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!