, with his sire bending o'er,
Smiles feebly, and closing his eyes knows no more.
Wildly sobbing, his sister rains tears on his face,
Voices call on his name and he drifts back apace;
He thinks it a dream—he has dreamed thus before—
And he cares not to wake to his sorrow once more.
But the life-blood at last, throbs slowly again
And he takes up his burden of sickness and pain,
But the wan, wintry light on his thin, ghastly face,
Makes more haggard his features, leaving scarcely a trace
Of the strong robust man, the soldier, the son,
And they think in their hearts that his race is just run.
He clutches the bed-clothes; he opens his eyes;
He gazes around with a wistful surprise,
While the maid, arms akimbo and tears falling fast,
Whispers: "He's comin' to, but I'm sure he can't last—
See! He's pickin' the kivers! a mighty bad sign;
He don't hear or sense nothin'; see how his eyes shine!"
"Can it be? Can it be?"—his voice faint and weak—
First his hands, then loved faces, his eyes dimly seek;
"Can it be?" wailed his sister in her anguish and pain,
"We have found the dear boy but to lose him again?"
"Be silent, my daughter, we may, who can tell,
Have a look or a message or word of farewell."
"Can it be?" and the trembling hands hold aloft
The old-fashioned coverlet, old, worn and soft,
Of grandmother's weaving, a sacred heirloom,
The last work of her hands e'er she went to the tomb.
A gift to his mother, treasured many long years,
With fond, tender care, oft bedewed with her tears,
Still carefully cherished in memory of both;
And the reverent love had grown with his growth,
'Til it stood for the love of the ages gone by,
The past and the present, his fond eyes descry.
"Can it be?"—His voice soars aloft like the lark's morning lilt,
"Can it be I'm back home, under mother's old quilt?"
Soft laughter and tears in the sweet, homelike room
And camphor, hot broth, egg-nog, and each one
Vies with each other to serve, and the fright
Faded out into joy, lie the morning from night.
Smile not at our soldier, to his manhood no shame;
No blot on his courage, escutcheon, or fame,
That when stricken in body he was cast down in soul,
And his heart sought his home as the needle the pole.
All honor to our soldiers! Give them glory and fame,
Who fought for their flag and their country's good name;
They were loyal and brave; they fought to the hilt,
But were glad to get back under Mother's Old Quilt.
