Soldiers of the light

by Helen Gray Cone

I

Stand we awhile at gaze, in the Place of the Battle of Battles:

High on the hill at the south, where over the fair-lying farmland

Warren keeps watch in bronze, here under the sky of the summer

Stand we awhile at gaze, far-scanning the roads and the ridges,

Doubtful that such things were.

Oh, sweet with the wafts of the wildrose,

Sweet is the breath of the summer, the hushed spirit lapping and lulling!

Man feels near to the kind red earth; as her nursling she draws him

Close, ah close, to the fragrant warmth of her Indian bosom.

Deep he drinks of life; and death is a dream in the distance.

Rare is the sweet of the summer; the good world’s bounty and beauty

Such as they saw and lost, who bought us our peace with their passion.

Such, on the great Three Days of the great Third Year of the war-time,

Lay this pleasant land, with the long South Mountain to westward;

Blue these billowing hills circled it, friendly enfolded,

Lucent in sun, or dark with the shadows of clouds floating over;

Silvered with ghostly gray of the rains, in their soft-footed marches

Melting away and passing, and leaving the blue in the sunlight.

So the farmland lay, with the yellow gleam of its wheatfields,

Green of the standing corn, a-glisten in beauteous battalions,

Pastures with dreaming cattle, and tawny streams where they loiter,

Dark-green orchard slopes, and the small white houses of farmers.

So lay the little town, with its brick-paved walks and its alleys,

Garden-glimpses fair, with the faint-blue hills for a background,

Over the whitewashed fences the rosy hollyhocks leaning;

Fate-shadowed, sleeping town, in its listless grasp as it slumbered

Holding the reins of power, the gathered reins of the roadways

Stretched to the north and south, to the northwest and northeast and southeast,

Roadways half a score, in the grasp of the fate-shadowed sleeper,—

Reins of power indeed, should a strong hand suddenly seize them!

What strong hand should seize? Swift-reaching, and sinewed with iron,

Masterful hand of Lee, great Captain, intrepid invader?

Far-away cities feared. Or, haply, hand new to the wielding

One huge host as a sword, untried in its strength or its weakness,

Unknown hand of Meade, at the southward uncertainly groping?

Stirred with a dream of dread was the little town as it slumbered;

Sudden it started and woke.

—Through the hush of the young, hot morning

One sharp shot, and another—and born was the Battle of Battles!

Long had the good land lain in the sun and the rain, with its ridges,

Rich broad fields for the farmer, and hills dark-fledged with the forests;

Yet was the end ordained of the old earth’s writhing and travail

Neither the breathing beauty of grainfields, nor wealth of the harvest,

Neither the brooding charm of the wood, nor the trees for the builder;

Not for these was the earth-pang; for Pain, for Pain sacrificial

Offered to God; for the altar whereon Man blindly or wisely

Laid, for the Faith that was in him, his body born of a woman,

Laid, in his passion of service, the life of his own blood-brother,—

Even for that Altar august had the ridges and hills from aforetime

Waited, elect. So of old, under Syrian azure, and burning

Stars of that ancient land, grew a great Tree, branched like another;

Soared to its height, and waited, elect for the Cross of all crosses.

Now was arrived the hour, and the stern supreme dedication,

Sealing the brow of the land for the Place of the Battle of Battles.