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.