Soldiers of the light

by Helen Gray Cone

VI

Crouching meanwhile at the front, by the low stone walls and the fences

There on the opposite ridge, the soldiers of Hays and of Gibbon,—

Every man soldierly-proud of the Trefoil he wore on his cap-crown,

Were it of white or of blue, the Trefoil that told he was Hancock’s,—

Crouching expectant and grim, in the roar of that great cannonading,

Broke into cheer after cheer: with the flag of the Trefoil behind him,

Rode the corps-commander, reviewing the line of his legions,

Knowing men’s need of a man. In the fury of sound, and the frantic

Shriek of the battery horses, and hell-blaze of caissons exploding,

Reared the black charger he rode; yet persisted the resolute rider,

Masterful, mounted afresh; and along the line ran the murmur,

Flame on a dry field’s edge, “Hancock, it’s Hancock!” and freshly

Kindled the cheer as he passed.

So they lay in the line, with the muskets

Clutched in the hard hands, ready; the men of New York and New Jersey,

Delaware’s sons, and Maine’s, and the close-coupled, war-welded comrades,

Stalwart Michigan men and the soldiers of old Massachusetts.

There were the very sons of the well-loved soil they defended,

Stretched by the low stone wall and the dark little cluster of oak-trees.

There were the lads of Vermont, fresh to the field, with equipments

Glittering,—gallant to see as the folds of a clear-colored ensign

Newly upreared on the staff, floating out stainless and splendid;

There too, knit in its place, was the shred of the First Minnesota,

Left from the Second Day’s charge when it flung itself in as a stop-gap,

Stirring to see as the shred of the battle-burnt colors left clinging

Blackened and rent, to the staff, and advanced in the forefront of danger.

Nay, nor alone the shoots of the rooted stock of the fathers

Stood in that hedge of war; but the aliens, the sons of adoption,

Loyal to death to the land of their love, as a mystical Mother,

Virgin, glorious, mild, immortal, a presence to die for!

There in the line of defence was the flag Garibaldi once planted

Proud on the ramparts of Rome; and the bright-green beautiful banner,

Banner of glory and grief, that has blown in the breezes of battle

Over all fields of the world, to beckon high hearts to the onset;

Yet was uplifted supreme the Flag of the hope of the future,

Set with the splendors of stars, and striped with the heart’s-blood of heroes.

So they lay in the line, with the hard hands clutching the muskets:

Men of the farm and the forge and the carpenter’s bench and the engine;

Men from the counter and desk; and the teacher was there with his pupils;

There the bold-eyed firemen, the turbulent lads of the cities;

There the men of the shore,—they had left the broad nets and the fishing;

There the men of the axe,—they had left the tall trees in the forest.

What was it drew them away from their labor and love and contentment,

Buying and selling and scheming, and building, and yoking the oxen?

Made them willing to fling down Life, the mysterious jewel,

All the lovely and strange thing that it is, with the pleasant

Light of the kindly sun, and the sweet of the grass in the summer,

Salt of the large sea-breeze, and the mild stars shining in heaven,

Joy of the free whole body, and wonderful wafts of the spirit?

All a man hath will he give for his life,—but his life for his duty!

This is the touchstone of manhood, the swift and the final election,

Test of the heart that is true to some lofty and ultimate brightness

Secretly set above self; at its blindest, shall God not accept it?

Ah, but how blessed are they,—not summoned by voices misleading,

Lured of the marsh-light, and tricked to the true defence of a falsehood,—

Who with their measure of power, conscious, half-conscious, unconscious,

Work the Eternal Will, in the chaos a force of salvation,

Motes of the dust as it streams, yet touched with the light of God’s purpose!