| |
| ON woodlands ruddy with autumn | |
| The amber sunshine lies; | |
| I look on the beauty round me, | |
| And tears come into my eyes. | |
| |
| For the wind that sweeps the meadows | 5 |
| Blows out of the far Southwest, | |
| Where our gallant men are fighting, | |
| And the gallant dead are at rest. | |
| |
| The golden-rod is leaning, | |
| And the purple aster waves, | 10 |
| In a breeze from the land of battles, | |
| A breath from the land of graves. | |
| |
| Full fast the leaves are dropping | |
| Before that wandering breath; | |
| As fast, on the field of battle, | 15 |
| Our brethren fall in death. | |
| |
| Beautiful over my pathway | |
| The forest spoils are shed; | |
| They are spotting the grassy hillocks | |
| With purple and gold and red. | 20 |
| |
| Beautiful is the death-sleep | |
| Of those who bravely fight | |
| In their country’s holy quarrel, | |
| And perish for the Right. | |
| |
| But who shall comfort the living, | 25 |
| The light of whose homes is gone: | |
| The bride that, early widowed, | |
| Lives broken-hearted on; | |
| |
| The matron whose sons are lying | |
| In graves on a distant shore; | 30 |
| The maiden, whose promised husband | |
| Comes back from the war no more? | |
| |
| I look on the peaceful dwellings | |
| Whose windows glimmer in sight, | |
| With croft and garden and orchard, | 35 |
| That bask in the mellow light; | |
| |
| And I know that, when our couriers | |
| With news of victory come, | |
| They will bring a bitter message | |
| Of hopeless grief to some. | 40 |
| |
| Again I turn to the woodlands, | |
| And shudder as I see | |
| The mock-grape’s blood-red banner | |
| Hung out on the cedar-tree; | |
| |
| And I think of days of slaughter, | 45 |
| And the night-sky red with flames, | |
| On the Chattahoochee’s meadows, | |
| And the wasted banks of the James. | |
| |
| Oh, for the fresh spring-season, | |
| When the groves are in their prime, | 50 |
| And far away in the future | |
| Is the frosty autumn-time! | |
| |
| Oh, for that better season, | |
| When the pride of the foe shall yield, | |
| And the hosts of God and Freedom | 55 |
| March back from the well-won field; | |
| |
| And the matron shall clasp her first-born | |
| With tears of joy and pride; | |
| And the scarred and war-worn lover | |
| Shall claim his promised bride! | 60 |
| |
| The leaves are swept from the branches; | |
| But the living buds are there, | |
| With folded flower and foliage, | |
To sprout in a kinder air.
ROSLYN, October, 1864. | |
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