Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, DAISY SWAIN, THE FLOWER OF SHENANDOAH; A TALE OF THE REBELLION: 4, by JOHN M. DAGNALL


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

DAISY SWAIN, THE FLOWER OF SHENANDOAH; A TALE OF THE REBELLION: 4, by                    
First Line: At early dawn the wounded federal
Last Line: Of both the rescued and the rescuer.
Subject(s): American Civil War; Beauty; Death; Love; Soldiers; United States - History; Women; Dead, The


At early dawn the wounded Federal,
Much improved in health and quite refreshed in
Spirits from his night's repose, awoke; and glad
Was he to find himself so near kind friends.
Especially his frail rescuer, who
Then stooped o'er him, with helping hands and raised
Him on his pallet soft. He knew no balsam
For his pains and aches more sanative than
The soothing office in which she was
Engaged, and thanked her for the kind attention
She had rendered. Daisy curtseyed low and said:
That both her mother dear and father had
Taught her, long since, the divine injunction,
"To do good to others forget not;"
And never, when want and suff'ring implored
Her kind assistance, to withhold relief.

As the impressive tones on Athol's ears
Fell from her lips, his head reclined, entranced
With dreamy thought, which Daisy soon observed:
But she knew not what was passing through his mind,
Nor why hope's inward beam his count'nance brighten'd;
For her gladsome gaze was too intently
Fixed upon his handsome face, admiring
The graceful contour of its features, which,
In his pride of youth, show'd her that scarce had
Twenty summers' blooms their roseate honors shed
Upon his head.

* * *

So, as
Time roll'd on, Athol's frame evinced contempt
Of death; and, ere a month elapsed, the tide of
Life, full high, in the crooked channels of his veins,
Return'd its purple flood. Restored at last,
He from his ailing couch arose, renewed
In lease of days and years, quite sound in health,
In spirits buoyant; but with a sensation
In his heart unfelt ere he became thus
Convalescent. A sacred charm it was;
Supremely divine; so soul entrancing;
But quite mysterious in its strange effects
Thro' all his being: but especially,
Did young Athol, when his benefactress
Stood, so kind, so fair and pure before him,
With her brow serene as the effulgent moon
Beaming down thro' Heaven's blue dome, keenly
Feel, in his warm heart, that inward pleasure.

Was it the grateful services, which in
His hours of sickness, her gentle hand had
Render'd? that which, day after day, he blest?
The one, which from the cold damp ground, had raised
His drooping head and bound with fingers fair
His wound? which smoothed his pillow? which prescribed,
In that propitious hour, the remedy
Whose potent agency within his frame,
Made his soul feel loath to leave its feeble house
Of clay, that caused the glow within his breast?

Was it her graceful form and beauty rare?
Her dulcet voice that softly syllabled
Sweet Bible stories, and sang in accents
Toned divinely, choice psalmody, which had
In Athol's hours of fevered sleeplessness lull'd
His throbbing brain to rest? or was it the power
Of Daisy's pity, that in Athol's heart,
Had softly struck the mute accord of
Sympathy divine?

Such, in truth, it was;
For the compassion of his cherubim had
In his heart enkindled the pure flame of
Love: for gratitude begets love; and when both
Are happily in women's [sic] heart combined,
What panacea so potent to remove
The anguish'd bosom's pain, to raise the head weigh'd
Down with cares, and solace give unto life's woes?

Athol, then, the more he saw the maid, became
Enamored with her sprightly comeliness;
With her spirit beneficent, and with
The beam celestial which sparkled brightly
In the light blue eyes of Daisy: for he saw
The beam of truth in her heart illumed
Her cheeks with virtue's flame. In her presence
He would quite forget his past disaster,
And seldom thought that he had peril'd death
Upon the field of slaughter, so overjoyed
Was he, that he felt he could in seas of
Carnage wade, aye, a thousand dangers brave,
To pin so fair a jewel to his heart,
And keep the precious treasure there for life.

So, thus, while the maid in Athol's bosom
Was the only bliss; the only vision that
Beguiled his mind; the sole angel who came
To cheer him in death's dread hour: his treasure
Rarest that moved his bosom with the throb
Of fond affection. Daisy, herself, felt swayed
By some resistless influence in his soul.
'Twas the same power which she'd infused in his heart,
That in her own rebounded, and there found
Its sweet abiding place; strange affinity
That tied their two souls with dearest amity:
For the more he amended, the more she droop'd.
Alternate gay and pensive were her looks.
Her languishing mien evinced her heart was
Fraught with love, which Athol saw and heard breathe
In her tender sighs; and knew her condolement
Was the purest emblem of a constant mind;
That her modest sweetness showed her virgin soul:
And that, although her tongue was then too coy
To breathe the tender vow, yet her silence
Was but the dumb rhetoric of her heart,
More eloquent of love than her sweet tones could lisp.
His fond gaze likewise made her looks obey
Her passion's impulse, burning in her heart,
So fervently; as it summoned the blush,
Which her chaste bosom wore, to carminate,
As like a peach's rind, her modest cheeks.

'Twas thus that her affection for Athol
Her affliction became; for, when he had
Recovered to that normal state which makes
Health laugh at death, she leaner grew, and proved,
By her pallor and sigh spontaneous,
The hidden pow'r which he exerted o'er her.
To him, in short, a thousand nameless actions,
Spoke the evidence of a tender wound
In her breast. Thus did the dominant passion
That sways the world entire, enchain the hearts
Of both the rescued and the rescuer.





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