  A Memorial Day Poem, Illustrated with Moving Tableaux. Arranged by the Author of “Preston Papers.” I. What? Drafted? My Harry! Why man, ’t is a boy at his books, No taller, I’m sure, than your Annie; as delicate, too, in his looks. Why it seems but a day since he helped me, girl-like, in my kitchen, at tasks. He drafted! Great God! Can it be that our President knows what he asks? II. He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as brave as the best. Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has long been at rest. Too slender for over-much study; why his teacher has made him to-day Go out with his ball, on the common; and you’ve drafted a child at his play! III. “Not a patriot?” Fie! Did I whimper when Robert stood up with his gun And the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard of Bull Run? Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his face to the wall, “There’s a staff growing up for your age, Mother,” said Robert, “if I am to fall.” “Eighteen?” Oh, I know; and yet narrowly. Just a wee babe on the day When his father got up from his sick bed, and cast his last ballot for Clay. Proud of his boy and his ticket, said he, “A new morsel of fame We’ll lay on the candidate’s altar;” and christened the child with that name.*/ V. O, what have I done, a weak woman? In what have I meddled with harm (Troubling God only for sunshine and rain, on my rough little farm) That my ploughshares are beaten to swords, and sharpened before my eyes-- That my tears must cleanse a foul nation, my lamb be a sacrifice? VI. Oh, I know there’s a country to save, man; and ’tis true there is no appeal. But did God see my boy’s name, lying the uppermost one in the wheel? Five stalwart sons has my neighbor, and never the lot upon one! Are these things Fortune’s caprices, or is it God’s will that is done? Are the others too precious for resting when Robert is taking his rest With the pictured face of young Annie, lying over the rent in his breast? My boy! Thank God for these tears--I was growing so bitter and hard! VIII. Now read me a page from the Book, Harry, that goes in your knapsack to-night, Of the Eye that sees when the sparrow grows weary and falters in flight. Talk of something that’s nobler than living; of a Love that is higher than mine; And a Faith that has planted its banners where the heavenly camp-fires shine. IX. Talk of Something that tenderly watches, while the shadows glide down in the yard, That shall go with my soldier to battle--and stand, with my picket, on guard. Spirits of loving and lost ones! Watch softly o’er Harry to-night-- For to-morrow he goes forth to battle! Arm him for Freedom and Right. SUGGESTIONS. First Stanza. Scene. Ordinary sitting-room; lady in widow’s weeds, knitting near table--having books, papers and work on it--in center of foreground. She rises to greet army officer in uniform, who enters at left, carrying hat in left hand, and in his right, official paper which he passes to lady who reads and turns to him as the reader (who is concealed) pronounces the first words. Her face expresses surprise and incredulity during first half of first line; then expostulation and entreaty. At the words: “Great God,” she drops back into her chair, overwhelmed by the thought. Second Stanza. Without rising, she again turns to the officer, and argues the case with special resistance on the last half of the last line. Third Stanza. She is roused to dispute the officer’s charge that she is not a patriot, and there is defiance in her attitude as she calls up the memory of Robert’s enlisting. Fourth Stanza. Her manner changes as her recollection goes back to Harry’s babyhood, and she grows tender in the thoughts of her dead husband. Fifth Stanza. Reflecting on what seems great injustice, her head bowed on her hand. Sixth Stanza. She turns her face to the officer again, to answer his arguments, her face first expressing the helplessness she feels, then doubt. Seventh Stanza. Still addressing the officer she becomes hard in her despair. At the words “My boy” she turns from the officer, holds out both arms to Harry, who has just entered from rear and advances to meet his mother, who embraces him, weeping. Officer retires slowly and quietly, from rear, wiping his eyes. Harry brings a low stool and sits upon it, his elbow on his mother’s chair--she caressing him. Eighth Stanza. Harry takes big Bible from table and turns leaves slowly, until he finds what he wants. Mother leans back in chair, with closed eyes, one hand on Harry; countenance calm, expressing resignation. Ninth Stanza. Harry kneels near mother, who, in last two lines, with clasped hands and uplifted face makes her petition. Curtain falls on this tableau, after the last word of the poem. |
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