FAVOURITE POETRY: UNDER CANVAS

UNDER CANVAS
By Owen Meredith

Oh, is it a phantom ? a dream of the night ? 
A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight ? 
The wind, wailing ever, with motion uncertain 
Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tatter'd curtain 
To and fro, up and down...

But it is not the wind 
That is lifting it now ; and it is not the mind 
That hath moulded that vision. 

A pale woman enters. 
As wan as the lamp's waning light, which concentres 
Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmer. 
There, all in a slumb'rous and shadowy glimmer, 
The sufferer sees that still form floating on. 
And feels faintly aware that he is not alone. 

She is flitting before him. She pauses. She stands 
By his bedside all silent. She lays her white hands 
On the brow of the boy. A light finger is pressing 
Softly, softly, the sore wounds : the hot blood-stain'd dressing 
Slips from them. A comforting quietude steals 
Thro' the racked weary frame ; and throughout it he feels 
The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighborhood. 
Something smooths the toss'd pillow. Beneath a gray hood 
Of rough serge two intense tender eyes are bent o'er him, 
And thrill thro' and thro' him. The sweet form before him. 
It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil keeping ! 
A soft voice says, " Sleep !" 

And he sleeps : he is sleeping. 

He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there : 
Still that pale woman moves not. A minist'ring care 
Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering 
The aspect of all things around him. Revering 
Some power unknown and benignant, he bless'd 
In silence the sense of salvation. And rest 
Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly 
Sigh'd, " Say what thou art, blessed dream of a saintly 
And minist'ring spirit!" 

A whisper serene 
Slid softer than silence :' The Soeur Seraphine, 
A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire 
Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy sire. 

For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave. 
Thou didst not shun death : shun not life. 'Tis more brave 
To live than to die. Sleep !" 

He sleeps : he is sleeping. 

He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steeping 
The skies with chill splendor. And there, never flitting, 
Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting. 
As the dawn to the darkness, so life seem'd returning 
Slowly, feebly within him. The night-lamp, yet burning. 
Made ghastly the glimmering daybreak. 

He said: 
" If thou be of the living, and not of the dead, 
Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing 
Of that balmy voice ; if it may be, revealing 
Thy mission of mercy ! whence art thou ?" 

" O son  Of Matilda and Alfred, it matters not ! One 
Who is not of the living nor yet of the dead : 
To thee and to others alive yet," she said, 
" So long as there liveth the poor gift in me 
Of this ministration : to them and to thee 
Dead in all things beside. A French nun, whose vocation 
Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation. 
Wherever man suffers, or woman may soothe. 
There her land! there her kindred!" 

She bent down to smooth 
The hot pillow, and added : " Yet more than another 

Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy mother, 
I know them — I know them." 

" Oh, can it be ? you ! 
My dearest, dear father ! my mother ! you knew — 
You know them?" 

She bow'd, half averting her head, 
In silence. He brokenly, timidly said, 
"Do they know I am thus?" 

" Hush !" — she smiled as she drew 
From her bosom two letters ; and — can it be true ? 
That beloved and familiar writing! He burst 
Into tears : " My poor mother ! my father ! the worst 
Will have reached them!" 

" No, no !" she exclaim'd, with a smile, 
"They know you are living; they know that meanwhile 
I am watching beside you. Young soldier, weep not!" 
But still on the nun's nursing bosom the hot 
Fever'd brow of the boy weeping wildly is pressed. 
There, at last, the young heart sobs itself into rest ; 
And he hears, as it were between smiling and weeping, 
The calm voice say, " Sleep !" 

And he sleeps: he is sleeping.