205 Home Wounded

WHEEL me down by the meadow,

Where no step but thine will pass;

Anchor me where the shadow

Skims o’er the billowy grass:

Where the arbutus straggles over

The slope of the spreading hill,

And the souls of hidden violets

Their scented airs distil.

Saint, with your sweet composure,

Lean your cool cheek ’gainst my hair;

My soul ’s in the fierce exposure

Of fields where the dying are;

And even your hand can never

Quiet this fever and pain,

Or soften the restless longing

To share in the contest again.

O, to be here so idle!

To sit like a clod in this chair,

With hands that ache for the bridle,

With heart away in the war!

Instead of the long roll beating

To hear but the tinkle of vines,

For the rush and whirl of the conflict

Only the wail of the pines.

Still midst the sounds of summer,

Which freight the soft June air

With tender slumberous murmur,

My soul hears the trumpet’s blare.

What have I laid on the altar?

Only a few drops of blood!

Small is the gift to offer

For honor, freedom, God.

While by your side I dally,

Still waits the slave in his chain.

Up, my faint pulse must rally

Once more ’mid the leaden rain.

With kisses on lips, eyes and forehead,

Sign me the sign of the Cross.

If my heart throb its last for our banner,

Greater the gain than the loss.

If we gain—there ’ll be time for our wooing,

In paths where the wild roses nod;

If we lose—I ’ll wait for you, dearest,

’Neath the palms by the mount of our God.