THE STRAWBERRY BOWL

I bring thee a garland, O, violet-eyed maidIts exquisite bloom in thy dark locks, I braid.Love nourished each flower with a sigh and a tear,And the sigh and the tearShall make them more dear,And bring them new charms with each vanishing year.I fill thee a goblet—’tis the heart’s purest wine,Fresh foamed from the wine-press of St. Valentine,The Rathskeller holds it which sits in the skies,Whose roseate gleamingIs bright in its beaming,As the love-stars which shine in the heav’n of thine eyes.I bring thee a song, and though humble the strain,Love glows in each word of the burning refrain.And oh, that its notes were as wild and as sweetAs the plashing of fountainsOr horns on the mountains,Or songs which thy dear lips in warblings repeat.

I fill thee a goblet—’tis the heart’s purest wine,Fresh foamed from the wine-press of St. Valentine,The Rathskeller holds it which sits in the skies,Whose roseate gleamingIs bright in its beaming,As the love-stars which shine in the heav’n of thine eyes.

I bring thee a song, and though humble the strain,Love glows in each word of the burning refrain.And oh, that its notes were as wild and as sweetAs the plashing of fountainsOr horns on the mountains,Or songs which thy dear lips in warblings repeat.

[A private and confidential Epistle to Sam Gaines, Editor of the Hopkinsville New Era. Written for the Kentucky Press Association.]God might have made a better berry than the strawberry, but certainly he never did.—Izaak Walton.

[A private and confidential Epistle to Sam Gaines, Editor of the Hopkinsville New Era. Written for the Kentucky Press Association.]

God might have made a better berry than the strawberry, but certainly he never did.—Izaak Walton.

Ye Salutation.

Bring forth the bowl within whose roundNo heart-consuming draught is found,But berries glittering with the dewWhich south winds o’er the gardens strew,Sweet souvenirs of Paradise,With cheeks of flame and breath of spice,Shedding for one bright hour their glowO’er life’s long Alpine waste of snow.Breathes there a man with soul so dead,Who never to himself hath said,“O that I owned a strawberry bed?”Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,As he beheld, in cream inurned,Great sugared berries, coral red?If such there be, go, mark him well;Of berries never let him smell,Where gathers the church festivalOr rings the merry marriage-bell;Mark him—as thou wouldst mark a steerOr swine—by cropping off his ear.

A Walk in the Garden.

Wake, winds of May, yon emerald waves,Crested with flowers, like sea-foam white,Where sparkle in their trefoil cavesLong coral reefs of berries bright;Shaped like a gentle maiden’s heart,And bleeding as from Cupid’s dart,The garden’s earliest offering,Crown-jewels on the brow of Spring;The berry Izaak Walton loved,And Downer’s perfect taste approved;Dispensing odors beatific,Kentucky, Cumberland, Prolific,Sharpless, and Monarch of the West,And rare Charles Downing, last and bestThy leaves, sweet trefoil! symbols threeOf Faith and Hope and Love shall be;Fair type of Christian hope to all,The vine sleeps low ’neath snowy pall;The resurrection blooms in May,With flowers and fruits in bright array,And soaring larks in countless throngSinging their joyful Easter Song,And choir of mocking-birds on highGray-plumed sopranos of the sky

Ye Revel on Olympus.

Heap high the bowl! Ages agoBefore the birth of Faust or Hoe,Before New Eras, Posts, and SunsGave specials, paragraphs and puns,When only Mercury bore the newsAround the skies, in winged shoes,Such genial revels held the gods,Juno and Jove, and other frauds;In heaven’s blue crystal urn each nightThe stars, like berries, twinkled brightAnd the Great Dipper skimmed the creamWhere poured the Milky Way its stream;Deserted is the Olympic hill;Heaven, stars, girls, strawberries, bless us still

Ye Invocation.

Lord, we adore thy matchless bountyAnd grace which, after giving birthTo sun and moon and stars and earth.Gave us a land of rarest worthAnd cast our lot in Christian County!’Mid meek-eyed Jerseys, guileless mules,Hopkinsville peaches, Public Schools,Tobacco farms and gilt-edged bonds,Wheat-fields and sheep and fishing-ponds,Coveys of quail and double barrels,Opossums, pheasants, doves and squirrels,Damsels whose pamphanescent eyes,If stars were quenched would light the skies;And for to-night, to make us merry,Provided Izaak Walton’s berry,Ten inches round in lawful measure,The garden’s glory, pride and treasure—Nor Brenner’s brush nor Prentice’s penCould tell their worth—and so, Amen!

Ye Picnic.

Fill high the bowl! In blissful visionWe wander over fields Elysian,Through ever-lengthening colonnades,Of whispering elms and beechen shades;Grave manhood’s cares are cast away,And all are boys again, to-dayBy one sure sign we know each other—“The strawberry mark!—Our long lost brother!”While all discourse on sylvan pipeOf golden cream and berries ripe,Or sound on Memory’s silver horn,“I too was in Arcadia born!”Sooth, ’tis a goodly sight to seeThe revellers’ mutual ministry:Stanton shall drive the Jersey cow,Sam Gaines shall cause her milk to flow,Logan shall hold her by the tail,And Kelly bear the foaming pail;Woodson shall crush the crystal ice,Johnston hand spoons, all polished nice,The Courier-Journal pass the berries,With brisk champagne and golden sherriesAnd he shall serve his country bestWho stores most berries ’neath his vest.By shady glen and waterfallOur early loves will we recall,Maids whom no time can ere eclipse,With strawberry cheeks and sugared lips,Phantoms which haunt boyhood’s dream,Life’s fragrant, pure crême de la crême—Delicious cream, which soured too soon,And left us with an empty spoon!

Ye Pioneer’s Wild Strawberries.

Master of the Feast:“Father, thy locks are thin and gray,Hast thou no legend for us pray?Sing of the wild strawberry’s flameWhen first Kentucky hunters came.”Old Pioneer:“’Tis nigh on ninety years, I guess,By the road called the ‘Wilderness’—Its story’s told by Captain Speed,A little book you all should read—We pioneered to Old Kaintuck,Woods swarmed with turkey, bear and buck,And by the ‘Rock Spring’ pitched our tents,Them times wild strawberries was immense;We didn’t pick, we scooped ’em upBy bushels, with a bowl or cup;And when our teams came home at night,The critters’ legs—they wuz a sight;Seemed like they’d swum in bloody seas,The red juice splashed above their knees.We rode one May-day ’cross the prairie,Me and my wife and little Mary;Come to a holler in the ground,Where lots of strawberries grew around,And herds of trampling buffaloMade the red juice in rivers flowAnd fill a pool some five foot deep—Excuse me, pardners; I must weep—Thanks! My throat is a leetle dry—God knows I can not tell a lie (Applause)Our horses slipped and tumbled in,We swum in juice up to the chin;A half an hour we rose and sankAt last we scrambled to the bank;Me and my wife soon came around—“(Omnes.) “But little Mary?”“She was drowned!” (Groans)“Yes drowned! My stricken heart, be calm!Hers is the crown, the harp, the palm—Thanks, yes if you insist, a dram.Blood flowed them days like strawberry juiceWhen Girty let his hell-hounds loose.One day some Injin squaws allfired—“Master:“There, old man, rest. You must be tired.Share in our feast, Homeric sire;Thanks to the Muse for such a lyre!”

Master of the Feast:

“Father, thy locks are thin and gray,Hast thou no legend for us pray?Sing of the wild strawberry’s flameWhen first Kentucky hunters came.”

Old Pioneer:

“’Tis nigh on ninety years, I guess,By the road called the ‘Wilderness’—Its story’s told by Captain Speed,A little book you all should read—We pioneered to Old Kaintuck,Woods swarmed with turkey, bear and buck,And by the ‘Rock Spring’ pitched our tents,Them times wild strawberries was immense;We didn’t pick, we scooped ’em upBy bushels, with a bowl or cup;And when our teams came home at night,The critters’ legs—they wuz a sight;Seemed like they’d swum in bloody seas,The red juice splashed above their knees.We rode one May-day ’cross the prairie,Me and my wife and little Mary;Come to a holler in the ground,Where lots of strawberries grew around,And herds of trampling buffaloMade the red juice in rivers flowAnd fill a pool some five foot deep—Excuse me, pardners; I must weep—Thanks! My throat is a leetle dry—God knows I can not tell a lie (Applause)Our horses slipped and tumbled in,We swum in juice up to the chin;A half an hour we rose and sankAt last we scrambled to the bank;Me and my wife soon came around—“

(Omnes.) “But little Mary?”

“She was drowned!” (Groans)“Yes drowned! My stricken heart, be calm!Hers is the crown, the harp, the palm—Thanks, yes if you insist, a dram.Blood flowed them days like strawberry juiceWhen Girty let his hell-hounds loose.One day some Injin squaws allfired—“

Master:

“There, old man, rest. You must be tired.Share in our feast, Homeric sire;Thanks to the Muse for such a lyre!”

Ye Silent Toast.

Fill high to-night the strawberry bowlFor friendship’s feast and flow of soul,Quickly, ere Psyche’s brilliant flightShall vanish in the coming night.Soon shall the parting word be spoken,Soon friendship’s golden bowl be broken;Clasp hands and salutation sendTo each true-hearted, absent friend;Nor in our circle be forgotThe masters who before us wrought,Titans of memorable days:Penn, with his sheathless falchion’s blaze,Harney, the dauntless, true, and strong,And Prentice of the golden song,Triad whose still ascending trackFlings its long rays of splendor back.

Ye Small Boy’s Downfall.—A Sam.

What spectres from the strawberry bowlFlit through the galleries of the soul,With shrill voice crying, “Grieve his heart;Come like shadows; so depart!”Strawberry cake, preserves, and jam!I see thy mild eyes moisten, SamPerchance at memory of the closetWhere once was stored the rare deposit,High ranged upon the topmost shelf,A skillful mother’s richest pelf.I see thee steal, at dead of night,With cat-like footsteps, soft and light;I see thee open slow the door,Peep in, and cautiously explore;I see short Sam the boxes pile,Humming Longfellow’s psalm the while:“The heights to which the great have stept,Were not attained by sudden flight,But they, while their companions sleptWere toiling upward in the night.”I hear a sudden scream—a crash—I see a candle’s fitful flash—Tableau—A boy with downfallen breeches,Loud sobs and screams and stinging switches.

Good-night.

Heap high the bowl and pour the cream!How bright the rosy berries gleam—Red fruit and Jersey cream upon it,The colors of my lady’s bonnet.In hues like these the western sunDescends to rest when day is done;And round his flaming couch are rolledBright curtained clouds of red and gold.Not greedily the fruit devour;Prolong the raptures of the hour;Stain not with juice your linen fair,And of the “strawberry nose” beware.Think of the lovely—the sublime—Niagara—California’s clime;The Mammoth Cave—Alaska’s shore,Where glaciers plunge and billows roar;Balance each berry in your spoon,Sink back in a delicious swoon,And murmur in a Romeo’s sigh:“I have seen Naples—let me die!”O, vital sparks of heavenly flame!Whate’er your lineage, land or name,Pink buds which Mother Nature clipsFrom infant cherubs’ finger tips,Or earth-born babies’ little toes,Tinted like sea-shell or the rose,Or notes from songs of home and love,Which floating to the skies aboveAre crystallized in heaven’s pure airAnd turn to crimson berries there—Ambrosial fruit of heavenly birth,By Ariel’s fingers dropped on earth—Come o’er me and possess my soul,Sweet spirit of the Strawberry Bowl!For all the world’s a strawberry bowl,Life the red fruit which fills the brim,The daily papers spoon the whole,And women are the sugar and cream.Melrose Garden, May, 1880.

[Sung at the Dedication of the Jefferson Davis Memorial Church, Fairview, Kentucky, November 21, 1886.]Inscription on a marble tablet in the wall of the church:Jefferson Davis, of Mississippi, was born June 3, 1808, on the site of this church. He made a gift of the lot March 10, 1886, to the Bethel Baptist Church, as a thank-offering to the Lord.

[Sung at the Dedication of the Jefferson Davis Memorial Church, Fairview, Kentucky, November 21, 1886.]

Inscription on a marble tablet in the wall of the church:

Jefferson Davis, of Mississippi, was born June 3, 1808, on the site of this church. He made a gift of the lot March 10, 1886, to the Bethel Baptist Church, as a thank-offering to the Lord.

Jesus, to thy great name we raiseA house of penitence and praise,A beacon for the wanderers’ bark,To guide it home through storm and dark.Here shall ambition’s fever cease,Sin’s wretched slaves find sweet release,And washed in Jordan’s cleansing waveRise from the Christian’s mystic grave.Hence bid our earth-born cares depart,Heal every aching, bleeding heart,Dispel the clouds of doubt and dreadAnd feed us with thy living Bread.Father, Redeemer, Guide and Friend,Go with us to our Journey’s end,Until we hail in ParadiseThe nobler Bethel of the skies.

Jesus, to thy great name we raiseA house of penitence and praise,A beacon for the wanderers’ bark,To guide it home through storm and dark.

Here shall ambition’s fever cease,Sin’s wretched slaves find sweet release,And washed in Jordan’s cleansing waveRise from the Christian’s mystic grave.

Hence bid our earth-born cares depart,Heal every aching, bleeding heart,Dispel the clouds of doubt and dreadAnd feed us with thy living Bread.

Father, Redeemer, Guide and Friend,Go with us to our Journey’s end,Until we hail in ParadiseThe nobler Bethel of the skies.

Image unavailable: GENERAL JOHN H. MORGAN, C. S. A.GENERAL JOHN H. MORGAN, C. S. A.

Dedicated to Mrs. Basil Duke.

Wild disorder, uproar, panic,Civil war with deeds SatanicBreak Kentucky’s dream—Neutrality—Everywhere war’s stern realityDrum and fife and bugle-playing—Terrors breeding; fears allaying—For various hopes and fears are rifeIn the wild rage of civil strife;When son and sire in contest stand,Each loyal to his native land,Obeying many-voiced command;One loyal to the stripes and stars—One faithful to the stars and bars!There curls the smoke of burning train!There leaguered stockades fight in vain—War glows on hill and glen.Fat cattle to the camp are led,The farmer mourns his thoroughbred.They quickly came, as quickly fled;Swift as an Indian arrow sped—The Southron’s joy, the Federal’s dread—John Morgan and his men?Loved and obeyed by his command,With woman’s heart and lion’s hand—The Sydney of the Southern landJohn Harper’s thoroughbreds forsakeThe turf of Woodford’s old cane-brake;And walnut, oak and hackberry grove,To track the bridle paths that roveHigh o’er the caves of Edmonson—The treeless fields without a sun!And bear the bold Rough Riders onWhere trains are seized and treasures won.Dark Echo River’s weeping waveShall mourn beneath the warrior’s grave,The dauntless partisan who rodeRight on through storm and snow and flood.The foe exclaims, “He’s here!” “He’s there!”Vanished like spectres in the air,Trackless, save for the empty stall,Or smoke wreath rising like a pallOver the commissary’s store,Where hungry comrades loud deploreThe thunderbolt of Morgan’s raid—Chief of th’ Invisible Brigade,Vanished, like morning rainbow, spunBy golden distaff of the sun.There is bustle and commotion to-night with “Ellen N,”Fair Ellen, maid of iron stays, beloved of many men,From a thousand fertile valleys, from many a teeming glen,She bears great stores on laboring trains to Thomas and his menThe blue-coats down at Nashville have come to do or die,To battle for the old flag beneath the Southern sky,And to Ellen’s welcome ministry—they look most wistfully,She bears souvenirs and messages in her capacious trains,The maidens of the great Northwest send greetings to their swains,She has hard-tack, and tobacco, and bacon in her store,She has cod-fish and dried beef and gingerbread galore,From Keystone, Empire State, from Indiana’s plainsEllen speeds them all along in her wide flowing trains,Bibles and tracts and song-books, and sweet messages from home,And prayer-books from every church from Geneva to Rome,From many a Western Valley, from many a quiet glen,Comes goodly cheer from the kindly hands of buxom Ellen N.There is trouble on your road to-night, O dauntless Ellen N!There is panic, there is hurry—’tis John Morgan and his men,There are bridges burned—the track’s ripped up—some one has cut the wireAnd commissary stores go up by thousands in the fire,A sudden charge at midnight, the long train is in ashes,The magazine explodes with deafening roar and crashes,Millions go up like tinder in all-consuming flame,And Morgan and his men ride off, as quickly as they came.Nashville and Chattanooga rue,Divided rations cut in two.The horseman scathless burned and fledTheir foes went supperless to bed.They might as well have fought the airThey charged—but Morgan was not there.His baffled foe, always too slowTo harass or inflict a blow,Muttered, “For sure the man’s a wizard,One might as well strike at a blizzard,”He’s here—he’s gone again—he’s there!Like exhalation of the airWaving its strange, uncanny lightO’er grave or dismal swamp at night.One trait his hottest foe confessed,“A hero’s heart beats in his breast,He never strikes a foe when down,Nor woman ever saw him frown.”The mean poltroon of later daysWho dons a mask in devious ways,Black mask and heart, in liver white,Fleet as a hare in coward flightAnd worthy of the hangman’s loopNe’er found his like in Morgan’s troop.They lashed no helpless foeman’s back,No woman felt his brute attack.He burned no roof o’er matron’s head,While sleeping with her babes in bed,Nor scourged with thorns till shoulders bled.No town was burned in bandit flameTill the poltroon Night-riders came,With bloody threats in unsigned lettersAnd switches to alarm their betters;An anarchist of basest soul,The gallows-tree his fitting goalWithout a hope of reformationHe forces this dilemma on the nation,Expatriation or Extermination.Bred in a home of luxury,The very flower of courtesy,The pet of good life’s merry whirl,Kindly and handsome as a girl,The dread of many a Federal band,The darling of the Southern land,Rode Morgan like a Centaur’s self,But not for vulgar greed or pelf,Chivalrous men of force and pride,Sought brave adventures at his side,How shrewd he struck, how hard his blowThe bravest Federal well might know,Even while their needed stores were broughDestruction came as quick as thought.Victim of Woman’s treachery,He perished not as the brave should die,Decoyed to death, unarmed he died.No friend nor weapon by his side,Without resistance or a blow,His death-doom came from heartless foe,And strong men of heroic heartWho stooped not to the assassin’s artDropped at the news an honest tearWhen Morgan after bright careerUnscathed by ball or battle-spear,Rested at last upon his bier,And unattended and unshrivenThe warrior’s soul went up to Heaven.No base Night-riders he bequeathed,When peace her joyful olives wreathed.Nor placed a mean banditti stampUpon the soldiers of his camp.When truce was called by Grant and Lee’Neath Appomattox apple tree,And ’mid the late conflicting bandsRejoicing Blue and Gray shook hands,And maidens by no fear oppressedClasped warrior lovers to their breast,When Richmond’s hills echoed no more,The black-lipped cannon’s horrid roar,A scene was witnessed there sublime,A wonder in the halls of Time,Each soldier to his work returned,In whom the love of country burnedSome to their former plow and spade,Some to their shops or honest trade;Trained by the clinic of the campDoctors relit the student’s lamp.Some to the courts, or in the States’Grand forum joined the high debates,Others who learned in the late strifeThe vanity of mortal life,Proclaimed the Gospel’s “Old, old Story”Their mothers taught long passed to glory,Leading their audience to ChristWhose balm for every ill sufficed.Watering their flocks at Jordan’s springs,Whose doves bore healing in their wingsSome of the band of Morgan’s fighters,Swapped swords for pens of ready writers,And Captains spruce and bearded ColonelsRuled Times, Gazettes, and Courier-JournalsSome tossed the blazing torch aside,And ruled the tracks they once destroyed,Building steel railways far and near;And Duke who rode with Morgan’s men,Turns suitor now to “Ellen N.”Each man who followed Morgan’s fameInspired by his heroic name,His living monument became.In Gotham’s mighty mart of trade,Which all of worth and brain invitesThe men of Morgan’s cavalcadeConspicuous walk as shining lightsAs walked the men of WashingtonWhen Revolution’s war was done.In posts of honor now they laborAs when equipped with gun and sabre,And men exclaim on every hand“These rode in Morgan’s great Command.Nor lapse of years shall e’er dispelThe love with which they fondly dwellOn comrades who in battle fell,Who braved Stone River’s fiery scath,Or forward pressed on bloody pathOf Shiloh’s field or Nashville’s wrath.

There curls the smoke of burning train!There leaguered stockades fight in vain—War glows on hill and glen.Fat cattle to the camp are led,The farmer mourns his thoroughbred.They quickly came, as quickly fled;Swift as an Indian arrow sped—The Southron’s joy, the Federal’s dread—John Morgan and his men?Loved and obeyed by his command,With woman’s heart and lion’s hand—The Sydney of the Southern land

John Harper’s thoroughbreds forsakeThe turf of Woodford’s old cane-brake;And walnut, oak and hackberry grove,To track the bridle paths that roveHigh o’er the caves of Edmonson—The treeless fields without a sun!And bear the bold Rough Riders onWhere trains are seized and treasures won.

Dark Echo River’s weeping waveShall mourn beneath the warrior’s grave,The dauntless partisan who rodeRight on through storm and snow and flood.The foe exclaims, “He’s here!” “He’s there!”Vanished like spectres in the air,Trackless, save for the empty stall,Or smoke wreath rising like a pallOver the commissary’s store,Where hungry comrades loud deploreThe thunderbolt of Morgan’s raid—Chief of th’ Invisible Brigade,Vanished, like morning rainbow, spunBy golden distaff of the sun.

There is bustle and commotion to-night with “Ellen N,”Fair Ellen, maid of iron stays, beloved of many men,From a thousand fertile valleys, from many a teeming glen,She bears great stores on laboring trains to Thomas and his menThe blue-coats down at Nashville have come to do or die,To battle for the old flag beneath the Southern sky,And to Ellen’s welcome ministry—they look most wistfully,She bears souvenirs and messages in her capacious trains,The maidens of the great Northwest send greetings to their swains,She has hard-tack, and tobacco, and bacon in her store,She has cod-fish and dried beef and gingerbread galore,From Keystone, Empire State, from Indiana’s plainsEllen speeds them all along in her wide flowing trains,Bibles and tracts and song-books, and sweet messages from home,And prayer-books from every church from Geneva to Rome,From many a Western Valley, from many a quiet glen,Comes goodly cheer from the kindly hands of buxom Ellen N.There is trouble on your road to-night, O dauntless Ellen N!There is panic, there is hurry—’tis John Morgan and his men,There are bridges burned—the track’s ripped up—some one has cut the wireAnd commissary stores go up by thousands in the fire,A sudden charge at midnight, the long train is in ashes,The magazine explodes with deafening roar and crashes,Millions go up like tinder in all-consuming flame,And Morgan and his men ride off, as quickly as they came.

Nashville and Chattanooga rue,Divided rations cut in two.The horseman scathless burned and fledTheir foes went supperless to bed.They might as well have fought the airThey charged—but Morgan was not there.His baffled foe, always too slowTo harass or inflict a blow,Muttered, “For sure the man’s a wizard,One might as well strike at a blizzard,”He’s here—he’s gone again—he’s there!Like exhalation of the airWaving its strange, uncanny lightO’er grave or dismal swamp at night.One trait his hottest foe confessed,“A hero’s heart beats in his breast,He never strikes a foe when down,Nor woman ever saw him frown.”

The mean poltroon of later daysWho dons a mask in devious ways,Black mask and heart, in liver white,Fleet as a hare in coward flightAnd worthy of the hangman’s loopNe’er found his like in Morgan’s troop.They lashed no helpless foeman’s back,No woman felt his brute attack.He burned no roof o’er matron’s head,While sleeping with her babes in bed,Nor scourged with thorns till shoulders bled.No town was burned in bandit flameTill the poltroon Night-riders came,With bloody threats in unsigned lettersAnd switches to alarm their betters;An anarchist of basest soul,The gallows-tree his fitting goalWithout a hope of reformationHe forces this dilemma on the nation,Expatriation or Extermination.

Bred in a home of luxury,The very flower of courtesy,The pet of good life’s merry whirl,Kindly and handsome as a girl,The dread of many a Federal band,The darling of the Southern land,Rode Morgan like a Centaur’s self,But not for vulgar greed or pelf,Chivalrous men of force and pride,Sought brave adventures at his side,How shrewd he struck, how hard his blowThe bravest Federal well might know,Even while their needed stores were broughDestruction came as quick as thought.

Victim of Woman’s treachery,He perished not as the brave should die,Decoyed to death, unarmed he died.No friend nor weapon by his side,Without resistance or a blow,His death-doom came from heartless foe,And strong men of heroic heartWho stooped not to the assassin’s artDropped at the news an honest tearWhen Morgan after bright careerUnscathed by ball or battle-spear,Rested at last upon his bier,And unattended and unshrivenThe warrior’s soul went up to Heaven.

No base Night-riders he bequeathed,When peace her joyful olives wreathed.Nor placed a mean banditti stampUpon the soldiers of his camp.When truce was called by Grant and Lee’Neath Appomattox apple tree,And ’mid the late conflicting bandsRejoicing Blue and Gray shook hands,And maidens by no fear oppressedClasped warrior lovers to their breast,When Richmond’s hills echoed no more,The black-lipped cannon’s horrid roar,A scene was witnessed there sublime,A wonder in the halls of Time,Each soldier to his work returned,In whom the love of country burnedSome to their former plow and spade,Some to their shops or honest trade;Trained by the clinic of the campDoctors relit the student’s lamp.Some to the courts, or in the States’Grand forum joined the high debates,Others who learned in the late strifeThe vanity of mortal life,Proclaimed the Gospel’s “Old, old Story”Their mothers taught long passed to glory,Leading their audience to ChristWhose balm for every ill sufficed.Watering their flocks at Jordan’s springs,Whose doves bore healing in their wingsSome of the band of Morgan’s fighters,Swapped swords for pens of ready writers,And Captains spruce and bearded ColonelsRuled Times, Gazettes, and Courier-JournalsSome tossed the blazing torch aside,And ruled the tracks they once destroyed,Building steel railways far and near;And Duke who rode with Morgan’s men,Turns suitor now to “Ellen N.”Each man who followed Morgan’s fameInspired by his heroic name,His living monument became.

In Gotham’s mighty mart of trade,Which all of worth and brain invitesThe men of Morgan’s cavalcadeConspicuous walk as shining lightsAs walked the men of WashingtonWhen Revolution’s war was done.In posts of honor now they laborAs when equipped with gun and sabre,And men exclaim on every hand“These rode in Morgan’s great Command.Nor lapse of years shall e’er dispelThe love with which they fondly dwellOn comrades who in battle fell,Who braved Stone River’s fiery scath,Or forward pressed on bloody pathOf Shiloh’s field or Nashville’s wrath.

Evening mists hang o’er the rill,Twilight’s lucent dews are falling;From the copse on yonder hillThe lone whippoorwill is calling;Soon as glow the Orient firesOf the new moon’s shining crescentWith a throat that never tiresCries the bird with song incessant,“Whippoorwill!”Piping from its tuneful bill,“Whippoorwill!”Does that quick and plaintive cryBurst from bosom sorrow-laden,Like the star-told agonyOf a wretched, love-lorn maiden?Or contemning, like a sage,Mirthful strains attuned to folly,Tames it thus the minstrel’s rageWith a song so melancholy?“Whippoorwill!”Music soothes our sorrows still,“Whippoorwill!”Hearts bereft of hope and lightBy the bolt of sorrow riven,’Neath the friendly vail of nightTell their griefs to listening heaven;Like the lonely whippoorwill,Flying far from daylight’s din,To some thick and starless shadeLike that which fills the soul within.“Whippoorwill!”Night befriends the mourner still“Whippoorwill!”Like a hermit in his cell,Where a holy vow has bound him,Long the night bird’s vesper bellWakes the cloistered shades around himSad as love beside the tombOf its earliest, deepest sorrowWails the bird till twilight’s gloomFades away in dawning morrow—“Whippoorwill!”And its cry is never still—“Whippoorwill!”

Does that quick and plaintive cryBurst from bosom sorrow-laden,Like the star-told agonyOf a wretched, love-lorn maiden?Or contemning, like a sage,Mirthful strains attuned to folly,Tames it thus the minstrel’s rageWith a song so melancholy?“Whippoorwill!”Music soothes our sorrows still,“Whippoorwill!”

Hearts bereft of hope and lightBy the bolt of sorrow riven,’Neath the friendly vail of nightTell their griefs to listening heaven;Like the lonely whippoorwill,Flying far from daylight’s din,To some thick and starless shadeLike that which fills the soul within.“Whippoorwill!”Night befriends the mourner still“Whippoorwill!”

Like a hermit in his cell,Where a holy vow has bound him,Long the night bird’s vesper bellWakes the cloistered shades around himSad as love beside the tombOf its earliest, deepest sorrowWails the bird till twilight’s gloomFades away in dawning morrow—“Whippoorwill!”And its cry is never still—“Whippoorwill!”

Dedicated to R. W. Knott, Editor of the Louisville Evening Post

Sweet were my dreams along thy streams,Old South, in bygone days,Till war’s red cloud, ’mid thunders loud,Consumed them in its blaze:Sewanee’s old plantation scenes,Where wild bees filled the comb;The banjo and the moonlight danceOf old Kentucky Home.The New South wakes! the New South shakesThe dew-drops from her mane,For idle grief brings no relief,The past comes not again;To manly hearts and patient soulsHeaven sanctifies each loss;Two angels, Toil and Patience, bearTo Heaven the Southern Cross.New South! New South! unseal thy mouth,Thy golden age is come—Invention’s soaring harmonyAnd labor’s busy hum.The Old South dies; with beaming eyesThe New South hastens in;So boyhood’s toys are cast asideWhen manhood’s deeds begin.

The New South wakes! the New South shakesThe dew-drops from her mane,For idle grief brings no relief,The past comes not again;To manly hearts and patient soulsHeaven sanctifies each loss;Two angels, Toil and Patience, bearTo Heaven the Southern Cross.

New South! New South! unseal thy mouth,Thy golden age is come—Invention’s soaring harmonyAnd labor’s busy hum.The Old South dies; with beaming eyesThe New South hastens in;So boyhood’s toys are cast asideWhen manhood’s deeds begin.

Ægri somnia vanæFingentur species.—Horace.

Many a league have I traversed to-night,Many a league in painful flight,For demons pressed on my bleeding trackAnd the air with their sounding wings was blackOften, often, they came so nearI felt their hot breath on my ear,And mad with terror, I bounded onTill the cock crew out at the glimmering dawn.Over the rocks, through trackless woods,O’er bottomless chasms and raging floods,Through measureless wastes of dreary swamps,Lit by the fireflies’ fitful lamps,Where the moccasin coils in scaly spires’Mong the water-lilies and tangled briars;Where the spotted toad and the water newtLurk in the weeds of the poisonous fen,And the blue-heron utters its plaintive cry,And the owl hoots out to the starless sky,And the foul miasma’s putrid breathIs filling the air with the taint of death—Under the Upas tree’s fatal shadeWhere death his carnival has made;Where ghastly corpses taint the dayAnd the vulture fears to claim his prey;In the stifling air of the Grotto del CaneWhere the night dews fall like blustering rain—I fled, nor looked one moment back,For the ghosts were yelling on my track.Ah! not the unimprisoned shadows,Which dwell in the Elysian meadows,Released from pain, and want, and care,And doubt and sorrow and despair;Nor such as timid wanderers meet,When the moon is struggling under a cloud,With bony fingers and skeleton feet,And grinning skulls and ghastly shroud,But the nameless troop which lawless thoughtTo the poet’s wildest dream has brought,The brood which dark remorse might viewWhen justice comes to claim her due;Strange somethings of more frightful mienThan mortal eye has ever seen.O! sacred sleep, once more descend,And seal these throbbing, aching eyes,Thou art the sufferer’s truest friend,And bringest balm from Paradise,Distilled from groves which never castTheir leaves from worm, or winter’s blast.Hush!—’Twas as if some murmured strain,Well known in childhood’s happy hours,Came wafted o’er a desolate plain,On winds impregnated with flowers,And then they vanish—like the lambent lightThat flashes through a tempest cloud at nightLo! Dreamland’s terrible array,Advances still—Away, away!—Down through the dark Cimmerian glenStained with the blood of murdered men,Far from the beams of the friendly sunWhen “deeds without a name” are done,And the night-hags hold their dance of deathAround the cauldron of Macbeth;Where the sire fell by the hand of the son—A stab, a groan, and the crime was done;Where the duelist sped the ball of death,And the mother stifled the infant’s breath,Under yon gloomy cypress’ shadeBy the lonely grave of the beautiful maid,Murdered by him who had betrayed,Where her spectre glides at dead of nightWith clots of gore on her bosom white;Where on a gibbet the murderer swingsWaving his fleshless arms like wings—I fled, nor quaked at the hideous sight,For life and death were in my flight.Across the burning desert’s wasteWhere the path by skeletons is traced,And the bones of the caravan welter and bleachAs thick as the shells on the ocean’s beach,Swift as the winged winds I fly,And my swollen lips are all cracked and dry,And I plead in vain to the rainless sky,While my bloodshot eyes from their sockets burstIn the torrid agony of thirst;But the demons that follow laugh and yellAs they breathe the native blasts of hell.The simoon’s blast, Oh joy! is past,And the ocean beach is reached at last!A storm is out and the wild winds mockThe ship as she drives on a hidden rock,And the sea-gull screams its piercing dirgeAs the dead drift in on the landward surge.No pause! but quick as thought I laveMy burning limbs in the boiling wave,Till I reach a cliff in my watery flightAnd breathless scale its dizzy height.The ocean’s roar comes faint and weakAs I cling to the side of the slippery peak,Watching the wrath of the fearful nightBy the fitful flash of tempest’s light.Lo! how the eyes of the demons glowAs they cleave the boiling waves below!Yelling at me, their helpless preyAs bloodhounds yell when the stag’s at bay!They climb! they mount! the demons all,And the beetling cliff begins to fall—And I wake with a groan and a smothered screamTo find it all a fever dream

Over the rocks, through trackless woods,O’er bottomless chasms and raging floods,Through measureless wastes of dreary swamps,Lit by the fireflies’ fitful lamps,Where the moccasin coils in scaly spires’Mong the water-lilies and tangled briars;Where the spotted toad and the water newtLurk in the weeds of the poisonous fen,And the blue-heron utters its plaintive cry,And the owl hoots out to the starless sky,And the foul miasma’s putrid breathIs filling the air with the taint of death—Under the Upas tree’s fatal shadeWhere death his carnival has made;Where ghastly corpses taint the dayAnd the vulture fears to claim his prey;In the stifling air of the Grotto del CaneWhere the night dews fall like blustering rain—I fled, nor looked one moment back,For the ghosts were yelling on my track.

Ah! not the unimprisoned shadows,Which dwell in the Elysian meadows,Released from pain, and want, and care,And doubt and sorrow and despair;Nor such as timid wanderers meet,When the moon is struggling under a cloud,With bony fingers and skeleton feet,And grinning skulls and ghastly shroud,But the nameless troop which lawless thoughtTo the poet’s wildest dream has brought,The brood which dark remorse might viewWhen justice comes to claim her due;Strange somethings of more frightful mienThan mortal eye has ever seen.

O! sacred sleep, once more descend,And seal these throbbing, aching eyes,Thou art the sufferer’s truest friend,And bringest balm from Paradise,Distilled from groves which never castTheir leaves from worm, or winter’s blast.Hush!—’Twas as if some murmured strain,Well known in childhood’s happy hours,Came wafted o’er a desolate plain,On winds impregnated with flowers,And then they vanish—like the lambent lightThat flashes through a tempest cloud at night

Lo! Dreamland’s terrible array,Advances still—Away, away!—Down through the dark Cimmerian glenStained with the blood of murdered men,Far from the beams of the friendly sunWhen “deeds without a name” are done,And the night-hags hold their dance of deathAround the cauldron of Macbeth;Where the sire fell by the hand of the son—A stab, a groan, and the crime was done;Where the duelist sped the ball of death,And the mother stifled the infant’s breath,Under yon gloomy cypress’ shadeBy the lonely grave of the beautiful maid,Murdered by him who had betrayed,Where her spectre glides at dead of nightWith clots of gore on her bosom white;Where on a gibbet the murderer swingsWaving his fleshless arms like wings—I fled, nor quaked at the hideous sight,For life and death were in my flight.

Across the burning desert’s wasteWhere the path by skeletons is traced,And the bones of the caravan welter and bleachAs thick as the shells on the ocean’s beach,Swift as the winged winds I fly,And my swollen lips are all cracked and dry,And I plead in vain to the rainless sky,While my bloodshot eyes from their sockets burstIn the torrid agony of thirst;But the demons that follow laugh and yellAs they breathe the native blasts of hell.The simoon’s blast, Oh joy! is past,And the ocean beach is reached at last!A storm is out and the wild winds mockThe ship as she drives on a hidden rock,And the sea-gull screams its piercing dirgeAs the dead drift in on the landward surge.No pause! but quick as thought I laveMy burning limbs in the boiling wave,Till I reach a cliff in my watery flightAnd breathless scale its dizzy height.The ocean’s roar comes faint and weakAs I cling to the side of the slippery peak,Watching the wrath of the fearful nightBy the fitful flash of tempest’s light.Lo! how the eyes of the demons glowAs they cleave the boiling waves below!Yelling at me, their helpless preyAs bloodhounds yell when the stag’s at bay!They climb! they mount! the demons all,And the beetling cliff begins to fall—And I wake with a groan and a smothered screamTo find it all a fever dream

Image unavailable: MAJOR E. B. BASSETT Third Infantry, K. S. G.MAJOR E. B. BASSETTThird Infantry, K. S. G.

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