Grand'ther Baldwin's Thanksgiving, with Other Ballads and Poems

THE WHIPPOORWILL AND I

 
     IN the hushed hours of night, when the air quite still,
     I hear the strange cry of the lone whippoorwill,
     Who Chants, without ceasing, that wonderful trill,
     Of which the sole burden is still, "Whip-poor-Will."
 
 
     And why should I whip him? Strange visitant,
     Has he been playing truant this long summer day?
     I listened a moment; more clear and more shrill
     Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."
 
 
     But what has poor Will done? I ask you once more;
     I'll whip him, don't fear, if you'll tell me what for.
     I paused for an answer; o'er valley and hill
     Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."
 
 
     Has he come to your dwelling, by night or by day,
     And snatched the young birds from their warm nest away?
     I paused for an answer; o'er valley and hill
     Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."
 
 
     Well, well, I can hear you, don't have any fears,
     I can hear what is constantly dinned in my ears.
     The obstinate bird, with his wonderful trill,
     Still made but one answer, and that, "Whip-poor-Will."
 
 
     But what HAS poor Will done? I prithee explain;
     I'm out of all patience, don't mock me again.
     The obstinate bird, with his wonderful trill,
     Still made the same answer, and that, "Whip-poor-Will."
 
 
     Well, have your own way, then; but if you won't tell,
     I'll shut down the window, and bid you farewell;
     But of one thing be sure, I won't whip him until
     You give me some reason for whipping poor Will.
 
 
     I listened a moment, as if for reply,
     But nothing was heard but the bird's mocking cry.
     I caught the faint echo from valley and hill;
     It breathed the same burden, that strange "Whip-poor-Will."
 

CARVING A NAME

 
     I wrote my name upon the sand,
       And trusted it would stand for aye;
     But, soon, alas! the refluent sea
       Had washed my feeble lines away.
 
 
     I carved my name upon the wood,
       And, after years, returned again;
     I missed the shadow of the tree
       That stretched of old upon the plain.
 
 
     To solid marble next, my name
       I gave as a perpetual trust;
     An earthquake rent it to its base,
       And now it lies, o'erlaid with dust.
 
 
     All these have failed. In wiser mood
       I turn and ask myself, "What then?"
     If I would have my name endure,
       I'll write it on the hearts of men,
 
 
     In characters of living light,
       Of kindly deeds and actions wrought.
     And these, beyond the touch of time,
       Shall live immortal as my thought.
 

IN TIME OF WAR

GONE TO THE WAR

 
     My Charlie has gone to the war,
       My Charlie so brave and tall;
     He left his plough in the furrow,
       And flew at his country's call.
     May God in safety keep him,—
       My precious boy—my all!
 
 
     My heart is pining to see him;
       I miss him every day;
     My heart is weary with waiting,
       And sick of the long delay,—
     But I know his country needs him,
       And I could not bid him stay.
 
 
     I remember how his face flushed,
       And how his color came,
     When the flash from the guns of Sumter
       Lit the whole land with flame,
     And darkened our country's banner
       With the crimson hue of shame.
 
 
     "Mother," he said, then faltered,—
       I felt his mute appeal;
     I paused—if you are a mother,
       You know what mothers feel,
     When called to yield their dear ones
       To the cruel bullet and steel.
 
 
     My heart stood still for a moment,
       Struck with a mighty woe;
     A faint as of death came o'er me,
       I am a mother, you know,
     But I sternly checked my weakness,
       And firmly bade him "Go."
 
 
     Wherever the fight is fiercest
       I know that my boy will be;
     Wherever the need is sorest
       Of the stout arms of the free.
     May he prove as true to his country
       As he has been true to me.
 
 
     My home is lonely without him,
       My hearth bereft of joy,
     The thought of him who has left me
       My constant sad employ;
     But God has been good to the mother,—
       She shall not blush for her boy.
 

WHERE IS MY BOY TO-NIGHT?

 
     When the clouds in the Western sky
       Flush red with the setting sun,—
     When the veil of twilight falls,
       And the busy day is done,—
     I sit and watch the clouds,
       With their crimson hues alight,
     And ponder with anxious heart,
       Oh, where is my boy to-night?
 
 
     It is just a year to-day
       Since he bade me a gay good-by,
     To march where banners float,
       And the deadly missiles fly.
     As I marked his martial step
       I felt my color rise
     With all a mother's pride,
       And my heart was in my eyes.
 
 
     There's a little room close by,
       Where I often used to creep
     In the hush of the summer night
       To watch my boy asleep.
     But he who used to rest
       Beneath the spread so white
     Is far away from me now,—
       Oh, where is my boy to-night?
 
 
     Perchance in the gathering night,
       With slow and weary feet,
     By the light of Southern stars,
       He paces his lonely beat.
     Does he think of the mother's heart
       That will never cease to yearn,
     As only a mother's can,
       For her absent boy's return?
 
 
     Oh, where is my boy to-night?
       I cannot answer where,
     But I know, wherever he is,
       He is under our Father's care.
     May He guard, and guide, and bless
       My boy, wherever he be,
     And bring him back at length
       To bless and to comfort me.
 
 
     May God bless all our boys
       By the camp-fire's ruddy glow,
     Or when in the deadly fight
       They front the embattled foe;
     And comfort each mother's heart,
       As she sits in the fading light,
     And ponders with anxious heart—
       Oh, where is my boy to-night?
 

A SOLDIER'S VALENTINE

 
     Just from the sentry's tramp
       (I must take it again at ten),
     I have laid my musket down,
       And seized instead my pen;
     For, pacing my lonely round
       In the chilly twilight gray,
     The thought, dear Mary, came,
       That this is St. Valentine's Day.
 
 
     And with the thought there came
       A glimpse of the happy time
     When a school-boy's first attempt
       I sent you, in borrowed rhyme,
     On a gilt-edged sheet, embossed
       With many a quaint design,
     And signed, in school-boy hand,
       "Your loving Valentine."
 
 
     The years have come and gone,—
       Have flown, I know not where,—
     And the school-boy's merry face
       Is grave with manhood's care;
     But the heart of the man still beats
       At the well-remembered name,
     And on this St. Valentine's Day
       His choice is still the same.
 
 
     There was a time—ah, well!
       Think not that I repine
     When I dreamed this happy day
       Would smile on you as mine;
     But I heard my country's call;
       I knew her need was sore.
     Thank God, no selfish thought
       Withheld me from the war.
 
 
     But when the dear old flag
       Shall float in its ancient pride,
     When the twain shall be made one,
       And feuds no more divide,—
     I will lay my musket down,
       My martial garb resign,
     And turn my joyous feet
       Toward home and Valentine.
 

LAST WORDS

 
     "DEAR Charlie," breathed a soldier,
       "O comrade true and tried,
     Who in the heat of battle
       Pressed closely to my side;
     I feel that I am stricken,
       My life is ebbing fast;
     I fain would have you with me,
       Dear Charlie, till the last.
 
 
     "It seems so sudden, Charlie,
       To think to-morrow's sun
     Will look upon me lifeless,
       And I not twenty-one!
     I little dreamed this morning,
       Twould bring my last campaign;
     God's ways are not as our ways,
       And I will not complain.
 
 
     "There's one at home, dear Charlie,
       Will mourn for me when dead,
     Whose heart—it is a mother's—
       Can scarce be comforted.
     You'll write and tell her, Charlie,
       With my dear love, that I
     Fought bravely as a soldier should,
       And died as he should die.
 
 
     "And you will tell her, Charlie,
       She must not grieve too much,
     Our country claims our young lives,
       For she has need of such.
     And where is he would falter,
       Or turn ignobly back,
     When Duty's voice cries 'Forward,'
       And Honor lights the track?
 
 
     "And there's another, Charlie
       (His voice became more low),
     When thoughts of HER come o'er me,
       It makes it hard to go.
     This locket in my bosom,
       She gave me just before
     I left my native village
       For the fearful scenes of war.
 
 
     "Give her this message, Charlie,
       Sent with my dying breath,
     To her and to my banner
       I'm 'faithful unto death.'
     And if, in that far country
       Which I am going to,
     Our earthly ties may enter,
       I'll there my love renew.
 
 
     "Come nearer, closer, Charlie,
       My head I fain would rest,
     It must be for the last time,
       Upon your faithful breast.
     Dear friend, I cannot tell you
       How in my heart I feel
     The depth of your devotion,
       Your friendship strong as steel.
 
 
     "We've watched and camped together
       In sunshine and in rain;
     We've shared the toils and perils
       Of more than one campaign;
     And when my tired feet faltered,
       Beneath the noontide heat,
     Your words sustained my courage,
       Gave new strength to my feet.
 
 
     "And once,—'twas at Antietam,—
       Pressed hard by thronging foes,
     I almost sank exhausted
       Beneath their cruel blows,—
     When you, dear friend, undaunted,
       With headlong courage threw
     Your heart into the contest,
       And safely brought me through.
 
 
     "My words are weak, dear Charlie,
       My breath is growing scant;
     Your hand upon my heart there,
       Can you not hear me pant?
     Your thoughts I know will wander
       Sometimes to where I lie—
     How dark it grows! True comrade
       And faithful friend, good-by!"
 
 
     A moment, and he lay there
       A statue, pale and calm.
     His youthful head reclining
       Upon his comrade's arm.
     His limbs upon the greensward
       Were stretched in careless grace,
     And by the fitful moon was seen
       A smile upon his face.