Margaret Junkin Preston
III.
Ye, who by the couches of languishing ones,
Have watched through the rising and setting of suns,–
Who, silent, behind the close curtain, withdrawn,
Scarce know that the current of being sweeps on,–
To whom outer life is unreal, untrue,
A world with whose moils ye have nothing to do;
Who feel that the day, with its multiform rounds,
Is full of discordant, impertinent sounds,–
Who speak in low whispers, and stealthily tread,
As if a faint footfall were something to dread,–
Who find all existence,–its gladness, its gloom,–
Enclosed by the walls of that limited room,–
Ye only can measure the sleepless unrest
That lies like a night-mare on Alice’s breast.
Days come and days go, and she watches the strife
So evenly balanced, ‘twixt death and ‘twixt life;
Thanks God he still breathes, as each evening takes wing,
And dares not to think what the morrow may bring.
In the lone, ghostly midnight, he raves as he lies,
With death’s ashen pallidness dimming his eyes:
He shouts the sharp war-cry,–he rallies his men,–
He is on the red field of Manassas again.
“Now, courage, my comrades! Keep steady! lie low!
Wait, like the couch’d lion, to spring on your foe:
Ye’ll face without flinching the cannons’ grim mouth,
For ye’re ‘Knights of the Horse-Shoe’–ye’re Sons of the South!
There’s Jackson!–how brave he rides! coursing at will,
Midst the prostrated lines on the crest of the hill;
God keep him! for what will we do if he falls?
Be ready, good fellows!–be cool when he calls
To the charge: Oh! we’ll beat them,–we’ll turn them,–and then
We’ll ride them down madly!–On! Onward! my men!”
The feverish frenzy o’erwearies him soon,
And back on his pillows he sinks in a swoon.
And sometimes, when Alice is wetting his lip,
He turns from the draught, and refuses to sip:
–“‘Tis sweet, pretty angel!–but yonder there lies
A famishing comrade, with death in his eyes:
His need is far greater,… Sir Philip, I think,–
Or was it Sir Philip?… go, go!–let him drink!”
And oft, with a sort of bewildered amaze,
On her face he would fasten the wistfullest gaze:
–“You are kind, but a hospital nurse cannot be
Like Alice,–my tenderest Alice,–to me.
Oh! I know there’s at Beechenbrook, many a tear,
As she asks all the day,–‘Will he never be here?'”
But Nature, kind healer! brings sovereignest balm,
And strokes the wild pulses with coolness and calm;
The conflict so equal, so stubborn, is past,
And life gains the hardly-won battle at last.
How sweet through the long convalescence to lie,
And from the low window, gaze out at the sky,
And float, as the zephyrs so tranquilly do,
Aloft in the depths of ineffable blue:–
In painless, delicious half consciousness brood,–
No duties to cumber, no claims to intrude,–
Receptive as childhood, from trouble as free,
And feel it is bliss enough simply, to be!
For Alice,–what pencil can picture her joy,–
So perfect, so thankful, so free from annoy,
As her lips press the lotus-bound chalice, and drain
That exquisite blessedness born out of pain!
Oh! not in her maidenhood, blushing and sweet,
When Douglass first poured out his love at her feet;
And not when a shrinking and beautiful bride,
With worshipping fondness she clung to his side;
And not in those holiest moments of life,
When first she was held to his heart, as his wife;
And never in motherhood’s earliest bliss,
Had she tasted a happiness rounded like this!
And Douglass, safe sheltered from war’s rude alarms,
Finds Eden’s lost precincts again in her arms:
He hears afar off, in the distance, the roar
And the lash of the billows that break on the shore
Of his isle of enchantment,–his haven of rest,–
And rapturous languor steals over his breast.
He bathes in the sunlight of Alice’s smiles;
He wraps himself round with love’s magical wiles:
His sweet iterations pall not on her ear,–
“_I love you–I love you!_”–she never can hear
That cadence too often; its musical roll
Wakes ever an echoed reply in her soul.
–Do visions of trial, of warning, of woe,
Loom dark in the future of doubt? Do they know
They are hiving, of honied remembrance, a store
To live on, when summer and sunshine are o’er?
Do they feel that their island of beauty at last
Must be rent by the tempest,–be swept by the blast?
Do they dream that afar, on the wild, wintry main,
Their love-freighted bark must be driven again?
–Bless God for the wisdom that curtains so tight
To-morrow’s enjoyments or griefs from our sight!
Bless God for the ignorance, darkness and doubt,
That girdle so kindly our future about!
The crutches are brought, and the invalid’s strength
Is able to measure the lawn’s gravel’d length;
And under the beeches, once more he reclines,
And hears the wind plaintively moan through the pines;
His children around him, with frolic and play,
Cheat autumn’s mild listlessness out of the day;
And Alice, the sunshine all flecking her book,
Reads low to the chime of the murmuring brook.
But the world’s rushing tide washes up to his feet,
And leaps the soft barriers that bound his retreat;
The tumult of camps surges out on the breeze,
And ever seems mocking his Capuan ease.
He dare not be happy, or tranquil, or blest,
While his soil by the feet of invaders is prest:
What brooks it though still he be pale as a ghost?
–If he languish or fail, let him fail at his post.
The gums by the brook-side are crimson and brown;
The leaves of the ash flicker goldenly down;
The roses that trellis the porches, have lost
Their brightness and bloom at the touch of the frost;
The ozier-twined seat by the beeches, no more
Looks tempting, and cheerful, and sweet, as of yore;
The water glides darkly and mournfully on,
As Alice sits watching it:–Douglass has gone!
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
Part III narrows the poem’s world to a sickroom and treats that space as its own kind of battlefield. The earlier sections focused on parting and waiting; this one follows the long stretch of uncertainty after Douglass is brought home wounded. The opening lines address readers who have spent time caring for someone seriously ill. This direct appeal is not for sentiment but for recognition. It points out how a sickroom can feel sealed off from the world, with daily life shrinking to a single bed, a quiet hallway, and the slow rise and fall of breath. Everything outside feels distant or almost irrelevant. The poem uses this shared experience to anchor Alice’s fear in something ordinary and familiar, instead of making it dramatic.
Douglass’s illness is described as a prolonged struggle, with each day hanging between life and death. Nothing sudden happens; the tension comes from repetition. Alice counts breaths, evenings, and little signs of change, never daring to look ahead. The poem doesn’t try to make her fear noble or poetic. It just shows how exhausting it is to sit with uncertainty day after day.
The scenes of Douglass raving in fever shift the tone. His mind slides back into battle, and the sickroom becomes the field at Manassas. His delirious speech mixes commands, memories, and half-formed thoughts. This section shows how war follows a soldier home even when the body is far from the fighting. The poem keeps the emphasis on the physical symptoms—ashen skin, shouts, exhaustion—rather than turning his delirium into a symbolic vision. His hallucinations also reveal the values he lives by: loyalty, courage, and the responsibility he feels for his men. Even in confusion, he thinks first about comrades and officers. Alice is brought into these fever episodes in a way that blurs her role; sometimes he speaks to her as if she were a field nurse, sometimes he recognizes her fully, and sometimes he confuses her with someone else. These moments show how illness strips away the usual boundaries between roles and identities.
When Douglass refuses a drink because he imagines another dying soldier needs it more, the poem shows how habit and duty become instinctive. There is no commentary on whether this is admirable or tragic; it is simply part of how deeply the war has shaped him. When he speaks of Alice as if she were far away, his words show how sharply she has felt his absence, even though he lies in the bed before her. His fever creates a gap she can’t close, and the poem lets that frustration sit quietly in the background.
The poem then turns toward recovery. Instead of a dramatic turning point, it describes improvement as something slow and natural, almost like the body remembering its own rhythms. The language stays simple: nature cools the pulse, calm returns, and the crisis passes. The convalescence scenes emphasize rest, quiet, and the relief of not having responsibilities for a while. Douglass lies by the window, watches the sky, and lets the days pass without urgency. The poem suggests that this kind of stillness is rare for someone shaped by military life, and it treats the rest as its own kind of gift.
Alice’s joy in his recovery is described more directly. The poem insists that no earlier moment in her life—courtship, marriage, motherhood—matches this sense of relief. This isn’t framed as sentimentality; it’s simply an acknowledgment that surviving danger produces a different kind of gratitude than any peaceful milestone. Her happiness is grounded in the fact that she nearly lost him and did not.
The middle section of Part III portrays a brief return to domestic safety. Douglass enjoys the comfort of family, sunlight, and attention. The poem shows this period as a temporary haven. It doesn’t suggest that war has disappeared; instead, it notes how the sounds and signs of conflict reach even into this sheltered place. The couple’s happiness feels real but temporary, and the poem raises the question of whether they sense what is coming. It does not answer that question but leaves it hovering over their moments of peace.
As Douglass gains strength, he returns to the outdoors with crutches, slowly walking across the lawn. These scenes aim to show normal life settling back around him—children playing, Alice reading, the quiet of autumn. But the poem is careful not to leave him there. The wider world pushes in, and Douglass feels it. He cannot enjoy comfort without a sense of guilt, because he knows the war continues. The poem makes clear that his identity is tied to duty, not rest. This isn’t framed as heroism. It’s presented as a fact of his character and the expectations of his time.
By the final lines, the peaceful household has changed again. Autumn has stripped color from the landscape, and the imagery is subdued—dark water, frosted roses, fading leaves. The scene matches Alice’s mood. Douglass has left home once more, choosing the battlefield over convalescence. The poem closes without describing his departure; it simply shows the empty spaces he has left behind. The shift from summer brightness to late-autumn bleakness echoes the emotional turn. What was briefly a refuge has become a place of waiting again.
Overall, Part III shows the aftermath of battle not as a dramatic recovery narrative but as a slow, uneven process, full of fear, temporary joy, and the pull of duty. It stays focused on the small details that define life around illness and healing, and it shows how war continues to shape a family even in moments that appear peaceful.