(1864)There is peace in the swamp where the Copperhead sleeps,Where the waters are stagnant, the white vapor creeps,Where the musk of Magnolia hangs thick in the air,And the lilies' phylacteries broaden in prayer.There is peace in the swamp, though the quiet is death,Though the mist is miasma, the upas-tree's breath,Though no echo awakes to the cooing of doves,—There is peace: yes, the peace that the Copperhead loves.Go seek him: he coils in the ooze and the drip,Like a thong idly flung from the slave-driver's whip;But beware the false footstep,—the stumble that bringsA deadlier lash than the overseer swings.Never arrow so true, never bullet so dread,As the straight steady stroke of that hammer-shaped head;Whether slave or proud planter, who braves that dull crest,Woe to him who shall trouble the Copperhead's rest!Then why waste your labors, brave hearts and strong men,In tracking a trail to the Copperhead's den?Lay your axe to the cypress, hew open the shadeTo the free sky and sunshine Jehovah has made;Let the breeze of the North sweep the vapors away,Till the stagnant lake ripples, the freed waters play;And then to your heel can you righteously doomThe Copperhead born of its shadow and gloom!
Last night, above the whistling wind,I heard the welcome rain,—A fusillade upon the roof,A tattoo on the pane:The keyhole piped; the chimney-topA warlike trumpet blew;Yet, mingling with these sounds of strife,A softer voice stole through."Give thanks, O brothers!" said the voice,"That He who sent the rainsHath spared your fields the scarlet dewThat drips from patriot veins:I've seen the grass on Eastern gravesIn brighter verdure rise;But, oh! the rain that gave it lifeSprang first from human eyes."I come to wash away no stainUpon your wasted lea;I raise no banners, save the onesThe forest waves to me:Upon the mountain side, where SpringHer farthest picket sets,My reveille awakes a hostOf grassy bayonets."I visit every humble roof;I mingle with the low:Only upon the highest peaksMy blessings fall in snow;Until, in tricklings of the streamAnd drainings of the lea,My unspent bounty comes at lastTo mingle with the sea."And thus all night, above the wind,I heard the welcome rain,—A fusillade upon the roof,A tattoo on the pane:The keyhole piped; the chimney-topA warlike trumpet blew;But, mingling with these sounds of strife,This hymn of peace stole through.
(RE-UNION, ARMY OF THE POTOMAC, 12TH MAY, 1871)Well, you see, the fact is, Colonel, I don't know as I can come:For the farm is not half planted, and there's work to do at home;And my leg is getting troublesome,—it laid me up last fall,—And the doctors, they have cut and hacked, and never found the ball.And then, for an old man like me, it's not exactly right,This kind o' playing soldier with no enemy in sight."The Union,"—that was well enough way up to '66;But this "Re-Union," maybe now it's mixed with politics?No? Well, you understand it best; but then, you see, my lad,I'm deacon now, and some might think that the example's bad.And week from next is Conference.... You said the twelfth of May?Why, that's the day we broke their line at Spottsylvan-i-a!Hot work; eh, Colonel, wasn't it? Ye mind that narrow front:They called it the "Death-Angle"! Well, well, my lad, we won'tFight that old battle over now: I only meant to sayI really can't engage to come upon the twelfth of May.How's Thompson? What! will he be there? Well, now I want to know!The first man in the rebel works! they called him "Swearing Joe."A wild young fellow, sir, I fear the rascal was; but then—Well, short of heaven, there wa'n't a place he dursn't lead his men.And Dick, you say, is coming too. And Billy? ah! it's trueWe buried him at Gettysburg: I mind the spot; do you?A little field below the hill,—it must be green this May;Perhaps that's why the fields about bring him to me to-day.Well, well, excuse me, Colonel! but there are some things that dropThe tail-board out one's feelings; and the only way's to stop.So they want to see the old man; ah, the rascals! do they, eh?Well, I've business down in Boston about the twelfth of May.
(1869)We know him well: no need of praiseOr bonfire from the windy hillTo light to softer paths and waysThe world-worn man we honor still.No need to quote the truths he spokeThat burned through years of war and shame,While History carves with surer strokeAcross our map his noonday fame.No need to bid him show the scarsOf blows dealt by the Scaean gate,Who lived to pass its shattered bars,And see the foe capitulate:Who lived to turn his slower feetToward the western setting sun,To see his harvest all complete,His dream fulfilled, his duty done,The one flag streaming from the pole,The one faith borne from sea to sea:For such a triumph, and such goal,Poor must our human greeting be.Ah! rather that the conscious landIn simpler ways salute the Man,—The tall pines bowing where they stand,The bared head of El Capitan!The tumult of the waterfalls,Pohono's kerchief in the breeze,The waving from the rocky walls,The stir and rustle of the trees;Till, lapped in sunset skies of hope,In sunset lands by sunset seas,The Young World's Premier treads the slopeOf sunset years in calm and peace.
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR"I was with Grant"—the stranger said;Said the farmer, "Say no more,But rest thee here at my cottage porch,For thy feet are weary and sore.""I was with Grant"—the stranger said;Said the farmer, "Nay, no more,—I prithee sit at my frugal board,And eat of my humble store."How fares my boy,—my soldier boy,Of the old Ninth Army Corps?I warrant he bore him gallantlyIn the smoke and the battle's roar!""I know him not," said the aged man,"And, as I remarked before,I was with Grant"— "Nay, nay, I know,"Said the farmer, "say no more:"He fell in battle,—I see, alas!Thou'dst smooth these tidings o'er,—Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be,Though it rend my bosom's core."How fell he? With his face to the foe,Upholding the flag he bore?Oh, say not that my boy disgracedThe uniform that he wore!""I cannot tell," said the aged man,"And should have remarked before.That I was with Grant,—in Illinois,—Some three years before the war."Then the farmer spake him never a word,But beat with his fist full soreThat aged man who had worked for GrantSome three years before the war.
(WAR OF THE REBELLION, 1884)No, I won't,—thar, now, so! And it ain't nothin',—no!And thar's nary to tell that you folks yer don't know;And it's "Belle, tell us, do!" and it's "Belle, is it true?"And "Wot's this yer yarn of the Major and you?"Till I'm sick of it all,—so I am, but I s'poseThet is nothin' to you.... Well, then, listen! yer goes!It was after the fight, and around us all nightThar was poppin' and shootin' a powerful sight;And the niggers had fled, and Aunt Chlo was abed,And Pinky and Milly were hid in the shed:And I ran out at daybreak, and nothin' was nighBut the growlin' of cannon low down in the sky.And I saw not a thing, as I ran to the spring,But a splintered fence rail and a broken-down swing,And a bird said "Kerchee!" as it sat on a tree,As if it was lonesome, and glad to see me;And I filled up my pail and was risin' to go,When up comes the Major a-canterin' slow.When he saw me he drew in his reins, and then threwOn the gate-post his bridle, and—what does he doBut come down where I sat; and he lifted his hat,And he says—well, thar ain't any need to tell THAT;'Twas some foolishness, sure, but it 'mounted to this,Thet he asked for a drink, and he wanted—a kiss.Then I said (I was mad), "For the water, my lad,You're too big and must stoop; for a kiss, it's as bad,—You ain't near big enough." And I turned in a huff,When that Major he laid his white hand on my cuff,And he says, "You're a trump! Take my pistol, don't fear!But shoot the next man that insults you, my dear."Then he stooped to the pool, very quiet and cool,Leavin' me with that pistol stuck there like a fool,When thar flashed on my sight a quick glimmer of lightFrom the top of the little stone fence on the right,And I knew 'twas a rifle, and back of it allRose the face of that bushwhacker, Cherokee Hall!Then I felt in my dread that the moment the headOf the Major was lifted, the Major was dead;And I stood still and white, but Lord! gals, in spiteOf my care, that derned pistol went off in my fright!Went off—true as gospil!—and, strangest of all,It actooally injured that Cherokee Hall!Thet's all—now, go 'long! Yes, some folks thinks it's wrong,And thar's some wants to know to what side I belong;But I says, "Served him right!" and I go, all my might,In love or in war, for a fair stand-up fight;And as for the Major—sho! gals, don't you knowThet—Lord! thar's his step in the garden below.
(NEW JERSEY, 1780)Here's the spot. Look around you. Above on the heightLay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the rightStood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall,—You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball.Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow,Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.Nothing more, did I say? Stay one moment: you've heardOf Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the wordDown at Springfield? What, no? Come—that's bad; why, he hadAll the Jerseys aflame! And they gave him the nameOf the "rebel high priest." He stuck in their gorge,For he loved the Lord God—and he hated King George!He had cause, you might say! When the Hessians that dayMarched up with Knyphausen, they stopped on their wayAt the "farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms,Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knewBut God—and that one of the hireling crewWho fired the shot! Enough!—there she lay,And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away!Did he preach—did he pray? Think of him as you standBy the old church to-day,—think of him and his bandOf militant ploughboys! See the smoke and the heatOf that reckless advance, of that straggling retreat!Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view—And what could you, what should you, what would YOU do?Why, just what HE did! They were left in the lurchFor the want of more wadding. He ran to the church,Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the roadWith his arms full of hymn-books, and threw down his loadAt their feet! Then above all the shouting and shotsRang his voice: "Put Watts into 'em! Boys, give 'em Watts!"And they did. That is all. Grasses spring, flowers blow,Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball—But not always a hero like this—and that's all.
DELIVERED ON THE FOURTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF CALIFORNIA'S ADMISSIONINTO THE UNION, SEPTEMBER 9, 1864We meet in peace, though from our native EastThe sun that sparkles on our birthday feastGlanced as he rose on fields whose dews were redWith darker tints than those Aurora spread.Though shorn his rays, his welcome disk concealedIn the dim smoke that veiled each battlefield,Still striving upward, in meridian pride,He climbed the walls that East and West divide,—Saw his bright face flashed back from golden sand,And sapphire seas that lave the Western land.Strange was the contrast that such scenes discloseFrom his high vantage o'er eternal snows;There War's alarm the brazen trumpet rings—Here his love-song the mailed cicala sings;There bayonets glitter through the forest glades—Here yellow cornfields stack their peaceful blades;There the deep trench where Valor finds a grave—Here the long ditch that curbs the peaceful wave;There the bold sapper with his lighted train—Here the dark tunnel and its stores of gain;Here the full harvest and the wain's advance—There the Grim Reaper and the ambulance.With scenes so adverse, what mysterious bondLinks our fair fortunes to the shores beyond?Why come we here—last of a scattered fold—To pour new metal in the broken mould?To yield our tribute, stamped with Caesar's face,To Caesar, stricken in the market-place?Ah! love of country is the secret tieThat joins these contrasts 'neath one arching sky;Though brighter paths our peaceful steps explore,We meet together at the Nation's door.War winds her horn, and giant cliffs go downLike the high walls that girt the sacred town,And bares the pathway to her throbbing heart,From clustered village and from crowded mart.Part of God's providence it was to foundA Nation's bulwark on this chosen ground;Not Jesuit's zeal nor pioneer's unrestPlanted these pickets in the distant West,But He who first the Nation's fate forecastPlaced here His fountains sealed for ages past,Rock-ribbed and guarded till the coming timeShould fit the people for their work sublime;When a new Moses with his rod of steelSmote the tall cliffs with one wide-ringing peal,And the old miracle in record toldTo the new Nation was revealed in gold.Judge not too idly that our toils are mean,Though no new levies marshal on our green;Nor deem too rashly that our gains are small,Weighed with the prizes for which heroes fall.See, where thick vapor wreathes the battle-line;There Mercy follows with her oil and wine;Or where brown Labor with its peaceful charmStiffens the sinews of the Nation's arm.What nerves its hands to strike a deadlier blowAnd hurl its legions on the rebel foe?Lo! for each town new rising o'er our StateSee the foe's hamlet waste and desolate,While each new factory lifts its chimney tall,Like a fresh mortar trained on Richmond's wall.For this, O brothers, swings the fruitful vine,Spread our broad pastures with their countless kine:For this o'erhead the arching vault springs clear,Sunlit and cloudless for one half the year;For this no snowflake, e'er so lightly pressed,Chills the warm impulse of our mother's breast.Quick to reply, from meadows brown and sere,She thrills responsive to Spring's earliest tear;Breaks into blossom, flings her loveliest roseEre the white crocus mounts Atlantic snows;And the example of her liberal creedTeaches the lesson that to-day we heed.Thus ours the lot with peaceful, generous handTo spread our bounty o'er the suffering land;As the deep cleft in Mariposa's wallHurls a vast river splintering in its fall,—Though the rapt soul who stands in awe belowSees but the arching of the promised bow,Lo! the far streamlet drinks its dews unseen,And the whole valley wakes a brighter green.
And you are the poet, and so you wantSomething—what is it?—a theme, a fancy?Something or other the Muse won't grantTo your old poetical necromancy;Why, one half you poets—you can't deny—Don't know the Muse when you chance to meet her,But sit in your attics and mope and sighFor a faineant goddess to drop from the sky,When flesh and blood may be standing byQuite at your service, should you but greet her.What if I told you my own romance?Women are poets, if you so take them,One third poet,—the rest what chanceOf man and marriage may choose to make them.Give me ten minutes before you go,—Here at the window we'll sit together,Watching the currents that ebb and flow;Watching the world as it drifts belowUp the hot Avenue's dusty glow:Isn't it pleasant, this bright June weather?Well, it was after the war broke out,And I was a schoolgirl fresh from Paris;Papa had contracts, and roamed about,And I—did nothing—for I was an heiress.Picked some lint, now I think; perhapsKnitted some stockings—a dozen nearly:Havelocks made for the soldiers' caps;Stood at fair-tables and peddled trapsQuite at a profit. The "shoulder-straps"Thought I was pretty. Ah, thank you! really?Still it was stupid. Rata-tat-tat!Those were the sounds of that battle summer,Till the earth seemed a parchment round and flat,And every footfall the tap of a drummer;And day by day down the Avenue wentCavalry, infantry, all together,Till my pitying angel one day sentMy fate in the shape of a regiment,That halted, just as the day was spent,Here at our door in the bright June weather.None of your dandy warriors they,—Men from the West, but where I know not;Haggard and travel-stained, worn and gray,With never a ribbon or lace or bow-knot:And I opened the window, and, leaning there,I felt in their presence the free winds blowing.My neck and shoulders and arms were bare,—I did not dream they might think me fair,But I had some flowers that night in my hair,And here, on my bosom, a red rose glowing.And I looked from the window along the line,Dusty and dirty and grim and solemn,Till an eye like a bayonet flash met mine,And a dark face shone from the darkening column,And a quick flame leaped to my eyes and hair,Till cheeks and shoulders burned all together,And the next I found myself standing thereWith my eyelids wet and my cheeks less fair,And the rose from my bosom tossed high in air,Like a blood-drop falling on plume and feather.Then I drew back quickly: there came a cheer,A rush of figures, a noise and tussle,And then it was over, and high and clearMy red rose bloomed on his gun's black muzzle.Then far in the darkness a sharp voice cried,And slowly and steadily, all together,Shoulder to shoulder and side to side,Rising and falling and swaying wide,But bearing above them the rose, my pride,They marched away in the twilight weather.And I leaned from my window and watched my roseTossed on the waves of the surging column,Warmed from above in the sunset glows,Borne from below by an impulse solemn.Then I shut the window. I heard no moreOf my soldier friend, nor my flower neither,But lived my life as I did before.I did not go as a nurse to the war,—Sick folks to me are a dreadful bore,—So I didn't go to the hospital either.You smile, O poet, and what do you?You lean from your window, and watch life's columnTrampling and struggling through dust and dew,Filled with its purposes grave and solemn;And an act, a gesture, a face—who knows?—Touches your fancy to thrill and haunt you,And you pluck from your bosom the verse that growsAnd down it flies like my red, red rose,And you sit and dream as away it goes,And think that your duty is done,—now don't you?I know your answer. I'm not yet through.Look at this photograph,—"In the Trenches"!That dead man in the coat of blueHolds a withered rose in his hand. That clenchesNothing!—except that the sun paints true,And a woman is sometimes prophetic-minded.And that's my romance. And, poet, youTake it and mould it to suit your view;And who knows but you may find it tooCome to your heart once more, as mine did.
Where the short-legged EsquimauxWaddle in the ice and snow,And the playful Polar bearNips the hunter unaware;Where by day they track the ermine,And by night another vermin,—Segment of the frigid zone,Where the temperature aloneWarms on St. Elias' cone;Polar dock, where Nature slipsFrom the ways her icy ships;Land of fox and deer and sable,Shore end of our western cable,—Let the news that flying goesThrill through all your Arctic floes,And reverberate the boastFrom the cliffs off Beechey's coast,Till the tidings, circling roundEvery bay of Norton Sound,Throw the vocal tide-wave backTo the isles of Kodiac.Let the stately Polar bearsWaltz around the pole in pairs,And the walrus, in his glee,Bare his tusk of ivory;While the bold sea-unicornCalmly takes an extra horn;All ye Polar skies, reveal yourVery rarest of parhelia;Trip it, all ye merry dancers,In the airiest of "Lancers;"Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide,One inch farther to the tide,Nor in rash precipitationUpset Tyndall's calculation.Know you not what fate awaits you,Or to whom the future mates you?All ye icebergs, make salaam,—You belong to Uncle Sam!On the spot where Eugene SueLed his wretched Wandering Jew,Stands a form whose features strikeRuss and Esquimaux alike.He it is whom Skalds of oldIn their Runic rhymes foretold;Lean of flank and lank of jaw,See the real Northern Thor!See the awful Yankee leeringJust across the Straits of Behring;On the drifted snow, too plain,Sinks his fresh tobacco stain,Just beside the deep inden-Tation of his Number 10.Leaning on his icy hammerStands the hero of this drama,And above the wild-duck's clamor,In his own peculiar grammar,With its linguistic disguises,La! the Arctic prologue rises:"Wall, I reckon 'tain't so bad,Seein' ez 'twas all they had.True, the Springs are rather late,And early Falls predominate;But the ice-crop's pretty sure,And the air is kind o' pure;'Tain't so very mean a trade,When the land is all surveyed.There's a right smart chance for fur-chaseAll along this recent purchase,And, unless the stories fail,Every fish from cod to whale;Rocks, too; mebbe quartz; let's see,—'Twould be strange if there should be,—Seems I've heerd such stories told;Eh!—why, bless us,—yes, it's gold!"While the blows are falling thickFrom his California pick,You may recognize the ThorOf the vision that I saw,—Freed from legendary glamour,See the real magician's hammer.
(A GEOGRAPHICAL SURVEY, 1868)Very fair and full of promiseLay the island of St. Thomas:Ocean o'er its reefs and barsHid its elemental scars;Groves of cocoanut and guavaGrew above its fields of lava.So the gem of the Antilles—"Isles of Eden," where no ill is—Like a great green turtle slumberedOn the sea that it encumbered.Then said William Henry Seward,As he cast his eye to leeward,"Quite important to our commerceIs this island of St. Thomas."Said the Mountain ranges, "Thank'ee,But we cannot stand the YankeeO'er our scars and fissures poring,In our very vitals boring,In our sacred caverns prying,All our secret problems trying,—Digging, blasting, with dynamitMocking all our thunders! Damn it!Other lands may be more civil;Bust our lava crust if we will!"Said the Sea, its white teeth gnashingThrough its coral-reef lips flashing,"Shall I let this scheming mortalShut with stone my shining portal,Curb my tide and check my play,Fence with wharves my shining bay?Rather let me be drawn outIn one awful waterspout!"Said the black-browed Hurricane,Brooding down the Spanish Main,"Shall I see my forces, zounds!Measured by square inch and pounds,With detectives at my backWhen I double on my track,And my secret paths made clear,Published o'er the hemisphereTo each gaping, prying crew?Shall I? Blow me if I do!"So the Mountains shook and thundered,And the Hurricane came sweeping,And the people stared and wonderedAs the Sea came on them leaping:Each, according to his promise,Made things lively at St. Thomas.Till one morn, when Mr. SewardCast his weather eye to leeward,There was not an inch of dry landLeft to mark his recent island.Not a flagstaff or a sentry,Not a wharf or port of entry,—Only—to cut matters shorter—Just a patch of muddy waterIn the open ocean lying,And a gull above it flying.
(SEPTEMBER, 1779)I"Have a care!" the bailiffs criedFrom their cockleshell that layOff the frigate's yellow side,Tossing on Scarborough Bay,While the forty sail it convoyed on a bowline stretched away."Take your chicks beneath your wings,And your claws and feathers spread,Ere the hawk upon them springs,—Ere around Flamborough HeadSwoops Paul Jones, the Yankee falcon, with his beak and talons red."IIHow we laughed!—my mate and I,—On the "Bon Homme Richard's" deck,As we saw that convoy flyLike a snow-squall, till each fleckMelted in the twilight shadows of the coast-line, speck by speck;And scuffling back to shoreThe Scarborough bailiffs sped,As the "Richard" with a roarOf her cannon round the Head,Crossed her royal yards and signaled to her consort: "Chase ahead"IIIBut the devil seize LandaisIn that consort ship of France!For the shabby, lubber wayThat he worked the "Alliance"In the offing,—nor a broadside fired save to our mischance!—When tumbling to the van,With his battle-lanterns set,Rose the burly Englishman'Gainst our hull as black as jet,—Rode the yellow-sided "Serapis," and all alone we met!IVAll alone, though far at seaHung his consort, rounding to;All alone, though on our leeFought our "Pallas," stanch and true!For the first broadside around us both a smoky circle drew:And, like champions in a ring,There was cleared a little space—Scarce a cable's length to swing—Ere we grappled in embrace,All the world shut out around us, and we only face to face!VThen awoke all hell belowFrom that broadside, doubly curst,For our long eighteens in rowLeaped the first discharge and burst!And on deck our men came pouring, fearing their own guns the worst.And as dumb we lay, till, throughSmoke and flame and bitter cry,Hailed the "Serapis:" "Have youStruck your colors?" Our reply,"We have not yet begun to fight!" went shouting to the sky!VIRoux of Brest, old fisher, layLike a herring gasping here;Bunker of Nantucket Bay,Blown from out the port, dropped sheerHalf a cable's length to leeward; yet we faintly raised a cheerAs with his own right handOur Commodore made fastThe foeman's head-gear andThe "Richard's" mizzen-mast,And in that death-lock clinging held us there from first to last!VIIYet the foeman, gun on gun,Through the "Richard" tore a road,With his gunners' rammers runThrough our ports at every load,Till clear the blue beyond us through our yawning timbers showed.Yet with entrails torn we clungLike the Spartan to our fox,And on deck no coward tongueWailed the enemy's hard knocks,Nor that all below us trembled like a wreck upon the rocks.VIIIThen a thought rose in my brain,As through Channel mists the sun.From our tops a fire like rainDrove below decks every oneOf the enemy's ship's company to hide or work a gun:And that thought took shape as IOn the "Richard's" yard lay out,That a man might do and die,If the doing brought aboutFreedom for his home and country, and his messmates' cheering shout!IXThen I crept out in the darkTill I hung above the hatchOf the "Serapis,"—a markFor her marksmen!—with a matchAnd a hand-grenade, but lingered just a moment more to snatchOne last look at sea and sky!At the lighthouse on the hill!At the harvest-moon on high!And our pine flag fluttering still!Then turned and down her yawning throat I launched that devil's pill!XThen a blank was all betweenAs the flames around me spun!Had I fired the magazine?Was the victory lost or won?Nor knew I till the fight was o'er but half my work was done:For I lay among the deadIn the cockpit of our foe,With a roar above my head,—Till a trampling to and fro,And a lantern showed my mate's face, and I knew what now you know!
CANTO IIAct first, scene first. A study. Of a kindHalf cell, half salon, opulent yet grave;Rare books, low-shelved, yet far above the mindOf common man to compass or to crave;Some slight relief of pamphlets that inclinedThe soul at first to trifling, till, dismayedBy text and title, it drew back resigned,Nor cared with levity to vex a shadeThat to itself such perfect concord made.IISome thoughts like these perplexed the patriot brainOf Jones, Lawgiver to the Commonwealth,As on the threshold of this chaste domainHe paused expectant, and looked up in stealthTo darkened canvases that frowned amain,With stern-eyed Puritans, who first beganTo spread their roots in Georgius Primus' reign,Nor dropped till now, obedient to some plan,Their century fruit,—the perfect Boston man.IIISomewhere within that Russia-scented gloomA voice catarrhal thrilled the Member's ear:"Brief is our business, Jones. Look round this room!Regard yon portraits! Read their meaning clear!These much proclaim MY station. I presumeYOU are our Congressman, before whose witAnd sober judgment shall the youth appearWho for West Point is deemed most just and fitTo serve his country and to honor it."IV"Such is my son! Elsewhere perhaps 'twere wiseTrial competitive should guide your choice.There are some people I can well surmiseThemselves must show their merits. History's voiceSpares me that trouble: all desert that liesIn yonder ancestor of Queen Anne's day,Or yon grave Governor, is all my boy's,—Reverts to him; entailed, as one might say;In brief, result in Winthrop Adams Grey!"VHe turned and laid his well-bred hand, and smiled,On the cropped head of one who stood beside.Ah me! in sooth it was no ruddy childNor brawny youth that thrilled the father's pride;'Twas but a Mind that somehow had beguiledFrom soulless Matter processes that servedFor speech and motion and digestion mild,Content if all one moral purpose nerved,Nor recked thereby its spine were somewhat curved.VIHe was scarce eighteen. Yet ere he was eightHe had despoiled the classics; much he knewOf Sanskrit; not that he placed undue weightOn this, but that it helped him with Hebrew,His favorite tongue. He learned, alas! too late,One can't begin too early,—would regretThat boyish whim to ascertain the stateOf Venus' atmosphere made him forgetThat philologic goal on which his soul was set.VIIHe too had traveled; at the age of tenFound Paris empty, dull except for artAnd accent. "Mabille" with its glories thenLess than Egyptian "Almees" touched a heartNothing if not pure classic. If some menThought him a prig, it vexed not his conceit,But moved his pity, and ofttimes his pen,The better to instruct them, through some sheetPublished in Boston, and signed "Beacon Street."VIIIFrom premises so plain the blind could seeBut one deduction, and it came next day."In times like these, the very name of G.Speaks volumes," wrote the Honorable J."Inclosed please find appointment." PresentlyCame a reception to which Harvard lentFourteen professors, and, to give esprit,The Liberal Club some eighteen ladies sent,Five that spoke Greek, and thirteen sentiment.IXFour poets came who loved each other's song,And two philosophers, who thought that theyWere in most things impractical and wrong;And two reformers, each in his own wayPeculiar,—one who had waxed strongOn herbs and water, and such simple fare;Two foreign lions, "Ram See" and "Chy Long,"And several artists claimed attention there,Based on the fact they had been snubbed elsewhere.XWith this indorsement nothing now remainedBut counsel, Godspeed, and some calm adieux;No foolish tear the father's eyelash stained,And Winthrop's cheek as guiltless shone of dew.A slight publicity, such as obtainedIn classic Rome, these few last hours attended.The day arrived, the train and depot gained,The mayor's own presence this last act commendedThe train moved off and here the first act ended.CANTO IIIWhere West Point crouches, and with lifted shieldTurns the whole river eastward through the pass;Whose jutting crags, half silver, stand revealedLike bossy bucklers of Leonidas;Where buttressed low against the storms that wieldTheir summer lightnings where her eaglets swarm,By Freedom's cradle Nature's self has steeledHer heart, like Winkelried, and to that stormOf leveled lances bares her bosom warm.IIBut not to-night. The air and woods are still,The faintest rustle in the trees below,The lowest tremor from the mountain rill,Come to the ear as but the trailing flowOf spirit robes that walk unseen the hill;The moon low sailing o'er the upland farm,The moon low sailing where the waters fillThe lozenge lake, beside the banks of balm,Gleams like a chevron on the river's arm.IIIAll space breathes languor: from the hilltop high,Where Putnam's bastion crumbles in the past,To swooning depths where drowsy cannon lieAnd wide-mouthed mortars gape in slumbers vast;Stroke upon stroke, the far oars glance and dieOn the hushed bosom of the sleeping stream;Bright for one moment drifts a white sail by,Bright for one moment shows a bayonet gleamFar on the level plain, then passes as a dream.IVSoft down the line of darkened battlements,Bright on each lattice of the barrack walls,Where the low arching sallyport indents,Seen through its gloom beyond, the moonbeam falls.All is repose save where the camping tentsMock the white gravestones farther on, where soundNo morning guns for reveille, nor whenceNo drum-beat calls retreat, but still is ever foundWaiting and present on each sentry's round.VWithin the camp they lie, the young, the brave,Half knight, half schoolboy, acolytes of fame,Pledged to one altar, and perchance one grave;Bred to fear nothing but reproach and blame,Ascetic dandies o'er whom vestals rave,Clean-limbed young Spartans, disciplined young elves,Taught to destroy, that they may live to save,Students embattled, soldiers at their shelves,Heroes whose conquests are at first themselves.VIWithin the camp they lie, in dreams are freedFrom the grim discipline they learn to love;In dreams no more the sentry's challenge heed,In dreams afar beyond their pickets rove;One treads once more the piny paths that leadTo his green mountain home, and pausing hearsThe cattle call; one treads the tangled weedOf slippery rocks beside Atlantic piers;One smiles in sleep, one wakens wet with tears.VIIOne scents the breath of jasmine flowers that twineThe pillared porches of his Southern home;One hears the coo of pigeons in the pineOf Western woods where he was wont to roam;One sees the sunset fire the distant lineWhere the long prairie sweeps its levels down;One treads the snow-peaks; one by lamps that shineDown the broad highways of the sea-girt town;And two are missing,—Cadets Grey and Brown!VIIIMuch as I grieve to chronicle the fact,That selfsame truant known as "Cadet Grey"Was the young hero of our moral tract,Shorn of his twofold names on entrance-day."Winthrop" and "Adams" dropped in that one actOf martial curtness, and the roll-call thinnedOf his ancestors, he with youthful tactIndulgence claimed, since Winthrop no more sinned,Nor sainted Adams winced when he, plain Grey, was "skinned."