The Old Soldier's Story: Poems and Prose Sketches. Riley James Whitcomb

      Why did we meet long years of yore?

      And why did we strike hands and say:

      "We will be friends, and nothing more";

      Why are we musing thus to-day?

      Because because was just because,

      And no one knew just why it was.

      Why did I say good-by to you?

      Why did I sail across the main?

      Why did I love not heaven's own blue

      Until I touched these shores again?

      Because because was just because,

      And you nor I knew why it was.

      Why are my arms about you now,

      And happy tears upon your cheek?

      And why my kisses on your brow?

      Look up in thankfulness and speak!

      Because because was just because,

      And only God knew why it was.

      The chiming seas may clang; and Tubal Cain

      May clink his tinkling metals as he may;

      Or Pan may sit and pipe his breath away;

      Or Orpheus wake his most entrancing strain

      Till not a note of melody remain! —

      But thou, O cricket, with thy roundelay,

      Shalt laugh them all to scorn! So wilt thou, pray,

      Trill me thy glad song o'er and o'er again:

      I shall not weary; there is purest worth

      In thy sweet prattle, since it sings the lone

      Heart home again. Thy warbling hath no dearth

      Of childish memories – no harsher tone

      Than we might listen to in gentlest mirth,

      Thou poor plebeian minstrel of the hearth.

      How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood

      That now but in mem'ry I sadly review;

      The old meeting-house at the edge of the wildwood,

      The rail fence and horses all tethered thereto;

      The low, sloping roof, and the bell in the steeple,

      The doves that came fluttering out overhead

      As it solemnly gathered the God-fearing people

      To hear the old Bible my grandfather read.

      The old-fashioned Bible —

      The dust-covered Bible —

      The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

      The blessed old volume! The face bent above it —

      As now I recall it – is gravely severe,

      Though the reverent eye that droops downward to love it

      Makes grander the text through the lens of a tear,

      And, as down his features it trickles and glistens,

      The cough of the deacon is stilled, and his head

      Like a haloéd patriarch's leans as he listens

      To hear the old Bible my grandfather read.

      The old-fashioned Bible —

      The dust-covered Bible —

      The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

      Ah! who shall look backward with scorn and derision

      And scoff the old book though it uselessly lies

      In the dust of the past, while this newer revision

      Lisps on of a hope and a home in the skies?

      Shall the voice of the Master be stifled and riven?

      Shall we hear but a tithe of the words He has said,

      When so long He has, listening, leaned out of Heaven

      To hear the old Bible my grandfather read?

      The old-fashioned Bible —

      The dust-covered Bible —

      The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

      Lelloine! Lelloine! Don't you hear me calling?

      Calling through the night for you, and calling through the day;

      Calling when the dawn is here, and when the dusk is falling —

      Calling for my Lelloine the angels lured away!

      Lelloine! I call and listen, starting from my pillow —

      In the hush of midnight, Lelloine! I cry,

      And o'er the rainy window-pane I hear the weeping willow

      Trail its dripping leaves like baby-fingers in reply.

      Lelloine, I miss the glimmer of your glossy tresses,

      I miss the dainty velvet palms that nestled in my own;

      And all my mother-soul went out in answerless caresses,

      And a storm of tears and kisses when you left me here alone.

      I have prayed, O Lelloine, but Heaven will not hear me,

      I can not gain one sign from Him who leads you by the hand;

      And O it seems that ne'er again His mercy will come near me —

      That He will never see my need, nor ever understand.

      Won't you listen, Lelloine? – just a little leaning

      O'er the walls of Paradise – lean and hear my prayer,

      And interpret death to Him in all its awful meaning,

      And tell Him you are lonely without your mother there.

      Whispering to themselves apart,

      They who knew her said of her,

      "Dying of a broken heart —

      Death her only comforter —

      For the man she loved is dead —

      She will follow soon!" they said.

      Beautiful? Ah! brush the dust

      From Raphael's fairest face,

      And restore it, as it must

      First have smiled back from its place

      On his easel as he leant

      Wrapt in awe and wonderment!

      Why, to kiss the very hem

      Of the mourning-weeds she wore,

      Like the winds that rustled them,

      I had gone the round world o'er;

      And to touch her hand I swear

      All things dareless I would dare!

      But unto themselves apart,

      Whispering, they said of her,

      "Dying of a broken heart —

      Death her only comforter —

      For the man she loved is dead —

      She will follow soon!" they said.

      So I mutely turned away,

      Turned