Excerpt
The Brothers Not far from here, it lies beyondThat low-hilled belt of woods. We'll takeThis unused lane where brambles makeA wall of twilight, and the blondBrier-roses pelt the path and flakeThe margin waters of a pond. This is its fence—or that which wasIts fence once—now, rock rolled from rock,One tangle of the vine and dock,Where bloom the wild petunias;And this its gate, the iron-weeds block,Hot with the insects' dusty buzz. Two wooden posts, wherefrom has peeledThe weather-crumbled paint, still rise;Gaunt things—that groan when someone triesThe gate whose hinges, rust-congealed,Snarl open:—on each post still liesIts carven lion with a shield. We enter; and between great rowsOf locusts winds a grass-grown road;And at its glimmering end,—o'erflowedWith quiet light,—the white front showsOf an old mansion, grand and broad,With grave Colonial porticoes. Grown thick around it, dark and deep,The locust trees make one vast hush;Their brawny branches crowd and crushIts very casements, and o'ersweepIts rotting roofs; their tranquil rushHaunts all its spacious rooms with sleep. Still is it called The Locusts; thoughNone lives here now. A tale's to tellOf some dark thing that here befell;A crime that happened years ago,When by its walls, with shot and shell,The war swept on and left it so. For one black night, within it, shameMade revel, while, all here about,With prayer or curse or battle-shout,Men died and homesteads leapt in flame:Then passed the conquering Northern rout,And left it silent and the same. Why should I speak of what has been?Or what dark part I played in all?Why ruin sits in porch and hallWhere pride and gladness once were seen;And why beneath this lichened wallThe grave of Margaret is green. Heart-broken Margaret! whose fateWas sadder yet than his who wonHer hand—my brother Hamilton—Or mine, who learned to know too late;Who learned to know, when all was done,And nothing could exonerate. To expiate is still my lot,—And, like the Ancient Mariner,To show to others how things areAnd what I am, still helps me blotA little from that crime's red scar,That on my soul is branded hot. He was my only brother. SheA sister of my brother's friend.They met, and married in the end.And I remember well when heBrought her rejoicing home, the trendOf war moved towards us sullenly. And scarce a year of wedlock whenIts red arms took him from his bride.With lips by hers thrice sanctifiedHe left to ride with Morgan's men.And I—I never could decide—Remained at home. It happened then. For days went by. And, oft delayed,A letter came of loving wordScrawled by some camp-fire, sabre-stirred,Or by a pine-knot's fitful aid,When in the saddle, armed and spurredAnd booted for some hurried raid. Then weeks went by. I do not knowHow long it was before there came,Blown from the North, the clarion fameOf Morgan, who, with blow on blow,Had drawn a line of blood and flameFrom Tennessee to Ohio. Then letters ceased; and days went on.No word from him. The war rolled back,And in its turgid crimson trackA rumor grew, like some wild dawn,All ominous and red and black,With news of our lost Hamilton, That hinted death or capture. YetNo thing was sure; till one day,—fedBy us,—some men rode up who saidThey'd been with Morgan and had metDisaster, and that he was dead,My brother.—I and Margaret Believed them. Grief was ours too:But mine was more for her than him;Grief, that her eyes with tears were dim;Grief, that became the avenueFor love, who crowned the sombre brimOf death's dark cup with rose-red hue....