Jane Caroline Reed Copy Book: The Heart of the War by Josiah Gilbert Holland

Jane Caroline Reed

The Heart of the War

Peace in the clover-scented air,
And stars within the dome;

And underneath, in dim repose;

A plain, New-England home.

Within, a murmur of low tones

And sighs from hearts oppressed,

Merging in prayer, at last, that brings

The balm of silent rest.

I've closed a hard day's work, Marty,-

The evening chores are done;

And you are weary with the house,

And with the little one.

But he is sleeping sweetly now,

With all our pretty brood;

So come and sit upon my knee,

And it will do me good.

Oh, Marty! I must tell you all

The trouble in my heart,

And you must do the best you can

To take + bear your part.

You've seen the shadow on my face,

You've felt it day and night;

For it has filled our little home,

And banished all its light.

I did not mean it should be so, 

And yet I might have known

That hearts the live as close as ours

Can never keep their own.

But we are fallen on evil times,

And, do whate'er I may,

My heart grows sad about the war,

And sadder every day.

I think about it when I work,

And when I try to rest,

And never more than when your head

Is pillowed on my breast;

For then I see the camp-fired blaze,

And sleeping men around,

Who turn their faces toward their homes,

And dream upon the ground.

I think about the dear, brave boys,

My mates in other years,

Who pine for home and those they love,

Till I am choked with tears.

With shouts + sheers they march away

On glory's shining track,

But ah! low long, how long they stay!

How few of them come back!

One sleeps beside the Tennessee,

And one beside the James,

And one fought on a gallant ship

And perished in its flames.

And some, struck down by fell disease,

Are breathing out their life;

And others, maimed by cruel wounds,

Have left the deadly strife.

Ah, Marty! Marty!, only think

Of all the boys have done

And suffered in this weary war!

Brave heroes, every one!

Oh! often, often in the night,

I hear their voices call:

"Come on and help us! Is it right

That we should bear it all?"

And when I knell + try to pray,

My thoughts are never free,

But cling to those who toil + fight

And die for you and me.

And when I pray for victory,

It seems almost a sin

To fold my hands and ask for what

I will not help to win.

Oh! do not cling to me and cry,

For it will break my heart;

I'm sure you'd rather have me die

Than not to bear my part.

You think that some should stay at home

To care for those away;

But still I'm helpless to decide

If I should go or stay.

For, Marty, all the soldiers love,

And all are loved again;

And I am loved, and love, perhaps,

No more than other men.

I cannot tell, I do not know -

Which way my duty lies,

Or where the Lord would have me build

My fire of sacrifice.

I feel-I know-I am not mean;

And though I seem to boast,

I'm sure that I would give my life

To those who need it most.

Perhaps the Spirit will reveal

That which is fair + right;

So, Marty, let us humbly kneel

And pray to Heaven for light.

Peace in the clover-scented air,

And stars within the dome;

And understand, in dim repose,

A plain New England home.

Within, a widow in her weeds,

From whom all joy is flown,

Who kneels among her sleeping babes,

And weeps and prays alone!

                            J.G. Holland

Atlantic Monthly

Aug. 1864