Two Women, 1862; a Poem

Fair wheat, like a lady for fancies, Who bends to the breeze, while the corn Held stiff all his stubborn green lances The moment his curled leaf was born; And grapes, where the vineyards are sweeping The shores of the river whose tide-- Slow moving, brown tide--holds the keeping Of War and of Peace that lie sleeping, Couched lions, each side.

Hair curlless, and hid, and smooth-banded, Blue innocent maidenly eyes, That gaze at the lawless rough-handed Young soldiers with grieving surprise At oaths on their lips, the deriding And jestings that load every breath, While on with dread swiftness are gliding Their moments, and o’er them is biding The shadow of death!

Face clear-cut and pearly, a slender Small maiden with calm, home-bred air; No deep-tinted hues you might lend her Could touch the faint gold of her hair, The blue of her eyes, or the neatness Of quaint little gown, smoothly spun From threads of soft gray, whose completeness Doth fit her withdrawn gentle sweetness-- A lily turned nun.

Ohio shines on to her border, Ohio all golden with grain; The river comes up at her order, And curves toward the incoming train; “The river! The river! O borrow A speed that is swifter-- Afar Kentucky! Haste, haste, thou To-morrow!” Poor lads, dreaming not of the sorrow, The anguish of war.

THE OTHER.

West from the Capital’s crowded throng The fiery engine rushed along, Over the road where danger lay On each bridge and curve of the midnight way, Shooting across the rivers’ laps, Up the mountains, into the gaps, Through West Virginia like the wind, Fire and sword coming on behind, Whistling defiance that echoed back To mountain guerrillas burning the track, “Do the worst, ye rebels, that ye can do To the train that follows, but I go through!”

A motley crowd--the city thief; The man of God; the polished chief Of a band of gamblers; the traitor spy; The correspondent with quick, sharp eye; The speculator who boldly made His fifty per cent. in a driving trade At the edge of the war; the clean lank clerk Sent West for sanitary work; The bounty-jumper; the lordling born Viewing the country with wondering scorn-- A strange assemblage filled the car That dared the midnight border-band, Where life and death went hand-in-hand Those strange and breathless days of war.

The conductor’s lantern moves along, Slowly lighting the motley throng Face by face; what sudden gleam Flashes back in the lantern’s beam Through shadows down at the rearward door? The conductor pauses; all eyes explore The darkened corner: a woman’s face Thrown back asleep--the shimmer of lace, The sheen of silk, the yellow of gold, The flash of jewels, the careless fold Of an India shawl that half concealed The curves superb which the light revealed; A sweep of shoulder, a rounded arm, A perfect hand that lay soft and warm On the dingy seat; all the outlines rare Of a Milo Venus slumbered there ’Neath the costly silk whose heaviest fold Subordinate seemed--unnoticed mould For the form beneath.

The sumptuous grace Of the careless pose, the sleeping face, Transfixed all eyes, and together drew One and all for a nearer view: The lank clerk hasted, the gambler trod On the heels of the gazing man of God; The correspondent took out his book, Sharpened his pencil with eager look; The soldiers fought as to who should pass The first; the lord peered through his glass, But no sooner saw the sleeping face Than he too hasted and left his place To join the crowd. Then, ere any spoke, But all eager gazed, the lady woke.

Dark-brown, sleepy, velvet eyes, Lifted up in soft surprise, A wealth of hair of auburn red, Falling in braids from the regal head Whose little hat with waving plume Lay on the floor--while a faint perfume, The roses, crushed in sleep, betrayed, Tangled within the loosened braid; Bold features, Nubian lips, a skin Creamy pallid, the red within Mixed with brown where the shadow lies Dark beneath the lustrous eyes. She smiles; all hearts are at her feet. She turns; each hastens to his seat. The car is changed to a sacred place Lighted by one fair woman’s face; In sudden silence on they ride, The lord and the gambler, side by side, The traitor spy, the priest as well, Bound for the time by a common spell, And each might be in thought and mien A loyal knight escorting his queen, So instant and so measureless Is the power of a perfect loveliness.

THE MEETING.

The Western city with the Roman name, The vine-decked river winding round the hills, Are left behind; the pearly maid who came Down from the northern lake whose cool breath fills The whole horizon, like the green, salt sea, Is riding southward on the cautious train, That feels its way along, and nervously Hurries around the curve and o’er the bridge, Fearing a rebel ball from every ridge-- The wild adventurous cavalry campaign That Morgan and his men, bold riders all, Kept up in fair Kentucky all those years, So hot with daring deeds, with glowing tears, That even Peace doth sometime seem a pall, When men in city offices feel yet The old wild thrill of “Boots and saddles all!” The dashing raid they cannot quite forget Despite the hasty graves that silent lie Along its route; at home the women sigh, Gazing across the still untrodden ways, Across the fields, across the lonely moor, “O for the breathless ardor of those days When we were all so happy, though so poor!”

The maiden sits alone; The raw recruits are scattered through the car, Talking of all the splendors of the war, With faces grimed and roistering braggart tone. In the gray dawning, sweet and fair to view, Like opening wood-flower pearled with morning dew, She shines among them in her radiance pure, Notes all their lawless roughness, sadly sure They’re very wicked--hoping that the day Of long-drawn hours may safely wear away, And bring her, ere the summer sunset dies, To the far farm-house where her lover lies, Wounded--alone. The rattling speed turns slow, Slow, slower all the rusty car-wheels go, The axles groan, the brakes grind harshly down; The young conductor comes--(there was a face He noted in the night)--“Madam, your place Will soon be noisy, for at yonder town We take on other soldiers. If you change Your seat and join that little lady, then It will not seem so lonely or so strange For you, as here among so many men.” Lifting her fair face from the battered seat, Where she had slumbered like a weary child, The lady, with obedience full sweet To his young manhood’s eager craving, smiled And rose. Happy, the flushed youth led the way; She followed in her lovely disarray. The clinging silk disclosed the archèd foot, Hidden within the dainty satin boot, Dead-black against the dead-white even hue Of silken stocking, gleaming into view One moment; then the lady sleepily Adjusted with a touch her drapery, And tried to loop in place a falling braid, And smooth the rippling waves the night had made; While the first sunbeams flashing through the pane Set her bright gems to flashing back again; And all men’s eyes in that Kentucky car Grew on her face, as all men’s eyes had done On the night-train that brought her from afar, Over the mountains west from Washington.

THE LADY (thinking).

Haply met, This country maiden, sweet as mignonette, No doubt the pride of some small Western town:-- Pity, that she should wear that hopeless gown, So prim--so dull--a fashion five years old!

THE MAIDEN (thinking).

How odd, how bold, That silken robe--those waves of costly lace, That falling hair, the shadows ’neath the eyes, Surely those diamonds are out of place-- Strange, that a lady should in such a guise Be here alone!

THE LADY.

Allow me, mademoiselle, Our good conductor thinks it would be well That we should keep together, since the car Will soon be overcrowded, and we are The only women.--May I have a seat In this safe little corner by your side? Thanks; it is fortunate, indeed, to meet So sweet a friend to share the long day’s ride!-- That is, if yours be long?

THE MAIDEN.

To Benton’s Mill.

THE LADY.

I go beyond, not far--I think we pass Your station just before Waunona Hill; But both are in the heart of the Blue Grass. Do you not love that land?

THE MAIDEN.

I do not know Aught of it.

THE LADY.

Yes; but surely you have heard Of the fair plains where the sweet grasses grow, Just grass, naught else; and where the noble herd Of blooded cattle graze, and horses bred For victory--the rare Kentucky speed That wins the races?

THE MAIDEN.

Yes; I’ve heard it said They were good worthy horses.--But indeed I know not much of horses.

THE LADY.

Then the land-- The lovely, rolling land of the Blue Grass, The wild free park spread out by Nature’s hand That scarce an English dukedom may surpass In velvet beauty--while its royal sweep Over the country miles and miles away, Dwarfs man-made parks to toys; the great trees keep Their distance from each other, proud array Of single elms that stand apart to show How gracefully their swaying branches grow, While little swells of turf roll up and fall Like waves of summer sea, and over all You catch, when the straight shafts of sunset pass Over the lea, the glint of the Blue Grass.-- But you will see it.

THE MAIDEN.

No; I cannot stay But a few hours--at most, a single day.

THE LADY (unheeding).

I think I like the best, Of all dumb things, a horse of Blue-Grass breed, The Arab courser of our own new West, The splendid creature, whose free-hearted speed Outstrips e’en time itself. Oh! when he wins The race, how, pulsed with pride, I wave my hand In triumph, ere the thundering shout begins, And those slow, cautious judges on the stand, Have counted seconds! Is it not a thrill That stirs the blood, yet holds the quick breath still?

THE MAIDEN.

I ne’er have seen race-horses, or a race.

THE LADY.

I crave your pardon; in your gentle face I read reproof.

THE MAIDEN.