'Tis a wild night out of doors; The wind is mad upon the moors, And comes into the rocking town, Stabbing all things, up and down, And then there is a weeping rain Huddling 'gainst the window-pane, And good men bless themselves in bed; The mother brings her infant's head Closer, with a joy like tears, And thinks of angels in her prayers; Then sleeps, with his small hand in hers. Two loving women, lingering yet Ere the fire is out, are met, Talking sweetly, time-beguil'd, One of her bridegroom, one her child, The bridegroom he. They have receiv'd Happy letters, more believ'd For public news, and feel the bliss The heavenlier on a night like this. They think him hous'd, they think him blest, Curtain'd in the core of rest, Danger distant, all good near; Why hath their "Good night" a tear? Behold him! By a ditch he lies Clutching the wet earth, his eyes Beginning to be mad. In vain His tongue still thirsts to lick the rain, That mock'd but now his homeward tears; And ever and anon he rears His legs and knees with all their strength, And then as strongly thrusts at length. Rais'd, or stretch'd, he cannot bear The wound that girds him, weltering there: And "Water!" he cries, with moonward stare. ["I will not read it!" with a start, Burning cries some honest heart; "I will not read it! Why endure Pangs which horror cannot cure? Why--Oh why? and rob the brave And the bereav'd of all they crave, A little hope to gild the grave?" Ask'st thou why, thou honest heart? 'Tis _because_ thou dost ask, and because thou dost start. 'Tis because thine own praise and fond outward thought Have aided the shews which this sorrow have wrought.] A wound unutterable--Oh God! Mingles his being with the sod. ["I'll read no more."--Thou must, thou must: In thine own pang doth wisdom trust.] His nails are in earth, his eyes in air, And "Water!" he crieth--he may not forbear. Brave and good was he, yet now he dreams The moon looks cruel; and he blasphemes. ["No more! no more!" Nay, this is but one; Were the whole tale told, it would not be done From wonderful setting to rising sun. But God's good time is at hand--be calm, Thou reader! and steep thee in all thy balm Of tears or patience, of thought or good will, For the field--the field awaiteth us still.]