Poems (Rice)/Our Volunteer's Birthday

by Maria Theresa Rice

OUR VOLUNTEER'S BIRTHDAY.

THE sky, it was veiled and dark when we rose,
 The storm-cloud obscured the mountain from sight;
The winds were at war, nor peace, nor repose
 Came in with the day, as we prayed that it might;
We spoke of the time we love to recall,
 The joy that to us thine advent conferred,
That a mystery thus should forever inthrall
 The changes that early in childhood occurred.

I took up the Book and read for the day
 The psalm—O, how sweet were the notes of the song,
The burden of which to those who obey,
 That God would ever His mercies prolong;
The children of Israel,—this was the theme,
 The promise that to His people were given,—
Of those who rebelled, of Joseph, his dream,
 Of Jacob, and, too, the Anointed of Heaven.

The clouds that hung heavy by noon were dispersed,
 Their fury was spent in tornado and rain,
While I the events of thy boyhood rehearsed,
 And pictured each scene from memory again;
Then, venturing forth, I gathered, while wet
 With rain-drops, the buds and blossoms so fair;
In thine own little room the clusters I set,
 And felt in my heart thy presence was there.

While musing, each trifle a value possessed,
 Too sacred for pen or for thought to portray;
And secretly I each token caressed,
 Which seemed to respond,—He is twenty to-day;
Twelve months has elapsed since first thou obeyed
 The summons of dread—the war-bugle's cry;
Twelve months since thou wert in armor arrayed,
 With spirit undaunted, to do or to die.

As a tree that is seared by the lightning's blast,
 Struggling through the wildering gale,
I have stood till the news of conflicts swept past,
 Sustained by the hope that right must prevail.
Vicksburg surrendered; firm, glorious, and true,
 Didst thou stand in the front, with comrade so bold,
Till our fag was unfurled, the red, white, and blue;
 But, alas, when may I my hero behold?

At Jackson, the first confronting the foe,
 Where Carruth, the brave, his ensign did place
On battlements firm, the first there to glow,
 His vanguard a page will our history grace.
Till thy wounds shall be healed, O, beloved of mine,
 Look up to the crowns thy victors have gained;
We'll blessings invoke on thee and on thine,
 Till health is restored and peace is obtained.

When our land shall be purged, when banners of light
 Shall float unobscured by clouds of the past,
When freedom no more is cursed with a blight,
 May I be allowed to enfold thee at last:
A harbinger thus—clouds, sorrow, and joy,
 The sun's bursting forth on the landscape to-day
To lighten the gloom,—I these omens employ,
 And trust in the songs the psalmists convey.