Rose Hartwick Thorpe: Verses about Faith

They stand in the shadow which darkly falls
When the Day-god sleeps in his glory,
Shut in by the gloom of the Alamo walls,
Those heroes who live in Fame's story.

Hunters and planters and miners are they,
Giant-builded and iron-hearted,
Unconquered, undaunted, they stand at bay
When their last faint hope has departed.

They are stern of visage and dark of brow,
With a mist in their eyes grown tender,
For memory 'troubles the waters' now
In the heart of each brave defender.

There are dear wife hands reaching out to them,
There are sweet childish voices calling;
Love pierces the hearts of these stalwart men
As they stand in the night-shades falling.

The valley is dark with a living host,
The hills with their presence are teeming,
By their camp-fire's glow like a spectral ghost
Each tent through the shadow is gleaming.

With bare, bowed heads in the hush and the gloom
Mid their sad regrets and their sorrow,
They wait for the flush of the 'day of doom,'
To crimson these walls on the morrow.

Without are curses that burden the night,
Where the enemy fumes and rages,
Within they are kindling fires to light
Texas homes through all coming ages.

O, thou blood-bought shrine of a nation's pride!
Thou altar of love and of glory!
Thou Alamo! swept by a crimson tide,
Live ever in song and in story!

'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______.

Sunset.

A ball of fire suspended
Low o'er a molten sea;
Infinite glory blended,
Lost in eternity.
A vivid crimson paling
With pencilings of gold;
A white cloud outward sailing,
Foam billows fold on fold.
A quivering, throbbing rapture,
Red torches flaming high;
A thousand waves that capture
Pale rose-tints from the sky;
A lesser glory, blending
With blue more faintly blue,
A rosy light ascending
To pierce all distance through.
Commingling tints grown fainter,
A 'dim fire,' burning low, -
Ah, never skill of painter
Can mix the colors so!
A mellowed beauty lingers,
A curtain pearly gray
Is drawn by unseen fingers
Across the face of Day.

Gone the resplendent wonder, -
God's glory passed away,
We stand the gray sky under
Beside a sea of gray,
And sigh because life's story,
Like sunset's fleeting kiss,
Tells tales of transient glory,
Lost rapture, vanished bliss.
Sunrise.

Silence profound, then faintly
Low throbbings in the air;
A presence holy, saintly,
Hushed voices breathing prayer,
A wavering light uncertain,
A soft glow, spreading wide;
A dusky, sombre curtain
Drawn suddenly aside;
Pale rays of rare completeness
Far down the sky's dim lawn,
Moist lips of rosy sweetness
Upraised to kiss the dawn;
A wondrous burst of rapture
From bird-throats swelling long,
Which echo elves recapture
And flood the earth with song.

A richer color showing,
A flush across the gray,
A deeper carmine glowing,
Night shadows rolled away;
A gleam of polished silver,
A glow of burnished gold,
A liquid mass of splendor,
A glory manifold;
A royal car suspended,
Hung swaying in the blue,
The grand cor'nation 's ended
And rose-tints fade from view.

O, human heart grown tender
With thought beyond all speech!
This sunrise scene of splendor
No human art can reach
Revives hope's blessed story,
Bids faith ascend on high,
And view eternal glory
Where rose-tints never die.

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.