field of thought. If he were only here, to hold his own book open in his hands, that book consigned by him to the hopeless oblivion of ill-starred thoughts. Yes, the crown is ready for him to come and claim his birthright. I am so happy over it, I can't sit still; but I walk back and forth, clapping my hands and singing, — "Now is the time, ye sun and stars, แ When ye raise my soul from mortal bars, And bear it through Heaven in your golden cars. "Every flower is a lover of mine, Every star is a friend divine; For me they blossom! for me they shine." As I sing, with the book in my hand, the door opens, this time without any knocking; and here is the paper. The guns have been going all the morning; boys scream "Extras! extras!" under my windows. I heard yesterday that the regiment Ernest Heart was in was not on any battle-field, — only doing garrison-duty, or guarding some fort. So I read the news with calmness. The boys shout under my window, "Great victory-Great Union victory 'Herald' extra — 'Times,' weekly — Tribune' !" And the despatch of the 13th reads, "God has crowned our arms with another brilliant success. The Union loss in the battle is only about a thousand killed, — the rebels nearly twice that number." The despatch ends with this, "No Union flag or gun lost." Only a thousand Union men killed! I say. A thousand brave souls have answered the roll-call of eternity! a thousand lonely, shadowed hearthstones wait and watch no longer the glad coming of their best-beloved! a thousand hearth-lights are out! a thousand household fires grow dim, for the thousand closed eyes, sealed lips, hushed hearts they'll greet no more! Will this " no single Union flag or gun lost " be the only glad refrain to hush the burden, the ceaseless dirge of thousand wailing voices? Oh! Union flag and gun unlost, so glorified, ye cannot cover or hide the noble six hundred fallen for thee! "Two years of time have never fled "Nor borne to yon celestial goals, "Some crowned with fame, the immortal brave, Sleep in the flag they died to save. "O Earth, ma mère, with tender pain, "We love. With grief our tears are spent; "O flag, beloved in better years, O flag, baptized in blood and tears, "O flag, more sacred for your cost, "Victory, great victory!" shout the boys again under the window. Oh, victory! laurel-wreathed and radiant-crowned, goldenrobed and rainbow-winged, flashing-eyed, roseate-hued and eloquent-tongued, wave thy green palm-branches before thee! Before thee are fair morning-glories, forget-me-nots, daisies, crowns imperial, and regal fleurs-de-lis! Beneath thy trailing, golden robe there 's an iron hoof, and behind thee no green thing lives, save weeping-willow, crushed heart's-ease, mourning-bride, widow's-tear, and love-lies-bleeding! The flags are flying from almost every window. There's to be a grand illumination to-night, till the streets shall look like a sea of stars. Annie Arlington, with little Blanche Page, is just crossing the street. Annie is in deep mourning for her father and child. General Arlington was killed in the battle of the 15th. While mounting the third time a parapet and planting a flag, a volley from the guns at short range killed one hundred and seventy, who fell in a space one hundred feet by four, and among them the brave and daring General. Annie walks slowly, like an invalid. So under all this flood-tide of joy there is a treacherous under-current, bearing brave men away in its deep, dark waters to their hidden graves! How do I dare be happy, I say, when so many hearts sit "dumb before the shadow of their great affliction ?" Why is it, that when the cathedral-soul rings out its chimes of joy, clear, sweet, and jubilant, and from every spire and turret of the heart, little starry flags wave, as emotion sings out its soft, sweet refrain, and the joy-bells chime on for some great hope's glad birthday why so often, close to a great joy's triumph-march, comes the iron tread of a wailing sorrow? The chime dies away into a dirge, the lights are out, Emotion weeps in her new sackcloth. I sit with the book in my hand; it only came this morning. I am happy, with this one great wish fulfilled. I forget all about the flags and victories, as I open it and read one of its sunniest chapters aloud; and I long so intently to put the book in the author's hands. He will return soon, they say; but the days will be so long till then. How proud and happy I can make him feel, as I put in his room, on his table, his own book; and he 'll come in and find it there. "Miss Nelly Harwed comes in, and brings me a little bunch of lovelies-bleeding. I take the flowers. I wish she had brought me something else. She gives me another paper; 't is an extra. I open it and read the news aloud. She pulls my dress as I read about "twice the number of rebels killed," and says, Louise, Miss Louise, have n't the rebels got any moder?" I say, "Yes, yes, child," in an absent way, for I am looking over the list of "killed." In one corner of the paper I read some familiar names; but the last name is, — "Private Ernest Heart, killed!" The paper drops on the floor, the book falls upon it, and the little half-withered bunch of love-lies-bleeding lies on the open leaves of the book; and I fall fainting, - the first time in my life. 'T is to-morrow. I am up again, but there is a veil over sun and moon and stars, and blue sky and flowers, and a deeper pall over my heart. What will I do with the book now? Lay it away from my sight. Will the time ever come when I can read it without tears? I don't read the words "With long life will I satisfy him" any more. I have taken down that triumphal arch over the gate of my heart, and only a Greenwood bell tolls there; and I can see over the gateway no beautiful resurrection figures and no resurrection words written under them. No! all I can see now is a grave where are buried together friends and foes," in one red burial blent,” - one deep, unnamed grave! If he could have died here, and I could have lain him on some sunset hill, or near the sylvan lake, where birds come and sing and flowers bloom, and love watches tenderly opening bud and flower; where willows wave! blent," I say, over and over. But no - - in " one red burial Leave me alone with my dead, ye who have never mourned a lost love, a broken hope. I want no sympathy from happy hearts. This hope was the one little flower of my heart; but the "wind passeth over it, and it is gone." "'Tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse 197 The door of the room adjoining mine is open, and I hear a man's voice reading, "No Lotus-flowers shall ever bind thy brow, And I say, "There'll be no more rest for me here." CHAPTER XXVI. THE SMILE-WREATH, OR MUCH ADO ABOUT ORANGES. Neither turn thy face from any poor, and the face of God shall not be turned away from thee. - TORIT. You don't know me, reader! You've never seen my face, or grasped my hand; my griefs are of little moment to you. It would be intrusive, imprudent, indiscreet for me to offer you a long chapter of my sorrows. It would seem to you one dull, dirge monotone. So, as you put away your lost child's little shoes and embroidered robe, the first little brown shoes, the first little red dress she ever wore (you would n't part with them for anything,) you go away alone, and look in the little drawer where they lie, and weep there; but you never put them in the guest-chamber, never leave them in the parlor that you keep arrayed and furnished for strangers' reception. So in Memory's old cedar-chest I shall lay away, and lock up, young Love's earliest embroidered robe, and Joy's first fairy slippers, where no oblivion moth stealthily enters and silently consumes or gradually destroys the durable substance and costly texture of Joy's faded, folded child-robe. Nights, when you are asleep, I may bend over the old chest; but you won't see the tears fall or hear the lonely sob. If you have, like me, laid away within Memory's locked chest the rent robe which young Love used to wear, God help you! I pity you. Oh dear! I wish I could smile again, I say, as I sit by myself and think the same weary thoughts over and over. It is a lovely day in winter; the sun shines in on my heliotrope, and lingers lovingly on the young ivy I am, trying to train up the frame. How the sunshine used to light up my whole heart, as it streamed through my window; but I can't smile with the sunshine now. I have n't smiled for many weeks. My lips of late have only learned to quiver; and I am quite brave if I can keep the tears back in the deep, deep well of my heart. But there's a grief-spring there nothing can check or still. |