Margaret Junkin Preston
II.
The feathery foliage has broadened its leaves,
And June, with its beautiful mornings and eves,
Its magical atmosphere, breezes and blooms,
Its woods all delicious with thousand perfumes,–
First-born of the Summer,–spoiled pet of the year,–
June, delicate queen of the seasons, is here!
The sadness has passed from the dwelling away,
And quiet serenity brightens the day:
With innocent prattle, her toils to beguile,
In the midst of her children, the mother _must_ smile.
With matronly cares,–those relentless demands
On the strength of her heart and the skill of her hands,–
The hours come tenderly, ceaselessly fraught,
And leave her small space for the broodings of thought.
Thank God!–busy fingers a solace can find,
To lighten the burden of body or mind;
And Eden’s old curse proves a blessing instead,–
“In the sweat of thy brow shalt thou toil for thy bread.”
For the bless’d relief in all labours that lurk,
Aye, thank Him, unhappy ones,–thank Him for work!
Thus Alice engages her thoughts and her powers,
And industry kindly lends wings to the hours:
Poor, petty employments they sometimes appear,
And on her bright needle there plashes a tear,–
Half shame and half passion;–what would she not dare
Her fervid compatriots’ struggles to share?
It irks her,–the weakness of womanhood then,–
Yet such are the tears that make heroes of men!
She feels the hot blood of the nation beat high;
With rapture she catches the rallying cry:
From mountain and valley and hamlet they come!
On every side echoes the roll of the drum.
A people as firm, as united, as bold,
As ever drew blade for the blessings they hold,
Step sternly and solemnly forth in their might,
And swear on their altars to die for the right!
The clangor of muskets,–the flashing of steel,–
The clatter of spurs on the stout-booted heel,–
The waving of banners,–the resonant tramp
Of marching battalions,–the fiery stamp
Of steeds in their war-harness, newly decked out,–
The blast of the bugle,–the hurry, the shout,–
The terrible energy, eager and wild,
That lights up the face of man, woman and child,–
That burns on all lips, that arouses all powers;
Did ever we dream that such times would be ours?
One thought is absorbing, with giant control,–
With deadliest earnest, the national soul:–
“The right of self-government, crown of our pride,–
Right, bought with the sacredest blood,–is denied!
Shall we tamely resign what our enemy craves?
No! martyrs we _may_ be!–we _cannot_ be slaves!”
Fair women who naught but indulgence have seen,
Who never have learned what denial could mean,–
Who deign not to clipper their own dainty feet,
Whose wants swarthy handmaids stand ready to meet,
Whose fingers decline the light kerchief to hem,–
What aid in this struggle is hoped for from them?
Yet see! how they haste from their bowers of ease,
Their dormant capacities fired,–to seize
Every feminine weapon their skill can command,–
To labor with head, and with heart, and with hand.
They stitch the rough jacket, they shape the coarse shirt,
Unheeding though delicate fingers be hurt;
They bind the strong haversack, knit the grey glove,
Nor falter nor pause in their service of love.
When ever were people subdued, overthrown,
With women to cheer them on, brave as our own?
With maidens and mothers at work on their knees,
When ever were soldiers as fearless as these?
June’s flower-wreathed sceptre is dropped with a sigh,
And forth like an empress steps stately July:
She sits all unveiled, amidst sunshine and balms,
As Zenobia sat in her City of Palms!
Not yet has the martial horizon grown dun,
Not yet has the terrible conflict begun:
But the tumult of legions,–the rush and the roar,
Break over our borders, like waves on the shore.
Along the Potomac, the confident foe
Stands marshalled for onset,–prepared, at a blow,
To vanquish the daring rebellion, and fling
Utter ruin at once on the arrogant thing!
How sovran the silence that broods o’er the sky,
And ushers the twenty-first morn of July;
–Date, written in fire on history’s scroll,–
–Date, drawn in deep blood-lines on many a soul!
There is quiet at Beechenbrook: Alice’s brow
Is wearing a Sabbath tranquility now,
As softly she reads from the page on her knee,–
“Thou wilt keep him in peace who is stayed upon Thee!”
When Sophy bursts breathlessly into the room,–
“Oh! mother! we hear it,–we hear it!.., the boom
Of the fast and the fierce cannonading!–it shook
The ground till it trembled, along by the brook.”
One instant the listener sways in her seat,–
The paralysed heart has forgotten to beat;
The next, with the speed and the frenzy of fear,
She gains the green hillock, and pauses to hear.
Again and again the reverberant sound
Is fearfully felt in the tremulous ground;
Again and again on their senses it thrills,
Like thunderous echoes astray in the hills.
On tip-toe,–the summer wind lifting his hair,
With nostril expanded, and scenting the air
Like a mettled young war-horse that tosses his mane,
And frettingly champs at the bit and the rein,–
Stands eager, exultant, a twelve-year-old boy,
His face all aflame with a rapturous joy.
“_That’s_ music for heroes in battle array!
Oh, mother! I feel like a Roman to-day!
The Romans I read of in Plutarch;–Yes, men
Thought it noble to die for their liberties then!
And I’ve wondered if soldiers were ever so bold,
So gallant and brave, as those heroes of old.
–There!–listen!–that volley peals out the reply;
They prove it is sweet for their country to die:
How grand it must be! what a pride! what a joy!
–And _I_ can do nothing: I’m only a boy!”
The fervid hand drops as he ceases to speak,
And the eloquent crimson fades out on his cheek.
“Oh, Beverly!–brother! It never would do!
Who comforts mamma, and who helps her like you?
She sends to the battle her darlingest one,–
She could not give both of them,–husband and son;
If she lose _you_, what’s left her in life to enjoy?
–Oh, no! I am _glad_ you are only a boy.”
And Sophy looks up with her tenderest air,
And kisses the fingers that toy with her hair.
For her, who all silent and motionless stands,
And over her heart locks her quivering hands,
With white lips apart, and with eyes that dilate,
As if the low thunder were sounding her fate,–
What racking suspenses, what agonies stir,
What spectres these echoes are rousing for her!
Brave-natur’d, yet quaking,–high-souled, yet so pale,–
Is it thus that the wife of a soldier should quail,
And shudder and shrink at the boom of a gun,
As only a faint-hearted girl should have done?
Ah! wait until custom has blunted the keen,
Cutting edge of that sound, and no woman, I ween,
Will hear it with pulses more equal, more free
From feminine terrors and weakness, than she.
The sun sinks serenely; a lingering look
He flings at the mists that steal over the brook,
Like nuns that come forth in the twilight to pray,
Till their blushes are seen through their mantles of grey.
The gay-hearted children, but lightly oppressed,
Find perfect relief on their pillow of rest:
For Alice, no bless’d forgetfulness comes;–
The wail of the bugles,–the roll of the drums,–
The musket’s sharp crack,–the artillery’s roar,–
The flashing of bayonets dripping with gore,–
The moans of the dying,–the horror, the dread,
The ghastliness gathering over the dead,–
Oh! these are the visions of anguish and pain,–
The phantoms of terror that troop through her brain!
She pauses again and again on the floor,
Which the moonlight has brightened so mockingly o’er;
She wrings her cold hands with a groan of despair;
–“Oh, God! have compassion!–my darling is there!”
All placidly, dewily, freshly, the dawn
Comes stealing in pulseless tranquility on:
More freely she breathes, in its balminess, though
The forehead it kisses is pallid with woe.
Through the long summer sunshine the Cottage is stirred
By passers, who brokenly fling them a word:
Such tidings of slaughter! “The enemy cowers;”–
“He breaks!”–“He is flying!”–“Manassas is ours!”
‘Tis evening: and Archie, alone on the grass,
Sits watching the fire-flies gleam as they pass,
When sudden he rushes, too eager to wait,–
“Mamma! there’s an ambulance stops at the gate!”
Suspense then is past: he is borne from the field,–
“God help me!… God grant it be _not_ on his shield!”
And Alice, her passionate soul in her eyes,
And hope and fear winging each quicken’d step, flies,–
Embraces, with frantical wildness, the form
Of her husband, and finds … it is living, and warm!
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
Part II shifts away from the intimate farewell of the first section and broadens the setting to show how war enters everyday life even when the battle is still distant. The poem opens with June, described through its typical signs—lush leaves, warm air, flowers, and ease. This pleasant setting is not just scenery; it marks how quickly the household regains its routine after the husband’s departure. Alice is no longer in the moment of parting, and her grief has softened into something she can manage while moving through her daily work.
The poem puts a lot of attention on labor—ordinary domestic tasks that occupy her hands and keep her mind from sinking into fear. This theme of work as relief appears directly when the narrator comments on how physical effort, even small tasks, can steady someone. The poem treats this idea matter-of-factly. It doesn’t turn housework into a sentimental symbol. Instead, it shows how it simply fills the hours and keeps her from dwelling too long on what she cannot control. Yet the poem also allows the cracks to show. A tear falls on her needlework, and her frustration is linked not only to fear but also to the limits placed on her. The poem recognizes that she wants to be part of the struggle, not just waiting for news. It doesn’t mock this desire or inflate it; it simply shows it as a natural reaction.
From there, the poem moves beyond the house. It shows a national build-up to war: the gathering crowds, the sound of drums, the march of soldiers, and the public determination to defend what they believe is under threat. This section is written with a strong sense of public voice. It takes seriously the collective mood—people convinced they must fight to protect their rights and way of life. The poem also spends time on the women who join the effort through the work available to them. These scenes of sewing and preparing supplies are presented without decoration. They’re practical tasks, done because they are needed. The poem seems interested in showing that the war involves a wide range of people, including those whose contributions stay in the background.
When July arrives, the focus tightens again toward Beechenbrook. The build-up to the Battle of Manassas is described through sound rather than sight. The distant cannon fire shakes the ground and pulls Alice out of her calm routine. Her children react in their own ways—one with romantic excitement, imagining ancient warriors; another with concern for their mother. These contrasts feel intentional. The boy’s enthusiasm shows how war can be misunderstood as something heroic and thrilling, especially by those too young to grasp its cost. His sister’s response returns the focus to the emotional reality inside the house.
Alice’s reaction is the most intense. She is struck by terror, but the poem treats that fear as understandable rather than weak. It even hints that time will change her response, suggesting that repeated exposure to war’s sounds will harden her. But in this moment, the shock is fresh, and the poem does not soften it.
The long night that follows is filled with imagined horrors. She cannot sleep, and the poem lists the sounds and sights she fears her husband is facing. These lines do not feel exaggerated; instead, they reflect how imagination can be worse than reality when someone you love is in danger. The contrast between the calm setting and her restless pacing reinforces how war reaches across distance and disturbs even the quietest spaces.
The next day brings unclear news carried by neighbors and travelers—rumors of victory and retreat mixed together. The poem does not pause to evaluate the accuracy of these reports, because that uncertainty is part of the experience. For a soldier’s family, information arrives through scattered fragments.
The final scene brings the emotional tension to its highest point. An ambulance stops at the gate, and the worst possibility rushes in at once. Alice’s fear and hope push her forward before she knows what she will find. The moment she embraces her husband and discovers he is alive is described simply. The intensity comes from the build-up, not from any dramatic wording. The relief is direct and physical. After all the imagined scenes of death and the long night of dread, his living presence is the only thing that matters.
Overall, Part II expands the poem’s world but keeps the emotional focus grounded in domestic life. It shows how war reshapes a home, from daily routines to family dynamics to the way sound carries meaning. It also shows how a community prepares for conflict, each person contributing in the way they can. What makes this section effective is how it balances the large public momentum toward battle with the private fear and strain that accompany it. The poem stays close to the people who endure the waiting, the worrying, and the sudden shocks that war delivers far from the front line.