Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/67

Rh Knowing this, that never yet Share of Truth was vainly set
 * In the world’s wide fallow;

After hands shall sow the seed, After hands from hill and mead
 * Reap the harvests yellow.

Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, Must the moral pioneer
 * From the Future borrow;

Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, And, on midnight’s sky of rain,
 * Paint the golden morrow!

and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away, O’er the camp of the invaders, o’er the Mexican array, Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they near? Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear.

“Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls; Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their souls!” Who is losing? who is winning? “Over hill and over plain, I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain rain.”

Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, look once more. “Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse, Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain course.”

Look forth once more, Ximena! “Ah! the smoke has rolled away; And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray. Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of Minon wheels; There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their heels.

“Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now advance! Right against the blazing cannon shivers Peubla’s charging lance! Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together fall; Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the Northern ball.”

Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on! Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost, and who has won? “Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together fall, O’er the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters, for them all!

“Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting. Blessed Mother, save my brain! I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain. Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and strive to rise; Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes!

“O my heart’s love! O my dear one! lay thy poor head on my knee; Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me? canst thou see? O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernal, look once more On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy! mercy! all is o’er!”

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest; Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast; Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said; To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid.

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay,