Margaret Junkin Preston
X.
“Break, my heart, and ease this pain–
Cease to throb, thou tortured brain;
Let me die,–since he is slain,
–Slain in battle!
Blessed brow, that loved to rest
Its dear whiteness on my breast–
Gory was the grass it prest,
–Slain in battle!
Oh! that still and stately form–
Never more will it be warm;
Chilled beneath that iron storm,
–Slain in battle!
Not a pillow for his head–
Not a hand to smooth his bed–
Not one tender parting said,
–Slain in battle!
Straightway from that bloody sod,
Where the trampling horsemen trod–
Lifted to the arms of God;
–Slain in battle!
Not my love to come between,
With its interposing screen–
Naught of earth to intervene;
–Slain in battle!
Snatched the purple billows o’er,
Through the fiendish rage and roar,
To the far and peaceful shore;
–Slain in battle!
_Nunc demitte_–thus I pray–
What else left for me to say,
Since my life is reft away?
–Slain in battle!
Let me die, oh! God!–the dart
Rankles deep within my heart,–
Hope, and joy, and peace, depart;
–Slain in battle!”
‘Tis thus through her days and her nights of despair,
Her months of bereavement so bitter to bear,
That Alice moans ever. Ah! little they know,
Who look on that brow, still and white as the snow,
Who watch–but in vain–for the sigh or the tear,
That only comes thick when no mortal is near,–
Who whisper–“How gently she bends to the rod!”
Because all her heart-break is kept for her God,–
Ah! little _they_ know of the tempests that roll
Their desolate floods through the depths of her soul!
Afar in our sunshiny homes on the shore,
We heed not how wildly the billows may roar;
We smile at our firesides, happy and free,
While the rich-freighted argosy founders at sea!
Though wrapped in the weeds of her widowhood, pale,–
Though life seems all sunless and dim through the veil
That drearily shadows her sorrowful brow,–
Is the cause of her country less dear to her now?
Does the patriot-flame in her heart cease to stir,–
Does she feel that the conflict is over for her?
Because the red war-tide has deluged her o’er,–
Has wreaked its wild wrath, and can harm _her_ no more,–
Does she stand, self-absorbed, on the wreck she has braved,
Nor care if her country be lost or be saved?
By her pride in the soil that has given her birth–
By her tenderest memories garnered on earth–
By the legacy blood-bought and precious, which she
Would leave to her children–the right to be free,–
By the altar where once rose the hymn and the prayer;
By the home that lies scarred in its solitude there,–
By the pangs she has suffered,–the ills she has borne,–
By the desolate exile through which she must mourn,–
By the struggles that hallow this fair Southern sod,
By the vows she has breathed in the ear of her God,–
By the blood of the heart that she worshipped,–the life
That enfolded her own; by her love, as his wife;
By his death on the battle-field, gallantly brave,–
By the shadow that ever will wrap her–his grave–
By the faith she reposes, oh! Father! in Thee,
She claims that her glorious South MUST be free!
© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes
You may find this and other poems here.
Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem pushes deeper into the emotional cost of war by shifting between battlefield violence and the private collapse happening far from the fighting. It shows how disaster piles up faster than anyone can process it, and how people keep enduring even when they feel they have reached the point where endurance should be impossible. The first lines make that clear: there is no moment of dramatic triumph, just the unsettling discovery that people can absorb more pain than they thought they could. This idea sets the mood for everything that follows.
The poem moves from large-scale devastation to a specific family’s crisis without changing its tone. The battle scenes are not detailed for excitement; they come across as relentless and mechanical. Reinforcements, charges, bloodied rivers—these are presented without embellishment. The mention of Lee is framed not as hero worship but as a way to explain why soldiers keep moving forward despite the cost. It helps establish the atmosphere of a conflict that is eating through everything and everyone.
The shift to Alice’s story is quiet but jarring. Her anxiety feels heavy and physical, and the poem shows how war rearranges daily life even in peaceful settings. She tries every ordinary distraction—nature, books, her children—and none of it helps. This makes the coming news feel inevitable. The poem does not pretend she has any real control over her fear.
When the messenger arrives, the pacing slows down sharply. The simple detail of her being unable to open the letter does more to show her state of mind than any dramatic description would. The boy, Beverly, becomes a stabilizing figure not because he is unusually brave but because someone has to hold the situation together. His calm is the kind that comes from necessity, not confidence.
The letter itself uses the detached tone of a military report, which makes the news about Douglass more painful. The battle is described as another brutal clash, and his wounding comes in the middle of the action, not as a heroic set piece. His final request—wanting to see his wife—cuts through the formality of the message. That single line grounds the whole poem in human need rather than patriotic sacrifice.
Alice’s reaction afterward is handled with restraint. Instead of dramatizing her grief, the poem shows the numbness that often follows shock. Her journey to the field hospital feels dreamlike because she has no energy left to process anything. The image of the blanket on the hospital floor replaces all other thoughts. This is one of the strongest choices in the poem; it uses repetition rather than emotional exaggeration.
The final scene is stark. There is no buildup, no last words, no consolation. The poem ends the way many wartime stories do in reality—with a body that is already still and a person who arrives too late. The sudden break in Alice’s composure is the first uncontrolled emotion in the entire sequence, which makes it more effective than any dramatic lament.
Overall, the poem captures the way war erodes people slowly, not just through violence but through the long hours of waiting, worrying, and imagining the worst. It ties the battlefield and the home front together by showing how both spaces generate their own forms of suffering. There is no attempt to soften the outcome, and the restrained approach makes the poem more direct and believable than if it leaned on dramatic flourishes.