Poems (Larcom)/Waiting for News

by Lucy Larcom

WAITING FOR NEWS.

[July 4, 1863.]

AT the corner of the lane,
 Where we stood this time last year,
Droops and waves the ripening grain;
Sounds the meadow-lark's refrain,
 Just as sad and clear.

Cornel-trees let blossoms fall
 In a white shower at my feet;
Thick viburnums hide the wall;
And behind, the bush-bird's call
 Bubbles, summery-sweet,

Now, as then, o'er purple blooms
 Veiled by meadow-grasses rare;
Bubbles through the coppice glooms;
Joins the sweetbrier's late perfumes
 Wandering through the air.

All returns;—your word, your look,
 As we stood where now I stand:—
With a dread I could not brook,
Well I knew my faint voice shook,
 While you held my hand.

Firm you always were, and then
 High resolve had made you strong.
Could I bid you linger, when
Freedom called aloud for men
 To requite her wrong?

Southrons threw their gauntlet-lie
 In the face of God and Truth.
"Go, for love's sake!" was my cry;
"Were not Truth more dear than I,
 Thou wert naught, in sooth!"

And you went. The whole year through,
 I have felt war's thunder-quake
Rend me hour by hour anew:
Yet I would not call for you,
 Though my heart should break.

Only, standing here to-day,
 With the sweetbrier's wandering breath,
And the smell of new-mown hay
In the air, "This life," I say,
 "Strikes deep root in death."

Death! while here I pass the hours,
 Blood is rising round your feet:
I sit ankle-deep in flowers:
On you, red shot falls in showers,
 Through the battle-heat.

What if there I saw you lie,
 Where the grasses nod and blow,
With your forehead to the sky,
And your wounds—O God! that I,—
 That I bade you go!

Yet, were that to say once more,
 "Go," I'd say, "at any cost!"
Many a heart has bled before.
God his heroes will restore;
 No great soul is lost

And the strife that rages so
 Burns out meanness from the land.
Men must fall, and blood must flow,
That our Plants of Honor grow
 Unto stature grand.

Ay, to-day it seems to me,
 That yon little straggling rose
Fed by War's red springs must be:
All of fair and good I see,
 Out of anguish grows.

Vines that shade the cottage-home;
 Laurels for the warrior's wreath;
Lilies of white peace, that bloom
After battle's lurid gloom; —
 All are nursed by death.

By our bond, I 'm close to-day
 As your sword is, to your side.
If your breath stops in the fray,
Watchers from above will say,
 Two for freedom died.

Still I loiter in the lane,—
 If I might but send you, dear,
Sweetbrier scents, the lark's refrain,
They would soothe the battle-pain;
 You should feel me near:

And the fresh thought of these fields
 With new strength would nerve your arm.
Fearlessly his sword he wields,
Whose whole risk is what it shields,—
 Home-love, pure and warm.

And you ventured this; you gave
 Freely all your wealth of life,
That the Stars and Stripes might wave
Nevermore above a slave.
 Cheerfully your wife

Climbs with you great Freedom's pyre,—
 Not as Hindoo widows die.
We to life in Life aspire:
Love's last height is our desire;
 Lo! we tread the sky!

Treading with a joyful scorn
 Selfish joy beneath our feet:
In a nation's hope new-born,
In a free world's radiant morn,
 Breathing bliss complete.

Hark! a jubilee of bells
 Pealing through the sunset light,
Shaking out fresh clover-smells!
Parting day to-morrow tells,
 Victory 's in sight.

Hark, again! the long, shrill blast
 Eager throngs are waiting for.
Is it Death's train, sweeping past?
Homeward, Heart! Pain cannot last.
 What news from the war?