Rose Hartwick Thorpe: Verses about Time

'Madam, we miss the train at B_____.'
'But can't you make it, sir?' she gasped.
'Impossible! it leaves at three,
And we are due a quarter past.'
'Is there no way? Oh! tell me, then,
Are you a Christian?''I am not.'
'And are there none among the men
Who run the train?''No ― I forgot ―
I think this fellow over here,
Oiling the engine, claims to be.'
She turned upon the engineer
A fair face white with agony.

'Are you a Christian?''Yes, I am.'
'Then, O, sir! won't you pray with me,
All the long way, that God will stay,
That God will hold the train at B_____?'
''Twill do no good. It leaves at three,
And ―''Yes, but God can hold the train;
My dying child is calling me,
And I must see her face again.
Oh! won't you pray?''I will!' a nod
Emphatic, as he takes his place.
When Christians grasp the arm of God
They grasp the power that rules the race.

Out from the station swept the train
On time, ― swept on past wood and lea;
The engineer, with cheeks aflame,
Prayed, 'O Lord, hold the train at B____!'
Then flung the throttle wide, and like
Some giant monster of the plain,
With panting sides and mighty strides,
Past hill and valley swept the train.

A half, ― a minute, ― two are gained;
Along those burnished lines of steel
His glances leap, each nerve is strained,
And still he prays with fervent zeal.
Heart, hand, and brain with one accord
Work while his prayer ascends to Heaven:
'Just hold the train eight minutes, Lord,
And I'll make up the other seven.'

With rush and roar through meadow lands,
Past cottage homes and green hillsides,
The panting thing obeys his hands,
And speeds along with giant strides.
They say an accident delayed
The train a little while; but He
Who listened while His children prayed,
In answer held the train at B______.

''Tis the last time, darling,' he gently said,
As he kissed her lips like the cherries red,
While a fond look shone in his eyes of brown:
'My own is the prettiest girl in town.
To-morrow the bell from the tower will ring
A joyful peal. Was there ever a king
So truly blest, on his royal throne,
As I shall be when I claim my own!'

'T was a fond farewell; 't was a sweet good-by;
But she watched him go with a troubled sigh,
As into the basket, that swayed and swung
O'er the yawning abyss, he lightly sprung;
And the joy of her heart seemed turned to woe
As they lowered him into the depths below.
Her sweet young face, with its tresses brown,
Was the fairest face in the mining town.

Lo the morning came! but the marriage-bell
High up in the tower rang a mournful knell
For the true heart buried 'neath earth and stone,
Far down in the heart of the mine alone, ―
A sorrowful peal on their wedding-day
For the breaking heart and the heart of clay;
And the face that looked from her tresses brown
Was the saddest face in the mining town.

Thus time rolled along on its weary way,
Until fifty years with their shadows gray
Had darkened the light of her sweet eyes' glow
And had turned the brown of her hair to snow
Oh! never a kiss from a husband's lips,
Or the clasp of a child's sweet finger-tips,
Had lifted one moment the shadows brown
From the saddest heart in the mining town!

Far down in the depths of the mine, one day
In the loosened earth they were digging away,
They discovered a face, so young, so fair;
From the smiling lip to the bright brown hair
Untouched by the finger of Time's decay.
When they drew him up to the light of day
The wondering people gathered round
To gaze at the man thus strangely found.

Then a woman came from among the crowd,
With her long white hair, and her slight form bowed.
She silently knelt by the form of clay,
And kissed the lips that were cold and gray.
Then the sad old face, with its snowy hair
On his youthful bosom lay pillowed there.
He had found her at last his waiting bride,
And the people buried them side by side.

'My Fred! I can't understand it,'
And his voice quivered with pain,
While the tears kept slowly dropping
On his trembling hands like rain.
'For Fred was so brave and loyal,
So true ― but my eyes are dim,
And I cannot read the letter,
The last I shall get from him.
Please read it, sir, while I listen ―
In fancy I see him ― dead;
My boy, shot down like a traitor,
My noble, my brave boy Fred.'

'Dear Father,' ― so ran the letter, ―
'To-morrow when twilight creeps
Along the hill to the churchyard,
O'er the grave where mother sleeps,
When the dusky shadows gather,
They'll lay your boy in his grave
For nearly betraying the country
He would give his life to save.
And, father, I tell you truly,
With almost my latest breath,
That your boy is not a traitor,
Though he dies a traitor's death.'

'You remember Bennie Wilson?
He's suffered a deal of pain.
He was only that day ordered
Back into the ranks again.
I carried all of his luggage,
With mine, on the march that day;
I gave him my arm to lean on,
Else he had dropped by the way.
'T was Bennie's turn to be sentry;
But I took his place, and I ―
Father, I fell asleep, and now
I must die as traitors die.'

'The Colonel is kind and generous,
He has done the best he can,
And they will not bind or blind me ―
I shall meet death like a man.
Kiss little Blossom; but, father,
Need you tell her how I fall?'
A sob from the shadowed corner, ―
Yes, Blossom had heard it all!
As she kissed the precious letter
She said with faltering breath,
'Our Fred is never a traitor,
Though he dies a traitor's death.'

And a little sun-brown maiden,
In a shabby time-worn dress,
Took her seat a half-hour later
In the crowded night express.
The conductor heard her story
As he held her dimpled hand,
And sighed for the sad hearts breaking
All over the troubled land.
He tenderly wiped the teardrop
From the blue eyes brimming o'er,
And guarded her footsteps safely
Till she reached the White House door.

The President sat at his writing;
But the eyes were kind and mild
That turned with a look of wonder
On the little shy-faced child.
And he read Fred's farewell letter
With a look of sad regret.
''Tis a brave young life,' he murmured,
'And his country needs him yet.
From an honored place in battle
He shall bid the world good-by;
If that brave young life is needed,
He shall die as heroes die.'

Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away,
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;
And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair―
He with steps so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair;
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she, with lips all cold and white,
Struggling to keep back the murmur, 'Curfew must not ring tonight!'


'Sexton,' Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,
With its walls tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls dark, damp and cold ―
'I've a lover in the prison, doomed this very night to die
At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.
Cromwell will not come till sunset;' and her lips grew strangely white,
As she spoke in husky whispers, 'Curfew must not ring tonight!'


'Bessie,' calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her young heart
Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart),
'Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower;
Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twilight hour.
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right:
Now I'm old, I will not miss it. Curfew bell must ring tonight!'


Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,
As within her secret bosom, Bessie made a solemn vow.
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh,
'At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must die.'
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright;
One low murmur, faintly spoken. 'Curfew must not ring tonight!'


She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within the old church-door,
Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft before.
Not one moment paused the maiden, But with eye and cheek aglow,
Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro;
As she climbed the slimy ladder, on which fell no ray of light,
Upward still, her pale lips saying, 'Curfew shall not ring tonight!'


She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell;
Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell.
See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; 'tis the hour of curfew now,
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow.
Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light,
As she springs, and grasps it firmly: 'Curfew shall not ring tonight!'


Out she swung - far out. The city seemed a speck of light below ―
There twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and fro.
And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell,
Sadly thought that twilight curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell.
Still the maiden, clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair face white,
Stilled her frightened heart's wild throbbing: 'Curfew shall not ring tonight!'


It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden stepped once more
Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before,
Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done
Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun
Light the sky with golden beauty, aged sires, with heads of white,
Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night.


O'er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees him; and her brow,
Lately white with sickening horror, has no anxious traces now.
At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands, all bruised and torn;
And her sweet young face, still haggard, with the anguish it had worn,
Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light.
'Go! your lover lives,' said Cromwell. 'Curfew shall not ring tonight!'


Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die,
All his bright young life before him. Neath the darkening English sky,
Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with lovelight sweet;
Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet.
In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white,
Whispered, 'Darling, you have saved me, curfew will not ring tonight.'

Take a seat in the shade here, lady;
It's tiresome, I know, to wait;
But when the train reaches Verona
It's always sure to be late, ―
'Specially when any one's waitin'.
Been gatherin' flowers, I see?
Ah, well! they're better company
Than a rough old fellow like me.

You noticed the graves 'neath the willows,
Down there where the blossoms grew?
Well, yes, there's a story about them,
Almost too strange to be true;
'Tis a stranger, sweeter story
Than was ever written in books;
And God made the endin' so perfect ―
There, now I see by your looks

I will have to tell the story:
Let me see; 'twas eight years ago
One blusterin' night in winter,
When the air was thick with snow;
As the freight came round the curve there
They beheld a man on the track,
Bravin' the storm before him, but
Not heedin' the foe at his back.

And ere a hand could grasp the bell-rope,
Or a finger reach the rod,
One sweep from the cruel snow-plough
Had sent the man's soul to its God!
They laid him out here in the freight-house,
And I stayed with him that night;
He'd one of the pleasantest faces,
So hopeful and young and bright.

There was only a worn-out letter;
I know it by heart ― it said:
'Dear John: Baby May grows finely,
I send you this curl from her head.
We will meet you at Brackenboro'.
The grandfather's sad and lone,
But I read him your kind words, sayin',
When we've a home of our own,'

'He shall sing the songs of old England
Beneath our own willow tree.'
That was all there was of it, lady,
And 't was signed just 'Alice Leigh.'
So we made a grave in the mornin'
And buried the man out there
Alone, unmourned, in a stranger's land,
With only a stranger's prayer.

But when he'd slept in his lonely grave
Out there nigh on to a year,
Ray's freight ran into a washout
By the culvert, away down here;
There were only two passengers that night,
Dead when we found them there, ―
A sweet little Englishwoman,
And a baby with golden hair.

On her breast lay the laughing baby,
With its rosy finger-tips
Still warm, and the fair young mother
With a frozen smile on her lips.
We laid them out here in the freight-house,
I stayed that night with the dead;
I shall never forget the letter
We found in her purse; it said:

'Dear Alice: Praise God I've got here!
I'll soon have a home for you now;
But you must come with the baby
As soon as you can anyhow.
Comfort the grandfather, and tell him
That by and by he shall come,
And sing the songs of old England
'Neath the willows beside our home;'

'For, close by the door of our cottage
I'll set out a willow tree,
For his sake and the sake of old England.
Lovingly yours. John Leigh.'

The tears filled my eyes as I read it;
But I whispered, 'God is just!'
For I knew the true heart yonder ―
Then only a handful of dust ―
Had drawn this sweet little woman
Right here, and God's merciful love
Had taken her from the sorrow
To the glad reunion above!

So, close by the grave of the other
We laid her away to rest, ―
The golden-haired English mother,
With the baby upon her breast.
I planted those trees above them,
For I knew their story, you see;
And I thought their rest would be sweeter
'Neath their own loved willow tree.

Five years rolled along; and, lady,
My story may now seem to you
Like a wonderful piece of fiction;
But I tell you it is true, ―
As true as that God is above us!
One summer day, hot and clear,
As the train rolled into the station
And stopped to change engines here,

Among a company of Mormons
Came a tremblin' white-haired man;
He asked me in waverin' accents,
'Will you tell me, sir, if you can,
Of a place called Brackenboro'?
And how far have I got to go?'
'It's the next station north,' I answered,
'Only thirteen miles below.'

His old face lit up for a moment
With a look of joy complete;
Then he threw up his hands toward Heaven,
And dropped down dead at my feet!
'Old Hugh Leigh is dead!' said a Mormon,
'And sights o' trouble he's be 'n.
Nothin' would do when we started
But that he must come with us then,'

'To find Alice, John, and the baby;
And his heart was well-nigh broke
With waitin' and watchin' in England
For letters they never wrote.'
So we buried him there with the others,
Beneath the willow tree.
'T was God's way of endin' the story ―
More perfect than man's could be.

The war-cry at San Jacinto, Texas.

Two student lads one morning met
Under the blue-domed Texas skies;
Strangers by birth and station, yet
Youth's heart lies close beneath youth's eyes.
A thousand miles lay 'twixt their homes,
Watered by many a crystal stream;
Dame Nature reared a thousand domes,
And spread a thousand plains between.
They met, clasped hands, scorned bolt and bar,
Which cautious age puts on the heart;
Shared room and purse, then wandered far
By quiet ways and busy mart.
By San Antonio's winding stream,
Through narrow streets, the two lads passed,
Saw antique ruins, like some dream
Of ancient times.

They came, at last,
Where the Alamo's moss-grown walls
Stand gray and silent in the sun.
Where'er its sombre shadow falls
Is hallowed ground, ― more sacred none!

Within its portals stood a man
Like some grim shadow on Time's shore,
Gray as the walls about him, and
Like them a memory, nothing more, ―
A page from out the deathless past!
Through film of years and rising smoke
From his old pipe he saw at last
The stranger lads, then gravely spoke:

'Come you to worship at our shrine,
The shrine o' Texas liberty?
Or come to speed the work o' time,
An' mar these stones grown dear to me?
Rome had her heroes, so have we;
I don't know what the big word means,
But this is our Thermopylae,
An' matches Rome's for bloody scenes.
My story?'

''T isn't much to tell,
'T was more to live, but e'en that seems
At times a sort o' misty spell, ―
A somethin' shaped from dreamin' dreams.
An' then again 'tis wondrous real;
I seem to see the smokin' plains,
I hear the cannon's roar, an' feel
The young blood rushin' through my veins;
For I was with Sam Houston there
At San Jacinto. All the tricks
That sneakin' Mexicans will dare,
An' did, we paid in '36.'

'We were three brothers. Brother Jim
The tallest, stoutest o' the three,
Then me, hot-headed, next to him,
An' Will was mother's pet, you see!
For Will was slender, like a girl,
Brave to the heart an' true as steel;
An' me an' Jim, 'long side o' him,
Were not much 'count.'

'The past seems real
Enough just now. My eyes are dim,
Grown weak with years. Well, lads, we three
Shouldered our muskets. Brother Jim
Was here with Travis. Will an' me
Heard how our Texas heroes fought
With death behind an' death before,
To right an' left o' them, an' naught
But death when they could fight no more.
It fires my blood to think o' it,
The desperate scene comes back to me,
How, like wild beasts trapped in a pit
They fought, as round 'em surged a sea
O' swarthy faces, black with hate
Like their black hearts.'

'Six thousand strong
They swarmed about, nor wall nor gate
Nor rifle-shot could hold 'em long.
Like flies about a pot o' sweet,
Like savage fiends let loose from hell,
Like starvin' wolves in sight o' meat,
They filled the place.'

'There Crockett fell,
Here Bowie, on his dyin' bed
Was butchered, so was all o' them.
This room was filled with Texans dead,
The bravest, truest, best o' men.'

The old man paused. Low drooped his head;
Upon his breast his beard lay white.
'These dead men nerved our arms,' he said,
'For somethin' more than human might.
Will flushed up when he spoke Jim's name;
There wasn't time for weepin' then,
But in his eyes I saw the flame
That burns the softness out o' men.'

'We were at Colita. Mayhap you
Have read the story? Fannin's men
'Gainst fearful odds surrendered. True
Their numbers sort o' start us then,
But later we forgot all fear,
An' fought like men gone sudden mad.
They wrote their own death-warrant here,
But it was signed at Goliad.
Yes, we were prisoners, confined
At Goliad, but soon to be
Sent home, an' so we didn't mind
Our prison-walls, for Will an' me
Still had each other.'

'That last night
We, a right jolly set o' men,
Sang 'Home, sweet Home,' with all our might,
An' talked o' home like boys o' ten.
I reckon that with home so near
An' mother, too, we grew a bit
Soft-hearted. Will dashed off a tear
Quick like as if ashamed o' it,
An' me ―'

'Well, mornin' came, an' we
Was ordered out. The air was sweet
With scent o' flowers. I seem to see
The posies noddin' at our feet,
As their wee faces nodded there
Beside the Mission walls, where we
In long lines stood with freezin' blood
A-waitin' for the liberty
They promised us. My God! it came
Too soon! 'T was home we'd thought about,
An' wife an' child, but not the flame
O' death that let our life-blood out.
One wild thought o' the future, then
A flash o' fire an' nothin'ness.
Shot down like dogs. Three hundred men
Sent home! 'T was murder, nothin' less.'

'All day I lay still feignin' death
Among the dead, an' when the night
Came down, I searched with pantin' breath
For Will's dead face, in the dim light.
Yes, lads, I found him where he fell,
An', kneelin' 'neath the starry skies ―
Mayhap 't want soldier-like, but ― well
I choked, an' somethin' filled my eyes.'

'I can't tell how I got away.
I reckon angel wings swooped down,
An' sort o' hid me night an' day,
For eyes were peerin' all around.
An' I was saved. I don't know why,
Unless God sent an' drafted me
From 'mong the dead to start the cry
That gave us Texas liberty.
How did it end?'

'No Texas lad
Would ask me that. I reckon you
Came from the North? Well, lads, we had
Our 'counts all ready, what was due
Us marked in figures plain, then we
At San Jacinto took our pay,
The price we set was Liberty;
An' it was paid that very day,
An' they were two to one of us;
But we went in for vengeance then.
The Alamo dead stood side of us,
An' gave each man the strength o' ten.
The plan o' battle?'

'I can't tell,
My brain, somehow, forgets the plan,
But white flowers turned to red where fell
Each sneakin', savage Mexican.
The debt o' blood we paid in blood:
'Remember, boys, the Alamo!'
Fired every Texan where he stood,
An' nerved his arm for deadly blow.
We whipped 'em, lads, an' Liberty
Was born, that day, through fire an' smoke.
This one old comrade's left to me.'
He lit his clay pipe as he spoke.