Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Robert HenryNewell865 Picciola
I
Well singed and bronzed from siege and pillage,
Went tramping in an army’s wake
Along the turnpike of the village.
Had through the little place been marching,
And ever loud the rustics cheered,
Till every throat was hoarse and parching.
All took the sight’s electric stirring,
And hats were waved and staves were sung,
And kerchiefs white were countless whirring.
Of heroes stalwart under banners,
And, in the fierce heroic glow,
’T was theirs to yield but wild hosannas.
Where he behind in step was keeping;
But glancing down beside the road
He saw a little maid sit weeping.
A moment pausing to regard her;—
“Why weepest thou, my little chit?”
And then she only cried the harder.
The sturdy trooper straight repeated,
“When all the village cheers us on,
That you, in tears, apart are seated?
And that ’s a sight, my baby beauty,
To quicken silence into song
And glorify the soldier’s duty.”
The little maid gave soft replying;
“And Father, Mother, Brother too,
All say ‘Hurrah’ while I am crying;
How many little sisters’ brothers
Are going all away to fight
And may be killed, as well as others!”
His brawny hand her curls caressing,
“’T is left for little ones like thee
To find that War’s not all a blessing.”
Then cleared his throat and looked indignant,
And marched away with wrinkled brow
To stop the struggling tear benignant.
From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage;
The pall behind the standard seen
By one alone of all the village.
When roars the wind through gap and braken;
But ’t is the tenderest reed of all
That trembles first when Earth is shaken.