THE LAST OF SIX

O laggard Sun! make haste to wakeFrom her long trance the slumbering earth;Make haste this icy spell to break,That she may give new glories birth!O April rain! so soft, so warm,Bounteous in blessing, rich in gifts,Drop tenderly upon her form,And bathe the forehead she uplifts.O springing grass! make haste to runWith swift feet o’er the meadows bare;O’er hill and dale, through forest dun,And where the wandering brooklets are!O sweet wild flowers! the darksome mouldHasten with subtle strength to rift;Serene in beauty, meek yet bold,Your fair brows to the sunlight lift!O haste ye all! for far awayIn lonely beds our heroes sleep,O’er which no wife may ever pray,Nor child nor mother ever weep.No quaintly carved memorial stoneMay tell us that their ashes lieWhere southern pines make solemn moan,And wailing winds give sad reply.But deep in dreary, lonesome shades,On many a barren, sandy plain,By rocky pass, in tangled glades,And by the rolling, restless main;By rushing stream, by silent lake,Uncoffined in their lowly graves,Until the earth’s last morn shall break,Must sleep our unforgotten braves!O sun! O rain! O gentle dew!O fresh young grass, and opening flowers!With yearning hearts we leave to youThe holy task that should be ours!Light up the darkling forest’s gloom;Cover the bare, unsightly clayWith tenderest verdure, with the bloom,The beauty and perfume of May!O sweet blue violets! softly creepBeside the slumbering warrior’s bed;O roses! let your red hearts leapFor joy your rarest sweets to shed;O humble mosses! such as makeNew England’s woods and pastures fair,Over each mound, for Love’s sweet sake,Spread your soft folds with tender care.Dear Nature, to your loving breastClasp our dead heroes! In your armsSweet be their sleep, serene their rest,Unmoved by Battle’s loud alarms!

O laggard Sun! make haste to wakeFrom her long trance the slumbering earth;Make haste this icy spell to break,That she may give new glories birth!

O April rain! so soft, so warm,Bounteous in blessing, rich in gifts,Drop tenderly upon her form,And bathe the forehead she uplifts.

O springing grass! make haste to runWith swift feet o’er the meadows bare;O’er hill and dale, through forest dun,And where the wandering brooklets are!

O sweet wild flowers! the darksome mouldHasten with subtle strength to rift;Serene in beauty, meek yet bold,Your fair brows to the sunlight lift!

O haste ye all! for far awayIn lonely beds our heroes sleep,O’er which no wife may ever pray,Nor child nor mother ever weep.

No quaintly carved memorial stoneMay tell us that their ashes lieWhere southern pines make solemn moan,And wailing winds give sad reply.

But deep in dreary, lonesome shades,On many a barren, sandy plain,By rocky pass, in tangled glades,And by the rolling, restless main;

By rushing stream, by silent lake,Uncoffined in their lowly graves,Until the earth’s last morn shall break,Must sleep our unforgotten braves!

O sun! O rain! O gentle dew!O fresh young grass, and opening flowers!With yearning hearts we leave to youThe holy task that should be ours!

Light up the darkling forest’s gloom;Cover the bare, unsightly clayWith tenderest verdure, with the bloom,The beauty and perfume of May!

O sweet blue violets! softly creepBeside the slumbering warrior’s bed;O roses! let your red hearts leapFor joy your rarest sweets to shed;

O humble mosses! such as makeNew England’s woods and pastures fair,Over each mound, for Love’s sweet sake,Spread your soft folds with tender care.

Dear Nature, to your loving breastClasp our dead heroes! In your armsSweet be their sleep, serene their rest,Unmoved by Battle’s loud alarms!

Come in; you are welcome, neighbor; all day I’ve been alone,And heard the wailing, wintry wind sweep by with bitter moan;And to-night beside my lonely fire, I mutely wonder whyI, who once wept as others weep, sit here with tearless eye.To-day this letter came to me. At first I could not brookUpon the unfamiliar lines by strangers penned, to look;The dread of evil tidings shook my soul with wild alarm—But Harry’s in the hospital, and has only lost an arm.He is the last—the last of six brave boys as e’er were seen!How short, to memory’s vision, seem the years that lie betweenThis hour and those most blessed ones, when round this hearth’s bright blazeThey charmed their mother’s heart and eye with all their pretty ways!My William was the eldest son, and he was first to go.It did not at all surprise me, for I knew it would be so,From that fearful April Sunday when the news from Sumter came,And his lips grew white as ashes, while his eyes were all aflame.He sprang to join the three months’ men. I could not say him nay,Though my heart stood still within me when I saw him march away;At the corner of the street he smiled, and waved the flag he bore;I never saw him smile again—he was slain at Baltimore.They sent his body back to me, and as we stood aroundHis grave, beside his father’s, in yonder burial-ground,John laid his hand upon my arm and whispered, “Mother dear,I have Willy’s work and mine to do. I cannot loiter here.”I turned and looked at Paul, for he and John were twins, you know,Born on a happy Christmas, four-and-twenty years ago;I looked upon them both, while my tears fell down like rain,For I knew what one had spoken, had been spoken by the twain.In a month or more they left me—the merry, handsome boys,Who had kept the old house ringing with their laughter, fun, and noise.Then James came home to mind the farm; my younger sons were stillMere children, at their lessons in the school-house on the hill.O days of weary waiting! O days of doubt and dread!I feared to read the papers, or to see the lists of dead;But when full many a battle-storm had left them both unharmed,I taught my foolish heart to think the double lives were charmed.Their colonel since has told me that no braver boys than theyEver rallied round the colors, in the thickest of the fray;Upon the wall behind you their swords are hanging still—For John was killed at Fair Oaks, and Paul at Malvern Hill.Then came the dark days, darker than any known before;There was another call for men—“three hundred thousand more;”I saw the cloud on Jamie’s brow grow deeper day by day;I shrank before the impending blow, and scarce had strength to pray.And yet at last I bade him go, while on my cheek and browHis loving tears and kisses fell; I feel them even now,Though the eyes that shed the tears, and the lips so warm on mineAre hidden under southern sands, beneath a blasted pine!He did not die in battle-smoke, but for a weary yearHe languished in close prison walls, a prey to hope and fear;I dare not trust myself to think of the fruitless pangs he bore,My brain grows wild when in my dreams I count his sufferings o’er.Only two left! I thought the worst was surely over then;But lo! at once my school-boy sons sprang up before me—men!They heard their brothers’ martyr blood call from the hallowed ground;A loud, imperious summons that all other voices drowned.I did not say a single word. My very heart seemed dead.What could I do but take the cup, and bow my weary headTo drink the bitter draught again? I dared not hold them back;I would as soon have tried to check the whirlwind on its track.You know the rest. At Cedar Creek my Frederick bravely fell;They say his young arm did its work right nobly and right well;His comrades breathe the hero’s name with mingled love and pride;I miss the gentle blue-eyed boy, who frolicked at my side.For me, I ne’er shall weep again. I think my heart is dead;I, who could weep for lighter griefs, have now no tears to shed.But read this letter, neighbor. There is nothing to alarm,For Harry’s in the hospital, and has only lost an arm!

To-day this letter came to me. At first I could not brookUpon the unfamiliar lines by strangers penned, to look;The dread of evil tidings shook my soul with wild alarm—But Harry’s in the hospital, and has only lost an arm.

He is the last—the last of six brave boys as e’er were seen!How short, to memory’s vision, seem the years that lie betweenThis hour and those most blessed ones, when round this hearth’s bright blazeThey charmed their mother’s heart and eye with all their pretty ways!

My William was the eldest son, and he was first to go.It did not at all surprise me, for I knew it would be so,From that fearful April Sunday when the news from Sumter came,And his lips grew white as ashes, while his eyes were all aflame.

He sprang to join the three months’ men. I could not say him nay,Though my heart stood still within me when I saw him march away;At the corner of the street he smiled, and waved the flag he bore;I never saw him smile again—he was slain at Baltimore.

They sent his body back to me, and as we stood aroundHis grave, beside his father’s, in yonder burial-ground,John laid his hand upon my arm and whispered, “Mother dear,I have Willy’s work and mine to do. I cannot loiter here.”

I turned and looked at Paul, for he and John were twins, you know,Born on a happy Christmas, four-and-twenty years ago;I looked upon them both, while my tears fell down like rain,For I knew what one had spoken, had been spoken by the twain.

In a month or more they left me—the merry, handsome boys,Who had kept the old house ringing with their laughter, fun, and noise.Then James came home to mind the farm; my younger sons were stillMere children, at their lessons in the school-house on the hill.

O days of weary waiting! O days of doubt and dread!I feared to read the papers, or to see the lists of dead;But when full many a battle-storm had left them both unharmed,I taught my foolish heart to think the double lives were charmed.

Their colonel since has told me that no braver boys than theyEver rallied round the colors, in the thickest of the fray;Upon the wall behind you their swords are hanging still—For John was killed at Fair Oaks, and Paul at Malvern Hill.

Then came the dark days, darker than any known before;There was another call for men—“three hundred thousand more;”I saw the cloud on Jamie’s brow grow deeper day by day;I shrank before the impending blow, and scarce had strength to pray.

And yet at last I bade him go, while on my cheek and browHis loving tears and kisses fell; I feel them even now,Though the eyes that shed the tears, and the lips so warm on mineAre hidden under southern sands, beneath a blasted pine!

He did not die in battle-smoke, but for a weary yearHe languished in close prison walls, a prey to hope and fear;I dare not trust myself to think of the fruitless pangs he bore,My brain grows wild when in my dreams I count his sufferings o’er.

Only two left! I thought the worst was surely over then;But lo! at once my school-boy sons sprang up before me—men!They heard their brothers’ martyr blood call from the hallowed ground;A loud, imperious summons that all other voices drowned.

I did not say a single word. My very heart seemed dead.What could I do but take the cup, and bow my weary headTo drink the bitter draught again? I dared not hold them back;I would as soon have tried to check the whirlwind on its track.

You know the rest. At Cedar Creek my Frederick bravely fell;They say his young arm did its work right nobly and right well;His comrades breathe the hero’s name with mingled love and pride;I miss the gentle blue-eyed boy, who frolicked at my side.

For me, I ne’er shall weep again. I think my heart is dead;I, who could weep for lighter griefs, have now no tears to shed.But read this letter, neighbor. There is nothing to alarm,For Harry’s in the hospital, and has only lost an arm!

All day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept;All night long the stars in heaven o’er the slain sad vigils kept.Oh, the ghastly, upturned faces, gleaming whitely through the night!Oh, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim, sepulchral light!One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke;But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke.Slowly passed the golden hours of the long bright summer day,And upon the field of carnage still the dead unburied lay;Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, unceasing prayer,For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and air.Once again the night dropped round them—night so holy and so calmThat the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or psalm.On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest,Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast.Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if in sleep;Even his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber, calm and deep.For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to the face,And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of graceTo the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless repose,Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying foes.And the broken drum beside him all his life’s short story told;How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o’er him rolled.Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars,While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars.Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low—Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet’s murmuring flow?Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look roundAs they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground,Came two little maidens—sisters—with a light and hasty tread,And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread.And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they stoodWhere the Drummer-Boy was lying in that partial solitude.They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe’s scanty store,And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore.Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears,For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears.And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shameChanged the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lambent flame.For their saintly hearts yearned o’er it in that hour of sorest need,And they felt that Death was holy and it sanctified the deed.But they smiled and kissed each other when their new, strange task was o’er,And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments wore.Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out,And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about.But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done,And in crimson pomp the morning again heralded the sun.And then those little maidens—they were children of our foes—Laid the body of our Drummer-Boy to undisturbed repose.

All day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept;All night long the stars in heaven o’er the slain sad vigils kept.

Oh, the ghastly, upturned faces, gleaming whitely through the night!Oh, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim, sepulchral light!

One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke;But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke.

Slowly passed the golden hours of the long bright summer day,And upon the field of carnage still the dead unburied lay;

Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, unceasing prayer,For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and air.

Once again the night dropped round them—night so holy and so calmThat the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or psalm.

On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest,Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast.

Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if in sleep;Even his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber, calm and deep.

For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to the face,And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of grace

To the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless repose,Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying foes.

And the broken drum beside him all his life’s short story told;How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o’er him rolled.

Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars,While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars.

Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low—Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet’s murmuring flow?

Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look roundAs they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground,

Came two little maidens—sisters—with a light and hasty tread,And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread.

And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they stoodWhere the Drummer-Boy was lying in that partial solitude.

They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe’s scanty store,And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore.

Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears,For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears.

And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shameChanged the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lambent flame.

For their saintly hearts yearned o’er it in that hour of sorest need,And they felt that Death was holy and it sanctified the deed.

But they smiled and kissed each other when their new, strange task was o’er,And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments wore.

Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out,And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about.

But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done,And in crimson pomp the morning again heralded the sun.

And then those little maidens—they were children of our foes—Laid the body of our Drummer-Boy to undisturbed repose.

O darkest Year! O brightest Year!O changeful Year of joy and woe,To-day we stand beside thy bier,Still loth to let thee go!We look upon thy brow, and say,“How old he is,—how old and worn!”Has but a twelvemonth passed awaySince thou wert newly born?So long it seems since on the airThe joy-bells rang to hail thy birth—And pale lips strove to call thee fair,And sing the songs of mirth!For dark the heavens that o’er thee hung;By stormy winds thy couch was rocked;Thy cradle-hymn the Furies sung,While sneering Demons mocked!We held our very breath for dread;Shadowed by clouds, that, like a pall,Darkened the blue sky overhead,And night hung over all.But thou wert better than our fears,And bade our land’s long anguish cease;And gave us, O thou Year of years,The costly pearl of Peace!So dearly bought! By precious bloodOf patriot heroes—sire and son—And that of him, the pure and good,Our wearied, martyred One;Who bore for us the heavy load—The cross our hands upon him laid;Who trod for us the toilsome roadMeekly, yet undismayed!And for that gift—although thy gravesLie thick beneath December’s snow,Though every hamlet mourns its braves,And bears its weight of woe—We bless thee! Yet, O bounteous year,For more than Peace we thank thee now,As bending o’er thine honored bier,We crown thy pallid brow!We bless thee, though we scarcely dareGive to our new-born joy a tongue;O mighty Year, upon the airThy voice triumphant rung,Even in death! and at the sound,From myriad limbs the fetters fellInto the dim and vast profound,While tolled thy passing bell!Farewell, farewell, thou storied Year!Thou wondrous Year of joy and gloom!With grateful hearts we crown thee, ereWe lay thee in thy tomb!

O darkest Year! O brightest Year!O changeful Year of joy and woe,To-day we stand beside thy bier,Still loth to let thee go!

We look upon thy brow, and say,“How old he is,—how old and worn!”Has but a twelvemonth passed awaySince thou wert newly born?

So long it seems since on the airThe joy-bells rang to hail thy birth—And pale lips strove to call thee fair,And sing the songs of mirth!

For dark the heavens that o’er thee hung;By stormy winds thy couch was rocked;Thy cradle-hymn the Furies sung,While sneering Demons mocked!

We held our very breath for dread;Shadowed by clouds, that, like a pall,Darkened the blue sky overhead,And night hung over all.

But thou wert better than our fears,And bade our land’s long anguish cease;And gave us, O thou Year of years,The costly pearl of Peace!

So dearly bought! By precious bloodOf patriot heroes—sire and son—And that of him, the pure and good,Our wearied, martyred One;

Who bore for us the heavy load—The cross our hands upon him laid;Who trod for us the toilsome roadMeekly, yet undismayed!

And for that gift—although thy gravesLie thick beneath December’s snow,Though every hamlet mourns its braves,And bears its weight of woe—

We bless thee! Yet, O bounteous year,For more than Peace we thank thee now,As bending o’er thine honored bier,We crown thy pallid brow!

We bless thee, though we scarcely dareGive to our new-born joy a tongue;O mighty Year, upon the airThy voice triumphant rung,

Even in death! and at the sound,From myriad limbs the fetters fellInto the dim and vast profound,While tolled thy passing bell!

Farewell, farewell, thou storied Year!Thou wondrous Year of joy and gloom!With grateful hearts we crown thee, ereWe lay thee in thy tomb!

Remove them not! Above our fallen bravesNature not yet her perfect work hath wrought;Scarce has the turf grown green upon their graves,The martyr graves for whose embrace they fought.The wounds of our long conflict are not healed;Our land’s fair face is seamed with many a scar;And woeful sights, on many a battle-field,Show ghastly grim beneath the evening star.Still does the sad Earth tremble with affright,Lest she the tread of armèd hosts should feelOnce more upon her bosom. Still the NightHears, in wild dreams, the cannon’s thundering peal.Still do the black-robed mothers come and go;Still do lone wives by dreary hearth-stones weep;Still does a Nation, in her pride and woe,For her dead sons a mournful vigil keep.Ah, then, awhile delay! Remove ye notThese drooping banners from their place on high;They make of each proud hall a hallowed spot,Where Truth must dwell and Freedom cannot die.Now slowly waving in this tranquil air,What wondrous eloquence is in their speech!No prophet “silver tongued,” no poet rare,Even in dreams may hope such heights to reach.They tell of Life that calmly looked on Death—Of peerless valor and of trust sublime—Of costly sacrifice, of holiest faith,Of lofty hopes that ended not with Time.Oh! each worn fold is hallowed! set apartTo minister unto us in our needs—To bear henceforth to many a fainting heart,The cordial wine of noble thoughts and deeds.Then leave them yet awhile where, day by day,The lessons that they teach, your souls may learn;So shall ye work for righteousness alway,And for its faithful service ever yearn.Now may God bless our land for evermore!And from all strife and turmoil grant surcease;While from the mountains to the farthest shoreAccordant voices softly whisper—Peace!

Remove them not! Above our fallen bravesNature not yet her perfect work hath wrought;Scarce has the turf grown green upon their graves,The martyr graves for whose embrace they fought.

The wounds of our long conflict are not healed;Our land’s fair face is seamed with many a scar;And woeful sights, on many a battle-field,Show ghastly grim beneath the evening star.

Still does the sad Earth tremble with affright,Lest she the tread of armèd hosts should feelOnce more upon her bosom. Still the NightHears, in wild dreams, the cannon’s thundering peal.

Still do the black-robed mothers come and go;Still do lone wives by dreary hearth-stones weep;Still does a Nation, in her pride and woe,For her dead sons a mournful vigil keep.

Ah, then, awhile delay! Remove ye notThese drooping banners from their place on high;They make of each proud hall a hallowed spot,Where Truth must dwell and Freedom cannot die.

Now slowly waving in this tranquil air,What wondrous eloquence is in their speech!No prophet “silver tongued,” no poet rare,Even in dreams may hope such heights to reach.

They tell of Life that calmly looked on Death—Of peerless valor and of trust sublime—Of costly sacrifice, of holiest faith,Of lofty hopes that ended not with Time.

Oh! each worn fold is hallowed! set apartTo minister unto us in our needs—To bear henceforth to many a fainting heart,The cordial wine of noble thoughts and deeds.

Then leave them yet awhile where, day by day,The lessons that they teach, your souls may learn;So shall ye work for righteousness alway,And for its faithful service ever yearn.

Now may God bless our land for evermore!And from all strife and turmoil grant surcease;While from the mountains to the farthest shoreAccordant voices softly whisper—Peace!

Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! swinging highAloft in your gilded cage,The clouds are hurrying over the sky,The wild winds fiercely rage.But soft and warm is the air you breatheUp there with the tremulous ivy wreath,And never an icy blast can chillThe perfumed silence sweet and still.Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! from your throatBreaks forth no flood of song,Nor even one perfect golden note,Triumphant, glad, and strong!But now and then a pitiful wail,Like the plaintive sigh of the dying gale,Comes from that arching breast of thineSwinging up there with the ivy-vine.Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! well I knowYour heart is far away,Where the golden stars of the jasmine glow,And the roses bloom alway!For your cradle-nest was softly madeIn the depth of a blossoming myrtle’s shade;And you heard the chant of the southern seasBorne inland by the favoring breeze.But, ah, my beautiful mocking-bird!Should I bear you back again,Never would song of yours be heardEchoing through the glen.For once, ah! once at the dawn of day,You waked to the roar of the deadly fray,When the terrible clash of armèd foesStartled the vale from its dim repose.At first you sat on a swaying bough,Mocking the bugle’s blare,Fearless and free in the fervid glowOf the heated, sulphurous air.Your voice rang out like a trumpet’s note,With a martial ring in its upward float,And stern men smiled, for you seemed to beCheering them on to victory!But at length, as the awful day wore on,You flew to a tree-top high,And sat like a spectre grim and wan,Outlined against the sky;Sat silently watching the fiery frayTill, heaps upon heaps, the Blue and GrayLay together, a silent band,Whose souls had passed to the shadowy land.Ah, my mocking-bird! swinging thereUnder the ivy-vine,You still remember the bugle’s blare,And the blood poured forth like wine.The soul of song in your gentle breastDied in that hour of fierce unrest,When like a spectre grim and wan,You watched to see how the strife went on.

Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! from your throatBreaks forth no flood of song,Nor even one perfect golden note,Triumphant, glad, and strong!But now and then a pitiful wail,Like the plaintive sigh of the dying gale,Comes from that arching breast of thineSwinging up there with the ivy-vine.

Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! well I knowYour heart is far away,Where the golden stars of the jasmine glow,And the roses bloom alway!For your cradle-nest was softly madeIn the depth of a blossoming myrtle’s shade;And you heard the chant of the southern seasBorne inland by the favoring breeze.

But, ah, my beautiful mocking-bird!Should I bear you back again,Never would song of yours be heardEchoing through the glen.For once, ah! once at the dawn of day,You waked to the roar of the deadly fray,When the terrible clash of armèd foesStartled the vale from its dim repose.

At first you sat on a swaying bough,Mocking the bugle’s blare,Fearless and free in the fervid glowOf the heated, sulphurous air.Your voice rang out like a trumpet’s note,With a martial ring in its upward float,And stern men smiled, for you seemed to beCheering them on to victory!

But at length, as the awful day wore on,You flew to a tree-top high,And sat like a spectre grim and wan,Outlined against the sky;Sat silently watching the fiery frayTill, heaps upon heaps, the Blue and GrayLay together, a silent band,Whose souls had passed to the shadowy land.

Ah, my mocking-bird! swinging thereUnder the ivy-vine,You still remember the bugle’s blare,And the blood poured forth like wine.The soul of song in your gentle breastDied in that hour of fierce unrest,When like a spectre grim and wan,You watched to see how the strife went on.

When the winter winds were loud,And Earth wore a snowy shroud,Oft our darling wrote to us,And the words ran ever thus—“I am coming in the spring!With the mayflower’s blossoming,With the young leaves on the tree,O my dear ones, look for me!”And she came. One dreary day,When the skies were dull and gray,Softly through the open doorOur belovèd came once more.Came with folded hands that layVery quietly alway—Came with heavy-lidded eyes,Lifted not in glad surprise.Not a single word she spoke;Laugh nor sigh her silence brokeAs across the quiet room,Darkening in the twilight gloom,On she passed in stillest guise,Calm as saint in Paradise,To the spot where—woe betide!—Four years since she stood a bride.Then, you think, we sprang to greet her—Sprang with outstretched hands, to meet her;Clasped her in our arms once more,As in happy days of yore;Poured warm kisses on her cheek,Passive lips and forehead meek,Till the barrier melted downThat had thus between us grown.Ah no!—Darling, did you knowWhen we bent above you so?When our tears fell down like rain,And our hearts were wild with pain?Did you pity us that day,Even as holy angels mayPity mortals here below,While they wonder at their woe?Who can tell us? Word nor signCame from those pale lips of thine;Loving hearts and yearning breastLay in coldest, calmest rest.Is thy Heaven so very fairThat thou dost forget us there?Speak, belovèd! Woe is meThat in vain I call on thee!

And she came. One dreary day,When the skies were dull and gray,Softly through the open doorOur belovèd came once more.Came with folded hands that layVery quietly alway—Came with heavy-lidded eyes,Lifted not in glad surprise.

Not a single word she spoke;Laugh nor sigh her silence brokeAs across the quiet room,Darkening in the twilight gloom,On she passed in stillest guise,Calm as saint in Paradise,To the spot where—woe betide!—Four years since she stood a bride.

Then, you think, we sprang to greet her—Sprang with outstretched hands, to meet her;Clasped her in our arms once more,As in happy days of yore;Poured warm kisses on her cheek,Passive lips and forehead meek,Till the barrier melted downThat had thus between us grown.

Ah no!—Darling, did you knowWhen we bent above you so?When our tears fell down like rain,And our hearts were wild with pain?Did you pity us that day,Even as holy angels mayPity mortals here below,While they wonder at their woe?

Who can tell us? Word nor signCame from those pale lips of thine;Loving hearts and yearning breastLay in coldest, calmest rest.Is thy Heaven so very fairThat thou dost forget us there?Speak, belovèd! Woe is meThat in vain I call on thee!

In loving jest you wrote—“Ah, me!My babe’s blue eyes are fair to see;And sweet his cooing love-notes beThat waken me too early!”Oh! would to God, beloved, to-dayThat merry shout or gleeful playMight drive your heavy sleep away,And bid you waken early.But vain are all our prayers and cries;From your low bed you will not rise;No kisses falling on your eyes,Can waken you right early.Bright are the skies above your bed,And through the elm-boughs overheadAre golden sunbeams softly shed,That wake you late nor early.Beside you through these summer daysThe murmuring fountain, as it plays,Fills the soft air with diamond sprays,But does not wake you early!We bring the flowers you loved so well,The pure white rose and lily bell;Their sweets break not this fearful spell;They do not wake you early!We sing your songs; we pause to hearYour bird-like voice rise full and clear;Ah! dull and heavy is your ear;We cannot wake you early.You will not wake? Then may your sleep,If it be long, be calm and deep;Thank God, the eyes forget to weepThat do not waken early!

In loving jest you wrote—“Ah, me!My babe’s blue eyes are fair to see;And sweet his cooing love-notes beThat waken me too early!”

Oh! would to God, beloved, to-dayThat merry shout or gleeful playMight drive your heavy sleep away,And bid you waken early.

But vain are all our prayers and cries;From your low bed you will not rise;No kisses falling on your eyes,Can waken you right early.

Bright are the skies above your bed,And through the elm-boughs overheadAre golden sunbeams softly shed,That wake you late nor early.

Beside you through these summer daysThe murmuring fountain, as it plays,Fills the soft air with diamond sprays,But does not wake you early!

We bring the flowers you loved so well,The pure white rose and lily bell;Their sweets break not this fearful spell;They do not wake you early!

We sing your songs; we pause to hearYour bird-like voice rise full and clear;Ah! dull and heavy is your ear;We cannot wake you early.

You will not wake? Then may your sleep,If it be long, be calm and deep;Thank God, the eyes forget to weepThat do not waken early!

Sinking to thine eternal rest,O dying Year! I call thee blest;Blest as no coming year may beThis side of vast Eternity!Thy cheek is pale, thy brow is worn;Thine arms are weary, that have borneThe heaviest burdens ever laidOn any, since the world was made.But thou didst know her whom to-dayMy fond heart mourns, and must alway;She loved thee, claimed thee, called thee dear,Hailing with joy the glad New Year!Thou didst behold her, fair and good,The perfect flower of womanhood;Simple and pure in thought and deed,Yet strong in every hour of need.Ah! other years shall come and go,Bidding the sweet June roses blow;But never on their yearning eyesShall her fair presence once arise!The Spring shall miss her, and the long,Bright Summer days hear not her song;And hoary Winter, draped in snow,Finding her not, shall haste to go!Therefore, Old Year, I call thee blest,Thus sinking to eternal rest;Blest as no other Year may beThis side of vast Eternity!

Sinking to thine eternal rest,O dying Year! I call thee blest;Blest as no coming year may beThis side of vast Eternity!

Thy cheek is pale, thy brow is worn;Thine arms are weary, that have borneThe heaviest burdens ever laidOn any, since the world was made.

But thou didst know her whom to-dayMy fond heart mourns, and must alway;She loved thee, claimed thee, called thee dear,Hailing with joy the glad New Year!

Thou didst behold her, fair and good,The perfect flower of womanhood;Simple and pure in thought and deed,Yet strong in every hour of need.

Ah! other years shall come and go,Bidding the sweet June roses blow;But never on their yearning eyesShall her fair presence once arise!

The Spring shall miss her, and the long,Bright Summer days hear not her song;And hoary Winter, draped in snow,Finding her not, shall haste to go!

Therefore, Old Year, I call thee blest,Thus sinking to eternal rest;Blest as no other Year may beThis side of vast Eternity!

Dear Helen, if thine earnest eyes,So deeply blue, so darkly bright,Look downward from the azure skiesThat hide thee from my yearning sight:Think not, because my days go onJust as they did when thou wert here,Sometimes in shade, sometimes in sun,From month to month, from year to year,That I forget thee! Fresh and greenOver each grave the grass must growIn God’s good time, and, all unseen,The violets take deep root below.But yet the grave itself remainsBeneath the verdure and the bloom;And all kind Nature’s loving painsCan but conceal the enduring tomb.I work, I read, I sing, I smile,I train my vines and tend my flowers;But under thoughts of thee, the while,Haunt me through all the passing hours.And still my heart cries out for thee,As it must cry till life is past,And in some land beyond the seaI meet thy clasping hand at last!

Dear Helen, if thine earnest eyes,So deeply blue, so darkly bright,Look downward from the azure skiesThat hide thee from my yearning sight:

Think not, because my days go onJust as they did when thou wert here,Sometimes in shade, sometimes in sun,From month to month, from year to year,

That I forget thee! Fresh and greenOver each grave the grass must growIn God’s good time, and, all unseen,The violets take deep root below.

But yet the grave itself remainsBeneath the verdure and the bloom;And all kind Nature’s loving painsCan but conceal the enduring tomb.

I work, I read, I sing, I smile,I train my vines and tend my flowers;But under thoughts of thee, the while,Haunt me through all the passing hours.

And still my heart cries out for thee,As it must cry till life is past,And in some land beyond the seaI meet thy clasping hand at last!

[96]

Lo! we comeBearing the Century, cold and dumb!Folded above the mighty breastLie the hands that have earned their rest;Hushed are the grandly speaking lips;Closed are the eyes in drear eclipse;And the sculptured limbs are deathly still,Responding not to the eager will,As we comeBearing the Century, cold and dumb!

Lo! we waitKnocking here at the sepulchre’s gate!Souls of the ages passed away,A mightier joins your ranks to-day;Open your doors and give him room,Buried Centuries, in your tomb!For calmly under this heavy pallSleepeth the kingliest of ye all,While we waitAt the sepulchre’s awful gate!

Yet—pause here,Bending low o’er the narrow bier!Pause ye awhile and let your thoughtCompass the work that he hath wrought;Look on his brow so scarred and worn;Think of the weight his hands have borne;Think of the fetters he hath broken,Of the mighty wordshislips have spokenWho lies hereDead and cold on a narrow bier!

Ere he goesSilent and calm to his grand repose—While the Centuries in their tombCrowd together to give him room,Let us think of the wondrous deedsAnswering still to the world’s great needs,Answering still to the world’s wild prayer,He hath been first to do and dare!Ah! he goesCrowned with bays to his last repose.

When the earthSang for joy to hail his birth,Over the hill-tops, faint and far,Glimmered the light of Freedom’s star.Only a poor, pale torch it seemed—Dimly from out the clouds it gleamed—Oft to the watcher’s eye ’twas lostLike a flame by fierce winds rudely tossed.Scarce could EarthCatch one ray when she hailed his birth!

But erelongHis young voice, like a clarion strong,Rang through the wilderness far and free,Prophet and herald of good to be!Then with a shout the stalwart menAnswered proudly from mount and glen,Till in the brave, new, western worldFreedom’s banners were wide unfurled!And ere longThe Century’s voice, like a clarion strong,

Cried, “O Earth,Pæans sing for a Nation’s birth!Shout hosannas, ye golden stars,Peering through yonder cloudy bars!Burn, O Sun, with a clearer beam!Shine, O Moon, with a softer gleam!Join, ye winds, in the choral strain!Swell, rolling seas, the glad refrain,While the EarthPæans sings for a Nation’s birth!”

Ah! he saw—This young prophet, with solemn awe—How, after weary pain and sin,Strivings without and foes within,Fruitless prayings and long suspense,And toil that bore no recompense—After peril and blood and tears,Honor and Peace should crown the years!This he sawWhile his heart thrilled with solemn awe.

His clear eyes,Gazing forward in glad surprise,Saw how our land at last should beTruly the home of the brave and free!Saw from the old world’s crowded streets,Pestilent cities, and close retreats,Forms gaunt and pallid with famine soreFlee in hot haste to our happy shore,Their sad eyesWidening ever in new surprise.

From all landsThronging they come in eager bands;Each with the tongue his mother spoke;Each with the songs her voice awoke;Each with his dominant hopes and needs,Alien habits and varying creeds.Bringing strange fictions and fancies they came,Calling old truths by a different name,When the landsSent their sons hither in thronging bands.

But the Seer—This dead Century lying here—Rising out of this chaos, sawPeace and Order and Love and Law!Saw by what subtle alchemyBasest of metals at length should beTransmuted into the shining gold,Meet for a king to have and hold.Ah! great Seer!This pale Century lying here!

So he taughtHonest freedom of speech and thought;Taught that Truth is the grandest thingPainter can paint, or poet sing;Taught that under the meanest guiseIt marches to deeds of high emprise;Treading the paths the prophets trodUp to the very mount of God!Truth, he taught,Claims full freedom of speech and thought.

Bearing longHeavy burdens of hate and wrong,Still has the arm of the Century beenWaging war against crime and sin.Still has he plead humanity’s cause;Still has he prayed for equal laws;Still has he taught that the human raceIs one in despite of hue or place,Even though longIt has wrestled with hate and wrong.

And at length—A giant arising in his strength—The fetters of serf and slave he broke,Smiting them off by a single stroke!Over the Muscovite’s waste of snows,Up from the fields where the cotton grows,Clearly the shout of deliverance rang,When chattel and serf to manhood sprang,As at lengthThe giant rose up in resistless strength.

Far apart—Each alone like a lonely heart—Sat the Nations, until his handWove about them a wondrous band;Wrought about them a mighty chainBinding the mountains to the main!Distance and time rose dark betweenIslands and continents still unseen,While apartNone felt the throb of another’s heart.

But to-dayTime and space hath he swept away!Side by side do the Nations sitBy ties of brotherhood closer knit;Whispers float o’er the rolling deep;Voices echo from steep to steep;Nations speak, and the quick repliesFill the earth and the vaulted skies;For to-dayTime and distance are swept away.

If strange thrillsQuicken Rome on her seven hills;If afar on her sultry throneIndia wails and makes her moan;If the eagles of haughty FranceFall as the Prussian hosts advance,All the continents, all the lands,Feel the shock through their claspèd hands.And quick thrillsStir the remotest vales and hills.

Yet these eyes,Dark on whose lids Death’s shadow lies,Let their far-reaching vision restNot alone on the mountain’s crest;Nor did these feet with stately treadFollow alone where the Nations led;Nor these pale hands, so weary-worn,Minister but where States were born!—These clear eyes,Soft on whose lips Death’s slumber lies,

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