THE TEN BROTHERS.

Text—“O that they were wise, that they understood this, that they would consider their latter end!How should one chase a thousand, and two put ten thousand to flight?—DeuteronomyXXXII, 29, 30

Glenraven’s Night Riders, five hundred strong,Had finished their riot of outrage and wrong,They had burned Latham’s warehouse, robbed Italy’s King(What defense in the courts will the criminals bring?Who will dare to defend base ingratitude’s sting?);They have scourged a Kentuckian’s back like a slave,’Twas the brute deed of cowards, not the just or the brave,[A]McCool on his shoulders plied an overseer’s lashesBy the light of two warehouses sinking in ashes.They have dragged helpless maidens from innocent bed,They have shot through the bedrooms of widows—with leadThese black-handed anarchists of murder and arsonFired four volleys at a silver haired Methodist parson,And yelled in derision as their shots rang on air,“Denounce us again, Sir Priest—if you dare!Neither for you, nor your Church, nor your God do we care!They have done all that arson and force could achieve,And quaking like cowards the outlaws take leave,Unlike valiant soldiers after manly affrayBut like thieves from a hen-roost sneak quickly away.Out spoke Major Bassett: “The dogs had their day,And shooting’s a game at which two parties can play,They surprised us; the cowards have all skulked away.We’ll follow!” cried Bassett, and off with his mountPursued—ten brave men and true were his count.There was clatter of hoofs down the old Cadiz road,’Twas a clean pair of heels the Glenravenites showed.Alas, for the pluck of these minions of night,Black of mask and of heart, but their livers are white.“Ride fast!” shrieked the Night Riders’ chief, looking back,“A thousand giants from Hopkinsville press on our track!The Mayor has mustered all Company D,In humanity’s name can such outrages be?Now is your time to do Latham up brownAnd fire him and his followers out of the town!Damn his turnpikes, on which thirty thousand he spent!Damn the churches he aided—Hotel, Monument—(How grandly it towers o’er Confederate graves—Shall the sons of such heroes be Night Riders’ slaves?)Damn all such aristocrats, they shall know by the powers,That after they’ve made it their money is ours!”Hoboes, loafers and robbers, ride for your lives,On your crimes the Raven of Glen Raven thrives,And its horrible croak strikes fear to the landWhen it calls to the raid the Night Riders’ band.But who would have thought that the dogs would shoot backReal Krag-Jorgensen bullets? Alas and alack!His words were cut short by a volley of lead—There were loud shrieks of pain, in all quarters they fled;The shots of the bandits flew wide of their mark,As they galloped in terror away in the dark.Nor halted the maskers in their blood-sprinkled pathTo look back on three comrades writhing in death.Then Bassett assembled his God-fearing squadAnd bowing their heads devoutly thanked GodThat when Christian men band to battle for RightOne Christian can put a thousand outlaws to flight.Honest men will always walk off with the cake,And that is where Moses made no mistake;And to the Last Judgment all honest menWill bow to the Decalogue traced by his pen;For God Himself writes in Mount Sinai’s briefBy Moses His penman, Humanity’s chief,The Night Rider is coward, assassin, and thief.Hold fast to Moses! A squad of elevenWho join hands with Truth, are posted for Heaven,And the outlaws who ’gainst truth and honor rebelMust go to their place with the outlaws in Hell.So we’ll all shout huzza for Bassett and band,Till they banish the Night Riders out of the land.Forever shall God’s honest ministers preachPaul’s heaven-taught doctrine of order and law,As bold as John Baptist they shall stand in the breachTo battle for Truth and keep villains in awe.

Out spoke Major Bassett: “The dogs had their day,And shooting’s a game at which two parties can play,They surprised us; the cowards have all skulked away.We’ll follow!” cried Bassett, and off with his mountPursued—ten brave men and true were his count.There was clatter of hoofs down the old Cadiz road,’Twas a clean pair of heels the Glenravenites showed.Alas, for the pluck of these minions of night,Black of mask and of heart, but their livers are white.

“Ride fast!” shrieked the Night Riders’ chief, looking back,“A thousand giants from Hopkinsville press on our track!The Mayor has mustered all Company D,In humanity’s name can such outrages be?Now is your time to do Latham up brownAnd fire him and his followers out of the town!Damn his turnpikes, on which thirty thousand he spent!Damn the churches he aided—Hotel, Monument—(How grandly it towers o’er Confederate graves—Shall the sons of such heroes be Night Riders’ slaves?)Damn all such aristocrats, they shall know by the powers,That after they’ve made it their money is ours!”Hoboes, loafers and robbers, ride for your lives,On your crimes the Raven of Glen Raven thrives,And its horrible croak strikes fear to the landWhen it calls to the raid the Night Riders’ band.But who would have thought that the dogs would shoot backReal Krag-Jorgensen bullets? Alas and alack!His words were cut short by a volley of lead—There were loud shrieks of pain, in all quarters they fled;The shots of the bandits flew wide of their mark,As they galloped in terror away in the dark.Nor halted the maskers in their blood-sprinkled pathTo look back on three comrades writhing in death.

Then Bassett assembled his God-fearing squadAnd bowing their heads devoutly thanked GodThat when Christian men band to battle for RightOne Christian can put a thousand outlaws to flight.Honest men will always walk off with the cake,And that is where Moses made no mistake;And to the Last Judgment all honest menWill bow to the Decalogue traced by his pen;For God Himself writes in Mount Sinai’s briefBy Moses His penman, Humanity’s chief,The Night Rider is coward, assassin, and thief.Hold fast to Moses! A squad of elevenWho join hands with Truth, are posted for Heaven,And the outlaws who ’gainst truth and honor rebelMust go to their place with the outlaws in Hell.

So we’ll all shout huzza for Bassett and band,Till they banish the Night Riders out of the land.Forever shall God’s honest ministers preachPaul’s heaven-taught doctrine of order and law,As bold as John Baptist they shall stand in the breachTo battle for Truth and keep villains in awe.

[On the last day of the Christian County Fair, many years since, the ten sons of Mrs. Rebecca Brown, all excellent horsemen, entered the amphitheater mounted on iron-gray horses. After a fine exercise of horsemanship by the brothers the judges presented their aged mother with a silver cup, amid the loud applause of the vast crowd of spectators.]

’Tis the last afternoon of the old County FairThe amphitheatre’s thronged for a spectacle rare.Ten sons of one mother contend for the prizeAnd a whirlwind of cheering ascends to the skies’Tis surely a pity that horses and sheep,Mules, poultry and swine the blue ribbon should keep,O’er a highly bred strain of true women and men—If degenerate men rule the State, pray what then?On ten iron-gray horses they enter the ring,Ten brothers as graceful as swallows on wing.The crowd shouts and claps, for county and townLoved their silver-haired mother, Rebecca Brown.Let others for cattle and horses seek the prizeThe boys she had nursed were more dear in her eyes,Her sons were her jewels like Cornelia of old,More precious than Solomon’s rubies and gold,Each son a true citizen honored of men,Master workmen are all with plow, anvil or pen.In pairs and platoons they join and divide,Ever changing the figure in column they ride,Firm in the stirrup, with regular motion,Like flights of wild geese or the billows of ocean,O Mother! far better than rank, fashion, or wealthIs the toast all spectators now drink to your health.“Here’s a health to good mothers, the Angels of home,Write their names in the Temple of Fame—on the dome!”Smiling through tears gazed the mother that day,Her eyes followed each son on his fleet iron-gray,Thrifty, frugal, and upright was each dutiful one,In the whole decade not a prodigal sonPrecious memories ran back o’er the long vista of years,Faith’s brilliant rainbow arched her fountain of tears,Love and hope all commingled with doubts and with fears.O hour mysterious of omnipotent prayer!When the fireflies’ carnival flashes in air,When the Evening Star shines and the meteors glideShe counselled them thus as they knelt by her side:—“Let no plausible white lie, for gain, soil your lips;Let the dear sun of Truth be undimmed by eclipse.God’s commandments be yours, for their number is Ten,Obey them and be honored of God and of Men,For ’tis better by far to be honest than rich,And the King who is false finds his grave in a ditch;His manhood’s secure in the armour of TruthWho remembers his Creator in the days of his youth.”Swift round the ring rode the Ten Brothers Brown,Till the bugle sounds “Halt!” for award of the crown.By what rule of the Fair shall the Judges decree?Horsemen, horses, or mother—to which of the three?There was strewing of flowers, kerchiefs wavinggaloreAcclamations round the vast amphitheatre roarAs waves boom aloud ’gainst the rocks on the shore,As around the grand stand the brothers rode upThe Judges with one voice cried, “Take, O Mother, this cup,Far better and higher than wealth, rank or beauty,Your sons are your jewels—take the high prize of Duty,For Motherhood’s Excellence is guarded secureWhile Truth reigns on high and the heavens endure!”

On ten iron-gray horses they enter the ring,Ten brothers as graceful as swallows on wing.The crowd shouts and claps, for county and townLoved their silver-haired mother, Rebecca Brown.Let others for cattle and horses seek the prizeThe boys she had nursed were more dear in her eyes,Her sons were her jewels like Cornelia of old,More precious than Solomon’s rubies and gold,Each son a true citizen honored of men,Master workmen are all with plow, anvil or pen.In pairs and platoons they join and divide,Ever changing the figure in column they ride,Firm in the stirrup, with regular motion,Like flights of wild geese or the billows of ocean,O Mother! far better than rank, fashion, or wealthIs the toast all spectators now drink to your health.

“Here’s a health to good mothers, the Angels of home,Write their names in the Temple of Fame—on the dome!”Smiling through tears gazed the mother that day,Her eyes followed each son on his fleet iron-gray,Thrifty, frugal, and upright was each dutiful one,In the whole decade not a prodigal sonPrecious memories ran back o’er the long vista of years,Faith’s brilliant rainbow arched her fountain of tears,Love and hope all commingled with doubts and with fears.

O hour mysterious of omnipotent prayer!When the fireflies’ carnival flashes in air,When the Evening Star shines and the meteors glideShe counselled them thus as they knelt by her side:—“Let no plausible white lie, for gain, soil your lips;Let the dear sun of Truth be undimmed by eclipse.God’s commandments be yours, for their number is Ten,Obey them and be honored of God and of Men,For ’tis better by far to be honest than rich,And the King who is false finds his grave in a ditch;His manhood’s secure in the armour of TruthWho remembers his Creator in the days of his youth.”

Swift round the ring rode the Ten Brothers Brown,Till the bugle sounds “Halt!” for award of the crown.By what rule of the Fair shall the Judges decree?Horsemen, horses, or mother—to which of the three?There was strewing of flowers, kerchiefs wavinggaloreAcclamations round the vast amphitheatre roarAs waves boom aloud ’gainst the rocks on the shore,As around the grand stand the brothers rode upThe Judges with one voice cried, “Take, O Mother, this cup,Far better and higher than wealth, rank or beauty,Your sons are your jewels—take the high prize of Duty,For Motherhood’s Excellence is guarded secureWhile Truth reigns on high and the heavens endure!”

Through the unpeopled realms of nightWe have reached the Echo River;And our swinging torches’ lightOver its sunless waters quiver—Shooting their rays athwart the gloomOf yonder stern, colossal tomb;Emblazoning the funeral pallOf night, that drapes the high-arched hall,So dense, we almost hear it waveOver the Titan’s rocky grave—Once the dread Cyclops of the Cave.What bold Ulysses, standing by,Gazed on his dying agony,When, blind and frenzied, he laid downHis scepter and imperial crown,And yielded up his struggling breathIn this stern catacomb of death;And felt the icy shiverThat chilled the fever’s fiery parch,When took his soul its Stygian marchAdown the dark and stony archOf gloomy Echo River?Lone as the tarn, whose sobbing floodSighs in some demon-haunted wood,Its cheerless waters ever runWithout one welcome from the sun;Without a smile from one lone starThat trembles in the sky afar;But wend their solitary way,Secluded from the light of day.Kind Genii of the mystic wave,Who guard the portals of the cave,Gently along this sable tideNow let our little shallop glide;And by these weird and shadowy shoresDirect the dusky boatman’s oars,Until yon night-enshrouded strandReceives our wandering pilgrim bandHigh towering, like the rocky wallsOf the leviathan’s ocean halls,Rises the overshadowing cliffAbove our frail but daring skiff,Which skims along this lower deep,Where angry tempests never sweepNor polar star affords its rayTo steer us on our trackless way.And as we slowly sail along,The plashing oar, the voice of song,Caught by the Naiads of the wavesAnd echoed by the vocal caves,Enchant the pleased yet startled earWith strains that ring as loud and clearAs the wild mountain music—bornFrom the lone Alpine shepherd’s horn,In peals so loud that they affrightThe lammergeyer on dizzy height;And the bold eagle’s trumpet shriek,Loud-bugled from his thunder beakAnd echoed round from peak to peak,In hollow cadence dies awayAlong the mountain river,When the first stars of evening grayOn the blue waters quiver.* * * * * * * *Boom! rings the flashing pistol’s shot!The sound, by myriad echoes caught,Roars down the dark aisles of the grot;Loud as the earthquake demon’s groan,Peals the terrific thunder-tone—As if the shrieking blasts of March,That wrestle with the mountain larch,Swept down the dark and stony archOf glory’s Echo River.’Tis gone! and now a sad farewellUnto the listening waves we tell;Softer than midnight serenadeSung to the ears of Spanish maidBy the blue Guadalquiver!Plaintive and sweet as “Dixie”‘s airOf sadness which is not despairAnd ravishes the enchanted earOf home-returning volunteer—By his dear Bluegrass maiden sung,To mandolin with silver tongue.And witching is the fond adieuThe voice of beauty sings to you—O, music-murmuring river!For one, whose eyes and flowing locksAre darker than the raven’s wingOf midnight, brooding o’er yon rocks,Touches the plaintive sounding string,And pours a melancholy songThat floats the vocal stream along,Sad as the convent’s vesper hymn,Chanted by nuns, at twilight dim,Or that strange harp, whose magic toneSo wildly sweet, so sad and lone,To mortal minstrel never known,On night winds wafts its hollow moan.The ravished Genii of the wavesRepeat the story through the caves;And far along the tuneful flood,A never-ending multitudeOf echoing Ariels take their flightFar down the dark aisles of the night.If, when our throbbing hearts are still,And pulseless lies the icy hand,Reality should then fulfillOur dreamings of a brighter land,Then may the unfettered spirit’s ear,In some supernal, sinless sphere,Hear some immortal song like thisFloat through the bowers of Paradise,That bloom serene forever.While wafted home to rest, we dream.By Eden’s clear, ambrosial stream,That clouds o’ershadow never.We part! But O, who would not grieveThis world of melody to leave?For round our hearts a witching spellLingers and whispers low, “Farewell!”Like the low moan of ocean shell.Or midnight chime of distant bell,The torches, dancing to and fro,Cast in long lines their golden glowOver the inky surge’s flow,Like arrows from Apollo’s bowOr Dian’s starry quiver!And like an anthem from the skies,The voice of heavenly music diesFar down the Echo River!

What bold Ulysses, standing by,Gazed on his dying agony,When, blind and frenzied, he laid downHis scepter and imperial crown,And yielded up his struggling breathIn this stern catacomb of death;And felt the icy shiverThat chilled the fever’s fiery parch,When took his soul its Stygian marchAdown the dark and stony archOf gloomy Echo River?

Lone as the tarn, whose sobbing floodSighs in some demon-haunted wood,Its cheerless waters ever runWithout one welcome from the sun;Without a smile from one lone starThat trembles in the sky afar;But wend their solitary way,Secluded from the light of day.

Kind Genii of the mystic wave,Who guard the portals of the cave,Gently along this sable tideNow let our little shallop glide;And by these weird and shadowy shoresDirect the dusky boatman’s oars,Until yon night-enshrouded strandReceives our wandering pilgrim band

High towering, like the rocky wallsOf the leviathan’s ocean halls,Rises the overshadowing cliffAbove our frail but daring skiff,Which skims along this lower deep,Where angry tempests never sweepNor polar star affords its rayTo steer us on our trackless way.And as we slowly sail along,The plashing oar, the voice of song,Caught by the Naiads of the wavesAnd echoed by the vocal caves,Enchant the pleased yet startled earWith strains that ring as loud and clearAs the wild mountain music—bornFrom the lone Alpine shepherd’s horn,In peals so loud that they affrightThe lammergeyer on dizzy height;And the bold eagle’s trumpet shriek,Loud-bugled from his thunder beakAnd echoed round from peak to peak,In hollow cadence dies awayAlong the mountain river,When the first stars of evening grayOn the blue waters quiver.

* * * * * * * *

Boom! rings the flashing pistol’s shot!The sound, by myriad echoes caught,Roars down the dark aisles of the grot;Loud as the earthquake demon’s groan,Peals the terrific thunder-tone—As if the shrieking blasts of March,That wrestle with the mountain larch,Swept down the dark and stony archOf glory’s Echo River.

’Tis gone! and now a sad farewellUnto the listening waves we tell;Softer than midnight serenadeSung to the ears of Spanish maidBy the blue Guadalquiver!Plaintive and sweet as “Dixie”‘s airOf sadness which is not despairAnd ravishes the enchanted earOf home-returning volunteer—By his dear Bluegrass maiden sung,To mandolin with silver tongue.And witching is the fond adieuThe voice of beauty sings to you—O, music-murmuring river!For one, whose eyes and flowing locksAre darker than the raven’s wingOf midnight, brooding o’er yon rocks,Touches the plaintive sounding string,And pours a melancholy songThat floats the vocal stream along,Sad as the convent’s vesper hymn,Chanted by nuns, at twilight dim,Or that strange harp, whose magic toneSo wildly sweet, so sad and lone,To mortal minstrel never known,On night winds wafts its hollow moan.The ravished Genii of the wavesRepeat the story through the caves;And far along the tuneful flood,A never-ending multitudeOf echoing Ariels take their flightFar down the dark aisles of the night.

If, when our throbbing hearts are still,And pulseless lies the icy hand,Reality should then fulfillOur dreamings of a brighter land,Then may the unfettered spirit’s ear,In some supernal, sinless sphere,Hear some immortal song like thisFloat through the bowers of Paradise,That bloom serene forever.While wafted home to rest, we dream.By Eden’s clear, ambrosial stream,That clouds o’ershadow never.We part! But O, who would not grieveThis world of melody to leave?For round our hearts a witching spellLingers and whispers low, “Farewell!”Like the low moan of ocean shell.Or midnight chime of distant bell,The torches, dancing to and fro,Cast in long lines their golden glowOver the inky surge’s flow,Like arrows from Apollo’s bowOr Dian’s starry quiver!And like an anthem from the skies,The voice of heavenly music diesFar down the Echo River!

’Twas night in Richmond’s hospital. The dayAs though its eyes were dimmed by bloody rainFrom the red cloud of war, had quenched its light,And in its stead some pale sepulchral lampsShed their dim rays across the halls of pain,And flaunted mystic shadows on the walls.Ah! woe is me! No ringing cry of “Charge!”Stirs the hot, sulphurous air. The parting groan,The shuddering moan of bitter agonyFrom white lips quivering as they strive in vainTo smother mortal pain, appall the ear,And make the warm blood curdle in the heart.Nor flag, nor plume, nor bayonet, nor lance,Nor burnished gun, nor bugle-call, nor drum,Display the pomp of battle; but instead,The surgeon hard at work with lips compressed;The tourniquet, the scalpel, and the lance,The bandage and the splint are scattered round,Dumb symbols telling more than tongue can speakThe awful presence of the fiend of war.Lo, there! What gentle form with cautious stepPasses from cot to cot as noiselesslyAs the faint shadows flickering on the wall?She comes to one, a soldier from his youth,Grown gray in arms, pierced through with mortal wounds;Beside his cot she kneels and tells of HimWho wrought redemption on the bitter cross.The veteran hears with smile of gratitude,And, like a frozen fount when it is touchedBy the sun’s rays, he melts in gushing tears,And, fixing his last look on her and Heaven,Passes away in penitential prayer.She comes to one in sinewy manhood’s prime,Now prostrate like a lightning-shattered pine.Death fears he not. His busy thoughts have goneTo his far cottage in the Southern wilds,Where his young bride and prattling little ones,Poor helpless lambs! chased by the wolves of war,Wait for the absent one, and sadly say,“How long he stays! Where can he be to-night?”The angel softly whispers in his ear,“A husband to the widow God will be,And guard her orphans. Let His will be done.”The dying man her consolation hears,And gives the dearest treasure of his soulIn resignation to the will of Heaven.A fair, pale boy of fifteen summers turnsHis wasted form upon the couch of death;Ah! how unlike the downy nest preparedBy mother’s love, when slept the tender child.He heard the fife and drum and rushed to armsAmid the rude companionship of war.The raging fever burns his brain; he moansAnd raves in agony; his laboring breathIs quick and hot as that of stricken fawnStretched by the Indian’s arrow on the plain.“Mother! dear mother!” oft his faltering tongueShrieks to the cold bare walls, which echo backHis wailing in the mockery of despair.The angel comes, and fondly bending o’erThe boy she cools his throbbing brow and praysThat the Good Shepherd would take home the lamb,Far wandering from the dear maternal fold,To the green valleys of eternal rest.

Nor flag, nor plume, nor bayonet, nor lance,Nor burnished gun, nor bugle-call, nor drum,Display the pomp of battle; but instead,The surgeon hard at work with lips compressed;The tourniquet, the scalpel, and the lance,The bandage and the splint are scattered round,Dumb symbols telling more than tongue can speakThe awful presence of the fiend of war.Lo, there! What gentle form with cautious stepPasses from cot to cot as noiselesslyAs the faint shadows flickering on the wall?

She comes to one, a soldier from his youth,Grown gray in arms, pierced through with mortal wounds;Beside his cot she kneels and tells of HimWho wrought redemption on the bitter cross.The veteran hears with smile of gratitude,And, like a frozen fount when it is touchedBy the sun’s rays, he melts in gushing tears,And, fixing his last look on her and Heaven,Passes away in penitential prayer.

She comes to one in sinewy manhood’s prime,Now prostrate like a lightning-shattered pine.Death fears he not. His busy thoughts have goneTo his far cottage in the Southern wilds,Where his young bride and prattling little ones,Poor helpless lambs! chased by the wolves of war,Wait for the absent one, and sadly say,“How long he stays! Where can he be to-night?”The angel softly whispers in his ear,“A husband to the widow God will be,And guard her orphans. Let His will be done.”The dying man her consolation hears,And gives the dearest treasure of his soulIn resignation to the will of Heaven.

A fair, pale boy of fifteen summers turnsHis wasted form upon the couch of death;Ah! how unlike the downy nest preparedBy mother’s love, when slept the tender child.He heard the fife and drum and rushed to armsAmid the rude companionship of war.The raging fever burns his brain; he moansAnd raves in agony; his laboring breathIs quick and hot as that of stricken fawnStretched by the Indian’s arrow on the plain.“Mother! dear mother!” oft his faltering tongueShrieks to the cold bare walls, which echo backHis wailing in the mockery of despair.The angel comes, and fondly bending o’erThe boy she cools his throbbing brow and praysThat the Good Shepherd would take home the lamb,Far wandering from the dear maternal fold,To the green valleys of eternal rest.

(Nurse lifts her hands in horror, and faints away. Others hasten to her relief. The dead boy is carried out.)

Mary: O, my long-lost dear brother! What an awful moment was that when, by the dim lamp-light, I recognized in the wan, wasted face of the dying boy, the child with whom I had sported so often in the meadows and by the brook, gathering berries or wild flowers, and shouting in the fullness of mirth till the woods rang with the echoes. With me he grew up. We studied our tasks together till our aims and sympathies seemed to be one. The horrid war-bugle sounded; the dismal drum beat; the beardless boy then rushed from my arms to throw himself into the tumult of battle. Suddenly, while waiting on the wounded in the house of torture, I came upon the lost one, mangled and bleeding. He gasps and dies in my arms without recognition! Mother of Sorrows, whose loving heart was pierced with woe as with a sword under the cross of thy Son, give thy divine sympathy to this heart so bereaved, crushed, and desolate!

Materna:An iron scepter and a brazen crownThe war-god bears; stern, cold, and merciless,He smites his worshippers with bloody hand.Foreman:So walks the angel on from scene to scene:Sweet vision of my dreams! thy light shall shineThrough this dark world, all cloudless, calm, serene.Pure as the sacred evening star of love,The brightest planet in the host above!

Materna:An iron scepter and a brazen crownThe war-god bears; stern, cold, and merciless,He smites his worshippers with bloody hand.

Foreman:So walks the angel on from scene to scene:Sweet vision of my dreams! thy light shall shineThrough this dark world, all cloudless, calm, serene.Pure as the sacred evening star of love,The brightest planet in the host above!

[Telegram from Andrew Johnson, Military Governor of Tennessee, to S. C. Mercer, Editor of the “Nashville Daily Union.”]Image unavailable: [Telegram from Andrew Johnson, Military Governor of Tennessee, to S. C. Mercer, Editor of the “Nashville Daily Union.”

[Telegram from Andrew Johnson, Military Governor of Tennessee, to S. C. Mercer, Editor of the “Nashville Daily Union.”]

Washington, April 28, 1863.

ToS. C. Mercer, Editor of theNashville Daily Union:

Private. Your labors are highly appreciated out of Tennessee. Go on as you have done unfaltering in the work you have commenced. The Union Club of Nashville is doing much good. Their proceedings are looked to with much interest. I hope their policy will be sound and their purposes decided.

I have got things straightened out, I hope for the better. I will be in Nashville soon.

Andrew Johnson.

Two singers sat on New Year’s eveBy the blaze of a flickering fire.“The old year is burning out,” said one“Like the embers of our own life’s fire;As the fire’s blaze are our passing days,As the year shall our lives be o’er;Let us sing a rhyme to the passing yearEre we shall rhyme no more.”The elder rhymer, heavy of heart,Cried “Life is a thankless task.Its loves and its hate, its Church and State,Are only a hollow mask.Honor, and love, and rank and fame,Are chaff and idle words,And the schemes of men and the hopes of youthAre the chatter of silly birds.“Thus runs my rhyme:—The Ferryman TimeWith his ever-waning glass,Has laid on his bier another yearAnd sung his Midnight Mass.From the oak wood dim rose a funeral hymnAs earth bewailed the dead,And the seas made moan through every zoneAs the souls to Judgment fled.“The Ferryman stands on the sable sandsOf the desolate Stygian stream;Not a starry eye from the stormy skyShoots down one cheerful beam,But a hopeless wail filled the winter galeAs the phantom guests rushed in,And fear and despair, and doubt were there,Hopes baffled, and woe and sin.“Ambition told how his palace fellWhose turrets braved the clouds,His royal guests changed their courtly robesFor pale and ghostly shrouds.His banquet hall is tenantless,Unstrung is the minstrel’s viol—Not a sound to greet but the pendulum’s beatOf the lone monotonous dial.“Genius proclaimed how folly’s scornRobbed his nights and days of rest,And the only food of his eagle broodWas the life-blood of his breast.Bright were the gleams that lit his dreams,But ah! when he awokeHis light was dead, his vision fled,And hope and heart were broke.“Pale as the light of an Eastern nightStraying through orange bowers,Comes the love-crazed maid, Ophelia sad,White-robed and crowned with flowersThe essence she of purity,Born for love’s pure caress,But madness quenched her soul’s desireIn utter wretchedness.“So,” cried the bard, “the whole wide earthIs a den of baffled souls.’Mid all its pleasures, joys, and hopes,The dreary death-bell tolls.”“Hold,” cried his comrade—“See the wholeAnd judge not by a part.The end shall crown the work, and healThe disappointed heart.See where the boatman waits to crossDeath’s strange, mysterious streamThe endless Life to Come outlastsThis mortal, transient dream.“Unworthy of a wise man’s lipsAre the murmurs of despair;The heavens have never lost one starAnd God Himself reigns there,A faithful God created man—He ne’er forsakes a friend;Wait, comrade, on God’s goodness still—Be patient to the end.“Through mists of doubt there shines a lightUpon Death’s farther shore—Where the Lethean draught of peace is quaffedAnd the struggle of earth is o’er.Our feet shall stand on the shining strandOf Life’s eternal river,Where the buds of Hope in fullness opeAnd Love endures forever.”

The elder rhymer, heavy of heart,Cried “Life is a thankless task.Its loves and its hate, its Church and State,Are only a hollow mask.Honor, and love, and rank and fame,Are chaff and idle words,And the schemes of men and the hopes of youthAre the chatter of silly birds.

“Thus runs my rhyme:—The Ferryman TimeWith his ever-waning glass,Has laid on his bier another yearAnd sung his Midnight Mass.From the oak wood dim rose a funeral hymnAs earth bewailed the dead,And the seas made moan through every zoneAs the souls to Judgment fled.

“The Ferryman stands on the sable sandsOf the desolate Stygian stream;Not a starry eye from the stormy skyShoots down one cheerful beam,But a hopeless wail filled the winter galeAs the phantom guests rushed in,And fear and despair, and doubt were there,Hopes baffled, and woe and sin.

“Ambition told how his palace fellWhose turrets braved the clouds,His royal guests changed their courtly robesFor pale and ghostly shrouds.His banquet hall is tenantless,Unstrung is the minstrel’s viol—Not a sound to greet but the pendulum’s beatOf the lone monotonous dial.

“Genius proclaimed how folly’s scornRobbed his nights and days of rest,And the only food of his eagle broodWas the life-blood of his breast.Bright were the gleams that lit his dreams,But ah! when he awokeHis light was dead, his vision fled,And hope and heart were broke.

“Pale as the light of an Eastern nightStraying through orange bowers,Comes the love-crazed maid, Ophelia sad,White-robed and crowned with flowersThe essence she of purity,Born for love’s pure caress,But madness quenched her soul’s desireIn utter wretchedness.

“So,” cried the bard, “the whole wide earthIs a den of baffled souls.’Mid all its pleasures, joys, and hopes,The dreary death-bell tolls.”

“Hold,” cried his comrade—“See the wholeAnd judge not by a part.The end shall crown the work, and healThe disappointed heart.See where the boatman waits to crossDeath’s strange, mysterious streamThe endless Life to Come outlastsThis mortal, transient dream.

“Unworthy of a wise man’s lipsAre the murmurs of despair;The heavens have never lost one starAnd God Himself reigns there,A faithful God created man—He ne’er forsakes a friend;Wait, comrade, on God’s goodness still—Be patient to the end.

“Through mists of doubt there shines a lightUpon Death’s farther shore—Where the Lethean draught of peace is quaffedAnd the struggle of earth is o’er.Our feet shall stand on the shining strandOf Life’s eternal river,Where the buds of Hope in fullness opeAnd Love endures forever.”

By the banks of the Cumberland echoes the roarOf the sentinel’s warning—the foe’s on the shore.Our war-drums are beaten, our bugles are blown,And our legions advance to their musical tone.By the banks of the Cumberland, slippery and redWith the death-dew of battle, and strewn with the dead,Kentucky has routed her arrogant foe,And victory’s star gilds the night of our woe.By those banks, that once bloomed like an Eden of joyThe fiend of Disunion stalked forth to destroy,Our rich teeming harvests he swept in his wrath,And the blaze of our dwellings illumined his path.Like an eagle-plumed arrow our Nemesis comes.Shout, soldiers! sound, bugles! and clamor, oh drums!Let the land ring aloud in the wildness of joy,And the bonfires blaze brightly—but not destroy.For the God of the Union has prospered the right,And the ranks of Disunion have melted in flight.Blow, bugles! roll, river! and tell to the seaThat our swords shall not rest ’till Kentucky is free.

By the banks of the Cumberland echoes the roarOf the sentinel’s warning—the foe’s on the shore.Our war-drums are beaten, our bugles are blown,And our legions advance to their musical tone.

By the banks of the Cumberland, slippery and redWith the death-dew of battle, and strewn with the dead,Kentucky has routed her arrogant foe,And victory’s star gilds the night of our woe.

By those banks, that once bloomed like an Eden of joyThe fiend of Disunion stalked forth to destroy,Our rich teeming harvests he swept in his wrath,And the blaze of our dwellings illumined his path.

Like an eagle-plumed arrow our Nemesis comes.Shout, soldiers! sound, bugles! and clamor, oh drums!Let the land ring aloud in the wildness of joy,And the bonfires blaze brightly—but not destroy.

For the God of the Union has prospered the right,And the ranks of Disunion have melted in flight.Blow, bugles! roll, river! and tell to the seaThat our swords shall not rest ’till Kentucky is free.

[Power’s Greek Slave was on exhibition in Lexington, Ky., where I lived when these lines were published in the LexingtonObserver and Reporter.]

Soft as the silver songs which breathedOver the Lesbian Sappho’s shell,When the white-handed Paphians wreathedGarlands for her who sang so well,Is the low murmur of the wavesWhich swell along Zacynthus’ cavesAnd in melodious echoes fallWithin the mermaids’ ocean hall.There many a grove salutes the seaWith song-birds’ ceaseless harmonyInnumerable blossoms flingRich odors on the dewy wingOf every breeze which wanders freeOver the blue Ægean Sea;In golden splendor of the dayReflected from the burnished bay,Or spangled with the countless lightsWhich gem those skies on cloudless nights,And land and sea and sky aboveBreathe only peace and joy and love.A maiden in her grape-vine bowerSat sorrowful at twilight’s hour,And as her fingers sweep the stringsOf her guitar she softly sings,“O, for the Greeks of olden timeWorthy our blest and sunny clime;Men who would rather die than brookThat Turkish chain or Persian yokeShould strangle like a serpent’s coilOne neck on freedom’s native soil.Never, O never, ye Spartan dead,Till you arise from your gory bed,Will the Sultan cease to bear awayThe flower of Greece for his harem’s prey.The sun is up; his rising rayShoots brightly o’er the swelling bay,And richly mottled shells which strewThe beach with many a dazzling hue.With tapered masts in sunshine gleamingAnd pennons in the breezes streamingAnd snowy sails yon shallop glidesGracefully over the heaving tides.And see a captive maiden standsUpon its deck with fettered hands.Her song is changed to a wail of painFor plundered home and parents slain.Harsh is the clanging of the chainsWhich bind her lithe and shapely limbsKeen are their deep and cankering painsBut not for this her dark eye swimsIn agonizing tears, whose flowBetokens bitter shame and woe.Sorer are tears for freedom fledThan those affection gives the dead.The sorest pangs that fate can sendLike arrows to the captive’s heartAre not from outward griefs; these end,Theirs is a transitory smart;But musing on her island home,The home of purity and bliss,And then the thought of days to come—The hopeless harem, it is thisWhich fills her soul with deeper anguishThan makes the dying martyr languish.But Power’s hand shall carve the taleOf sorrow in that Grecian vale.His cunning chisel shall relateThe sorrow of a fallen State,And the incomparable Slave,Repeat o’er many a distant waveThe legend of the hapless maidTo Turkish lust and shame betrayed.

A maiden in her grape-vine bowerSat sorrowful at twilight’s hour,And as her fingers sweep the stringsOf her guitar she softly sings,“O, for the Greeks of olden timeWorthy our blest and sunny clime;Men who would rather die than brookThat Turkish chain or Persian yokeShould strangle like a serpent’s coilOne neck on freedom’s native soil.Never, O never, ye Spartan dead,Till you arise from your gory bed,Will the Sultan cease to bear awayThe flower of Greece for his harem’s prey.The sun is up; his rising rayShoots brightly o’er the swelling bay,And richly mottled shells which strewThe beach with many a dazzling hue.With tapered masts in sunshine gleamingAnd pennons in the breezes streamingAnd snowy sails yon shallop glidesGracefully over the heaving tides.And see a captive maiden standsUpon its deck with fettered hands.Her song is changed to a wail of painFor plundered home and parents slain.Harsh is the clanging of the chainsWhich bind her lithe and shapely limbsKeen are their deep and cankering painsBut not for this her dark eye swimsIn agonizing tears, whose flowBetokens bitter shame and woe.Sorer are tears for freedom fledThan those affection gives the dead.The sorest pangs that fate can sendLike arrows to the captive’s heartAre not from outward griefs; these end,Theirs is a transitory smart;But musing on her island home,The home of purity and bliss,And then the thought of days to come—The hopeless harem, it is thisWhich fills her soul with deeper anguishThan makes the dying martyr languish.

But Power’s hand shall carve the taleOf sorrow in that Grecian vale.His cunning chisel shall relateThe sorrow of a fallen State,And the incomparable Slave,Repeat o’er many a distant waveThe legend of the hapless maidTo Turkish lust and shame betrayed.

Goddess of Impudence,Whose tinsel-crowned pretenseAnd shameless eye and cheek of polished brassRule Young AmericaWith all-triumphant sway,The forward school-boy and precocious lass,Whose unweaned mouths smell of their nurses’ milkAnd others of that ilk—Inspire my pen,Queen of the groundlings and the Upper Ten,For to thy empire both belongAnd both deserve a song.What protean powerIs thy mysterious dower?Thy wonder-working wandTransmutes all things to gold like Midas’ hand—All save themetalof thy followers’face,And that isbrass, we know in every place;Thy favors, where thou dost dispense,Make up for lack of decency and sense;Thy harlot treadCrushes the modest violet in its bed;Truth, wit, and merit are proclaimed a bore,And kickedsans ceremoniefrom the door;And power, wealth, and fameAre given unto them who know no shame.Thy trophies first are seenIn youths and maidens tender, young, and green,Who stalk the streets aboutBefore their doting mothers know they’re out;See how these infant swellsGallant their baby belles,Who know much moreThan their mammas found out at twenty-four;They feel the early flame at seven;At nineThey languish, sigh, and pine;Till, dying to be wedded at thirteen,A moonlight runaway concludes the scene.The mincing maid,Let loose from school,Hooped, bustled, high-heeled, stayed,Pert as a jay and stubborn as a mule,Proves to the world that she has learned to faintTo dip, to lily-white, and paint,And lift her skirts so highThat the unwilling eyeMay see the neatness of her garter’s tieOh, Impudence; thou hast removedThe childish innocence we loved;No more we seeThe native blush of modesty;Saucy and malapert,The girl a coquette and the boy a flirt;Forward and bold,They honor not the old—Not even the sire,Who sits unhonored by his cheerless fire—Too fondly dreaming of the sweet reposeUnder the grape-vine shadows of Melrose.Nor her who bore the brood,The hissing vipers of ingratitude;But dark and ominous fateSits like a raven o’er the gateWhence modesty has fled,And Impudence lifts up her brazen head,For Folly’s breath pollutes the air,And Wisdom will not linger there,And all withinBows to the iron rule of ignorance and sin.See where the bold imposter plies his trade,And cheats of every kind are made;Quack creeds, quack medicines, quack politics,In wild confusion mix;And lo; the scribbler whowrites downThe wisest and the noblest men,With his envenomed pen,To please the long-eared rabble of the town,The darkly hinted calumny,The vulgar jeer,The cynic sneer,The bold unblushing lie,He scatters round in heedless wrath,Like firebrands upon a madman’s path,So when the infernal crew had hunted downThe statesman who deserved a crown,And shot the empoisoned dartDeep in his quivering heart,While, like a stag chased home, at bay he stood,Facing the clamorous pack athirst for blood;With awful grandeur beaming in his eye,Promethean in its agony,The hireling scribbler all unshamedBy the sad gaze of him he had defamed,Exulted in his hellish work,As the assassin when he plies his dirk,And styled himself apostle sent to teachMankind the glories of free thought and speech.The Sage upon Judea’s MountUnsealed the everlasting fountOf Peace and Truth and Love,And the Evangel DoveCame from the skies and nestled to his breast,And bright-eyed Hope,From Heaven’s starry slope,Under his gentle reign,Beheld the Golden Age return again,And Earth was blest.But lo; lean wolves have seized the fold,Andbrasssupplants the Age of Gold.Luxurious, profligate, and vile,With lips of guile,And Judas’ kiss and smile,The modern Pharisee,With broad phylactery,Converts the temple of his GodInto a mart of crime and fraud.Inspired by thee, oh, Impudence;He holds the words of truth and speaks a lie,Cloaks blackest sins with fair pretenseOf Apostolic piety,And shears the starving sheep and flays the lambs,’Mid groans and prayers and penitential psalms.Oh, Impudence; thy triumph is complete;Mankind lie prostrate at thy feet,And every class,Like bees in swarm,Are spell-bound by the charmOf “tinkling cymbals and of sounding brass,”Genius and modest worthStarve in the cradle of their birth.They win the meed of fameWhose deeds deserve the pillory of shame;Upon the topmost waves of honor ride,As scum and froth float on the swollen tide.So coxcombs in the garden blow,While fragrant myrtles nestle low;So hollyhocks uplift their headIn scentless robes of flaunting red,And gaudy peoniesAttract the passers’ eyes,Yet from their leaves no fragrant dewsTheir cheering influence diffuseLike that ambrosia and sweet violets shed,Or fragrant mignonette in its unnoticed bed.

What protean powerIs thy mysterious dower?Thy wonder-working wandTransmutes all things to gold like Midas’ hand—All save themetalof thy followers’face,And that isbrass, we know in every place;Thy favors, where thou dost dispense,Make up for lack of decency and sense;Thy harlot treadCrushes the modest violet in its bed;Truth, wit, and merit are proclaimed a bore,And kickedsans ceremoniefrom the door;And power, wealth, and fameAre given unto them who know no shame.

Thy trophies first are seenIn youths and maidens tender, young, and green,Who stalk the streets aboutBefore their doting mothers know they’re out;See how these infant swellsGallant their baby belles,Who know much moreThan their mammas found out at twenty-four;They feel the early flame at seven;At nineThey languish, sigh, and pine;Till, dying to be wedded at thirteen,A moonlight runaway concludes the scene.

The mincing maid,Let loose from school,Hooped, bustled, high-heeled, stayed,Pert as a jay and stubborn as a mule,Proves to the world that she has learned to faintTo dip, to lily-white, and paint,And lift her skirts so highThat the unwilling eyeMay see the neatness of her garter’s tieOh, Impudence; thou hast removedThe childish innocence we loved;No more we seeThe native blush of modesty;Saucy and malapert,The girl a coquette and the boy a flirt;Forward and bold,They honor not the old—Not even the sire,Who sits unhonored by his cheerless fire—Too fondly dreaming of the sweet reposeUnder the grape-vine shadows of Melrose.Nor her who bore the brood,The hissing vipers of ingratitude;But dark and ominous fateSits like a raven o’er the gateWhence modesty has fled,And Impudence lifts up her brazen head,For Folly’s breath pollutes the air,And Wisdom will not linger there,And all withinBows to the iron rule of ignorance and sin.

See where the bold imposter plies his trade,And cheats of every kind are made;Quack creeds, quack medicines, quack politics,In wild confusion mix;And lo; the scribbler whowrites downThe wisest and the noblest men,With his envenomed pen,To please the long-eared rabble of the town,The darkly hinted calumny,The vulgar jeer,The cynic sneer,The bold unblushing lie,He scatters round in heedless wrath,Like firebrands upon a madman’s path,So when the infernal crew had hunted downThe statesman who deserved a crown,And shot the empoisoned dartDeep in his quivering heart,While, like a stag chased home, at bay he stood,Facing the clamorous pack athirst for blood;With awful grandeur beaming in his eye,Promethean in its agony,The hireling scribbler all unshamedBy the sad gaze of him he had defamed,Exulted in his hellish work,As the assassin when he plies his dirk,And styled himself apostle sent to teachMankind the glories of free thought and speech.

The Sage upon Judea’s MountUnsealed the everlasting fountOf Peace and Truth and Love,And the Evangel DoveCame from the skies and nestled to his breast,And bright-eyed Hope,From Heaven’s starry slope,Under his gentle reign,Beheld the Golden Age return again,And Earth was blest.But lo; lean wolves have seized the fold,Andbrasssupplants the Age of Gold.Luxurious, profligate, and vile,With lips of guile,And Judas’ kiss and smile,The modern Pharisee,With broad phylactery,Converts the temple of his GodInto a mart of crime and fraud.Inspired by thee, oh, Impudence;He holds the words of truth and speaks a lie,Cloaks blackest sins with fair pretenseOf Apostolic piety,And shears the starving sheep and flays the lambs,’Mid groans and prayers and penitential psalms.

Oh, Impudence; thy triumph is complete;Mankind lie prostrate at thy feet,And every class,Like bees in swarm,Are spell-bound by the charmOf “tinkling cymbals and of sounding brass,”Genius and modest worthStarve in the cradle of their birth.They win the meed of fameWhose deeds deserve the pillory of shame;Upon the topmost waves of honor ride,As scum and froth float on the swollen tide.So coxcombs in the garden blow,While fragrant myrtles nestle low;So hollyhocks uplift their headIn scentless robes of flaunting red,And gaudy peoniesAttract the passers’ eyes,Yet from their leaves no fragrant dewsTheir cheering influence diffuseLike that ambrosia and sweet violets shed,Or fragrant mignonette in its unnoticed bed.

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