Produced by Mark C. Orton, Ted Garvin and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net BEECHENBROOK; A Rhyme of the War. * * * * * BY MARGARET J. PRESTON. * * * * * BALTIMORE: KELLY & PIET, PUBLISHERS, 174 BALTIMORE STREET, 1866. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by KELLY & PIET, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Maryland. Dedication. TO EVERY SOUTHERN WOMAN, WHO HAS BEEN Widowed by the War, I DEDICATE THIS RHYME, PUBLISHED DURING THE PROGRESS OF THE STRUGGLE AND NOW RE-PRODUCED--AS A Faint Memorial of Sufferings, OF WHICH THERE CAN BE NO FORGETFULNESS. M.J.P. * * * * * BEECHENBROOK; A RHYME OF THE WAR. * * * * * I. 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.