Poems (Denver)/The Grandmother

by Mary Caroline Denver

THE GRANDMOTHER.

A bent and a broken form hath she
Who hath breathed the breath of a century;
Whose eye is dim with wandering back,
Along life's weary and wasted track;
Whose heart is tired with turning o'er
Leaf after leaf in memory's store;
Whose mind is weary and almost fled,
With the visions on which it long has fed.

How long a history hath she,
Who hath lived the life of a century!
Of men who long have passed away,
Whose names now live in some martial lay,
Whose faces, in days and years long gone,
She many a time hath gazed upon;
Whose voices, now silent as long-past chimes,
Have thrilled in her ear a thousand times.

I have seen her sit in her old arm-chair,
With her wrinkled brow and her silver hair,
That looked as soft and white and clear,
As snow on the brow of the dying year!
And eager faces would gather round,
All anxious to catch the slightest sound
Of the tales she often before had told,
Of those trying times, the times of old.

She can tell how wildly her heart did thrill
When she heard the cannon from Bunker Hill,
And almost break, when called to view
The death of some gallant friend she knew;
She can tell how freely her aid she gave,
Some trembling fugitive to save,
And how her heart would swell in wrath
Against those who followed upon his path.

And her voice will fail when she tells of one,
Of her youngest-born and favorite son,
Who marched, with the weapon he scarce could wield,
In his home-spun garb, to the battle-field;
How nobly he fought by his father's side,
How nobly he battled, how bravely died,
In the rebel ranks, in the foremost line,
On the fatal banks of the Brandywine.

She can tell how her heart with pain would beat.
When she saw the naked and bleeding feet
Of those who fought for their country's rights,
Through scorching days and wintry nights;
How her eyes with indignant fire would flash,
When she saw the British squadrons dash
Away, in gay and gallant trim—
And then she would weep to think of him.

She can tell of Trenton's well-fought field,
Where many a fate was forever sealed—
Of Monmouth's bloody and fatal plain,
Where England witnessed her bravest slain.
She can tell of many a well-fought day,
When the starry banner led the way;
Of Andre's capture, his youth, his pride,
How bravely he lived, and the death he died.

And then her voice will grow deep and stern,
And her eye with a smothered fire will burn,
When she speaks of him who his country sold,
For a shining treasure of worthless gold.
And then she will smile to tell of those
Whose eyes were ever upon their foes,
From the tangled wood, from the deep morass,
Where none but Marion's men could pass.

Oh, many a history hath she
Who hath lived the life of a century!
Whose heart is tied with a golden thread
To the prouder stories of years long fled,
Whose generation hath nearly passed,
Who stands, of her kindred, almost the last;
For her children have left her, and gone before,
To the peaceful rest of the unknown shore!

On the cheek, I have witnessed bitter tears,
Of those who have numbered scarce twenty years;
And thought how fitter to weep was she
Who had felt the storms of a century;
Whose feet had many a time been worn,
Whose heart had many a time been torn,
And who yet lived on, through griefs and tears,
Bearing the weight of a hundred years!