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Dinah Maria Mulock - Looking Death In The face
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AY, in thy face, old fellow! Now`s the time. 
The Black Sea wind flaps my tent-roof, nor wakes 
These lads of mine, who take of sleep their fill, 
As if they thought they`d never sleep again, 
Instead of-- 
Pitiless Crimean blast, 
How many a howling lullaby thou`lt raise 
To-morrow night, all nights till the world`s end, 
Over some sleepers here! 
Some?--who? Dumb Fate 
Whispers in no man`s ear his coming doom; 
Each thinks--"not I--not I." 
But thou, grim Death, 
I hear thee on the night-wind flying abroad, 
I feel thee here, squatted at our tent-door, 
Invisible and incommunicable, 
Pointing: 
"Hurrah!" 
Why yell so in your sleep, 
Comrade? Did you see aught? 
Well--let him dream: 
Who knows, to-morrow such a shout as this 

He`ll die with. A brave lad, and very like 
His sister. 
* * * * * * 

So! just two hours have I lain 
Freezing. That pale white star, which came and peered 
Through the tent-opening, has passed on, to smile 
Elsewhere, or lost herself i` the dark,--God knows. 
Two hours nearer to dawn. The very hour, 
The very hour and day, a year ago, 
When we light-hearted and light-footed fools 
Went jingling idle swords in waltz and reel, 
And smiling in fair faces. How they`d start, 
Those dainty red ad white soft faces kind, 
If they could but behold my visage now, 
Or his--or his--o some poor faces cold 
We covered up with earth last noon. 
--There sits 
The laidly Thing I felt on our tent-door 
Two hours back. It has sat and never stirred. 
I cannot challenge it, or shoot it down, 
Or grapple with it, as with that young Russ 
Whom I killed yesterday. (What eyes he had!-- 
Great limpid eyes, and curling dark-red hair,-- 
A woman`s picture hidden in his breast,-- 
I never liked this fighting hand to hand.) 
No, it will not be met like flesh and blood, 
This shapeless, voiceless, immaterial Thing, 
Yet I will meet it. Here I sit alone,-- 
Show me thy face, O Death! 
There, there. I think 
I did not tremble. 
I am a young man; 
Have done full many an ill deed, left undone 
Many a good one: lived unto the flesh, 
Not to the spirit: I would rather live 
A few years more, and try if things might change. 
Yet, yet I hope I do not tremble, Death; 
And that thy finger pointed at my heart 
But calms the tumult there. 
What small account 
The All-living seems to take of this thin flame 
Which we call life. He sends a moment`s blast 
Out of war`s nostrils, and a myriad 
Of these our puny tapers are blown out 
Forever. Yet we shrink not,--we, such frail 
Poor knaves, whom a spent ball can instant strike 
Into eternity,--we helpless fools, 
Whom a serf`s clumsy hand and clumsier sword 
Smiting--shall sudden into nothingness 
Let out that something rare which could conceive 
A universe and its God. 
Free, open-eyed, 
We rush like bridegrooms to Death`s grisly arms: 
Surely the very longing for that clasp 
Proves us immortal. Immortality 
Alone could teach this mortal how to die. 
Perhaps, war is but Heaven`s great ploughshare, driven 
Over the barren, fallow earthly fields, 
Preparing them for harvest; rooting up 
Grass, weeds, and flowers, which necessary fall, 
That in these furrows the wise Husbandman 
May drop celestial seed. 
So let us die; 
Yield up our little lives, as the flowers do; 
Believing He`ll not lose one single soul,-- 
One germ of His immortal. Naught of His 
Or Him can perish; therefore let us die. 

I half remember, something like to this 
She says in her dear letters. So--let us die. 
What, dawn? The faint hum in the trenches fails. 
Is that a bell i` the mist? My faith, they go 
Early to matins in Sebastopol!-- 
A gun!--Lads, stand to your arms; the Russ is here. 
Agnes. 
Kind Heaven, I have looked Death in the face, 
Help me to die.
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