"The Heart of War," Poem, undated
The Heart of the War.
"Peace in the clover-scented air,
And stars within the dome;
And underneath, in dim repose,
A plain, New England home.
Within a murmur of low tones
And signs from hearts oppressed
Mingling in prayer, at last, that brings
The balm of silent rest.
I've closed a hard days work Maety,
The evening chores are done;
And you are weary with the house,
And with the little one.
But he is sleeping sweetly now,
With all our pretty brood,
So come and sit upon my knee,
And it will do me good.
Oh Maety! I must tell you all
The trouble in my heart,
And you must do the best you can
To take and bear your part.
You've seen the shadow on my face
You've felt it day and night;
For it has filled our little home,
And banished all its light.
I did not mean it should be so,
And yet I might have known /
That hearts that live as close as ours
Can never keep their own.
But we are fallen on evil times,
And, do what e'er I may,
My heart grows sad about the war,
And sadder every day.
I think about it when I work,
And when I try to rest,
And never more than when your head
Is pillowed on my breast;
For then I see the camp-fires blaze,
And sleeping men around,
Who turn their faces towards their homes,
And dream upon the ground.
I think about the dear, brave boys,
My mates in other years,
Who pine for home and those they love
Till I am choked with tears.
With shouts and cheers they marched away
On glory's shining back,
But oh! how long how long they stay!
How few of them come back!
One sleeps beside the Tennessee,
And one beside the James,
And one fought on a gallant ship
And perished in its flames.
And some, struck down by fell disease,
Are breathing out their life; /
And others, maimed by cruel wounds
Have left the deadly strife.
Ah, Maety! Maety! only think
Of all the boys have done
And suffered in this cruel war!
Brave heroes, every one!
Oh! often, often in the night,
I hear their voices call:
"Come on and help us! Is it right
That we should bear it all?"
And when I kneel and try to pray
My thoughts are never free,
But cling to those who toil and fight
And die for you and me.
And when I pray for victory
It seems almost a sin
To fold my hands and ask for what
I will not help to win.
Oh. do not cling to me and cry,
For it will break my heart;
I'm sure you'd rather have me die
Than not to bear my part.
You think that some should stay at home
To care for those away;
But still I'm helpless to decide
If I should go or stay. /
For Maety, all the soldiers love,
And all are loved again
And I am loved, and love, perhaps
No more than other men.
I can not tell—I do not know—
Which way my duty lies,
Or where the Lord would have me build
My fire of sacrifice.
I feel—I know—I am not mean;
And though I seem to boast,
I'm sure that I would give my life
To those who need it most.
Perhaps the Spirit will reveal
That which is fair and right;
So, Maety let us humbly kneel,
And pray to Heaven for light.
Peace in the clover-scented air,
And stars within the dome;
And underneath, in dim repose,
A plain, New England home.
Within, a widow in her weeds
From whom all joy is flown
Who kneels among her sleeping babes
And weeps and prays alone!"
J. G. Holland.
DATABASE CONTENT
| (13371) | DL1865.018 | 197 | Other | 186X |
Tags: Cowardice, Death (Military), Injuries, Poetry, Religion, Sadness, War Weariness
People - Records: 1
- (4743) [associated with] ~ Currier, John Charles
SOURCES
"The Heart of War," Poem, undated, DL1865.018, Nau Collection
