The Brothers

Not far from here, it lies beyond

That low-hilled belt of woods. We'll take

This unused lane where brambles make

A wall of twilight, and the blond

Brier-roses pelt the path and flake

The margin waters of a pond.

This is its fence — or that which was

Its 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 peeled

The weather-crumbled paint, still rise;

Gaunt things — that groan when someone tries

The gate whose hinges, rust-congealed,

Snarl open:— on each post still lies

Its carven lion with a shield.

We enter; and between great rows

Of locusts winds a grass-grown road;

And at its glimmering end,— o'erflowed

With quiet light,— the white front shows

Of 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 crush

Its very casements, and o'ersweep

Its rotting roofs; their tranquil rush

Haunts all its spacious rooms with sleep.

Still is it called The Locusts; though

None lives here now. A tale's to tell

Of 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, shame

Made 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 hall

Where pride and gladness once were seen;

And why beneath this lichened wall

The grave of Margaret is green.

Heart-broken Margaret! whose fate

Was sadder yet than his who won

Her 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 are

And what I am, still helps me blot

A little from that crime's red scar,

That on my soul is branded hot.

He was my only brother. She

A sister of my brother's friend.

They met, and married in the end.

And I remember well when he

Brought her rejoicing home, the trend

Of war moved towards us sullenly.

And scarce a year of wedlock when

Its red arms took him from his bride.

With lips by hers thrice sanctified

He 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 word

Scrawled by some camp-fire, sabre-stirred,

Or by a pine-knot's fitful aid,

When in the saddle, armed and spurred

And booted for some hurried raid.

Then weeks went by. I do not know

How long it was before there came,

Blown from the North, the clarion fame

Of Morgan, who, with blow on blow,

Had drawn a line of blood and flame

From Tennessee to Ohio.

Then letters ceased; and days went on.

No word from him. The war rolled back,

And in its turgid crimson track

A rumor grew, like some wild dawn,

All ominous and red and black,

With news of our lost Hamilton,

That hinted death or capture. Yet

No thing was sure; till one day,— fed

By us,— some men rode up who said

They'd been with Morgan and had met

Disaster, 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 avenue

For love, who crowned the sombre brim

Of death's dark cup with rose-red hue.

In sympathy,— unconsciously

Though it be given — I hold, doth dwell

The germ of love that time shall swell

To blossom. Sooner then in me —

When close relations so befell —

That love should spring from sympathy.

Our similar tastes and mutual bents

Combined to make us intimates

From our first meeting. Different states

Of interest then our temperaments

Begot. Then friendship, that abates

No love, whose self it represents.

These led to talks and dreams: how oft

We sat at some wide window while

The sun sank o'er the hills’ far file,

Serene; and of the cloud aloft

Made one vast rose; and mile on mile

Of firmament grew sad and soft.

And all in harmony with these

Dim clemencies of dusk, afar

Our talks and dreams went; while the star

Of evening brightened o'er the trees:

We spoke of home; the end of war:

We dreamed of life and love and peace.

How on our walks in listening lanes

Or confidences of the wood,

We paused to hear the dove that cooed;

Or gathered wild-flowers, taking pains

To find the fairest; or her hood

Filled with wild fruit that left deep stains.

No echo of the drum or fife,

No hint of conflict entered in

Our thoughts then. Will you call it sin —

Indifference to a nation's strife?

What side might lose, what side might win,

Both immaterial to our life.

Into the past we did not look;

Beyond what was we did not dream;

While onward rushed the thunderous stream

Of war, that, in its torrent, took

One of our own. No crimson gleam

Of its wild course around us shook.

At last we knew. And when we learned

How he had fallen, Margaret

Wept; and, albeit my eyes were wet,

Within my soul I half discerned

A joy that mingled with regret,

A grief that to relief was turned.

As time went on and confidence

Drew us more strongly each to each,

Why did no intimation reach

Its warning hand into the dense

Soul-silence, and confuse the speech

Of love's unbroken eloquence!

But, no! no hint to turn the poise,

Or check the impulse of our youth;

To chill it with the living truth

As with the awe of God's own voice;

No hint, to make our hope uncouth;

No word, to warn us from our choice.

To me a wall seemed overthrown

That social law had raised between;

And o'er its ruin, broad and green

A path went, I possessed alone;

The sky above seemed all serene;

The land around seemed all my own.

What shall I say of Margaret

To justify her part in this?

That her young heart was never his?

But had been mine since first we met?

So would you say!— Enough it is

That when he left she loved him yet.

So passed the Spring, and Summer sped;

And early Autumn brought the day

When she her hand in mine should lay,

And I should take her hand and wed.

And still no hint that might gainsay,

No warning word of quick or dead.

The day arrived; and, with it born,

A battle, sullying the East

With boom of cannon, that increased,

And throb of musket and of horn:

Until at last, towards dusk, it ceased;

And men with faces wild and worn,

In fierce retreat swept past; now groups;

Now one by one; now sternly white,

Or blood-stained; now with looks whose fright

Said all was lost. Then sullen troops

That, beaten, still kept up the fight.

Then came the victors; shadowy loops

Of men and horse, that left a crowd

Of officers in hall and porch....

While through the land around the torch

Circled, and many a fiery cloud

Marked out the army's iron march

In furrows red, that pillage plowed,

Here we were wedded.— Ask the years

How such could be, while over us

A sword of wrath swung ominous,

And on our cheeks its breath was fierce!

All I remember is —‘ twas thus,

And Margaret's eyes were wet with tears.

No other cause my memory sees

Save this, that night was set; and when

I found my home filled with armed men

With whom were all my sympathies

Of Union — why postpone it then?

So argued conscience into peace.

And then it was, when night had passed

There came to me an orderly

With word of a confederate spy

Late taken, who, with head downcast,

Had asked one favor, this: “That I

Would see him ere he breathed his last.”

I stand alone here. Heavily

My thoughts go back. Had I not gone,

The dead had still been dead!— for none

Had yet believed his story — he,

My dead-deemed brother, Hamilton,

Who in the spy confronted me.

O you who never have been tried,

How can you judge me!— in my place

I saw him standing — who can trace

My heart thoughts then!— I turned aside,

A thing of some unnatural race,

And did not speak; and so he died.

In hospital or prison, when

It was he lay; what had forbid

His home return so long: amid

What hardships he had suffered, then

I dared not ask; and when I did,

Long afterwards, inquire of men,

No thing I learned. But this I feel —

He who had so returned to life

Was not a spy. Through stress and strife,—

This makes my conscience hard to heal!—

He had escaped; he sought his wife;

He sought his home that should conceal.

And Margaret! Oh, pity her!

A criminal I sought her side,

Still thinking love was justified

In all for her — whatever were

The price, a brother thrice denied,

Or thrice a brother's murderer.

Since then long years have passed away.

And through those years, perhaps, you'll ask

How to the world I wore my mask

Of honesty?— I can but say

Beyond my powers it was a task;

Before my time it turned me gray.

And when at last the ceaseless hiss

Of conscience drove, and I betrayed

All to her, she knelt down and prayed,

Then rose; and‘ twixt us an abyss

Was opened; and she seemed to fade

Out of my life: I came to miss

The sweet attentions of a bride:

For each appealing heart's caress

In me, her heart assumed a dress

Of dull indifference; till denied

To me was all responsiveness;

And then I knew her love had died.

Ah, had she loaded me, perchance,

With wild reproach or even hate,

Such would have helped a hope to wait

Forgiveness and returned romance;

But‘ twixt our souls, instead, a gate

She closed of silent tolerance.

Yet,‘ t was for love of her I lent

My soul to crime... I question me

Often, if less entirely

I'd loved her, then, in that event,

She had been justified to see

The deed alone stand prominent.

The deed alone! But love records

In his own heart, I will aver,

No depth I did not feel for her

Beyond the plummet-reach of words:

And though there may be worthier,

No truer love this world affords

Than mine was, though it could not rise

Above itself. And so‘ t was best,

Perhaps, that she saw manifest

Its crime, that I, as saw her eyes,

Might see; and so, in soul confessed,

Some life atonement might devise.

Sadly my heart one comfort keeps,

That, towards the end, she took my hands

And said, as one who understands,

“Had I but seen! But love that weeps,

Sees only as its loss commands,”

And sighed. Beneath this stone she sleeps.

Yes; I have suffered for that sin;

Yet in no instance would I shun

What I should suffer. Many a one,

Who heard my tale, has tried to win

Me to believe that Hamilton

It was not; and, though proven kin,

This had not saved him. Still the stain

Of the intention — had I erred

And‘ t was not he — had writ the word

Red on my soul that branded Cain;

For still my error had incurred

The fact of guilt that would remain.

Ah, love at best is insecure,

And lives with doubt and vain regret;

And hope and faith, with faces set

Upon the past, are never sure;

And through their fever, grief, and fret

The heart may fail that should endure.

For in ourselves, however blend

The passions that make heaven and hell,

Is evil not accountable

For most the good we comprehend?

And through these two, or ill, or well,

Man must evolve his spiritual end.

It is with deeds that we must ask

Forgiveness; for upon this earth,

Life walks alone from very birth

With death, hope tells us is a mask

For life beyond of vaster worth,

Where sin no more sets love a task.