The Project Gutenberg EBook of Beechenbrook, by Margaret J. Preston

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Beechenbrook
       A Rhyme of the War

Author: Margaret J. Preston

Release Date: August 8, 2005 [EBook #16480]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEECHENBROOK ***




Produced by Mark C. Orton, Ted Garvin and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

BEECHENBROOK;

A Rhyme of the War.

BY

MARGARET J. PRESTON.

BALTIMORE:
KELLY & PIET, PUBLISHERS,
174 BALTIMORE STREET,
1866.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by KELLY & PIET,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Maryland.

Dedication.

TO
EVERY SOUTHERN WOMAN, WHO HAS BEEN Widowed by the War, I DEDICATE THIS RHYME, PUBLISHED DURING THE PROGRESS OF THE STRUGGLE AND NOW RE-PRODUCED—AS A Faint Memorial of Sufferings, OF WHICH THERE CAN BE NO FORGETFULNESS.

M.J.P.

BEECHENBROOK;
A
RHYME OF THE WAR.

I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
VIRGINIA.
JACKSON.
DIRGE FOR ASHBY.
STONEWALL JACKSON'S GRAVE.[A]
WHEN THE WAR IS OVER.
VIRGINIA CAPTA.

I.

There is sorrow in Beechenbrook Cottage; the day
 Has been bright with the earliest glory of May;
 The blue of the sky is as tender a blue
 As ever the sunshine came shimmering through:
 The songs of the birds and the hum of the bees,
 As they merrily dart in and out of the trees,—
 The blooms of the orchard, as sifting its snows,
 It mingles its odors with hawthorn and rose,—
 The voice of the brook, as it lapses unseen,—
 The laughter of children at play on the green,—
 Insist on a picture so cheerful, so fair,
 Who ever would dream that a grief could be there!
The last yellow sunbeam slides down from the wall,
 The purple of evening is ready to fall;
 The gladness of daylight is gone, and the gloom
 Of something like sadness is over the room.
 Right bravely all day, with a smile on her brow,
 Has Alice been true to her duty,—but now
 Her tasks are all ended,—naught inside or out,
 For the thoughtfullest love to be busy about;
 The knapsack well furnished, the canteen all bright,
 The soldier's grey dress and his gauntlets in sight,
 The blanket tight strapped, and the haversack stored,
 And lying beside them, the cap and the sword;
 No last, little office,—no further commands,—
 No service to steady the tremulous hands;
 All wife-work,—the sweet work that busied her so,
 Is finished:—the dear one is ready to go.
Not a sob has escaped her all day,—not a moan;
 But now the tide rushes,—for she is alone.
 On the fresh, shining knapsack she pillows her head,
 And weeps as a mourner might weep for the dead.
 She heeds not the three-year old baby at play,
 As donning the cap, on the carpet he lay;
 Till she feels on her forehead, his fingers' soft tips,
 And on her shut eyelids, the touch of his lips.
"Mamma is so sorry!—Mamma is so sad!
 But Archie can make her look up and be glad:
 I've been praying to God, as you told me to do,
 That Papa may come back when the battle is thro':—
 He says when we pray, that our prayers shall be heard;
 And Mamma, don't you always know, God keeps his word?"
Around the young comforter stealthily press
 The arms of his father with sudden caress;
 Then fast to his heart,—love and duty at strife,—
 He snatches with fondest emotion, his wife.
"My own love! my precious!—I feel I am strong;
 I know I am brave in opposing the wrong;
 I could stand where the battle was fiercest, nor feel
 One quiver of nerve at the flash of the steel;
 I could gaze on the enemy guiltless of fears,
 But I quail at the sight of your passionate tears:
 My calmness forsakes me,—my thoughts are a-whirl,
 And the stout-hearted man is as weak as a girl.
I've been proud of your fortitude; never a trace
 Of yielding, all day, could I read in your face;
 But a look that was resolute, dauntless and high,
 As ever flashed forth from a patriot's eye.
 I know how you cling to me,—know that to part
 Is tearing the tenderest cords of your heart:
 Through the length and the breadth of our Valley to-day,
 No hand will a costlier sacrifice lay
 On the altar of Country; and Alice,—sweet wife!
 I never have worshipped you so in my life!
 Poor heart,—that has held up so brave in the past,—
 Poor heart! must it break with its burden at last?"
The arms thrown about him, but tighten their hold,
 The cheek that he kisses, is ashy and cold,
 And bowed with the grief she so long has suppressed,
 She weeps herself quiet and calm on his breast.
 At length, in a voice just as steady and clear
 As if it had never been choked by a tear,
 She raises her eyes with a softened control,
 And through them her husband looks into her soul.
"I feel that we each for the other could die;
 Your heart to my own makes the instant reply:
 But dear as you are, Love,—my life and my light,—
 I would not consent to your stay, if I might:
 No!—arm for the conflict, and on, with the rest;
 Virginia has need of her bravest and best!
 My heart—it must bleed, and my cheek will be wet,
 Yet never, believe me, with selfish regret:
 My ardor abates not one jot of its glow,
 Though the tears of the wife and the woman will flow.
"Our cause is so holy, so just, and so true,—
 Thank God! I can give a defender like you!
 For home, and for children,—for freedoms—for bread,—
 For the house of our God,—for the graves of our dead,—
 For leave to exist on the soil of our birth,—
 For everything manhood holds dearest on earth:
 When these are the things that we fight for—dare I
 Hold back my best treasure, with plaint or with sigh?
 My cheek would blush crimson,—my spirit be galled,
 If he were not there when the muster was called!
 When we pleaded for peace, every right was denied;
 Every pressing petition turned proudly aside;
 Now God judge betwixt us!—God prosper the right!
 To brave men there's nothing remains, but to fight:
 I grudge you not, Douglass,—die, rather than yield,—
 And like the old heroes,—come home on your shield!"
The morning is breaking:—the flush of the dawn
 Is warning the soldier, 'tis time to be gone;
 The children around him expectantly wait,—
 His horse, all caparisoned, paws at the gate:
 With face strangely pallid,—no sobbings,—no sighs,—
 But only a luminous mist in her eyes,
 His wife is subduing the heart-throbs that swell,
 And calming herself for a quiet farewell.
There falls a felt silence:—the note of a bird,
 A tremulous twitter,—is all that is heard;
 The circle has knelt by the holly-bush there,—
 And listen,—there comes the low breathing of prayer.
"Father! fold thine arms of pity
 Round us as we lowly bow;
 Never have we kneeled before Thee
 With such burden'd hearts as now!
Joy has been our constant portion,
 And if ill must now befall,
 With a filial acquiescence,
 We would thank thee for it all.
In the path of present duty,
 With Thy hand to lean upon,
 Questioning not the hidden future,
 May we walk serenely on.
For this holy, happy home-love,
 Purest bliss that crowns my life,—
 For these tender, trusting children,—
 For this fondest, faithful wife,—
Here I pour my full thanksgiving;
 And, when heart is torn from heart,
 Be our sweetest tryst-word, 'Mizpah,'—
 Watch betwixt us while we part!
And if never round this altar,
 We should kneel as heretofore,—
 If these arms in benediction
 Fold my precious ones no more,—
Thou, who in her direst anguish,
 Sooth'dst thy mother's lonely lot,
 In thy still unchanged compassion,
 Son of Man! forsake them not!"
The little ones each he has caught to his breast,
 And clasped them, and kissed them with fervent caress;
 Then wordless and tearless, with hearts running o'er,
 They part who have never been parted before:
 He springs to his saddle,—the rein is drawn tight,—
 And Beechenbrook Cottage is lost to his sight.

II.

The feathery foliage has broadened its leaves,
 And June, with its beautiful mornings and eves,
 Its magical atmosphere, breezes and blooms,
 Its woods all delicious with thousand perfumes,—
 First-born of the Summer,—spoiled pet of the year,—
 June, delicate queen of the seasons, is here!
The sadness has passed from the dwelling away,
 And quiet serenity brightens the day:
 With innocent prattle, her toils to beguile,
 In the midst of her children, the mother must smile.
 With matronly cares,—those relentless demands
 On the strength of her heart and the skill of her hands,—
 The hours come tenderly, ceaselessly fraught,
 And leave her small space for the broodings of thought.
Thank God!—busy fingers a solace can find,
 To lighten the burden of body or mind;
 And Eden's old curse proves a blessing instead,—
 "In the sweat of thy brow shalt thou toil for thy bread."
 For the bless'd relief in all labours that lurk,
 Aye, thank Him, unhappy ones,—thank Him for work!
Thus Alice engages her thoughts and her powers,
 And industry kindly lends wings to the hours:
 Poor, petty employments they sometimes appear,
 And on her bright needle there plashes a tear,—
 Half shame and half passion;—what would she not dare
 Her fervid compatriots' struggles to share?
 It irks her,—the weakness of womanhood then,—
 Yet such are the tears that make heroes of men!
She feels the hot blood of the nation beat high;
 With rapture she catches the rallying cry:
 From mountain and valley and hamlet they come!
 On every side echoes the roll of the drum.
 A people as firm, as united, as bold,
 As ever drew blade for the blessings they hold,
 Step sternly and solemnly forth in their might,
 And swear on their altars to die for the right!
The clangor of muskets,—the flashing of steel,—
 The clatter of spurs on the stout-booted heel,—
 The waving of banners,—the resonant tramp
 Of marching battalions,—the fiery stamp
 Of steeds in their war-harness, newly decked out,—
 The blast of the bugle,—the hurry, the shout,—
 The terrible energy, eager and wild,
 That lights up the face of man, woman and child,—
 That burns on all lips, that arouses all powers;
 Did ever we dream that such times would be ours?
One thought is absorbing, with giant control,—
 With deadliest earnest, the national soul:—
 "The right of self-government, crown of our pride,—
 Right, bought with the sacredest blood,—is denied!
 Shall we tamely resign what our enemy craves?
 No! martyrs we may be!—we cannot be slaves!"
Fair women who naught but indulgence have seen,
 Who never have learned what denial could mean,—
Who deign not to clipper their own dainty feet,
 Whose wants swarthy handmaids stand ready to meet,
 Whose fingers decline the light kerchief to hem,—
 What aid in this struggle is hoped for from them?
Yet see! how they haste from their bowers of ease,
 Their dormant capacities fired,—to seize
 Every feminine weapon their skill can command,—
 To labor with head, and with heart, and with hand.
 They stitch the rough jacket, they shape the coarse shirt,
 Unheeding though delicate fingers be hurt;
 They bind the strong haversack, knit the grey glove,
 Nor falter nor pause in their service of love.
When ever were people subdued, overthrown,
 With women to cheer them on, brave as our own?
 With maidens and mothers at work on their knees,
 When ever were soldiers as fearless as these?
June's flower-wreathed sceptre is dropped with a sigh,
 And forth like an empress steps stately July:
 She sits all unveiled, amidst sunshine and balms,
 As Zenobia sat in her City of Palms!
Not yet has the martial horizon grown dun,
 Not yet has the terrible conflict begun:
 But the tumult of legions,—the rush and the roar,
 Break over our borders, like waves on the shore.
 Along the Potomac, the confident foe
 Stands marshalled for onset,—prepared, at a blow,
 To vanquish the daring rebellion, and fling
 Utter ruin at once on the arrogant thing!
How sovran the silence that broods o'er the sky,
 And ushers the twenty-first morn of July;
 —Date, written in fire on history's scroll,—
 —Date, drawn in deep blood-lines on many a soul!
There is quiet at Beechenbrook: Alice's brow
 Is wearing a Sabbath tranquility now,
 As softly she reads from the page on her knee,—
 "Thou wilt keep him in peace who is stayed upon Thee!"
 When Sophy bursts breathlessly into the room,—
 "Oh! mother! we hear it,—we hear it!.., the boom
 Of the fast and the fierce cannonading!—it shook
 The ground till it trembled, along by the brook."
One instant the listener sways in her seat,—
 The paralysed heart has forgotten to beat;
 The next, with the speed and the frenzy of fear,
 She gains the green hillock, and pauses to hear.
Again and again the reverberant sound
 Is fearfully felt in the tremulous ground;
 Again and again on their senses it thrills,
 Like thunderous echoes astray in the hills.
On tip-toe,—the summer wind lifting his hair,
 With nostril expanded, and scenting the air
 Like a mettled young war-horse that tosses his mane,
 And frettingly champs at the bit and the rein,—
 Stands eager, exultant, a twelve-year-old boy,
 His face all aflame with a rapturous joy.
"That's music for heroes in battle array!
 Oh, mother! I feel like a Roman to-day!
 The Romans I read of in Plutarch;—Yes, men
 Thought it noble to die for their liberties then!
 And I've wondered if soldiers were ever so bold,
 So gallant and brave, as those heroes of old.
 —There!—listen!—that volley peals out the reply;
 They prove it is sweet for their country to die:
 How grand it must be! what a pride! what a joy!
 —And I can do nothing: I'm only a boy!"
The fervid hand drops as he ceases to speak,
 And the eloquent crimson fades out on his cheek.
"Oh, Beverly!—brother! It never would do!
 Who comforts mamma, and who helps her like you?
 She sends to the battle her darlingest one,—
 She could not give both of them,—husband and son;
 If she lose you, what's left her in life to enjoy?
 —Oh, no! I am glad you are only a boy."
 And Sophy looks up with her tenderest air,
 And kisses the fingers that toy with her hair.
For her, who all silent and motionless stands,
 And over her heart locks her quivering hands,
 With white lips apart, and with eyes that dilate,
 As if the low thunder were sounding her fate,—
 What racking suspenses, what agonies stir,
 What spectres these echoes are rousing for her!
Brave-natur'd, yet quaking,—high-souled, yet so pale,—
 Is it thus that the wife of a soldier should quail,
 And shudder and shrink at the boom of a gun,
 As only a faint-hearted girl should have done?
 Ah! wait until custom has blunted the keen,
 Cutting edge of that sound, and no woman, I ween,
 Will hear it with pulses more equal, more free
 From feminine terrors and weakness, than she.
The sun sinks serenely; a lingering look
 He flings at the mists that steal over the brook,
 Like nuns that come forth in the twilight to pray,
 Till their blushes are seen through their mantles of grey.
The gay-hearted children, but lightly oppressed,
 Find perfect relief on their pillow of rest:
 For Alice, no bless'd forgetfulness comes;—
 The wail of the bugles,—the roll of the drums,—
 The musket's sharp crack,—the artillery's roar,—
 The flashing of bayonets dripping with gore,—
 The moans of the dying,—the horror, the dread,
 The ghastliness gathering over the dead,—
 Oh! these are the visions of anguish and pain,—
 The phantoms of terror that troop through her brain!
She pauses again and again on the floor,
 Which the moonlight has brightened so mockingly o'er;
 She wrings her cold hands with a groan of despair;
 —"Oh, God! have compassion!—my darling is there!"
All placidly, dewily, freshly, the dawn
 Comes stealing in pulseless tranquility on:
 More freely she breathes, in its balminess, though
 The forehead it kisses is pallid with woe.
Through the long summer sunshine the Cottage is stirred
 By passers, who brokenly fling them a word:
 Such tidings of slaughter! "The enemy cowers;"—
 "He breaks!"—"He is flying!"—"Manassas is ours!"
'Tis evening: and Archie, alone on the grass,
 Sits watching the fire-flies gleam as they pass,
 When sudden he rushes, too eager to wait,—
 "Mamma! there's an ambulance stops at the gate!"
Suspense then is past: he is borne from the field,—
 "God help me!... God grant it be not on his shield!"
 And Alice, her passionate soul in her eyes,
 And hope and fear winging each quicken'd step, flies,—
 Embraces, with frantical wildness, the form
 Of her husband, and finds... it is living, and warm!

III.

Ye, who by the couches of languishing ones,
 Have watched through the rising and setting of suns,—
 Who, silent, behind the close curtain, withdrawn,
 Scarce know that the current of being sweeps on,—
 To whom outer life is unreal, untrue,
 A world with whose moils ye have nothing to do;
 Who feel that the day, with its multiform rounds,
 Is full of discordant, impertinent sounds,—
 Who speak in low whispers, and stealthily tread,
 As if a faint footfall were something to dread,—
 Who find all existence,—its gladness, its gloom,—
 Enclosed by the walls of that limited room,—
 Ye only can measure the sleepless unrest
 That lies like a night-mare on Alice's breast.
Days come and days go, and she watches the strife
 So evenly balanced, 'twixt death and 'twixt life;
 Thanks God he still breathes, as each evening takes wing,
 And dares not to think what the morrow may bring.
In the lone, ghostly midnight, he raves as he lies,
 With death's ashen pallidness dimming his eyes:
 He shouts the sharp war-cry,—he rallies his men,—
 He is on the red field of Manassas again.
"Now, courage, my comrades! Keep steady! lie low!
 Wait, like the couch'd lion, to spring on your foe:
 Ye'll face without flinching the cannons' grim mouth,
 For ye're 'Knights of the Horse-Shoe'—ye're Sons of the South!
 There's Jackson!—how brave he rides! coursing at will,
 Midst the prostrated lines on the crest of the hill;
 God keep him! for what will we do if he falls?
 Be ready, good fellows!—be cool when he calls
To the charge: Oh! we'll beat them,—we'll turn them,—and then
 We'll ride them down madly!—On! Onward! my men!"
The feverish frenzy o'erwearies him soon,
 And back on his pillows he sinks in a swoon.
And sometimes, when Alice is wetting his lip,
 He turns from the draught, and refuses to sip:
 —"'Tis sweet, pretty angel!—but yonder there lies
 A famishing comrade, with death in his eyes:
 His need is far greater, ... Sir Philip, I think,—
 Or was it Sir Philip?... go, go!—let him drink!"
And oft, with a sort of bewildered amaze,
 On her face he would fasten the wistfullest gaze:
 —"You are kind, but a hospital nurse cannot be
 Like Alice,—my tenderest Alice,—to me.
 Oh! I know there's at Beechenbrook, many a tear,
 As she asks all the day,—'Will he never be here?'"
But Nature, kind healer! brings sovereignest balm,
 And strokes the wild pulses with coolness and calm;
The conflict so equal, so stubborn, is past,
 And life gains the hardly-won battle at last.
 How sweet through the long convalescence to lie,
 And from the low window, gaze out at the sky,
 And float, as the zephyrs so tranquilly do,
 Aloft in the depths of ineffable blue:—
 In painless, delicious half consciousness brood,—
 No duties to cumber, no claims to intrude,—
 Receptive as childhood, from trouble as free,
 And feel it is bliss enough simply, to be!
For Alice,—what pencil can picture her joy,—
 So perfect, so thankful, so free from annoy,
 As her lips press the lotus-bound chalice, and drain
 That exquisite blessedness born out of pain!
 Oh! not in her maidenhood, blushing and sweet,
 When Douglass first poured out his love at her feet;
 And not when a shrinking and beautiful bride,
 With worshipping fondness she clung to his side;
 And not in those holiest moments of life,
 When first she was held to his heart, as his wife;
 And never in motherhood's earliest bliss,
 Had she tasted a happiness rounded like this!
And Douglass, safe sheltered from war's rude alarms,
 Finds Eden's lost precincts again in her arms:
 He hears afar off, in the distance, the roar
 And the lash of the billows that break on the shore
 Of his isle of enchantment,—his haven of rest,—
 And rapturous languor steals over his breast.
He bathes in the sunlight of Alice's smiles;
 He wraps himself round with love's magical wiles:
 His sweet iterations pall not on her ear,—
 "I love you—I love you!"—she never can hear
 That cadence too often; its musical roll
 Wakes ever an echoed reply in her soul.
—Do visions of trial, of warning, of woe,
 Loom dark in the future of doubt? Do they know
 They are hiving, of honied remembrance, a store
 To live on, when summer and sunshine are o'er?
 Do they feel that their island of beauty at last
 Must be rent by the tempest,—be swept by the blast?
 Do they dream that afar, on the wild, wintry main,
 Their love-freighted bark must be driven again?
—Bless God for the wisdom that curtains so tight
 To-morrow's enjoyments or griefs from our sight!
 Bless God for the ignorance, darkness and doubt,
 That girdle so kindly our future about!
The crutches are brought, and the invalid's strength
 Is able to measure the lawn's gravel'd length;
 And under the beeches, once more he reclines,
 And hears the wind plaintively moan through the pines;
 His children around him, with frolic and play,
 Cheat autumn's mild listlessness out of the day;
 And Alice, the sunshine all flecking her book,
 Reads low to the chime of the murmuring brook.
But the world's rushing tide washes up to his feet,
 And leaps the soft barriers that bound his retreat;
 The tumult of camps surges out on the breeze,
 And ever seems mocking his Capuan ease.
 He dare not be happy, or tranquil, or blest,
 While his soil by the feet of invaders is prest:
 What brooks it though still he be pale as a ghost?
 —If he languish or fail, let him fail at his post.
The gums by the brook-side are crimson and brown;
 The leaves of the ash flicker goldenly down;
 The roses that trellis the porches, have lost
 Their brightness and bloom at the touch of the frost;
 The ozier-twined seat by the beeches, no more
 Looks tempting, and cheerful, and sweet, as of yore;
 The water glides darkly and mournfully on,
 As Alice sits watching it:—Douglass has gone!

IV.

"I am weary and worn,—I am hungry and chill,
 And cuttingly strikes the keen blast o'er the hill;
 All day I have ridden through snow and through sleet,
 With nothing,—not even a cracker to eat;
 But now, as I rest by the bivouac fire,
 Whose blaze leaps up merrily, higher and higher,
 Impatient as Roland, who neighs to be fed,—
 For Caleb to bring me my bacon and bread,—
 I'll warm my cold heart, that is aching and lone,
 By thinking of you, love,—my Alice,—my own!
"I turn a deaf ear to the scream of the wind,
 I leave the rude camp and the forest behind;
 And Beechenbrook, wrapped in its raiment of white,
 Is tauntingly filling my vision to-night.
 I catch my sweet little ones' innocent mirth,
 I watch your dear face, as you sit at the hearth;
 And I know, by the tender expression I see,
 I know that my darling is musing of me.
 Does her thought dim the blaze?—Does it shed through the room
 A chilly, unseen, and yet palpable gloom?
 Ah! then we are equal! You share all my pain,
 And I halve your blessedness with you again!
"Don't think that my hardships are bitter to bear;
 Don't think I repine at the soldier's rough fare;
 If ever a thought so unworthy steals on,
 I look upon Ashby,—and lo! it is gone!
 Such chivalry, fortitude, spirit and tone,
 Make brighter, and stronger, and prouder, my own.
 Oh! Beverly, boy!—on his white steed, I ween,
 A princelier presence has never been seen;
 And as yonder he lies, from the groups all apart,
 I bow to him loyally,—bow with my heart.
"What brave, buoyant letters you write, sweet!—they ring
 Through my soul like the blast of a trumpet, and bring
 Such a flame to my eye, such a flush to my cheek,—
 That often my hand will unconsciously seek
 The hilt of my sword as I read,—and I feel
 As the warrior does, when he flashes the steel
 In fiery circles, and shouts in his might,
 For the heroes behind him, to follow its light!
 True wife of a soldier!—If doubt or dismay
 Had ever, within me, one instant held sway,
 Your words wield a spell that would bid them be gone,
 Like bodiless ghosts at the touch of the dawn.
"Could the veriest craven that cowers and quails
 Before the vast horde that insults and assails
 Our land and our liberties,—could he to-night,
 Sit here on the ice-girdled log where I write,
 And look on the hopeful, bright brows of the men,
 Who have toiled all the day over mountain, through glen,—
 Half-clothed and unfed,—would he doubt?—would he dare,
 In the face of such proof, yield again to despair?
"The hum of their voices comes laden with cheer,
 As the wind wafts a musical swell to my ear,—
 Wild, clarion catches,—now flute-like and low;
 —Would you like me to give you their Song of the Snow?
Halt!—the march is over!
 Day is almost done;
 Loose the cumbrous knapsack,
 Drop the heavy gun:
 Chilled and wet and weary,
 Wander to and fro,
 Seeking wood to kindle
 Fires amidst the snow.
Round the bright blaze gather,
 Heed not sleet nor cold,—
 Ye are Spartan soldiers,
 Stout and brave and bold:
 Never Xerxian army
 Yet subdued a foe,
 Who but asked a blanket
 On a bed of snow.
Shivering midst the darkness
 Christian men are found,
 There devoutly kneeling
 On the frozen ground,—
Pleading for their country,
 In its hour of woe,—
 For its soldiers marching
 Shoeless through the snow.
Lost in heavy slumbers,
 Free from toil and strife;
 Dreaming of their dear ones,—
 Home, and child, and wife;
 Tentless they are lying,
 While the fires burn low,—
 Lying in their blankets,
 Midst December's snow!
Come, Sophy, my blossom! I've something to say
 Will chase for a moment your gambols away:
 To-day as we climbed the steep mountain-path o'er,
 I noticed a bare-footed lad in my corps;
 "How comes it,"—I asked,—"you look careful and bold,
 How comes it you're marching, unshod, through the cold?"
"Ah, sir! I'm a poor, lonely orphan, you see;
 No mother, no friends that are caring for me;
If I'm wounded, or captured, or killed, in the war,
 'Twill matter to nobody, Colonel Dunbar."
Now, Sophy!—your needles, dear!—Knit him some socks,
 And send the poor fellow a pair in my box;
 Then he'll know,—and his heart with the thought will be filled,—
 There is one little maiden will care if he's killed.
The fire burns dimly, and scattered around,
 The men lie asleep on the snow-covered ground;
 But ere in my blanket I wrap me to rest,
 I hold you, my darling, close,—close, to my breast:
 God love you! God grant you His comforting light!
 I kiss you a thousand times over!—Good night!

V.

"To-morrow is Christmas!"—and clapping his hands,
 Little Archie in joyful expectancy stands,
 And watches the shadows, now short and now tall,
 That momently dance up and down on the wall.
Drawn curtains of crimson shut out the cold night,
 And the parlor is pleasant with odours and light;
 The soft lamp suspended, its mellowness throws
 O'er cluster'd geranium, jasmine and rose;
 The sleeping canary hangs caged midst the blooms,
 A Sybarite slumberer steeped in perfumes;
 For Alice still clings to her birds and her flowers,
 Sweet tokens of kindlier, happier hours.
"To-morrow is Christmas!—but Beverly,—say,
 Will it do to be glad when Papa is away?"
And the face that is tricksy and blythe as can be,
 Tries vainly to temper its shadowless glee.
"For you, pet, I'm sure it is right to be glad;
 'Tis a pitiful thing to see little ones sad;
 But for Sophy and me, who are older, you know,—
 We dare not be glad when we look at the snow!
 I shrink from this comfort, this light and this heat,
 This plenty to wear, and this plenty to eat,
 When the soldiers who fight for us,—die for us,—lie,
 With nothing around and above, but the sky;
 When their clothes are so light, and the rations they deal,
 Are only a morsel of bacon and meal:
 And how can I fold my thick blankets around,
 When I know that my father's asleep on the ground?
 I'm ashamed to be happy, or merry, or free,
 As if war and its trials were nothing to me:
 Oh! I never can know any frolic or fun,—
 Any real, mad romps,—till the battles are done!"
 And the face of the boy, so heroic and fair,
 Is touched with the singular shadow of care.
Sophy ceases her warbling, subdues her soft mirth,
 And draws her low ottoman up to the hearth:
"But, brother, what good would it do to refuse
 The comforts and blessings God gives us, or use
 Them quite with indifference, as much as to say,
 We care not how soon they are taken away!
 I am sure I would give my last blanket, and spread
 My pretty, blue cloak, at night, over my bed,—
 (Mamma, you know, covers herself with her shawl,
 Since we've sent all our blankets,)—but, then, it's too small!
 Would Papa be less hungry or cold, do you think,
 If we had too little to eat or to drink?
 So I mean to be busy,—I mean to be glad;
 Mamma says there's time enough yet to be sad;
 I'll work for the soldiers,—I'll pray, and I'll plan,
 And just be as happy as ever I can;
 I've made the grey shirt, and I've finished the socks:—
 So come, let us help,—they are packing the box."
How grateful the task is to Alice! her cares
 Are quite put aside, and her countenance wears
A look of enjoyment as eager, as bright,
 As Santa Claus brings little dreamers to-night;
 For Douglass away in his camp, is to share
 The daintiest cates that her larder can spare.
The turkey, well seasoned, and tenderly browned,
 Is flanked by the spiciest a la mode "round;"
 The great "priestly ham," in its juiciest pride,
 Is there,—with the tenderest surloin beside;
 Neat bottles, suggestive of ketchups and wines,
 And condiments racy, of various kinds;
 And firm rolls of butter as yellow as gold,
 And patties and biscuit most rare to behold,
 And sauces that richest of odors betray,—
 Are marshalled in most appetizing array.
 Then Beverly brings of his nuts a full store,
 And Archie has apples, a dozen or more;
 While Sophy, with gratified housewifery, makes
 Her present of spicy "Confederate cakes."
And then in a snug little corner, there lies
 A pacquet will brighten the orphan boy's eyes;
 For Beverly claims it a pleasure to use
 His last cherish'd hoardings in buying him shoes.
Sophy's socks too are there; and she catches afar—
 "There's somebody cares for me, Colonel Dunbar!"
What subtlest of essences, sovereign to cheer—
 What countless, uncatalogu'd tokens are here!
 What lavender'd memories, tenderly green,
 Lie hidden, these grosser of viands between!
 What food for the heart-life,—unreckon'd, untold—
 What manna enclosed in its chalice of gold!
 What caskets of sweets that Love only unlocks,—
 What mysteries Douglass will find in the box!

VI.

The lull of the Winter is over; and Spring
 Comes back, as delicious and buoyant a thing,
 As airy, and fairy, and lightsome, and bland,
 As if not a sorrow was dark'ning the land;—
 So little has Nature of passion or part
 In the woes and the throes of humanity's heart.
The wild tide of battle runs red,—dashes high,
 And blots out the splendour of earth and of sky;
 The blue air is heavy, and sulph'rous, and dun,
 And the breeze on its wings bears the boom of the gun.
 In faster and fiercer and deadlier shocks,
 The thunderous billows are hurled on the rocks;
 And our Valley becomes, amid Spring's softest breath,
 The valley, alas! of the shadow of death.
The crash of the onset,—the plunge and the roll,
 Reach down to the depth of each patriot's soul;
 It quivers—for since it is human, it must;
 But never a tremor of doubt or distrust,
 Once blanches the cheek, or is wrung from the mouth,
 Or lurks in the eye of the sons of the South.
What need for dismay? Let the live surges roar,
 And leap in their fury, our fastnesses o'er,
 And threaten our beautiful Valley to fill
 With rapine and ruin more terrible still:
 What fear we?—See Jackson! his sword in his hand,
 Like the stern rocks around him, immovable stand,—
 The wisdom, the skill and the strength that he boasts,
 Sought ever from him who is Leader of Hosts:
 —He speaks in the name of his God:—lo! the tide,—
 The red sea of battle, is seen to divide;
 The pathway of victory cleaves the dark flood;—
 And the foe is o'erwhelmed in a deluge of blood!
The spirit of Alice no longer is bowed
 By the troubles, and tumults, and terrors, that crowd
 So closely around her:—the willow's lithe form
 Bends meekly to meet the wild rush of the storm.
Yet pale as Cassandra, unconscious of joy,
 With visions of Greeks at the gates of her Troy,
 All day she has waited and watched on the lawn,
 Till the purple and gold of the sunset are gone;
 For the battle draws near her:—few leagues intervene
 Her home and that Valley of slaughter, between.
The tidings and rumors come thick and come fast,
 As riders fly hotly and breathlessly past;
 They tell of the onslaught,—the headlong attack
 Of the foe with a quadruple force at his back:
 They boast how they hurl themselves,—shiver and fall
 Before their stout rampart, the valiant "Stonewall."
At length, with the gradual fading of day,—
 The tokens of battle are floated away:
The booming no longer makes sullen the air,
 And the silence of night seems as holy as prayer.
Gray shadows still linger the beeches among,
 And scarce has the earliest matin been sung,
 Ere Alice with Beverly pale at her side,
 Yet firm as his mother, is ready to ride.
With sympathy, womanly, tender, divine,—
 With lint and with bandage, with bread and with wine,—
 She hastes to the battle-field, eager to bear
 Relief to the wounded and perishing there:
 To breathe, like an angel of mercy, the breath
 Of peace over brows that are fainting in death.
She dares not to stir with a question, her woe,
 One word,—and the bitter-brimm'd heart would o'erflow:
 But speechless, and moveless, and stony of eye,
 Scarce conscious of aught in the earth or the sky,
 In a swoon of the heart, all her senses have reeled,—
 But she prays for endurance,—for here is the field.
The flight and pursuit, so harassing, so hot,
 Have drifted all combatants far from the spot:
 And through the sparse woodlands, and over the plain,
 Lie gorily scattered, the wounded and slain.
 Oh! the sickness,—the shudder,—the quailing of fear,
 As it leaps to her lips,—"What if Douglass be here!"
Yet she frames not a question; her spirit can bear
 Oh! anything,—all things, but hopeless despair:
 Does her darling lie stretched on the slope of yon hill?
 Let her doubt—let her hug the suspense, if she will!
She watches each ambulance-burden with dread;
 She loots in the faces of dying and dead:
 And hour after hour, with steady control,
 She bends to her task all the strength of her soul;
 She comforts the wounded with pity's sweet care,
 And the spirit that's passing, she speeds with her prayer.
She starts as she hears, from her stout-hearted boy,
 A wild exclamation, half doubt and half joy:—
"Oh! Surgeon!—some brandy! he's fainting!—Ah! now
 The colour comes back to his cheek and his brow:—
 He breathes again—speaks again—listen!—you are
 'An orderly'—is it?—'of Colonel Dunbar?'
 'He fought like a lion!' (I knew it!) and passed
 Untouched through the battle, 'unhurt to the last?'
 —My father is safe,—mother!—safe!—what a joy!
 And here is Macpherson,—our barefooted boy!"
Poor Alice!—her grief has been tearless and dumb,
 But the pressure once lifted, her senses succumb:
 Too quick the revulsion,—too glad the surprise,—
 The mists of unconsciousness curtain her eyes:
 'Tis only a moment they suffer eclipse,
 And words of thanksgiving soon thrill on her lips.
To Beechenbrook's quiet, with tenderest care,
 They hasten the wounded, wan soldier to bear;
 And never hung mother more patiently o'er
 The couch of the child, her own bosom that bore,
 Than Alice above the lone orphan, who lay
 Submissively breathing his spirit away.
He knows that existence is ebbing; his brain
 Is lucid and calm, in the pauses of pain;
 But his round boyish cheek with no weeping is wet,
 And his smile is not touched with a shade of regret.
No murmur is uttered—no lingering sigh
 Escapes him;—so young,—yet so willing to die!
 His garment of flesh he has worn undefiled,
 His faith is the beautiful faith of a child:
 He knows that the Crucified hung on the tree,
 That the pathway to bliss might be open and free:
 He believes that the cup has been drained,—he can find
 Not a drop of the wrath that had filled it,—behind.
 If ever a doubt or misgiving assails,
 His finger he puts on the print of the nails;
 If sometimes there springs an emotion of fear,
 He lays his cold hand on the mark of the spear!
 He thinks of his darling, dead mother;—the light
 Of the Heavenly City falls full on his sight:
 And under the rows of the palms, by the brim
 Of the river—he knows she is waiting for him.
But the present comes back;—and on Alice's ear,
 Fall whispers like these, as she pauses to hear:
"Only a private;—and who will care
 When I may pass away,—
 Or how, or why I perish, or where
 I mix with the common clay?
 They will fill my empty place again,
 With another as bold and brave;
 And they'll blot me out, ere the Autumn rain
 Has freshened my nameless grave.
Only a private:—it matters not,
 That I did my duty well;
 That all through a score of battles I fought,
 And then, like a soldier, fell:
 The country I died for,—never will heed
 My unrequited claim;
 And history cannot record the deed,
 For she never has heard my name.
Only a private;—and yet I know,
 When I heard the rallying call,
 I was one of the very first to go,
 And ... I'm one of the many who fall:
 But, as here I lie, it is sweet to feel,
 That my honor's without a stain;—
 That I only fought for my Country's weal,
 And not for glory or gain.
Only a private;—yet He who reads
 Through the guises of the heart,
 Looks not at the splendour of the deeds,
 But the way we do our part;
 And when He shall take us by the hand,
 And our small service own,
 There'll a glorious band of privates stand
 As victors around the throne!"
The breath of the morning is heavy and chill,
 And gloomily lower the mists on the hill:
 The winds through the beeches are shivering low,
 With a plaintive and sad miserere of woe:
 A quiet is over the Cottage,—a dread
 Clouds the children's sweet faces,—Macpherson is dead!

VII.

'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!

VIII.

"My Douglass! my darling!—there once was a time,
 When we to each other confessed the sublime
 And perfect sufficiency love could bestow,
 On the hearts that have learned its completeness to know;
 We felt that we too had a well-spring of joy,
 That earthly convulsions could never destroy,—
 A mossy, sealed fountain, so cool and so bright,
 It could solace the soul, let it thirst as it might.
"'Tis easy, while happiness strews in our path,
 The richest and costliest blessings it hath,
 'Tis easy to say that no sorrow, no pain,
 Could utterly beggar our spirits again;
 'Tis easy to sit in the sunshine, and speak
 Of the darkness and storm, with a smile on the cheek!
"As hungry and cold, and with weariness spent,
 You droop in your saddle, or crouch in your tent;
 Can you feel that the love so entire, so true,
 The love that we dreamed of,—is all things to you?
 That come what there may,—desolation or loss,
 The prick of the thorn, or the weight of the cross—
 You can bear it,—nor feel you are wholly bereft,
 While the bosom that beats for you only, is left?
 While the birdlings are spared that have made it so blest,
 Can you look, undismayed, on the wreck of the nest?
"There's a love that is tenderer, sweeter than this—
 That is fuller of comfort, and blessing, and bliss;
 That never can fail us, whatever befall—
 Unchanging, unwearied, undying, through all:
 We have need of the support—the staff and the rod;—
 Beloved! we'll lean on the bosom of God!
"You guess what I fain would keep hidden:—you know,
 Ere now, that the trail of the insolent foe
 Leaves ruin behind it, disastrous and dire,
 And burns through our Valley, a pathway of fire.
 —Our beautiful home,—as I write it, I weep,
 Our beautiful home is a smouldering heap!
 And blackened, and blasted, and grim, and forlorn,
 Its chimneys stand stark in the mists of the morn!
"I stood in my womanly helplessness, weak—
 Though I felt a brave color was kindling my cheek—
 And I plead by the sacredest things of their lives—
 By the love that they bore to their children,—their wives,
 By the homes left behind them, whose joys they had shared,
 By the God that should judge them,—that mine should be spared.
"As well might I plead with the whirlwind to stay
 As it crashingly cuts through the forest its way!
 I know that my eye flashed a passionate ire,
 As they scornfully flung me their answer of—fire!
"Why harrow your heart with the grief and the pain?
 Why paint you the picture that's scorching my brain?
 Why speak of the night when I stood on the lawn,
 And watched the last flame die away in the dawn?
 'Tis over,—that vision of terror,—of woe!
 Its horrors I would not recall;—let them go!
 I am calm when I think what I suffered them for;
 I grudge not the quota I pay to the war!
"But, Douglass!—deep down in the core of my heart,
 There's a throbbing, an aching, that will not depart;
 For memory mourns, with a wail of despair,
 The loss of her treasures,—the subtle, the rare,
 Precious things over which she delighted to pore,
 Which nothing,—ah! nothing, can ever restore!
"The rose-covered porch, where I sat as your bride—
 The hearth, where at twilight I leaned at your side—
 The low-cushioned window-seat, where I would lie,
 With my head on your knee, and look out on the sky:—
 The chamber all holy with love and with prayer,
 The motherhood memories clustering there—
 The vines that your hand has delighted to train,
 The trees that you planted;—Oh! never again
 Can love build us up such a bower of bliss;
 Oh! never can home be as hallow'd as this!
"Thank God! there's a dwelling not builded with hands,
 Whose pearly foundation, immovable stands;
 There struggles, alarms, and disquietudes cease,
 And the blissfulest balm of the spirit is—peace!
 Small trial 'twill seem when our perils are past,
 And we enter the house of our Father at last,—
 Light trouble, that here, in the night of our stay,
 The blast swept our wilderness lodging away!
"The children—dear hearts!—it is touching to see
 My Beverly's beautiful kindness to me;
 So buoyant his mein—so heroic—resigned—
 The boy has the soul of his father, I find!
 Not a childish complaint or regret have I heard,—
 Not even from Archie, a petulant word:
 Once only—a tear moistened Sophy's bright cheek:
 'Papa has no home now!'—'twas all she could speak.
"A stranger I wander midst strangers; and yet
 I never,—no, not for a moment forget
 That my heart has a home,—just as real, as true,
 And as warm as if Beechenbrook sheltered me too.
 God grant that this refuge from sorrow and pain—
 This blessedest haven of peace, may remain!
 And, then, though disaster, still sharper, befall,
 I think I can patiently bear with it all:
 For the rarest, most exquisite bliss of my life
 Is wrapped in a word, Douglass ... I am your wife!"

IX.

When fierce and fast-thronging calamities rush
 Resistless as destiny o'er us, and crush
 The life from the quivering heart till we feel
 Like the victim whose body is broke on the wheel—
 When we think we have touched the far limit at last,
 —One throe, and the point of endurance is passed—
 When we shivering hang on the verge of despair—
 There still is capacity left us to bear.
The storm of the winter, the smile of the Spring,
 No respite, no pause, and no hopefulness bring;
 The demon of carnage still breathes his hot breath,
 And fiercely goes forward the harvest of death.
Days painfully drag their slow burden along;
 And the pulse that is beating so steady and strong,
 Stands still, as there comes, from the echoing shore
 Of the winding and clear Rappahannock, the roar
 Of conflict so fell, that the silvery flood
 Runs purple and rapid and ghastly with blood.
—Grand army of martyrs!—though victory waves
 Them onward, her march must be over their graves:
 They feel it—they know it,—yet steadier each
 Close phalanx moves into the desperate breach:
 Their step does not falter—their faith does not yield,—
 For yonder, supreme o'er the fiercely-fought field,
 Erect in his leonine grandeur, they see
 The proud and magnificent calmness of Lee!
'Tis morn—but the night has brought Alice no rest:
 The roof seems to press like a weight on her breast;
 And she wanders forth, wearily lifting her eye,
 To seek for relief 'neath the calm of the sky.
The air of the forest is spicy and sweet,
 And dreamily babbles a brook at her feet;
 Her children are 'round her, and sunshine and flowers,
 Try vainly to banish the gloom of the hours.
 With a volume she fain her wild thoughts would assuage,
 But her vision can trace not a line on the page,
 And the poet's dear strains, once so soft to her ear,
 Have lost all their mystical power to cheer.
The evening approaches—the pressure—the woe
 Grows drearer and heavier,—yet she must go,
 And stifle between the dead walls, as she may,
 The heart that scarce breathed in the free, open day.
She reaches the dwelling that serves as her home;
 A horseman awaits at the entrance;—the foam
 Is flecking the sides of his fast-ridden steed,
 Who pants, over-worn with exhaustion and speed;
 And Alice for support to Beverly clings,
 As the soldier delivers the letter he brings.
Her ashy lips move, but the words do not come,
 And she stands in her whiteness, bewildered and dumb:
 She turns to the letter with hopeless appeal,
 But her fingers are helpless to loosen the seal:
 She lifts her dim eyes with a look of despair,—
 Her hands for a moment are folded in prayer;
 The strength she has sought is vouchsafed in her need:
 —"I think I can bear it now, Beverly .., read."
The boy, with the resolute nerve of a man,
 And a voice which he holds as serene as he can,
 Takes quietly from her the letter, and reads:—
"Dear Madam,—My heart in its sympathy bleeds
 For the pain that my tidings must bear you: may God
 Most tenderly comfort you, under His rod!
"This morning, at daybreak, a terrible charge
 Was made on the enemy's centre: such large
 And fresh reinforcements were held at his back,
 He stoutly and stubbornly met the attack.
"Our cavalry bore themselves splendidly:—far
 In front of his line galloped Colonel Dunbar;
 Erect in his stirrups,—his sword flashing high,
 And the look of a conqueror kindling his eye,
 His silvery voice rang aloft through the roar
 Of the musketry poured from the opposite shore:
 —'Remember the Valley!—remember your wives!
 And on to your duty, boys!—on—with your lives!'
"He turned, and he paused, as he uttered the call—
 Then reeled in his seat, and fell,—pierced by a ball.
"He lives and he breathes yet:—the surgeons declare,
 That the balance is trembling 'twixt hope and despair.
 In his blanket he lies, on the hospital floor,—
 So calm, you might deem all his agony o'er;
 And here, as I write, on his face I can see
 An expression whose radiance is startling to me.
 His faith is sublime:—he relinquishes life,
 And craves but one blessing,—to look on his wife!"
The Chaplain's recital is ended:—no word
 From Alice's white, breathless lips has been heard;
 Till, rousing herself from her passionless woe,
 She simply and quietly says—"I will go."
There are moments of anguish so deadly, so deep—
 That numbness seems over the senses to creep,
 With interposition, whose timely relief,
 Is an anodyne-draught to the madness of grief.
 Such mercy is meted to Alice;—her eye
 That sees as it saw not, is vacant and dry:
 The billows' wild fury sweeps over her soul,
 And she bends to the rush with a passive control.
Through the dusk of the night—through the glare of the day,
 She urges, unconscious, her desolate way:
 One image is ever her vision before,
 —That blanketed form on the hospital floor!
Her journey is ended; and yonder she sees
 The spot where he lies, looming white through the trees:
 Her torpor dissolves with a shuddering start,
 And a terrible agony clutches her heart.
The Chaplain advances to meet her:—he draws
 Her silently onward;—no question—no pause—
 Her finger she lays on her lip;—if she spake,
 She knows that the spell that upholds her, would break.
She has strength to go forward; they enter the door,—
 And there, on the crowded and blood-tainted floor,
 Close wrapped in his blanket, lies Douglass:—his brow
 Wore never a look so seraphic as now!
 She stretches her arms the dear form to enfold,—
 God help her!..., she shrieks..., it is silent and cold!

X.

"Break, my heart, and ease this pain—
 Cease to throb, thou tortured brain;
 Let me die,—since he is slain,
 —Slain in battle!
Blessed brow, that loved to rest
 Its dear whiteness on my breast—
 Gory was the grass it prest,
 —Slain in battle!
Oh! that still and stately form—
 Never more will it be warm;
 Chilled beneath that iron storm,
 —Slain in battle!
Not a pillow for his head—
 Not a hand to smooth his bed—
 Not one tender parting said,
 —Slain in battle!
Straightway from that bloody sod,
 Where the trampling horsemen trod—
 Lifted to the arms of God;
 —Slain in battle!
Not my love to come between,
 With its interposing screen—
 Naught of earth to intervene;
 —Slain in battle!
Snatched the purple billows o'er,
 Through the fiendish rage and roar,
 To the far and peaceful shore;
 —Slain in battle!
Nunc demitte—thus I pray—
 What else left for me to say,
 Since my life is reft away?
 —Slain in battle!
Let me die, oh! God!—the dart
 Rankles deep within my heart,—
 Hope, and joy, and peace, depart;
 —Slain in battle!"

'Tis thus through her days and her nights of despair,
 Her months of bereavement so bitter to bear,
 That Alice moans ever. Ah! little they know,
 Who look on that brow, still and white as the snow,
 Who watch—but in vain—for the sigh or the tear,
 That only comes thick when no mortal is near,—
 Who whisper—"How gently she bends to the rod!"
 Because all her heart-break is kept for her God,—
 Ah! little they know of the tempests that roll
 Their desolate floods through the depths of her soul!
Afar in our sunshiny homes on the shore,
 We heed not how wildly the billows may roar;
 We smile at our firesides, happy and free,
 While the rich-freighted argosy founders at sea!
 Though wrapped in the weeds of her widowhood, pale,—
 Though life seems all sunless and dim through the veil
 That drearily shadows her sorrowful brow,—
 Is the cause of her country less dear to her now?
Does the patriot-flame in her heart cease to stir,—
 Does she feel that the conflict is over for her?
 Because the red war-tide has deluged her o'er,—
 Has wreaked its wild wrath, and can harm her no more,—
 Does she stand, self-absorbed, on the wreck she has braved,
 Nor care if her country be lost or be saved?
By her pride in the soil that has given her birth—
 By her tenderest memories garnered on earth—
 By the legacy blood-bought and precious, which she
 Would leave to her children—the right to be free,—
 By the altar where once rose the hymn and the prayer;
 By the home that lies scarred in its solitude there,—
 By the pangs she has suffered,—the ills she has borne,—
 By the desolate exile through which she must mourn,—
 By the struggles that hallow this fair Southern sod,
 By the vows she has breathed in the ear of her God,—
By the blood of the heart that she worshipped,—the life
 That enfolded her own; by her love, as his wife;
 By his death on the battle-field, gallantly brave,—
 By the shadow that ever will wrap her—his grave—
 By the faith she reposes, oh! Father! in Thee,
 She claims that her glorious South must be free!

VIRGINIA.

A SONNET.

Grandly thou fillest the world's eye to-day,
 My proud Virginia! When the gage was thrown—
 The deadly gage of battle—thou, alone,
 Strong in thy self-control, didst stoop to lay
 The olive-branch thereon, and calmly pray
 We might have peace, the rather. When the foe
 Turned scornfully upon thee,—bade thee go,
 And whistled up his war-hounds, then—the way
 Of duty full before thee,—thou didst spring
 Into the centre of the martial ring—
 Thy brave blood boiling, and thy glorious eye,
 Shot with heroic fire, and swear to claim
 Sublimest victory in God's own name,—
 Or, wrapped in robes of martyrdom,—to die!

JACKSON.

A SONNET.

Thank God for such a Hero!—Fearless hold
 His diamond character beneath the sun,
 And brighter scintillations, one by one,
 Come flashing from it. Never knight of old
 Wore on serener brow, so calm, yet bold,
 Diviner courage: never martyr knew
 Trust more sublime,—nor patriot, zeal more true,—
 Nor saint, self-abnegation of a mould
 Touched with profounder beauty. All the rare,
 Clear, starry points of light, that gave his soul
 Such lambent lustre, owned but one sole aim,—
 Not for himself, nor yet his country's fame,
 These glories shone: he kept the clustered whole
 A jewel for the crown that Christ shall wear!

DIRGE FOR ASHBY.

Heard ye that thrilling word—
 Accent of dread—
 Flash like a thunderbolt,
 Bowing each head—
 Crash through the battle dun,
 Over the booming gun—
 "Ashby, our bravest one,—
 Ashby is dead!"
Saw ye the veterans—
 Hearts that had known
 Never a quail of fear,
 Never a groan—
 Sob 'mid the fight they win,
 —Tears their stern eyes within,—
 "Ashby, our Paladin,
 Ashby is gone!"
Dash,—dash the tear away—
 Crush down the pain!
 "Dulce et decus," be
 Fittest refrain!
 Why should the dreary pall
 Round him be flung at all?
 Did not our hero fall
 Gallantly slain?
Catch the last word of cheer
 Dropt from his tongue;
 Over the volley's din,
 Loud be it rung—
 "Follow me! follow me!"—
 Soldier, oh! could there be
 Pæan or dirge for thee,
 Loftier sung!
Bold as the Lion-heart,
 Dauntless and brave;
 Knightly as knightliest
 Bayard could crave;
 Sweet with all Sidney's grace—
 Tender as Hampden's face—
 Who—who shall fill the space
 Void by his grave?
'Tis not one broken heart,
 Wild with dismay;
 Crazed with her agony,
 Weeps o'er his clay:
 Ah! from a thousand eyes
 Flow the pure tears that rise;
 Widowed Virginia lies
 Stricken to-day!
Yet—though that thrilling word—
 Accent of dread—
 Falls like a thunderbolt,
 Bowing each head—
 Heroes! be battle done
 Bravelier every one,
 Nerved by the thought alone—
 Ashby is dead!

STONEWALL JACKSON'S GRAVE.[A]

A simple, sodded mound of earth,
 Without a line above it;
 With only daily votive flowers
 To prove that any love it:
 The token flag that silently
 Each breeze's visit numbers,
 Alone keeps martial ward above
 The hero's dreamless slumbers.
No name?—no record? Ask the world;
 The world has read his story—
 If all its annals can unfold
 A prouder tale of glory:—
 If ever merely human life
 Hath taught diviner moral,—
 If ever round a worthier brow
 Was twined a purer laurel!
A twelvemonth only, since his sword
 Went flashing through the battle—
 A twelvemonth only, since his ear
 Heard war's last deadly rattle—
 And yet, have countless pilgrim-feet
 The pilgrim's guerdon paid him,
 And weeping women come to see
 The place where they have laid him.
Contending armies bring, in turn,
 Their meed of praise or honor,
 And Pallas here has paused to bind
 The cypress wreath upon her:
 It seems a holy sepulchre,
 Whose sanctities can waken
 Alike the love of friend or foe,—
 Of Christian or of pagan.
They come to own his high emprise,
 Who fled in frantic masses,
 Before the glittering bayonet
 That triumphed at Manassas:
 Who witnessed Kernstown's fearful odds,
 As on their ranks he thundered,
 Defiant as the storied Greek,
 Amid his brave three hundred!
They well recall the tiger spring,
 The wise retreat, the rally,
 The tireless march, the fierce pursuit,
 Through many a mountain valley:
 Cross Keys unlock new paths to fame,
 And Port Republic's story
 Wrests from his ever-vanquish'd foes,
 Strange tributes to his glory.
Cold Harbor rises to their view,—
 The Cedars' gloom is o'er them;
 Antietam's rough and rugged heights,
 Stretch mockingly before them:
 The lurid flames of Fredericksburg
 Right grimly they remember,
 That lit the frozen night's retreat,
 That wintry-wild December!
The largess of their praise is flung
 With bounty, rare and regal;
 —Is it because the vulture fears
 No longer the dead eagle?
 Nay, rather far accept it thus,—
 An homage true and tender,
 As soldier unto soldier's worth,—
 As brave to brave will render,
But who shall weigh the wordless grief
 That leaves in tears its traces,
 As round their leader crowd again,
 The bronzed and veteran faces!
 The "Old Brigade" he loved so well—
 The mountain men, who bound him
 With bays of their own winning, ere
 A tardier fame had crowned him;
The legions who had seen his glance
 Across the carnage flashing,
 And thrilled to catch his ringing "charge"
 Above the volley crashing;—
 Who oft had watched the lifted hand,
 The inward trust betraying,
 And felt their courage grow sublime,
 While they beheld him praying!
Good knights and true as ever drew
 Their swords with knightly Roland;
 Or died at Sobieski's side,
 For love of martyr'd Poland;
 Or knelt with Cromwell's Ironsides;
 Or sang with brave Gustavus;
 Or on the plain of Austerlitz,
 Breathed out their dying aves!
Rare fame! rare name!—If chanted praise,
 With all the world to listen,—
 If pride that swells a nation's soul,—
 If foemen's tears that glisten,—
 If pilgrims' shrining love,—if grief
 Which nought may soothe or sever,—
 If these can consecrate,—this spot
 Is sacred ground forever!

[A] In the month of June the singular spectacle was presented at Lexington, Va., of two hostile armies, in turn, reverently visiting Jackson's grave.

WHEN THE WAR IS OVER.

A CHRISTMAS LAY.

I.

Ah! the happy Christmas times!
 Times we all remember;—
 Times that flung a ruddy glow
 O'er the gray December;—
 Will they never come again,
 With their song and story?
 Never wear a remnant more
 Of their olden glory?
 Must the little children miss
 Still the festal token?
 Must their realm of young romance
 All be marred and broken?
 Must the mother promise on,
 While her smiles dissemble,
 And she speaks right quietly,
 Lest her voice should tremble:—
"Darlings! wait till father comes—
 Wait—and we'll discover
 Never were such Christmas times,
 When the war is over!"

II.

Underneath the midnight sky,
 Bright with starry beauty,
 Sad, the shivering sentinel
 Treads his round of duty:
 For his thoughts are far away,
 Far from strife and battle,
 As he listens dreamingly,
 To his baby's prattle;—
 As he clasps his sobbing wife,
 Wild with sudden gladness,
 Kisses all her tears away—
 Chides her looks of sadness—
 Talks of Christmas nights to come,—
 And his step grows lighter,
 Whispering, while his stiffening hand
 Grasps his musket tighter:—
"Patience, love!—keep heart! keep hope!
 To your weary rover,
 What a home our home will be,
 When the war is over!"

III.

By the twilight Christmas fire,
 All her senses laden
 With a weight of tenderness,
 Sits the musing maiden:
 From the parlor's cheerful blaze,
 Far her visions wander,
 To the white tent gleaming bright,
 On the hill-side yonder.
 Buoyant in her brave, young love,
 Flushed with patriot honour,
 No misgiving, no fond fear,
 Flings its shade upon her.
 Though no mortal soul can know
 Half the love she bears him,
 Proudly, for her country's sake,
 From her heart she spares him.
—God be thanked!—she does not dream,
 That her gallant lover
 Will be in a soldier's grave,
 When the war is over!

IV.

'Midst the turmoil and the strife
 Of the war-tide's rushing,
 Every heart its separate woe
 In its depths is hushing.
 Who has time for tears, when blood
 All the land is steeping?
 —In our poverty we grudge
 Even the waste of weeping!
 But when quiet comes again,
 And the bands, long broken,
 Gather round the hearth, and breathe
 Names now seldom spoken—
 Then we'll miss the precious links—
 Mourn the empty places—
 Read the hopeless "Nevermore,"
 In each other's faces!
—Oh! what aching, anguish'd hearts
 O'er lone graves will hover,
 With a new, fresh sense of pain,
 When the war is over!

V.

Stern endurance, bitterer still,
 Sharp with self-denial,
 Fraught with loftier sacrifice,
 Fuller far of trial—
 Strews our flinty path of thorns—
 Marks our bloody story—
 Fits us for the victor's palm—
 Weaves our robe of glory!
 Shall we faint with God above,
 And His strong arm under—
 And the cold world gazing on,
 In a maze of wonder?
 No! with more resistless march,
 More resolved endeavor,
 Press we onward—struggle still,
 Fight and win forever!
—Holy peace will heal all ills,
 Joy all losses cover,
 Raptures rend our Southern skies,
 When the war is over!

VIRGINIA CAPTA.

APRIL 9th, 1865.

I.

Unconquered captive!—close thine eye,
 And draw the ashen sackcloth o'er,
 And in thy speechless woe deplore
 The fate that would not let thee die!

II.

The arm that wore the shield, strip bare;
 The hand that held the martial rein,
 And hurled the spear on many a plain—
 Stretch—till they clasp the shackles there!

III.

The foot that once could crush the crown,
 Must drag the fetters, till it bleed
 Beneath their weight:—thou dost not need
 It now, to tread the tyrant down.

IV.

Thou thought'st him vanquish'd—boastful trust!
 —His lance, in twain—his sword, a wreck—
 But with his heel upon thy neck,
 He holds thee prostrate in the dust!

V.

Bend though thou must, beneath his will,
 Let not one abject moan have place;
 But with majestic, silent grace,
 Maintain thy regal bearing still.

VI.

Look back through all thy storied past,
 And sit erect in conscious pride:—
 No grander heroes ever died—
 No sterner, battled to the last!

VII.

Weep, if thou wilt, with proud, sad mein,
 Thy blasted hopes—thy peace undone,—
 Yet brave, live on,—nor seek to shun
 Thy fate, like Egypt's conquer'd Queen.

VIII.

Though forced a captive's place to fill,
 In the triumphal train,—yet there,
 Superbly, like Zenobia, wear
 Thy chains,—Virginia Victrix still!
 





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Beechenbrook, by Margaret J. Preston

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEECHENBROOK ***

***** This file should be named 16480-h.htm or 16480-h.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
        https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/4/8/16480/

Produced by Mark C. Orton, Ted Garvin and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net


Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.

Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.



*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
https://gutenberg.org/license).


Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works

1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B.  "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark.  It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.  See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.

1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.

1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
     address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
     License.  You must require such a user to return or
     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
     Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
     of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.

1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.


Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org.


Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541.  Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
https://pglaf.org/fundraising.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
[email protected].  Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at https://pglaf.org

For additional contact information:
     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
     Chief Executive and Director
     [email protected]


Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit https://pglaf.org

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including including checks, online payments and credit card
donations.  To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate


Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.


Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.


Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

     https://www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.