Classic and Contemporary Poetry
DAISY SWAIN, THE FLOWER OF SHENANDOAH; A TALE OF THE REBELLION: 9, by JOHN M. DAGNALL First Line: Not till their victims charr'd remains exhaled Last Line: "but never from your wicked conscience.[""]" Subject(s): American Civil War; Beauty; Death; Love; Soldiers; United States - History; Women; Dead, The | ||||||||
Not till their victims' charr'd remains exhaled, Through murky wreathes of smoke, a pestilence Most baleful, did the rebels quit the hut In search of injured Daisy, whom they found Much convulsed and with all her sense night fled. Through dark desert ways and rugged paths they, Unmindful of her piteous cries, her sobs, Her plaints and bitter wailings, brought her to A cavern deep, scoop'd out between two hills, And laid her in a dark recess wherein Her fate should be determin'd by their chief, Who'd not, as yet return'd. So, round a blazing fire, The murd'ring crew caroused. Some the weed fum'd. Some sang ribald songs by turns and smutty jokes Got off, whilst others quaffed and pass'd around A vile inebriant distillation. "Drink, comrades, drink," more loquacious than The rest, cried one. "Drain your canteens to the dregs. 'Tis the most potent of all drinks, to rouse Our sluggish blood to life and fortify Us 'gainst dangerous night damps. Besides, it is Our chieftain's birthday night. Then let us all Be merry, jocund, gay, and laugh at folly As it flies on pleasure's wing. For, why should We work our own annoy, when now we have A chance to pass a lucid interval From a life attended with so many Dangers? True, to lead this wild course has been Our own choice; or, rather, we were all forced Into it by the roving propensities Of our natures, and ungovernable wills That could not bear restraints, nor drudgeries, Nor the enervating dull routines of The regular soldier. No, my comrades; among These hills we are free to do what we please. Here we can and do despise the outer world. Where glaring vice and luxury prevail; Where laws are made most stringently to force City villains into decency. But here, full of adventurous love, among These mountain passes, we simply practise The ancient virtues of our ancestors, With a valiant chief whose freeborn soul nought Can turn from perilous ways; aye, one who spurns The niggard Yankees' selfish yoke and hates Their clannish, over-jealous natures. Still, Sometimes when he's not aware, I notice That his high-toned spirits are much dejected, So much so, in fact, he seems to struggle Against some opposing fate, the cause of Which I opine I know. So, if you'll cease Your drowsy murmurs, and open your ears, I'll breathe into them, the sad incident Of his life which yet preys upon his mind. "Two years have scarce elapsed since he was smitten With the peerless charms of a Yankee maiden Whose father, a Puritan born and bred, Lavish'd on her with unsparing hands, The wealth he'd gain'd running niggers from Africa into the Isle of Cuba, Hoping, thereby, that his gifts of fortune, Along with her accomplishments, would add Great dignity to his high lineage; Grace the pious stock from which she sprang, And draw around her swarms of wealthy suitors." "Our noble chief, a Virginian by birth, Was always at her father's house a welcome guest; For he thither often went to interchange With her father mutual thoughts concerning Their clandestine interests in the slave trade. So, whilst in social converse, the father learnt That Agar was descended from one of the Eldest and most distinguished families Of old Virginia. Then coupling this news With the proud notions of himself, he saw That such high blood, with wealth united, would Confer much honor on his house, and offer'd Agar his daughter's hand in marriage, With vested rights in estates as portion Of her marriage dower. Agar consented, And promised to solemnize the nuptials When he'd returned from Paris, where he'd gone Some months before the war broke out. "But in That gay city, where vice and shame strut round Enrob'd in meek-sainted guise, wine and women Soon his youthful bosom fired. Held spell-bound By the charming witch'ries of the gay lorettes, Who hold their bacchanals at the Chateaux Des Fleurs and Mabille, soon his unthinking And blind reason brought him down deep into The gulf of dissipation, which soon made Him needy; for, amid his orgies, he thought Not of the ruin he was bringing On himself, but, to relieve his pressing wants, Continued to make frequent demands For means from her father, and gave his lands In Virginia to him as surety For supplies. "At last the day of reck'ning Came. The Yankee complain'd of tardy payment; Felt touch'd to the quick in consequence, And vouchsafed to lend our chief no more funds. "So, one bright morning, the captain awoke To the consciousness that shadowy ills Obscur'd his stores at home; and once more steer'd His shatter'd barque across the ocean wave. On arriving home he found his domains Were laid waste by the war which fiercely raged Upon his native soil, his slaves set free; In short, his happy home, and what remain'd Of his once fair realms, confiscated were By the Federal jackals. "But yet his cup of Mis'ry was not full: one drop it lack'd More turgid still. Adverse fate deign'd to add Poignancy to his misfortunes: for with Harsh disdain the maiden's father on him Fix'd an eye malignant, and with anger Bade him never more to cross his threshold. "Struck with such unkindness, our chieftain took It in his heart to loath forever more The Yankees, and swore he'd hold dread reverence O'er their heads, joined our cause, then took these hills To --" Awe-struck, they him beheld. He came with Hurried tread. Amazed, he stood awhile as If some boding ill gleam'd through his eyes. Soon his abject crew bent to his pride, and quit The bivouac his wishes to fulfill: To forage round and ransack spots, which, in Open day, their footsteps fear'd to tread. When gone, the ingrate bold the weak maid eyed O'er and o'er; gave her many a wishful look; And urg'd by lust, the leafy couch approach'd On which she slumbering lay. She started up As from a trance, with hair dishevell'd much, And features fix'd in stern expression wild, And on him threw the keenest dart of scorn. Barb'rously severe he her accused of Trait'rous complicity, and, indignant, Said: "Haughty fair one, now thy doom's decreed. Thou shalt have but one hour more to linger here, If now thou dost not to my wishes lend A gracious ear." Down on her knees Daisy Look'd up at him with mild, imploring eyes, And with anguish in her bosom, wailing, Said: "Alas! he's thought severe who thus condemns The innocent and unhappy. Hast thou Not one friend to whom the sacred heart relies For truth and honor? If not, then such have I -- one ardent, noble, kind: In faith and hope Unfaltering we are bound." But her soft pleadings Could not move his harden'd heart: It was bereft Of all that's meek and tender. He heeded not Her tears, her firm faith, nor virtue proud, But said: "You'll never see your lover more. In prison he now wears his chains. P'rhaps ere Now, the Yankee's rotten carcase has been To the buzzards thrown." "Then if Athol is To me forever lost," she cried, "God bless His soul. His image so dear to my sight shall In my heart be firmly fixed, nor ever From my cherish'd memory fade. But thou, Vile minion of all that's mean and great, The willing tool of that vain man whose pride Is phrenzy, whose ambition's but despair, Whose heart is void of ev'ry spark divine, The curse of orphans and the cause of Many a widow's tear, know that you may Glitter in your infamy awhile; But the potent grasp of might shall be soon Wrested from you: The majesty of pow'r Is in the avenging sword held in the hand Of Heav'n: 'twill yet descend upon and burst Your vaunted bubble to the sun, aye, blast Your lauded greatness: Deeds of retribution Deal unto the mean and base ambitious fools Upon the gibbet; and righteous justice Yet shall hurl upon thee its avenging ire, For the wrongs which thou hast cruelly brought Upon my Athol's hapless head: Aye, you Who came into that happy home where dwelt In blessed peace the innocent whose ears Were strangers to the blast and din of war, And vilely brought, therein, much misery, Wretchedness and mourning. My father's name Blasphem'd with curses foul, then reft him from Me, and in a dungeon dire, him thrust, to pine, To starve, and die: my aged mother caused Through pining grief to sink into her grave Ere she'd time to don a widow's mourning weeds; And me an outcast orphan made for life. But remember, yours is but a weak boast Of transitory power. Successful guilt Can but triumph awhile: For soon before The keen, relentless weapons of the North, Both your stuck-up pride and cause shall Tumble: 'tis to them alone revenge is Given. Beware." At this, in drunken fury, The chieftain laugh'd outright, and said: "Murmur Not, my dear, fond bird. Do you think I'd injure A bosom so fair. Beauty like thine was Form'd for joy; and you must own I'm now Your lawful lord." Then he strove with eager arms To grasp her. As quick she from his touch recoil'd. "Shrink not," he angrily cried. "Succumb To my power thou must, or, in this dense wood Unseen by mortal eye, from life to death Thou soon shalt pass; for, longer my mind Thy indiff'rence can't bear, thy peevish censures Endure: nought but thy consent to be my bride Can satisfy my burning soul." Saying which, He grasped her by her long dishevell'd hair. "Swear," he cried, "ere this dagger's keen edge shall In your heart's blood be imbrued." "No, no," she said, "Fate will ne'er permit me to touch thy hand, It hath the stain of murder'd blood; and such love As thine, the tender-hearted would defile: Forever unhappy she'd be whose bosom Hath therein sincere passion glowing. No, My honor lives for one most dear to my heart. Therefore, if my ardent troth for him I love Can't kindle in thy breast compassion's warmth, Why longer the sacrifice delay? Why Tantalize your victim like a cat ere You destroy? or like the venom'd adder Coil your folds around ere you sting to death Your prey? For well I know he who would not Spare my father's life will not spare my own; And death would end the tortures which now rack My beating heart. But beware. He yet lives For whom my soul with sacred fervor burns. He whom thy bold hands hath sway'd with cruelty, But who will yet thy proud triumph guilt Avenge." Then reviving wrath the chieftain's soul Inflam'd. The name of Athol moved his heart To hate; and black as night he frown'd and spent His rage on helpless Daisy, who struggled At his feet. Her clasp'd hands clinging round his knees; With dripping eyes to Heav'n raised and crying, "Oh! God of mercy! is there no friend nigh?" "There is a friend," a deep gruff voice behind A rock exclaim'd. "Arrogant knave, forbear." The rebel heard the voice. It rived his heart. His stern determined look he took from off The mortal place, and quick with fright he started Back, recoil'd and dropt unstain'd upon the ground His sheathless dirk, which high above her head He held. Again he heard the voice upon The midnight blast exclaim, "Outcast of earth Is searching among these hills, to ravish Helpless women, then to thrust them from you As in scorn, to murder in cold blood Thy vaunted chivalry? The crimes which you've Already done, now cry aloud to Heaven For vengeance. Therefore, thou rebel reprobate! Beware. If you murder her nigh strangled At your feet, hell's furies, that now thirst Unceasing for your blood, will pursue you Everywhere. Horrid sounds will rise on Ev'ry wind and in your blood-stained conscience Howl these words: 'Seducer, coward, murderer.'" Pale turned the chieftain's cheeks: His joints trembled As if by an intermittent ague shook. Then he quickly, like a fleeting shadow, Vanish'd through the gloom, whilst the voice, meantime, Hard on his trail, cried: "Thou curst, abandon'd wretch, Well may'st thou fly from guilt's alarms, But never from your wicked conscience.["] | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FRIEND KILLED IN THE WAR by ANTHONY HECHT FOR JAMES MERRILL: AN ADIEU by ANTHONY HECHT TARANTULA: OR THE DANCE OF DEATH by ANTHONY HECHT CHAMPS D?ÇÖHONNEUR by ERNEST HEMINGWAY NOTE TO REALITY by TONY HOAGLAND DAISY SWAIN, THE FLOWER OF SHENADOAH; A TALE OF THE REBELLION: 1 by JOHN M. DAGNALL DAISY SWAIN, THE FLOWER OF SHENANDOAH; A TALE OF THE REBELLION: 10 by JOHN M. DAGNALL DAISY SWAIN, THE FLOWER OF SHENANDOAH; A TALE OF THE REBELLION: 2 by JOHN M. DAGNALL |
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