The robins stray beneath the oaks, the partridge calls its brood, And whistles down the valleys with a confidence re newed. All through the widening rifle-pits the grass is growing green, And autumn wild-flowers blossom where the bivouacs have been; The days seem like a sunny dream, and night falls gently down In silence, broken only by the murmur from the town. But though the camps have vanished and the tents are laid away, -- An army waits upon grave. Here comrades that together strove, with all of life at stake, Lie side by side, in slumber that no bugle-call can break; No shock can ever break their ranks, no blast their columns thin, Nor one deserter leave the corps their grim Chief musters in. Spring twines its garlands o'er their heads, but they never cull its flowers, And peaceful winter evenings bring to them no happy hours. Tears fall at home; they heed them not, and care no more to earn The love that waited patiently to welcome their return. Alas! what dreams of life and love have ended in these grounds! How many hopes are buried in these little grassy mounds! How many hearts have felt the pang the lips could never tell, And broken, striving to believe "He doeth all things well!" 'Tis sweet to think the war is o'er; that all its bitter pain Was measured for our chastening and not endured in vain; And dearer still it is to know that in the coming years A nation's happiness will bless our offerings and our ES, found at last, the earthly Paradise! YE Here by slow currents of the silvery stream It smiles, a shining wonder, a fair dream, A matchless miracle to mortal eyes: What whorls of dazzling color flash and rise Which crowns the centuried oaks' broad-crested calm: Unfolds her blossoms, and outbreathes her balm! Paul Hamilton Hayne. Atchafalaya, the Lakes, La. ATCHAFALAYA. BEFORE them Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya. Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen. Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms, And with the heat of noon; and numberless sylvan islands, Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses, Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber. Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were sus pended. Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew by the margin, Safely their boat was moored; and scattered about on the greensward, Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered. Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar. Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grapevine Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob, On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, de scending, Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom. Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it. Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial. Nearer, ever nearer, among the numberless islands, Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water, Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers. Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver. At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and careworn. Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadness Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written. Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless, Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow. Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island, But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of pal mettos, So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows, All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers, Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden. Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie. After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance, As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, "O Father Felician! Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders. Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition? Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit?" |