Beechenbrook - Vii Poem by Margaret Junkin Preston

'Tis Autumn,--and Nature the forest has hung
With arras more gorgeous than ever was flung
From Gobelin looms,--all so varied, so rare,
As never the princeliest palaces were.
Soft curtains of haze the far mountains enfold,
Whose warp is of purple, whose woof is of gold,
And the sky bends as peacefully, purely above,
As if earth breathed an atmosphere only of love.

But thick as white asters in Autumn, are found
The tents all bestrewing the carpeted ground;
The din of a camp, with its stir and its strife,
Its motley and strange, multitudinous life,
Floats upward along the brown slopes, till it fills
The echoing hollows afar in the hills.

'Tis the twilight of Sabbath,--and sweet through the air,
Swells the blast of the bugle, that summons to prayer:
The signal is answered, and soon in the glen
Sits Colonel Dunbar in the midst of his men.

The Chaplain advances with reverent face,
Where lies a felled oak, he has chosen his place;
On the stump of an ash-tree the Bible he lays,
And they bow on the grass, as he solemnly prays.

Underneath thine open sky,
Father, as we bend the knee,
May we feel thy presence nigh,
--Nothing 'twixt our souls and thee!

We are weary,--cares and woes
Lay their weight on every breast,
And each heart before thee knows,
That it sighs for inward rest.

Thou canst lift this weight away,
Thou canst bid these sighings cease;
Thou canst walk these waves and say
To their restless tossings--'Peace!'

We are tempted;--snares abound,--
Sin its treacherous meshes weaves;
And temptations strew us round,
Thicker than the Autumn leaves.

Midst these perils, mark our path,
Thou who art 'the life, the way;'
Rend each fatal wile that hath
Power to lead our souls astray.

Prince of Peace! we follow Thee!
Plant thy banner in our sight;
Let thy shadowy legions be
Guards around our tents to-night.'

Through the aisles of the forest, far-stretching and dim
As a cloister'd Cathedral, the notes of a hymn
Float tenderly upward,--now soft and now clear,
As if twilight had silenced its breathing to hear;
Now swelling, a lofty, triumphant refrain,--
Now sobbing itself into sadness again.

The Bible is opened, and stillness profound
Broods over the listeners scattered around;
And warning, and comfort, and blessing, and balm,
Distil from the beautiful words of the Psalm.
Then simply and earnestly pleading,--his face
Lit up with persuasive and eloquent grace,
The Chaplain pours forth, from the warmth of his heart,
His words of entreaty and truth, ere they part.

'I see before me valiant men,
With courage high and true,
Who fight as only heroes fight,
And die, as heroes do.

Your serried ranks have never quailed
Before the battle-shock,
Whose maddest fury beats and breaks
Like foam against the rock.

Ye've borne the deadly brunt of war,
Through storm, and cold, and heat,
Yet never have ye turned your backs
Nor fled before defeat.

Behind you lie your cheerful homes,
And all of sweet or fair,--
The only remnants earth has left
Of Eden-life, are there.

Ye know that many a once bright cheek
Consuming care, makes wan;
Ye know the old, dear happiness
That blest your hearths,--is gone.

Ye see your comrades smitten down,--
The young, the good, the brave,--
Ye feel, the turf ye tread to-day,
May be to-morrow's grave.

Yet not a murmur meets the ear,
Nor discontent has sway,
And not a sullen brow is seen,
Through all the camp to-day.

No Greek, in Greece's palmiest days,
His javelin ever threw,
Impelled by more heroic zeal,
Or nobler aim than you.

No mailed warrior ever bore
Aloft his shining lance,
More proudly through the tales that fire
The page of old romance.

Oh! soldiers!--well ye bear your part;
The world awards its praise:
Be sure,--this grandest tourney o'er,--
'Twill crown you with its bays!

But there's sublimer work than even
To free your native sod;
--Ye may be loyal to your land,
Yet traitors to your God!

No Moslem heaven for him who falls,
A bribed requital doles;
And while ye save your country,--ye,
Alas! may lose your souls!

No glorious deeds can urge their claim,--
No merits, entrance win,--
The pierced hand of Christ alone,
Must freely let you in.

Oh! sirs!--there lurks a fiercer foe,
Than this that treads your soil,
Who springs from unseen ambuscades,
To drag you as his spoil.

He drugs the heedless conscience, till,
No wary watch it keeps,
And parleys with the treacherous heart,
While fast the warder sleeps.

He captive leads the wavering will
With specious words, and fair,
And enters the beleaguered soul,
And rules, a conqueror there.

Will ye who fling defiance forth,
Against a temporal foe,
And rather die, than stoop to wear
The chains that gall you so,--

Will ye succumb beneath a power,
That grasps at full control,
And binds its helpless victims down
In servitude of soul?

Nay,--act like brave men, as ye are,--
Nor let the despot, sin,
Wrest those immortal rights away,
Which Christ has died to win.

For Heaven--best home--true fatherland,
Bear toil, reproach and loss,
Your highest honor,--holiest name,--
The soldiers of the Cross!