Poems (Blake)/Mustered Out

by Mary Elizabeth Blake

MUSTERED OUT.

Where the blessèd winter sunshine close beside my pallet falls,
While I watch its golden glory steal across the white-washed walls,
While I hear amid the silence Christmas chime and Christmas shout,—
      I am lying,
      Faint and dying,
    Waiting to be mustered out.

'T is the time, I well remember, when I hoped once more to stand
Safe within the charmèd circle of the joyous household band,
Grim, perhaps, with warlike scarring; proud, perhaps, of warlike fame;—
      Vain my dreaming,—
      Yet in seeming
    I can think it just the same.

Weeks ago my comrades parted, the brave remnant tried and strong,
Who had stemmed the tide of battle and the wreck of war so long;
When I heard the well-known voices tremble as they said good-by,
      Doubting, fearing,
      Death still nearing,
    It seemed bitter, hard to die.

For I seemed to hear the greeting, seemed to see the welcoming eyes,
Waiting me beside the hearthstone under our New England skies,—
Waiting till the brown eyes faded, waiting till the cheeks grew white,
      God, who readeth
      All, and heedeth,
    Knows how dark my thoughts that night.

But 't is past I thank His mercy that the mists have flown away,
And within the purer dawning leading to the perfect day,
I can read His hidden meaning through the shadows wrapped about,
      Own my weakness,
      And with meekness
    Wait in peace the mustering out.

I can thank Him for the spirit that upheld my shrinking soul,
Nerved the arm and pointed onward with a power beyond control,
For the strength of fire and manhood,yea, for even wound and groan,
      Partial giving
      Is our living,
    But to die makes all His own.

He will hold the trusts I leave Him; He will guard the trembling feet;
He will shield through pain and sorrow, winter's cold and summer's heat;
And when through the Christmas chiming I shall hear my name without,
      Close beside me,
      He will guide me;—
    So I wait the mustering out!