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.