Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE VOLUNTEER, by LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE VOLUNTEER, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Thou'lt go! Thou'lt go!
Last Line: And chose his pittance from the cannon's mouth?
Subject(s): Soldiers


THOU'LT go! Thou'lt go!
In vain, the stricken wife,
A poor unconscious infant in her arms,
And these young children, climbing to thy hand
Implore thy stay. Thine aged parents bend
In prayer, and sorrow. Hath the battle-field
Such charms for thee, that thou wilt tread on all
That love and nature give, and rush to reap
Its iron harvest?
Lo! you men,
Thy boon companions, 'neath the neighboring hedge
Do wait for thee. The vow hath past thy lips
And thou must go.
So, hence away, and share
Such pleasures, as thy chosen course may yield;
The stirring drum, the pomp of measur'd march,
The pride of uniform, the gazer's shout
Of admiration, the alternate rest
Of idleness in camps, and toil that wastes
The nerveless limb, and starts the sleepless eye.
Take too, the stormy joy of deadly strife,
Spill blood, and trample on the mangled form
And like a demon, drink the groans of pain.

Yet sometimes, when the midnight bowl is drained
And thou art tossing in thy broken dream,
Bethink thee, soldier, of a cottage home
All desolate, its drooping vines untrained,
Its wintry hearth unfed, and she, with cheek
As pale as penury and woe can make,
(Why dost thou start?) and her once blooming ones
Some at hard service, where their bitter bread
Is scantily doled out, and some who ask
Her shuddering heart, for what she cannot give.

-- Still doth the vision open?
There are graves!
The white-hair'd father hath his rest in one,
And she, who died lamenting for the son
Who snatch'd the morsel form her feeble hand,
Nor sought her blessing when he went to war,
Sleeps in the other.
Dreamer! wake not yet.
Mar not the sequel. Toward the peaceful shades
Of his own village, comes a poor, lone man
Whom misery and vice have made their own.
His head is bandaged, and his swollen limbs
Drag heavily. He hath no threshold stone,
No friend to welcome.
Is this he who scorn'd
His heaven sworn duties, and his humble home,
And chose his pittance from the cannon's mouth?





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