Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LENARE: A STORY OF THE SOUTHERN REVOLUTION: 17. THE RESCUE, by MARY HUNT MCCALEB ODOM


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LENARE: A STORY OF THE SOUTHERN REVOLUTION: 17. THE RESCUE, by                    
First Line: At midnight's holy hour - a time
Last Line: They thought on their unburied dead.
Subject(s): American Civil War; Confederate States Of America; Death; Love; Plays & Playwrights; U.s. - History; Women; Confederacy; Dead, The


At midnight's holy hour -- a time
That lifts each soul in thought sublime --
When, bowed before its Maker's will,
The earth lay calmly, darkly still, --
Lenare gazed on her father's face,
Where death his signet soon would place.
The morning sunlight, warm and clear,
Perchance would fall upon his bier.
The prison drear, the heavy chain,
Young Victor had not used in vain.
Sweet freedom had, at last, been given,
When life's bright chain was almost riven.
The anxious heart -- the loving care --
Could not its broken links repair;
It lay a shining, shattered band,
Beneath oppression's heavy hand.
Lenare, with low-bowed, anguished head,
Stood by her father's dying bed.
Her heart grew still with throbbing pain,
The blood congealed in every vein;
She read, in his fast glazing eye,
The bitter truth that he must die.
For long, long days, with hopeless care,
Alone had watched the young Lenare. --
No friend, upon whose loving breast,
Her heart could lean for needed rest;
Not one to soothe with tender love,
Save Him who rules the realms above.
She knelt within the chamber there,
And breathed a deep, heart-thrilling prayer,
To pitying heaven that it would send
To her, in this dark hour, a friend.
"Oh, God!" she cried, with bitter moan,
"Leave not thy helpless child alone!
My father, I must yield to thee,
Then give, oh, give a friend to me!"
A movement of the sick man's head --
A low, faint murmur from the bed --
And Hargrave softly called her name,
As quickly to his side she came.
She clasped his hand in both her own,
Suppressed the rising, bitter groan,
That almost rent her soul in twain,
With bursting throbs of hidden pain.
She felt the damps of death cling cold
About the fingers in her hold;
Watched anxiously each fleeting breath,
From lips that bore the hue of death;
And felt that ere the dawn of day,
His spirit would have left the clay,
To bind, in glory worlds above,
The broken ties of early love;
While she would linger here below,
A friendless orphan with the foe.
Nay, more; a sadder draught remained,
In hopeless sorrow to be drained;
Yea, hopeless, helpless, chilling sorrow,
Awaited her upon the morrow.
Her two months grace would then be over,
And still no tidings from her lover.
Her heart grew heavy with its sighs --
Hope folds its snowy wings, and dies.
Love's flowers, blighted in their bloom,
Lie mouldering upon its tomb.
To-morrow she must yield to fate --
Must wed the man her soul will hate.
Her father's moving fingers broke
Her mournful reverie -- he woke --
His hueless lips moved once in prayer,
Then lowly breathed her name -- "Lenare!"
"Dear father, I am here," she said,
And smoothed the pillow for his head.
"My child, my hour, at last has come,
The dews of death my senses numb;
I feel his chilling fingers now,
Like icicles upon my brow.
Ere morning gilds the mountain's crest,
Thou'lt be alone, and I at rest.
To dying eyes, I feel is given,
The quivering, dreamy lights of heaven;
The shades of earth before them flee,
Like morning mists from out the sea.
I feel a something, vague and wild,
Within me, that I'll see my child,
Ere I shall seek my final rest,
Clasped warmly to her lover's breast."
He paused -- his fading eye he raised,
Full on her marble brow he gazed;
He saw her bosom heave and swell,
Watched the bright tear-drops as they fell
Upon the hand that clasped his own,
Like crystals on a lily thrown;
Then in the stilly midnight air,
A low voice breathes her name -- "Lenare!"
A form upon the casement sprung --
Upon the floor a footstep rung --
Lenare sprang wildly to her feet,
Her lover's clasping arms to meet;
Her clinging form he madly pressed --
She fainted on her Walter's breast.
But soon his heart, so strong and warm,
Thrilled life into her senseless form.
She shivered -- breathed a fluttering sigh,
And woke to meet her lover's eye
Fixed full on hers, in tender love,
Like rays of glory from above;
A beacon-light by angels given,
To lift her drooping soul to heaven.
Then memory dimmed her gentle eye, --
Her father yet was sure to die --
No mortal care, or love, could save
Him from the cold and narrow grave.
The dying parent faintly smiled,
And beckoned to his weeping child:
"Come hither, sweet dream of my heart,
Ere I from thee, forever part.
Come, kneel, Lenare, that I may give
My blessing while my senses live;
And Walter, too, my noble boy,
For thee I'd breathe a note of joy.
Oh, God hath answered well my prayer,
To raise thee up a friend, Lenare."
They knelt beside that dying bed,
A hand in blessing on each head.
In broken words he murmured there,
For each, a solemn, touching prayer;
Besought the God of heavenly light
To lead them in the path of right.
His accents, faint and fainter came,
Then ceased at last, -- life's wasting flame
Flashed up, and sank to rise no more --
Hargrave had reached the shadowy shore.
Lenare but raised her drooping head,
To gaze upon her honored dead;
To feel within her bleeding heart,
Another rankling, reeking dart;
Then bursting sobs of wildest grief
Came to her wretched heart's relief.
Young Walter soothed, with gentle care,
The stormy sorrow of Lenare;
Though bitter tears his own eyes dim,
He prays her still to live for him.
To seek the night's reviving breath,
He bore her from the couch of death.
Ah! little recks he, in that grove,
Where he so oft hath told his love,
Another waits, in mad despair,
To see, unseen, the young Lenare.
Yes, Victor stands within the grove,
Where Walter bears his stricken love.
He hears the maiden's trembling moan --
He hears young Walter's loving tone --
He fiercely marks each fond caress --
The fervent kiss he dares to press
Upon the pure uplifted brow,
And thinks upon his plighted vow,
If young Lenare could fully prove
Her lover's living claim to love --
That vow sealed on his shining blade --
To yield the lovely Southern maid.
His heart rebels against the fate,
That on the morrow seems to wait.
He drove his hand against his breast,
His heart he madly, fiercely pressed,
As though a giant's mighty will
Could bid the tempest there be still;
Strode forward, with a haughty pace,
And met the lovers face to face.
"'Tis Victor!" cried the frightened maid.
And gazed upon his glittering blade.
"Yes, Victor, who will firmly stand,
And with his sword shall win thy hand,
Or bravely yield his worthless breath
Upon the crimson shrine of death.
Draw, chieftain!" he to Walter said,
"Or be thy doom upon thy head."
Young Walter drew his trusty steel,
Which soon the Northern chief would feel;
But ere he raised it for a blow,
He thus addressed his hated foe:
"Since first my home came in thy power,
My soul has thirsted for this hour;
To meet thee thus, my mortal foe,
And thus to pay the debt I owe;
My honor to this blade be given --
My trust is in the God of heaven."
Kneeling beneath the shadows there,
In anguish bowed the young Lenare;
Her heart with hope and fear imbued,
To watch the struggle that ensued.
Ere Walter spoke the last low word,
Each foeman raised his gleaming sword;
Gazed each on each with stubborn glare,
Then plied their blades to win Lenare.
In deadly silence raged the strife,
On which depended more than life.
Naught save the clashing of their steel,
The midnight combatants reveal.
Lenare knelt in the dewy glade,
To wreathe in prayer her Walter's blade;
To heaven arose her tearful plea,
To bless his arm with victory.
Young Victor fiercely aimed each blow
Full at the brave heart of his foe;
While Walter, with unerring skill,
Delayed the final issue still.
But fierce and fiercer grew the fray --
More madly did their weapons play --
Once Victor's steel touched Walter's side,
And Walter's sword with blood was dyed;
While in its silent, crimson flow,
Each felt in each a worthy foe;
While victory alternate played
Around each crimson-tinted blade.
First, Victor's forehead lightly pressed,
Then laid her hand on Walter's crest;
But angels viewed the contest wild,
And on the Southern chieftain smiled.
That smile his trusty weapon charmed --
His struggling foeman falls, disarmed.
His knee upon that fallen breast,
He laid his hand on Victor's crest;
The laurel leaflets clinging there
He scattered on the midnight air;
Then, ere his foe could frame a word,
He plunged in earth the Northman's sword;
Its metal shivered in the clay,
Then tossed the bloodless hilt away.
"Now, Victor," [sic] now," the chieftain cried,
"Is my victorious hour of pride --
The boon for which I wearied heaven
To my proud soul at last is given.
Upon thy vanquished neck I stand;
Thy life lies quivering in my hand --
Yes, lies in my victorious clasp,
When I can crush it with a grasp."
His eye gleamed with triumphant fire --
It darkly flashed with inward ire,
While fallen Victor seemed to wait,
With sullen bravery, his fate.
Though fortune bowed his haughty head
Beneath the hated foeman's tread;
Though fairly vanquished in the strife,
He seemed to urge no plea for life;
But calmly gazed on coming death
As though he wooed its icy breath.
Lenare gazed, through the shades of night,
In terror on that sanguine fight.
She saw the Northman's broken sword;
She heard each proud, exultant word
That Walter uttered to the chief.
One moment -- but an instant brief --
Ere Walter drew again his blade,
A trembling hand his passion stayed.
"Nay, dearest, bid the chieftain live,
Thy mother taught thee to forgive."
Like oil on troubled waters thrown,
Upon his heart her gentle tone
Fell, soothing with its breath of prayer,
The mighty tempest raging there.
One glance upon her angel form
Would quell in him the fiercest storm.
Now, gazing on that worshiped maid,
He slowly dropped his thirsty blade,
And, 'neath the spell of her dark eyes,
He bade the fallen chieftain rise.
Young Victor raised his crownless crest,
Obedient to his foe's behest;
But not on Walter fell his eye --
No, not for him that long-drawn sigh --
He felt, with silent, mad despair,
He had forever lost Lenare.
With flushing cheek, and throbbing brow,
The maiden turned her to him now:
"My chief, in heaven's holy name,
Thy plighted word I now may claim.
My lover lives -- hath proved to thee,
His deep, undying love for me;
Then here, beneath the stars of heaven,
I claim thy knightly pledge thus given."
Young Victor stood, with folded arms,
And viewed Lenare in all her charms;
With anguish felt they soon must part --
But buried deep within his heart,
The keen, half-maddening, bitter thrill
That lashed his soul and senses still.
His pride forbade his cheek to show
His crushing sorrow to his foe.
He stood before the Southern maid --
"To thee, I'll keep my word," he said.
"This signet ring thou wilt display
To each guard in thy outward way;
Full well they know the gilded sign, --
Thy safety will around it twine;
Thou, and thy chief, can pass out free,
Protected by this pledge from me.
Now, maiden, I have kept my word,
Pledged on my then unbroken sword.
For me, thy young heart may not swell --
Take, take the ring -- and now -- farewell!"
He placed within her trembling hand,
The heavy, golden, magic band;
A moment bent before the maid,
Then plunged into the forest's shade;
Nor word, nor look, did he bestow
Upon his haughty Southern foe,
Who watched him vanish from his sight,
Through rising mists of morning light.
The shades of night had passed away, --
Had paled beneath the smile of day --
The rosy wings of morning hover
Above the maiden and her lover.
So passed their night of grief and care,
Its morning rose serene and fair;
Round their united hearts shall twine
The light of love and hope divine.
But one sad thought the future gave,
That lingered round an open grave;
With tearful eye, and bended head,
They thought on their unburied dead.





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