Page:Selections from the American poets (IA selectamerpoet00bryarich).pdf/251
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John Neal.
247
His pulses quicken: for a rude old doorIs open'd by the wind: he sees the floor,Strew'd with white sand, on which he used to traceHis boyhood's battles, and assign a placeTo charging hosts, and give the Indian yell,And shout to hear his hoary grandsire tellHow he had fought with savages, whose breathHe felt upon his cheek like mildew till his death. Hark! that sweet song, how full of tenderness!Oh! who would breathe in this voluptuous pressOf lulling thoughts! so soothing and so low,Like singing fountains in their faintest flow:It is as if some holy, lovely thing,Within our very hearts were murmuring.The soldier listens, and his arms are press'dIn thankfulness, and trembling on his breast:Now, on the very window where he standsAre seen a clambering infant's rosy hands:And now—ah Heaven! blessings on that smile!Stay, soldier, stay! oh linger yet a while!An airy vision now appears, with eyesAs tender as the blue of weeping skies:Yet sunny in their radiance, as that blueWhen sunset glitters on its falling dew:With form—all joy and dance—as bright and freeAs youthful nymph of mountain liberty,Or naked angels dream'd by poesy:A blooming infant to her heart is press'd,And ah! a mother's song is lulling it to rest. A single bound! our chief is standing by,Trembling from head to foot with ecstasy:"Bless thee!" at length he murmur'd, "bless thee, love!My wife! my boy!" Their eyes are raised above.His soldier's tread of sounding strength is gone,A choking transport drowns his manly tone.He sees the closing of that mild blue eye,His bosom echoes to a faint low cry:His glorious boy springs freshly from his sleep;Shakes his thin sun-curls, while his eyebeams leap