Mamie needn’t work on that old puzzling dress unless she greatly desires to.
Now, with great love, and great hopes, and sincere commiseration, Auntie closes this her first epistle to the daughter of David and waiting to hear her cry out in a “loud voice,” she remains as usual
Old Dolorous
The summer, however, did her some good. She was able to get out and do a little sight-seeing, her longest journey being to Stratford-on-Avon. Early in October she sailed for home on the steamship Parthia.
Only a few weeks before she had believed that she had but a short time to live, or that if she lived it must be as a hopeless and permanent invalid; but with even the beginning of a restoration to health she recalled her determination to introduce in America the Red Cross, under whose auspices she had labored on the battle-fields of Europe. She knew that America had no knowledge of, or interest in, the Red Cross. She had good reason to question whether it would be possible for her immediately to stir up any great enthusiasm for it. But she was determined to live and bring this to pass.
As usual on trans-Atlantic voyages, there was a concert in the cabin of the Parthia. Clara Barton, returning to America as the heroine of two wars, was asked to participate. She made her contribution to the evening’s entertainment in a poem which she wrote on shipboard, in which she expressed her ardent desire and her solicitude. She was going back to America after a long absence. Was there anything for her to do when she got here? For daily bread she had no concern and no need for concern. Her modest income was adequate for her still more modest needs. Even while traveling abroad she had found no occasion to encroach upon her principal, and her expenses at home were certain to leave her each year a little margin between income and outgo. But there had entered into her soul a vision of the contribution which she might be permitted to make to America and the world by securing America’s adhesion to the international treaty which included the recognition of the Red Cross. Would America listen to her when she pleaded for this? Had it room for her and her mission?
HAVE YE ROOM?
Five days from New York—five days did he say?
Only five days from the glistening bay,
That four years ago I sailed tearfully o’er
Watching the sunny light fade from the shore!
As the kerchiefs had faded along the dense pier,
And the God bless you’s died on the listening ear.
Tearfully, prayerfully, sailing away,
Past the green islands, and out of the bay,
Recalling in pain they who sorrowed and wept,
More painfully still the brave who had slept;
Tearfully, prayerfully sailing away
In search of the strength that went out in the fray.
It were easy to search for the gems of the sea,
The jewels and gold hid in mountain and lea,
The thin veins of silver that line the green sod,
But health is of wisdom, and strength is of God.
Four wearisome years in lands strange and old,
Watching the changes that over them rolled,
How the calm shadows lay in the valley of rest,
And the black war cloud gathered from out of the west;
How lancer and tireur dashed o’er the plain
And the smiles fled the face of sweet Alsace-Lorraine.
And helmet and turban lay soaked in the rain
And the masterless dog lapped the wounds of the slain.
Fair sons and brave husbands there lingered not one,
And the far childless widow prayed—Thy will be done.
How the old nations groaned on their unstable beds,
As the great car of progress rolled over their heads,
Uprooting old forms, time-honored of sages
Sowing new truths for the incoming ages.
Republics have sprung on the steps of the throne,
Kingdoms have crumbled, empires have grown;
Princes and prelates have listened their doom,
And ermine and gold-decked the refugee’s tomb.
Strange sights for strange eyes as the old cities burn,
And battle and siege follow each in their turn.
I have heard the faint note of the last sentry’s call,
And seen the white flag flutter out o’er the wall;
I have bound up death wounds lying dark and alone,
And the language that blessed me was strange and unknown.
The homeless and famished clung wild with despair,
And the noble and gentle have cherished me there.
Still trustingly,—loyally: loving and true,
Anxious and glad, I am coming to you.
Have ye place, each beloved one, a place in your prayer,
Have ye room, my dear countrymen, room for me there?
How the strength rose and fell in those perilous years!
What torture it made of my hopes and my fears,
When I joyed in its rise or wept for its fall,
It was never myself that I thought of at all.
But if only once more I might tread the loved land,
And toil for its weal with my heart, and my hand;
Have ye place, each beloved one, a place in your prayer,
Have ye work, my brave countrymen, work for me there?
Plow on, old Parthia, steady and true,
Each plunge of thy prow brings them nearer to view;
Brings me nearer the days that shall settle the doubt
If they’ve kept me within—or have left me without.
For my feeble hands failed while care rested on all,
And trouble and grief wrapped them round like a pall.
Who shall say that the storms have not scattered my sheaves,
Or the winter winds buried the fallen autumn leaves,
Or the gaping seas closed without anger or frown,
And the freighted ships crowd where the lone wreck went down?
Have ye place, each beloved one, a place in your prayer,
Have ye room, my dear countrymen, room for me there?
Steamship Parthia, Mid-Atlantic
October 8, 1873