FAVOURITE POETRY: UNDER CANVAS

UNDER CANVAS
By Owen Meredith

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 tatter'd 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 concentres 
Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmer. 
There, all in a slumb'rous 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 
Thro' the racked 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 thro' and thro' 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. 

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. 

He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steeping 
The skies with chill splendor. And there, never flitting, 
Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting. 
As the dawn to the darkness, so life seem'd returning 
Slowly, feebly within him. The night-lamp, yet burning. 
Made ghastly the glimmering daybreak. 

He said: 
" If thou be of the living, and not of the dead, 
Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing 
Of that balmy voice ; if it may be, revealing 
Thy mission of mercy ! whence art thou ?" 

" O son  Of Matilda and Alfred, it matters not ! One 
Who is not of the living nor yet of the dead : 
To thee and to others alive yet," she said, 
" So long as there liveth the poor gift in me 
Of this ministration : to them and to thee 
Dead in all things beside. A French nun, whose vocation 
Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation. 
Wherever man suffers, or woman may soothe. 
There her land! there her kindred!" 

She bent down to smooth 
The hot pillow, and added : " Yet more than another 

Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy mother, 
I know them — I know them." 

" Oh, can it be ? you ! 
My dearest, dear father ! my mother ! you knew — 
You know them?" 

She bow'd, half averting her head, 
In silence. He brokenly, timidly said, 
"Do they know I am thus?" 

" Hush !" — she smiled as she drew 
From her bosom two letters ; and — can it be true ? 
That beloved and familiar writing! He burst 
Into tears : " My poor mother ! my father ! the worst 
Will have reached them!" 

" No, no !" she exclaim'd, with a smile, 
"They know you are living; they know that meanwhile 
I am watching beside you. Young soldier, weep not!" 
But still on the nun's nursing bosom the hot 
Fever'd brow of the boy weeping wildly is pressed. 
There, at last, the young heart sobs itself into rest ; 
And he hears, as it were between smiling and weeping, 
The calm voice say, " Sleep !" 

And he sleeps: he is sleeping. 

FAVOURITE POETRY: AFTER THE BATTLE

AFTER THE BATTLE

ANONYMOUS  

Hold the lantern aside, and shudder not so; 

There's more blood to see than this stain on the snow; 

There are pools of it, lakes of it, just over there, 

And fixed faces, all streaked, and crimson - soaked hair. 

Did you think, when we came, you and I, out tonight 

To search for our dead, yon would be a fair sight? 

You're his wife ; you love him — you think so ; and I 
Am only his mother; my boy shall not lie 
In a ditch with the rest, while my arms can bear 
His form to a grave that mine own may soon share. 
So, if your strength fails,, best go sit by the hearth, 
While his mother alone seeks his bed on the earth. 

You will go ! then no faintings ! Give me the light, 
And follow my footsteps — my heart will lead right. 
Ah, God! what is here? a great heap of the slain. 
All mangled and gory! — what horrible pain 
These beings have died in ! Dear mothers, ye weep, 
Ye weep, oh, ye weep o'er this terrible sleep ! 

More! more! Ah! I thought I could never more know 
Grief, horror, or pity, for aught here below, 

Since I stood in the porch and heard his chief tell 
How brave was my son — how he gallantly fell. 
Did they think I cared then to see officers stand 
Before my great sorrow, each with hat in hand? 

Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence nor fright, 
That your red hands turn over towards this dim light 
These dead men that stare so? Ah! if you had kept 
Your senses this morning, ere his comrades had left, 
You had heard that his place was worst of them all— 
Not 'mid the stragglers— where he fought he would fall. 

There's the moon through the clouds : O Christ, what a scene! 
Dost thou from thy heavens o'er such visions lean, 
And still call this cursed world a footstool of thine? 
Hark, a groan ! there another — here in this line 
Piled close on each other! Ah! here is the flag, 
Torn, dripping with gore. Bah! they died for this rag...


Here's the voice that we seek: poor soul, do not start ; 
We're women, not ghosts. What a gash o'er the heart ! 
Is there aught we can do? — a message to give 
To any beloved one? I swear, if I live, 

To take it, for sake of the words my boy said — 
"Home," "mother," "wife" — ere he reeled down 'mong the dead. 

But, first, can you tell where his regiment stood ? 
Speak, speak, man, or point; 'twas the Ninth. Oh, the blood 
Is choking his voice! What a look of despair! 
There, lean on my knee, while I put back the hair 
From eyes so fast glazing. Oh, my darling, my own! 
My hands were both idle when you died alone. 

He's dying — he's dead! Close his lids; let us go. 
God's peace on his soul! If we only could know 
Where our own dear one lies ! — my soul has turned sick; 
Must we crawl o'er these bodies that lie here so thick? 
I cannot! I cannot! How eager you are. 
One might think you were nursed on the red lap of war. 

He's not here — and not here. What wild hopes flash through 
My thoughts, as foot-deep I stand in this dread dew, 
And cast up a prayer to the blue quiet sky! 
Was it you, girl, that shrieked? Ah! what face doth lie 
Upturned towards me there, so rigid and white? 
O God, my brain reels! 'Tis a dream. My old sight 


Is dimmed with these horrors. My son ! oh, my son ! 
Would I had died for thee, my own, only one! 
There, lift up your arms ; let him come to the breast 
Where first he was lulled, with my soul's hymn, to rest. 
Your heart never thrilled to your lover's fond kiss 
As mine to his baby touch: was it for this? 

He was yours, too ; he loved you ? Yes, yes, you're right. 
Forgive me, my daughter, I'm maddened to-night ! 
Don't moan so, dear child; you're young, and your years 
May still hold fair hopes ; but the old die of tears. 
Yes, take him again ; ah ! don't lay your face there ; 
See, the blood from his wound has stained your loose hair. 

How quiet you are! Has she fainted? — her cheek 
Is cold as his own. Say a word to me — speak! 
Am I crazed? Is she dead? Has her heart broke first? 
Her trouble was bitter, but sure mine is worst. 

I'm afraid, I'm afraid, all alone with these dead : 
Those corpses are stirring. God help my poor head! 

I'll sit by my children until the men come 
To bury the others, and then we'll go home. 
Why, the slain are all dancing ! Dearest, don't move. 
Keep away from my boy ; he's guarded by love. 
Lullaby, lullaby ; sleep, sweet darling, sleep ! 
God and thy mother will watch o'er thee keep.