Nay, that’s true; You are the kind that walks up to the stake Unflinching and unquestioning. I sue For pardon, and I pray you tell me all This tale of yours. When did your lover fall-- What battle-field?
Not any well-known name; It was not Heaven’s pleasure that the fame Of well-known battle should be his. A band Of wild guerrillas raiding through the land, Shot him, and left him bleeding by the way.
Maybe so, And maybe not; they bear a seven-leagued name That many hide beneath; each shot, each blow, Is trumpeted as theirs, and all the blame Falls on their shoulders, be it what it may-- Now truth, and now but falsehood. Morgan’s men Are bold Kentucky riders; every glen Knows their fleet midnight gallop; every map Kept by our soldiers here is scored with marks Where they have been; now near, now miles away, From river lowland to the mountain-gap, Swift as the rushing wind. No watch-dog barks When _they_ ride by, no well-versed tongues betray Their resting-place; Kentucky knows her own, Gives silent, helpful welcome when they pass Across her borders north from Tennessee, Heading their horses for the far Blue Grass, The land of home, the land they long to see, The lovely rolling land. We might have known That come they would!
I come from Washington. Nay--but I read The doubt you try to hide. Be frank--confess-- I am that mythical adventuress That thrives in Washington these troublous days-- The country correspondent’s tale?
Your dress-- And--something in your air--
I give you praise For rare sincerity. Go on.
Your tone, Your words, seem strange.--But then, I’ve never known A woman like you.
Yet we are not few, Thank Heaven, for the world’s sake! It would starve If gray was all its color, and the dew Its only nectar. With a pulsing haste It seeks the royal purples, and draws down The luscious bunches to its thirsty taste, And feels its blood hot-thrilled, a regal crown Upon its brow; and then, its hands do carve The vine-leaves into marble. But the hue Of thoughts like these she knows not--and in vain To tell her. Yet, sweet snow-drop, I would fain Hear her small story. (_Speaks._) Did he fall alone, Your gallant soldier-boy? And how to you Came the sad news?
A farmer heard him moan While passing--bore him to the camp, and there A captain from our lake-shore wrote me word Ere the brigade moved on; which, when I heard, I left my mother, ill, for in despair He cried, they wrote, for me. He could not know That they had written, for hot fever drove His thoughts with whips of flame.--O cruel woe,--O my poor love-- My Willie!