And on Inkerman yet the wild bramble is gory, And those bleak heights henceforth shall be famous in story.
VIII.
The moon, swathed in storm, has long set: through the camp No sound save the sentinel's slow sullen tramp, The distant explosion, the wild sleety wind, That seems searching for something it never can find.
The midnight is turning: the lamp is nigh spent:
And, wounded and lone, in a desolate tent Lies a young British soldier whose sword . . .
In this place, However, my Muse is compell'd to retrace Her precipitous steps and revert to the past.
The shock which had suddenly shatter'd at last Alfred Vargrave's fantastical holiday nature, Had sharply drawn forth to his full size and stature The real man, conceal'd till that moment beneath All he yet had appear'd. From the gay broider'd sheath Which a man in his wrath flings aside, even so Leaps the keen trenchant steel summon'd forth by a blow.
And thus loss of fortune gave value to life.
The wife gain'd a husband, the husband a wife, In that home which, though humbled and narrow'd by fate, Was enlarged and ennobled by love. Low their state, But large their possessions.
Sir Ridley, forgiven By those he unwittingly brought nearer heaven By one fraudulent act, than through all his sleek speech The hypocrite brought his own soul, safe from reach Of the law, died abroad.
Cousin John, heart and hand, Purse and person, henceforth (honest man!) took his stand By Matilda and Alfred; guest, guardian, and friend Of the home he both shared and assured, to the end, With his large lively love. Alfred Vargrave meanwhile Faced the world's frown, consoled by his wife's faithful smile.
Late in life he began life in earnest; and still, With the tranquil exertion of resolute will, Through long, and laborious, and difficult days, Out of manifold failure, by wearisome ways, Work'd his way through the world; till at last he began (Reconciled to the work which mankind claims for man), After years of unwitness'd, unwearied endeavor, Years impassion'd yet patient, to realize ever More clear on the broad stream of current opinion The reflex of powers in himself--that dominion Which the life of one man, if his life be a truth, May assert o'er the life of mankind. Thus, his youth In his manhood renew'd, fame and fortune he won Working only for home, love, and duty.
One son Matilda had borne him; but scarce had the boy, With all Eton yet fresh in his full heart's frank joy, The darling of young soldier comrades, just glanced Down the glad dawn of manhood at life, when it chanced That a blight sharp and sudden was breath'd o'er the bloom Of his joyous and generous years, and the gloom Of a grief premature on their fair promise fell:
No light cloud like those which, for June to dispel, Captious April engenders; but deep as his own Deep nature. Meanwhile, ere I fully make known The cause of this sorrow, I track the event.
When first a wild war-note through England was sent, He, transferring without either token or word, To friend, parent, or comrade, a yet virgin sword, From a holiday troop, to one bound for the war, Had march'd forth, with eyes that saw death in the star Whence others sought glory. Thus fighting, he fell On the red field of Inkerman; found, who can tell By what miracle, breathing, though shatter'd, and borne To the rear by his comrades, pierced, bleeding, and torn.
Where for long days and nights, with the wound in his side, He lay, dark.
IX.
But a wound deeper far, undescried, The young heart was rankling; for there, of a truth, In the first earnest faith of a pure pensive youth, A love large as life, deep and changeless as death, Lay ensheath'd: and that love, ever fretting its sheath, The frail scabbard of life pierced and wore through and through.
There are loves in man's life for which time can renew All that time may destroy. Lives there are, though, in love, Which cling to one faith, and die with it; nor move, Though earthquakes may shatter the shrine.
Whence or how Love laid claim to this young life, it matters not now.
X.
Oh is it a phantom? a dream of the night?
A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight?
The wind wailing ever, with motion uncertain, Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tattered curtain, To and fro, up and down.
But it is not the wind That is lifting it now: and it is not the mind That hath moulded that vision.
A pale woman enters, As wan as the lamp's waning light, which concenters Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmer There, all in a slumberous and shadowy glimmer, The sufferer sees that still form floating on, And feels faintly aware that he is not alone.
She is flitting before him. She pauses. She stands By his bedside all silent. She lays her white hands On the brow of the boy. A light finger is pressing Softly, softly the sore wounds: the hot blood-stain'd dressing Slips from them. A comforting quietude steals Through the rack'd weary frame; and, throughout it, he feels The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighborhood.
Something smooths the toss'd pillow. Beneath a gray hood Of rough serge, two intense tender eyes are bent o'er him, And thrill through and through him. The sweet form before him, It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil keeping!
A soft voice says . . . "Sleep!"
And he sleeps: he is sleeping.
XI.
He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there.
Still that pale woman moves not. A minist'ring care Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering The aspect of all things around him.
Revering Some power unknown, and benignant, he bless'd In silence the sense of salvation. And rest Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly Sigh'd . . . "Say what thou art, blessed dream of a saintly And minist'ring spirit!"
A whisper serene Slid, softer than silence . . . "The Soeur Seraphine, A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy sire, For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave.
Thou didst not shun death: shun not life: 'Tis more brave To live than to die. Sleep!"
He sleeps: he is sleeping.
XII.
