Image unavailable: LEONORALEONORA
“One fatal remembrance—one sorrow that throwsIts bleak shade alike o’er our joys and our woes.”—Moore.
“One fatal remembrance—one sorrow that throwsIts bleak shade alike o’er our joys and our woes.”—Moore.
“One fatal remembrance—one sorrow that throwsIts bleak shade alike o’er our joys and our woes.”—Moore.
The troubled spell is o’er,The wild delirious dream of bliss is broke;A spirit whispered to me as I woke,“No more—oh sleep no more,For love has died upon a dart whose stingSped on a feather plucked from his own wing.”Oh, bright divinity,Bold and unfettered as the eagle’s wing,Oh soul of noblest impulses, the spring,And chainless as the sea,Why didst thou lend my sky thy glorious lightOnly to quench it in a blacker night!Oh, I have loved to bowBefore thy shrine and burn rich incense there,Immaculate spirit of the upper air,Nor rose sincerer vowNor sweeter wreaths in Dian’s temples hung,When on the Paphian myrtles Sappho sung.Thine is a magic power,A power the sternest hearts to tame and quellThine own to mortal arts invincible,And glorious is thy dower—Love’s fire, ambition’s struggle, pity’s tear,Religion’s hope, and all—save woman’s fear.Thine is that fearful spell,In which the Orient poppy gardens steepThe passer’s senses in luxurious sleep,While dreaming all is well,Nor knows he that the flower’s delicious breathIs the lethargic atmosphere of death.Too late—alas! too late!My heart once fresh with morning dews of youth,Dreaming that all the beautiful was truth,Is seared and desolate;Love’s star is shrouded in its last eclipseAnd its fair fruit is ashes on my lips.With bitter grief we parted,On thy dear lips I breathed a last adieuTo peace, to hope, to sweet repose, and you,And left thee—broken-hearted:And every star in heaven was wrapped in gloom,And earth itself became a living tomb.And like a mourner’s wailNow piercing shrill, now smothered and half hushed,Convulsive tears and sobs all madly gushed—And gushed without avail;For our fond bosoms bore one stricken heartForever wounded by a fatal dart.The night wind’s plaintive moanSighed through the pendant branches of the trees,Whose leaf-harp’s sweet vibrations filled the breeze,And the far distant toneOf the blue waters of La Belle RiviereStole in Æolian murmurs on my ear.The bosom’s quivering throes,The shuddering frame, the anguish of the heartWrithing with Love’s immedicable dart;The unutterable woesOf those whom destiny has doomed to feelThe agony they never can reveal—All these were ours—and whenThe dying night-winds ceased a while to wakeLeaf in the wood or ripple on the lakeA murmur rose of pain,Doleful and bitter as the passing cryOf a lost spirit in its agony.Mine is the agonyTo perish where Elysian apples grow,To parch with thirst where Eden’s waters flowTo pine—to droop—to die,Without one hope to ease my bosom’s pain,To knowI love, am loved, and all in vain!One more fond parting word,While all my frame with agony is shaken,And my torn heart of every hope forsaken,To its far depths is stirred.A word will haunt me like a funeral knell,God bless thee, dear Leonora—and farewell!
The troubled spell is o’er,The wild delirious dream of bliss is broke;A spirit whispered to me as I woke,“No more—oh sleep no more,For love has died upon a dart whose stingSped on a feather plucked from his own wing.”Oh, bright divinity,Bold and unfettered as the eagle’s wing,Oh soul of noblest impulses, the spring,And chainless as the sea,Why didst thou lend my sky thy glorious lightOnly to quench it in a blacker night!Oh, I have loved to bowBefore thy shrine and burn rich incense there,Immaculate spirit of the upper air,Nor rose sincerer vowNor sweeter wreaths in Dian’s temples hung,When on the Paphian myrtles Sappho sung.Thine is a magic power,A power the sternest hearts to tame and quellThine own to mortal arts invincible,And glorious is thy dower—Love’s fire, ambition’s struggle, pity’s tear,Religion’s hope, and all—save woman’s fear.Thine is that fearful spell,In which the Orient poppy gardens steepThe passer’s senses in luxurious sleep,While dreaming all is well,Nor knows he that the flower’s delicious breathIs the lethargic atmosphere of death.Too late—alas! too late!My heart once fresh with morning dews of youth,Dreaming that all the beautiful was truth,Is seared and desolate;Love’s star is shrouded in its last eclipseAnd its fair fruit is ashes on my lips.With bitter grief we parted,On thy dear lips I breathed a last adieuTo peace, to hope, to sweet repose, and you,And left thee—broken-hearted:And every star in heaven was wrapped in gloom,And earth itself became a living tomb.And like a mourner’s wailNow piercing shrill, now smothered and half hushed,Convulsive tears and sobs all madly gushed—And gushed without avail;For our fond bosoms bore one stricken heartForever wounded by a fatal dart.The night wind’s plaintive moanSighed through the pendant branches of the trees,Whose leaf-harp’s sweet vibrations filled the breeze,And the far distant toneOf the blue waters of La Belle RiviereStole in Æolian murmurs on my ear.The bosom’s quivering throes,The shuddering frame, the anguish of the heartWrithing with Love’s immedicable dart;The unutterable woesOf those whom destiny has doomed to feelThe agony they never can reveal—All these were ours—and whenThe dying night-winds ceased a while to wakeLeaf in the wood or ripple on the lakeA murmur rose of pain,Doleful and bitter as the passing cryOf a lost spirit in its agony.Mine is the agonyTo perish where Elysian apples grow,To parch with thirst where Eden’s waters flowTo pine—to droop—to die,Without one hope to ease my bosom’s pain,To knowI love, am loved, and all in vain!One more fond parting word,While all my frame with agony is shaken,And my torn heart of every hope forsaken,To its far depths is stirred.A word will haunt me like a funeral knell,God bless thee, dear Leonora—and farewell!
The troubled spell is o’er,The wild delirious dream of bliss is broke;A spirit whispered to me as I woke,“No more—oh sleep no more,For love has died upon a dart whose stingSped on a feather plucked from his own wing.”
Oh, bright divinity,Bold and unfettered as the eagle’s wing,Oh soul of noblest impulses, the spring,And chainless as the sea,Why didst thou lend my sky thy glorious lightOnly to quench it in a blacker night!
Oh, I have loved to bowBefore thy shrine and burn rich incense there,Immaculate spirit of the upper air,Nor rose sincerer vowNor sweeter wreaths in Dian’s temples hung,When on the Paphian myrtles Sappho sung.
Thine is a magic power,A power the sternest hearts to tame and quellThine own to mortal arts invincible,And glorious is thy dower—Love’s fire, ambition’s struggle, pity’s tear,Religion’s hope, and all—save woman’s fear.
Thine is that fearful spell,In which the Orient poppy gardens steepThe passer’s senses in luxurious sleep,While dreaming all is well,Nor knows he that the flower’s delicious breathIs the lethargic atmosphere of death.
Too late—alas! too late!My heart once fresh with morning dews of youth,Dreaming that all the beautiful was truth,Is seared and desolate;Love’s star is shrouded in its last eclipseAnd its fair fruit is ashes on my lips.
With bitter grief we parted,On thy dear lips I breathed a last adieuTo peace, to hope, to sweet repose, and you,And left thee—broken-hearted:And every star in heaven was wrapped in gloom,And earth itself became a living tomb.
And like a mourner’s wailNow piercing shrill, now smothered and half hushed,Convulsive tears and sobs all madly gushed—And gushed without avail;For our fond bosoms bore one stricken heartForever wounded by a fatal dart.
The night wind’s plaintive moanSighed through the pendant branches of the trees,Whose leaf-harp’s sweet vibrations filled the breeze,And the far distant toneOf the blue waters of La Belle RiviereStole in Æolian murmurs on my ear.
The bosom’s quivering throes,The shuddering frame, the anguish of the heartWrithing with Love’s immedicable dart;The unutterable woesOf those whom destiny has doomed to feelThe agony they never can reveal—
All these were ours—and whenThe dying night-winds ceased a while to wakeLeaf in the wood or ripple on the lakeA murmur rose of pain,Doleful and bitter as the passing cryOf a lost spirit in its agony.
Mine is the agonyTo perish where Elysian apples grow,To parch with thirst where Eden’s waters flowTo pine—to droop—to die,Without one hope to ease my bosom’s pain,To knowI love, am loved, and all in vain!
One more fond parting word,While all my frame with agony is shaken,And my torn heart of every hope forsaken,To its far depths is stirred.A word will haunt me like a funeral knell,God bless thee, dear Leonora—and farewell!
IN MEMORIAM.
[Midshipman Goldthwaite, Hopkinsville, Ky., who perished with eleven companions in the battleship Georgia, July 15, 1907.]
[Midshipman Goldthwaite, Hopkinsville, Ky., who perished with eleven companions in the battleship Georgia, July 15, 1907.]
Call up, Recording Angel,The roster of the dead;Who sleep in vaults or village graves,Or in the ocean bed.Call all alike—the wealthy,The humble or the great;Tell me how died they, Angel?How met their various fate?The Angel called out Marathon,And Bunker Hill sublime,Whose glory shall outlastThe temples of old time.Myriads of true and loyal menIn many a mighty host,All perished, said the Angel,Faithfully at their post.Some to fair science martyrs;Some to religion’s call;To truth and duty witnesses,In faith they perished, all;And bright, celestial splendorShone all around each ghost:“I died,” proclaimed each pallid shade,“Faithfully at my post.”Oh, not in vain you perished,Goldthwaite, when fate’s sad blowStruck down the flower of chivalryAnd laid its promise low;Still, with true joy, salute weYour shade, oh, knightly ghost,And hail thee, loyal hero,Who perished at his post.Thy virtues high in heavenAs stars forever burn;Long, long shall love bedew with tearsThy consecrated urn;In life’s young morn you perished—Perished, but not in vain;Your deathless, bright exampleShall cheer young hearts again.The trumpet voice inspiring soundsAlong the ocean shore;“Fear God and His commands obey”—Angels can do no more;From the ill-fated Georgia’s deckThere booms a solemn roar;With strength renewed at the sad soundThe country’s eagles soar.
Call up, Recording Angel,The roster of the dead;Who sleep in vaults or village graves,Or in the ocean bed.Call all alike—the wealthy,The humble or the great;Tell me how died they, Angel?How met their various fate?The Angel called out Marathon,And Bunker Hill sublime,Whose glory shall outlastThe temples of old time.Myriads of true and loyal menIn many a mighty host,All perished, said the Angel,Faithfully at their post.Some to fair science martyrs;Some to religion’s call;To truth and duty witnesses,In faith they perished, all;And bright, celestial splendorShone all around each ghost:“I died,” proclaimed each pallid shade,“Faithfully at my post.”Oh, not in vain you perished,Goldthwaite, when fate’s sad blowStruck down the flower of chivalryAnd laid its promise low;Still, with true joy, salute weYour shade, oh, knightly ghost,And hail thee, loyal hero,Who perished at his post.Thy virtues high in heavenAs stars forever burn;Long, long shall love bedew with tearsThy consecrated urn;In life’s young morn you perished—Perished, but not in vain;Your deathless, bright exampleShall cheer young hearts again.The trumpet voice inspiring soundsAlong the ocean shore;“Fear God and His commands obey”—Angels can do no more;From the ill-fated Georgia’s deckThere booms a solemn roar;With strength renewed at the sad soundThe country’s eagles soar.
Call up, Recording Angel,The roster of the dead;Who sleep in vaults or village graves,Or in the ocean bed.Call all alike—the wealthy,The humble or the great;Tell me how died they, Angel?How met their various fate?
The Angel called out Marathon,And Bunker Hill sublime,Whose glory shall outlastThe temples of old time.Myriads of true and loyal menIn many a mighty host,All perished, said the Angel,Faithfully at their post.
Some to fair science martyrs;Some to religion’s call;To truth and duty witnesses,In faith they perished, all;And bright, celestial splendorShone all around each ghost:“I died,” proclaimed each pallid shade,“Faithfully at my post.”
Oh, not in vain you perished,Goldthwaite, when fate’s sad blowStruck down the flower of chivalryAnd laid its promise low;Still, with true joy, salute weYour shade, oh, knightly ghost,And hail thee, loyal hero,Who perished at his post.
Thy virtues high in heavenAs stars forever burn;Long, long shall love bedew with tearsThy consecrated urn;In life’s young morn you perished—Perished, but not in vain;Your deathless, bright exampleShall cheer young hearts again.
The trumpet voice inspiring soundsAlong the ocean shore;“Fear God and His commands obey”—Angels can do no more;From the ill-fated Georgia’s deckThere booms a solemn roar;With strength renewed at the sad soundThe country’s eagles soar.
Image unavailable: MIDSHIPMAN FAULKNER GOLDTHWAITEMIDSHIPMAN FAULKNER GOLDTHWAITE
[Carriers’ Address, written for the Nashville, Tenn.,Press and Times, December 25, 1865.]
[Carriers’ Address, written for the Nashville, Tenn.,Press and Times, December 25, 1865.]
The days have dropped, like withered leaves,From the dead cypress of the year,And Time, who neither joys nor grieves,Nor spares, nor pities, nor reprieves,Has bound the months, twelve ripened sheaves,Round his completed sphere.Dread Reaper of the centuries,The red strokes of whose sickle bladeClashed oft and harshly on the breeze,While in long swathes our dead were laid,And measured out with every blowThat dark Olympiad of woe;Here, where thy dreadful bugles rang,With cannon’s roar and saber’s clang,And answering hell in chorus sang,Bidding the harvesters of DeathCut wider still their slippery path.Withhold thy fatal hand,And let thy crescent sickle shineThe harvest moon of peace divine,And to full orb expand;For blood enough of kindred slainHas poured in streams of purple rainAnd soaked the thirsty sandTo quench each living coal of hate,Assuage the fury of the StateAnd reconcile the land.O, North! O, South! whose children claimFrom heroic sires a common fameMore lustrous than the melted gemOf Cleopatra’s diadem,Drunk up one night for AntonyIn bacchanalian revelry,Will you a richer pearl betray,Whose incommunicable splendorNone but a slave would cast away,None but a craven would surrender?Tells not each winged wind some storyOf Revolutionary glory,Worthy of that immortal themeWhich once inspired The Scian’s dreamBy blue Ægean’s tide;How Hayne, to his dear country given,Stepped from the scaffold up to heaven,Laureled and deified;How Lawrence dared the ocean strife—Breathing with pale and quivering lipHis death cry, “Don’t give up the ship!”—Then perished in his pride,And Warren, in the morn of life,In front of battle died.O, Christ, whose Orient Star of Love,Illumed the primal Christmas morning,What cloud has spread its veil above,That we no more behold it burning?Shall we, despite the prayers and tears,Poured out for near two thousand years,In never-ending intercessionFor fallen humanity’s transgression,Shall we pluck from the temple’s shelvesAnd trample under foot the Bible,Apostates base pronounce ourselvesAnd Christianity a libel?Of what avail, if thus we err,Our gifts of frankincense and myrrh,Prayers, mummery, and holy water,To cleanse the air from smell of slaughter,And psalms, and organ chants sonorous,With all our damning guilt before us?Has sharp remorse no power to moveThe stronger agony of loveIn breasts whose suffering finds at lastThe madness of the conflict past,Which, having ’scaped the shock of steelIn battle’s fearful expiation,Beside the slain at last shall feelThe glow of reconciliation,Over the tombs which now concealThe flower and glory of the nation?Come where the slain, all pale and cold,Sleep ’neath the all-concealing mold,While evening’s melancholy breezeWith sad voice in the forest lingers,Thrumming the spray of whispering treesLike chords beneath a harper’s fingers,In fitful, sobbing, plaintive tone,Thrilling the pained air with its moan,And wailing down the leafless aisles with low and dying groan.Let pity, warm as Love’s caress,Strew violets in tendernessAbove our kinsmen dead;And myrtles clustering o’er their tomb,Enfold in robes of purple bloomTheir consecrated bed;And let the fresh-winged morning airNow waft to heaven the nation’s prayerTo spare the avenging rod,And weld the golden chain of loveBetween all human hearts aboveAnd all beneath the sod.No more; no more; for overheadThe Christmas star renews its brightness;Its beams revivify the deadIn garments of celestial whiteness;By our sad fate, the phantoms say,By all the griefs that wring the living,Cast each embittered thought away,And join the people by forgiving.Armies of slaughtered men have fedThe Moloch fires of expiation,Whose blood, like Abel’s madly shed,Joins in the fervent invocation.Plead ye for peace? Expect it whereJustice is equal as the airAnd vote and count are just and fair,Nor seek the fruitful olive tree,On the volcano’s breast of snow,While the flame-waved Vesuvian seaConsumes the sapless earth below.Redeemed from violence and fraud,All hail the resurrected nation;The Rights of Man shall be its broad,Deep and immovable foundation,And the Philanthropy of GodThe corner-stone of Restoration.
The days have dropped, like withered leaves,From the dead cypress of the year,And Time, who neither joys nor grieves,Nor spares, nor pities, nor reprieves,Has bound the months, twelve ripened sheaves,Round his completed sphere.Dread Reaper of the centuries,The red strokes of whose sickle bladeClashed oft and harshly on the breeze,While in long swathes our dead were laid,And measured out with every blowThat dark Olympiad of woe;Here, where thy dreadful bugles rang,With cannon’s roar and saber’s clang,And answering hell in chorus sang,Bidding the harvesters of DeathCut wider still their slippery path.Withhold thy fatal hand,And let thy crescent sickle shineThe harvest moon of peace divine,And to full orb expand;For blood enough of kindred slainHas poured in streams of purple rainAnd soaked the thirsty sandTo quench each living coal of hate,Assuage the fury of the StateAnd reconcile the land.O, North! O, South! whose children claimFrom heroic sires a common fameMore lustrous than the melted gemOf Cleopatra’s diadem,Drunk up one night for AntonyIn bacchanalian revelry,Will you a richer pearl betray,Whose incommunicable splendorNone but a slave would cast away,None but a craven would surrender?Tells not each winged wind some storyOf Revolutionary glory,Worthy of that immortal themeWhich once inspired The Scian’s dreamBy blue Ægean’s tide;How Hayne, to his dear country given,Stepped from the scaffold up to heaven,Laureled and deified;How Lawrence dared the ocean strife—Breathing with pale and quivering lipHis death cry, “Don’t give up the ship!”—Then perished in his pride,And Warren, in the morn of life,In front of battle died.O, Christ, whose Orient Star of Love,Illumed the primal Christmas morning,What cloud has spread its veil above,That we no more behold it burning?Shall we, despite the prayers and tears,Poured out for near two thousand years,In never-ending intercessionFor fallen humanity’s transgression,Shall we pluck from the temple’s shelvesAnd trample under foot the Bible,Apostates base pronounce ourselvesAnd Christianity a libel?Of what avail, if thus we err,Our gifts of frankincense and myrrh,Prayers, mummery, and holy water,To cleanse the air from smell of slaughter,And psalms, and organ chants sonorous,With all our damning guilt before us?Has sharp remorse no power to moveThe stronger agony of loveIn breasts whose suffering finds at lastThe madness of the conflict past,Which, having ’scaped the shock of steelIn battle’s fearful expiation,Beside the slain at last shall feelThe glow of reconciliation,Over the tombs which now concealThe flower and glory of the nation?Come where the slain, all pale and cold,Sleep ’neath the all-concealing mold,While evening’s melancholy breezeWith sad voice in the forest lingers,Thrumming the spray of whispering treesLike chords beneath a harper’s fingers,In fitful, sobbing, plaintive tone,Thrilling the pained air with its moan,And wailing down the leafless aisles with low and dying groan.Let pity, warm as Love’s caress,Strew violets in tendernessAbove our kinsmen dead;And myrtles clustering o’er their tomb,Enfold in robes of purple bloomTheir consecrated bed;And let the fresh-winged morning airNow waft to heaven the nation’s prayerTo spare the avenging rod,And weld the golden chain of loveBetween all human hearts aboveAnd all beneath the sod.No more; no more; for overheadThe Christmas star renews its brightness;Its beams revivify the deadIn garments of celestial whiteness;By our sad fate, the phantoms say,By all the griefs that wring the living,Cast each embittered thought away,And join the people by forgiving.Armies of slaughtered men have fedThe Moloch fires of expiation,Whose blood, like Abel’s madly shed,Joins in the fervent invocation.Plead ye for peace? Expect it whereJustice is equal as the airAnd vote and count are just and fair,Nor seek the fruitful olive tree,On the volcano’s breast of snow,While the flame-waved Vesuvian seaConsumes the sapless earth below.Redeemed from violence and fraud,All hail the resurrected nation;The Rights of Man shall be its broad,Deep and immovable foundation,And the Philanthropy of GodThe corner-stone of Restoration.
The days have dropped, like withered leaves,From the dead cypress of the year,And Time, who neither joys nor grieves,Nor spares, nor pities, nor reprieves,Has bound the months, twelve ripened sheaves,Round his completed sphere.
Dread Reaper of the centuries,The red strokes of whose sickle bladeClashed oft and harshly on the breeze,While in long swathes our dead were laid,And measured out with every blowThat dark Olympiad of woe;Here, where thy dreadful bugles rang,With cannon’s roar and saber’s clang,And answering hell in chorus sang,Bidding the harvesters of DeathCut wider still their slippery path.Withhold thy fatal hand,And let thy crescent sickle shineThe harvest moon of peace divine,And to full orb expand;For blood enough of kindred slainHas poured in streams of purple rainAnd soaked the thirsty sandTo quench each living coal of hate,Assuage the fury of the StateAnd reconcile the land.
O, North! O, South! whose children claimFrom heroic sires a common fameMore lustrous than the melted gemOf Cleopatra’s diadem,Drunk up one night for AntonyIn bacchanalian revelry,Will you a richer pearl betray,Whose incommunicable splendorNone but a slave would cast away,None but a craven would surrender?Tells not each winged wind some storyOf Revolutionary glory,Worthy of that immortal themeWhich once inspired The Scian’s dreamBy blue Ægean’s tide;How Hayne, to his dear country given,Stepped from the scaffold up to heaven,Laureled and deified;How Lawrence dared the ocean strife—Breathing with pale and quivering lipHis death cry, “Don’t give up the ship!”—Then perished in his pride,And Warren, in the morn of life,In front of battle died.
O, Christ, whose Orient Star of Love,Illumed the primal Christmas morning,What cloud has spread its veil above,That we no more behold it burning?Shall we, despite the prayers and tears,Poured out for near two thousand years,In never-ending intercessionFor fallen humanity’s transgression,Shall we pluck from the temple’s shelvesAnd trample under foot the Bible,Apostates base pronounce ourselvesAnd Christianity a libel?
Of what avail, if thus we err,Our gifts of frankincense and myrrh,Prayers, mummery, and holy water,To cleanse the air from smell of slaughter,And psalms, and organ chants sonorous,With all our damning guilt before us?Has sharp remorse no power to moveThe stronger agony of loveIn breasts whose suffering finds at lastThe madness of the conflict past,Which, having ’scaped the shock of steelIn battle’s fearful expiation,Beside the slain at last shall feelThe glow of reconciliation,Over the tombs which now concealThe flower and glory of the nation?
Come where the slain, all pale and cold,Sleep ’neath the all-concealing mold,While evening’s melancholy breezeWith sad voice in the forest lingers,Thrumming the spray of whispering treesLike chords beneath a harper’s fingers,In fitful, sobbing, plaintive tone,Thrilling the pained air with its moan,And wailing down the leafless aisles with low and dying groan.
Let pity, warm as Love’s caress,Strew violets in tendernessAbove our kinsmen dead;And myrtles clustering o’er their tomb,Enfold in robes of purple bloomTheir consecrated bed;And let the fresh-winged morning airNow waft to heaven the nation’s prayerTo spare the avenging rod,And weld the golden chain of loveBetween all human hearts aboveAnd all beneath the sod.
No more; no more; for overheadThe Christmas star renews its brightness;Its beams revivify the deadIn garments of celestial whiteness;By our sad fate, the phantoms say,By all the griefs that wring the living,Cast each embittered thought away,And join the people by forgiving.Armies of slaughtered men have fedThe Moloch fires of expiation,Whose blood, like Abel’s madly shed,Joins in the fervent invocation.
Plead ye for peace? Expect it whereJustice is equal as the airAnd vote and count are just and fair,Nor seek the fruitful olive tree,On the volcano’s breast of snow,While the flame-waved Vesuvian seaConsumes the sapless earth below.
Redeemed from violence and fraud,All hail the resurrected nation;The Rights of Man shall be its broad,Deep and immovable foundation,And the Philanthropy of GodThe corner-stone of Restoration.
Gaily she struck the sweet guitar,The maiden fair as a beautiful star;And her soft voice fell on charmed earsLike a seraph’s song from the upper spheresJoyous and blithe is the song she sings,As the morning lark on his heavenward wings;Little the list’ners dream that restNever again shall dwell in her breast;Little they dream, while that strain she is wakingThat her heart with a secret grief is breaking.Sweet were the words from her lips that fell,As the mocking-bird’s song in the hazel dell;Like the honey of Hybla her words were fraughtWith sweets from the choicest flowers sought;Gloom from her beaming presence fled,Mirth and joy were around her shed;Little they know of the poisoned dartThat rankles deep in her bleeding heart;Little they know that her beaming eyeTells but a hollow mockery.Bright were the jewels that flashed on her browAs the gleam of the stars on the mountain snow,And the trembling lustre of costly pearlsBeams through the waves of her golden curls,As with queenly step she passes along,The loveliest one of that beautiful throng;But her heart with inward grief is bowed,And her cheek is as pale as the dead man’s shroud,And tears will start in her orbs of blue,Like a rose that weepeth with morning dew.A gentle heart that she once had knownHad throbbed for her and for her alone.High and holy in him was her trust—Alas! it has turned to ashes and dust!Can she her sacred vows recall,Can she, can she forget them all?Never! although with an aching breastShe ever obeys the stern behest,Yielding with smiles to her bitter lot;Meekly yielding and murmuring not;The memory of departed hoursShall weave her garland of withered flowers,But the hope that cheered her soul is flown,And she moves ’mid the throng, alone, alone.Her lips may smile, but her eye is chill,And her laugh may ring, but her heart is still;Her bosom is now the canker’s prey—She is passing away, passing away.
Gaily she struck the sweet guitar,The maiden fair as a beautiful star;And her soft voice fell on charmed earsLike a seraph’s song from the upper spheresJoyous and blithe is the song she sings,As the morning lark on his heavenward wings;Little the list’ners dream that restNever again shall dwell in her breast;Little they dream, while that strain she is wakingThat her heart with a secret grief is breaking.Sweet were the words from her lips that fell,As the mocking-bird’s song in the hazel dell;Like the honey of Hybla her words were fraughtWith sweets from the choicest flowers sought;Gloom from her beaming presence fled,Mirth and joy were around her shed;Little they know of the poisoned dartThat rankles deep in her bleeding heart;Little they know that her beaming eyeTells but a hollow mockery.Bright were the jewels that flashed on her browAs the gleam of the stars on the mountain snow,And the trembling lustre of costly pearlsBeams through the waves of her golden curls,As with queenly step she passes along,The loveliest one of that beautiful throng;But her heart with inward grief is bowed,And her cheek is as pale as the dead man’s shroud,And tears will start in her orbs of blue,Like a rose that weepeth with morning dew.A gentle heart that she once had knownHad throbbed for her and for her alone.High and holy in him was her trust—Alas! it has turned to ashes and dust!Can she her sacred vows recall,Can she, can she forget them all?Never! although with an aching breastShe ever obeys the stern behest,Yielding with smiles to her bitter lot;Meekly yielding and murmuring not;The memory of departed hoursShall weave her garland of withered flowers,But the hope that cheered her soul is flown,And she moves ’mid the throng, alone, alone.Her lips may smile, but her eye is chill,And her laugh may ring, but her heart is still;Her bosom is now the canker’s prey—She is passing away, passing away.
Gaily she struck the sweet guitar,The maiden fair as a beautiful star;And her soft voice fell on charmed earsLike a seraph’s song from the upper spheresJoyous and blithe is the song she sings,As the morning lark on his heavenward wings;Little the list’ners dream that restNever again shall dwell in her breast;Little they dream, while that strain she is wakingThat her heart with a secret grief is breaking.
Sweet were the words from her lips that fell,As the mocking-bird’s song in the hazel dell;Like the honey of Hybla her words were fraughtWith sweets from the choicest flowers sought;Gloom from her beaming presence fled,Mirth and joy were around her shed;Little they know of the poisoned dartThat rankles deep in her bleeding heart;Little they know that her beaming eyeTells but a hollow mockery.
Bright were the jewels that flashed on her browAs the gleam of the stars on the mountain snow,And the trembling lustre of costly pearlsBeams through the waves of her golden curls,As with queenly step she passes along,The loveliest one of that beautiful throng;But her heart with inward grief is bowed,And her cheek is as pale as the dead man’s shroud,And tears will start in her orbs of blue,Like a rose that weepeth with morning dew.
A gentle heart that she once had knownHad throbbed for her and for her alone.High and holy in him was her trust—Alas! it has turned to ashes and dust!Can she her sacred vows recall,Can she, can she forget them all?Never! although with an aching breastShe ever obeys the stern behest,Yielding with smiles to her bitter lot;Meekly yielding and murmuring not;The memory of departed hoursShall weave her garland of withered flowers,But the hope that cheered her soul is flown,And she moves ’mid the throng, alone, alone.Her lips may smile, but her eye is chill,And her laugh may ring, but her heart is still;Her bosom is now the canker’s prey—She is passing away, passing away.
Last night pealed out the dark Death-angel’s cry—“Another year is gone!”—and from the skyA myriad of voices, like a river,Reëchoed “Gone! forever and forever!”The deep roll of the night-wind’s muffled drumMourned for the dead whose lips are pale and dumbWithin whose pulseless and unconscious breastReigns the nepenthe of a dreamless rest.Scatter sweet flowers on the season’s tomb,For oh, they perished in their early bloom!And o’er their dust this requiem be sung—“Weep not, for Heaven’s best favorites die young”Oh, Spring was very beautiful and gayWhen April mild and rosy-fingered MayRambled among the many babbling brooksAnd gathered wild flowers in their shady nooks,And waving them in gladness in the air,Scattered their fragrant dew-drops everywhereBeneath whose silver spray the delicate bloomOf Flora filled the air with rich perfume.Slender and gentle and surpassing fairWas blue-eyed Summer with her golden hair,Sweet-voiced as is the murmur of a dove,Whilst every look was eloquent with love.Where blooms the wild rose by the mountain spring,In whose clear waves the robin dips his wing,Where clustering berries tempt the longing eyesLike the forbidden fruit of Paradise,And the sweet mocking-bird, in carol gay,Enchants the listener with his wondrous lay—There, in the silence of her shady bowers,The Summer genius passed the dreamy hours;Death came and laid his hand upon her brow,And in eternal night she sleepeth now.Next Autumn came in robe of gorgeous dyesAnd stately step and melancholy eyes—In mien and look like discrowned AntoinetteA queen—although the Bourbon star had set—Beholding with a proud, unwavering faithThe scaffold and the officers of death,Mourning—not her own early doom, for sheKnew well the hollowness of majesty—But grieving that the beautiful and gayIn her bright train were doomed to pass away.So Autumn died, but oh, her couch of deathWas balmy with the jasmine’s odorous breath,And every wind-harp breathed its hollow moanFor the sweet soul that had forever flown.But lo! whilst mourning for the seasons fled,A phœnix from the ashes of the deadRises in triumph, and the new-born yearRound Time’s vast orb begins his swift career.The rising sunbeams herald his advance,And break on every hill a golden lance;Heaven plants her banners at the Eastern gate,To greet the monarch as he comes in state,And the loud harps of ocean and of earthResound in strains of revelry and mirth.Welcome to earth, thou youngest child of Time,Unwarped by wrong, unspotted by a crime!Oh, may the blooming vigor of thy youthRipen in wisdom, purity and truth.Spare in thy flight the innocent and gayAnd scatter pleasure’s garlands in their way;Repress the insolence of lawless might,And make the wrong submissive to the right;Uphold the patriot and strike down the handThat waves the traitor’s sword or treason’s brandAnd with the hand of charity redressEach form of human woe and wretchedness,So that the annals of all coming timeShall write thee as the Golden Age sublime.
Last night pealed out the dark Death-angel’s cry—“Another year is gone!”—and from the skyA myriad of voices, like a river,Reëchoed “Gone! forever and forever!”The deep roll of the night-wind’s muffled drumMourned for the dead whose lips are pale and dumbWithin whose pulseless and unconscious breastReigns the nepenthe of a dreamless rest.Scatter sweet flowers on the season’s tomb,For oh, they perished in their early bloom!And o’er their dust this requiem be sung—“Weep not, for Heaven’s best favorites die young”Oh, Spring was very beautiful and gayWhen April mild and rosy-fingered MayRambled among the many babbling brooksAnd gathered wild flowers in their shady nooks,And waving them in gladness in the air,Scattered their fragrant dew-drops everywhereBeneath whose silver spray the delicate bloomOf Flora filled the air with rich perfume.Slender and gentle and surpassing fairWas blue-eyed Summer with her golden hair,Sweet-voiced as is the murmur of a dove,Whilst every look was eloquent with love.Where blooms the wild rose by the mountain spring,In whose clear waves the robin dips his wing,Where clustering berries tempt the longing eyesLike the forbidden fruit of Paradise,And the sweet mocking-bird, in carol gay,Enchants the listener with his wondrous lay—There, in the silence of her shady bowers,The Summer genius passed the dreamy hours;Death came and laid his hand upon her brow,And in eternal night she sleepeth now.Next Autumn came in robe of gorgeous dyesAnd stately step and melancholy eyes—In mien and look like discrowned AntoinetteA queen—although the Bourbon star had set—Beholding with a proud, unwavering faithThe scaffold and the officers of death,Mourning—not her own early doom, for sheKnew well the hollowness of majesty—But grieving that the beautiful and gayIn her bright train were doomed to pass away.So Autumn died, but oh, her couch of deathWas balmy with the jasmine’s odorous breath,And every wind-harp breathed its hollow moanFor the sweet soul that had forever flown.But lo! whilst mourning for the seasons fled,A phœnix from the ashes of the deadRises in triumph, and the new-born yearRound Time’s vast orb begins his swift career.The rising sunbeams herald his advance,And break on every hill a golden lance;Heaven plants her banners at the Eastern gate,To greet the monarch as he comes in state,And the loud harps of ocean and of earthResound in strains of revelry and mirth.Welcome to earth, thou youngest child of Time,Unwarped by wrong, unspotted by a crime!Oh, may the blooming vigor of thy youthRipen in wisdom, purity and truth.Spare in thy flight the innocent and gayAnd scatter pleasure’s garlands in their way;Repress the insolence of lawless might,And make the wrong submissive to the right;Uphold the patriot and strike down the handThat waves the traitor’s sword or treason’s brandAnd with the hand of charity redressEach form of human woe and wretchedness,So that the annals of all coming timeShall write thee as the Golden Age sublime.
Last night pealed out the dark Death-angel’s cry—“Another year is gone!”—and from the skyA myriad of voices, like a river,Reëchoed “Gone! forever and forever!”The deep roll of the night-wind’s muffled drumMourned for the dead whose lips are pale and dumbWithin whose pulseless and unconscious breastReigns the nepenthe of a dreamless rest.
Scatter sweet flowers on the season’s tomb,For oh, they perished in their early bloom!And o’er their dust this requiem be sung—“Weep not, for Heaven’s best favorites die young”
Oh, Spring was very beautiful and gayWhen April mild and rosy-fingered MayRambled among the many babbling brooksAnd gathered wild flowers in their shady nooks,And waving them in gladness in the air,Scattered their fragrant dew-drops everywhereBeneath whose silver spray the delicate bloomOf Flora filled the air with rich perfume.
Slender and gentle and surpassing fairWas blue-eyed Summer with her golden hair,Sweet-voiced as is the murmur of a dove,Whilst every look was eloquent with love.Where blooms the wild rose by the mountain spring,In whose clear waves the robin dips his wing,Where clustering berries tempt the longing eyesLike the forbidden fruit of Paradise,And the sweet mocking-bird, in carol gay,Enchants the listener with his wondrous lay—There, in the silence of her shady bowers,The Summer genius passed the dreamy hours;Death came and laid his hand upon her brow,And in eternal night she sleepeth now.
Next Autumn came in robe of gorgeous dyesAnd stately step and melancholy eyes—In mien and look like discrowned AntoinetteA queen—although the Bourbon star had set—Beholding with a proud, unwavering faithThe scaffold and the officers of death,Mourning—not her own early doom, for sheKnew well the hollowness of majesty—But grieving that the beautiful and gayIn her bright train were doomed to pass away.So Autumn died, but oh, her couch of deathWas balmy with the jasmine’s odorous breath,And every wind-harp breathed its hollow moanFor the sweet soul that had forever flown.
But lo! whilst mourning for the seasons fled,A phœnix from the ashes of the deadRises in triumph, and the new-born yearRound Time’s vast orb begins his swift career.The rising sunbeams herald his advance,And break on every hill a golden lance;Heaven plants her banners at the Eastern gate,To greet the monarch as he comes in state,And the loud harps of ocean and of earthResound in strains of revelry and mirth.
Welcome to earth, thou youngest child of Time,Unwarped by wrong, unspotted by a crime!Oh, may the blooming vigor of thy youthRipen in wisdom, purity and truth.Spare in thy flight the innocent and gayAnd scatter pleasure’s garlands in their way;Repress the insolence of lawless might,And make the wrong submissive to the right;Uphold the patriot and strike down the handThat waves the traitor’s sword or treason’s brandAnd with the hand of charity redressEach form of human woe and wretchedness,So that the annals of all coming timeShall write thee as the Golden Age sublime.
[Carriers’ Address for the Louisville Journal.]
Oh, infant year, whose newborn limbs are swathedAnd cradled in convulsion—Oh, dread Heaven,Unsealing o’er this land of many woesThe Apocalyptic vials—Oh, my tornAnd bleeding country, by thy sons defloweredAnd stricken of thy God—how shall I singA festal anthem on a broken lyre—To ears made dull by sorrow?From her dreams,With music lulled, all-queenly, and perfumedWith odors from the Summer’s lips distilled,The startled nation woke—awoke to hearRebellion’s war-cries in her citadel,By dark and frenzied sentinels invoked—Singing her dirge, like the volcanic bassOf Ætna’s organ chiming with the seaWhen groans the Titan in immortal pangs—The trepidation of conflicting hosts,Mixed with the wild alarm of clamorous bellsThe strife—the shout—the wailing of despair.Time, by whose hands the mouldering dust of deathIs shovelled in the vaults of coffined realms,What Nemesis insatiate still inspiresThe suicide of Empires? In her breast,Greece nursed the serpent faction, with her blood,That stung her to the heart. Rebellion’s steelPierced the fair bosom of imperial RomeBy foreign foes unconquered; and the landOf God’s own people drank the fatal cupWhich dark dissension pressed upon her lips.As midnight’s bell proclaims with double tongueOne year departed and another born,Swift throng around me with imperial mienAnd godlike brow, and eyes of sad reproach,As angels look in sorrow, the great dead
Oh, infant year, whose newborn limbs are swathedAnd cradled in convulsion—Oh, dread Heaven,Unsealing o’er this land of many woesThe Apocalyptic vials—Oh, my tornAnd bleeding country, by thy sons defloweredAnd stricken of thy God—how shall I singA festal anthem on a broken lyre—To ears made dull by sorrow?From her dreams,With music lulled, all-queenly, and perfumedWith odors from the Summer’s lips distilled,The startled nation woke—awoke to hearRebellion’s war-cries in her citadel,By dark and frenzied sentinels invoked—Singing her dirge, like the volcanic bassOf Ætna’s organ chiming with the seaWhen groans the Titan in immortal pangs—The trepidation of conflicting hosts,Mixed with the wild alarm of clamorous bellsThe strife—the shout—the wailing of despair.Time, by whose hands the mouldering dust of deathIs shovelled in the vaults of coffined realms,What Nemesis insatiate still inspiresThe suicide of Empires? In her breast,Greece nursed the serpent faction, with her blood,That stung her to the heart. Rebellion’s steelPierced the fair bosom of imperial RomeBy foreign foes unconquered; and the landOf God’s own people drank the fatal cupWhich dark dissension pressed upon her lips.As midnight’s bell proclaims with double tongueOne year departed and another born,Swift throng around me with imperial mienAnd godlike brow, and eyes of sad reproach,As angels look in sorrow, the great dead
Oh, infant year, whose newborn limbs are swathedAnd cradled in convulsion—Oh, dread Heaven,Unsealing o’er this land of many woesThe Apocalyptic vials—Oh, my tornAnd bleeding country, by thy sons defloweredAnd stricken of thy God—how shall I singA festal anthem on a broken lyre—To ears made dull by sorrow?
From her dreams,With music lulled, all-queenly, and perfumedWith odors from the Summer’s lips distilled,The startled nation woke—awoke to hearRebellion’s war-cries in her citadel,By dark and frenzied sentinels invoked—Singing her dirge, like the volcanic bassOf Ætna’s organ chiming with the seaWhen groans the Titan in immortal pangs—The trepidation of conflicting hosts,Mixed with the wild alarm of clamorous bellsThe strife—the shout—the wailing of despair.
Time, by whose hands the mouldering dust of deathIs shovelled in the vaults of coffined realms,What Nemesis insatiate still inspiresThe suicide of Empires? In her breast,Greece nursed the serpent faction, with her blood,That stung her to the heart. Rebellion’s steelPierced the fair bosom of imperial RomeBy foreign foes unconquered; and the landOf God’s own people drank the fatal cupWhich dark dissension pressed upon her lips.
As midnight’s bell proclaims with double tongueOne year departed and another born,Swift throng around me with imperial mienAnd godlike brow, and eyes of sad reproach,As angels look in sorrow, the great dead
Image unavailable: Mrs. ANNIE McRAE MERCERMrs. ANNIE McRAE MERCER
Who walked Mount Vernon’s shades and Marshfield’s plains,And Monticello’s height, and Ashland’s grovesStill vocal with unearthly eloquence,Statesmen and Chiefs who loved their native landAnd led her up to fame. With solemn airAnd thrilling voice they point to freedom’s flagWar-rent and laced with sacrificial blood,By noble martyrs shed; and thus they speak—“O sons once named Americans, but nowThe world-mocked orphans of a nameless land,Why rush ye to destruction? Happier farThan ye the tawny tribes your fathers droveFrom the primeval forest—the red chiefsWho bravely perished on their hunting-grounds,Or passing o’er the mountains of the West,Went down in gloom, like nature’s final sun,To rise no more forever. Better thusThan live the foul dishonor of your sires,Whose progeny like Lucifer of oldRebelled against the power that made them Gods,And perished in their treason. Come, ye winds,Swift-winged couriers of the tropic sky,Heralds of death and ruin—come, ye firesThat in volcanic caverns ever burn,And crush pale cities in your molten jaws—Come, burning plagues, and ye tempestuous waves,Who strangle navies in your watery arms—Earthquakes and lightning-strokes, all earthly illsWhich Heaven inflicts, and trembling men abhor—Fell bolts in God’s red armory of wrath,With all your terrors in one stroke combined,Come; and in mercy blast the land with ruinRather than we should see Columbia’s plainsDrenched in a crimson sea of fratricide,Lust, rapine, malice, treachery, revenge,The tall and crowning Teneriffe of crime.”I hear a passing bell—the muffled drumRolls its sepulchral echoes on the nightWhich spreads across the sky the starless pallOf desolation. And upon my earFalls the wild burden of a dismal songLike that of mocking fiends in revelry.
Who walked Mount Vernon’s shades and Marshfield’s plains,And Monticello’s height, and Ashland’s grovesStill vocal with unearthly eloquence,Statesmen and Chiefs who loved their native landAnd led her up to fame. With solemn airAnd thrilling voice they point to freedom’s flagWar-rent and laced with sacrificial blood,By noble martyrs shed; and thus they speak—“O sons once named Americans, but nowThe world-mocked orphans of a nameless land,Why rush ye to destruction? Happier farThan ye the tawny tribes your fathers droveFrom the primeval forest—the red chiefsWho bravely perished on their hunting-grounds,Or passing o’er the mountains of the West,Went down in gloom, like nature’s final sun,To rise no more forever. Better thusThan live the foul dishonor of your sires,Whose progeny like Lucifer of oldRebelled against the power that made them Gods,And perished in their treason. Come, ye winds,Swift-winged couriers of the tropic sky,Heralds of death and ruin—come, ye firesThat in volcanic caverns ever burn,And crush pale cities in your molten jaws—Come, burning plagues, and ye tempestuous waves,Who strangle navies in your watery arms—Earthquakes and lightning-strokes, all earthly illsWhich Heaven inflicts, and trembling men abhor—Fell bolts in God’s red armory of wrath,With all your terrors in one stroke combined,Come; and in mercy blast the land with ruinRather than we should see Columbia’s plainsDrenched in a crimson sea of fratricide,Lust, rapine, malice, treachery, revenge,The tall and crowning Teneriffe of crime.”I hear a passing bell—the muffled drumRolls its sepulchral echoes on the nightWhich spreads across the sky the starless pallOf desolation. And upon my earFalls the wild burden of a dismal songLike that of mocking fiends in revelry.
Who walked Mount Vernon’s shades and Marshfield’s plains,And Monticello’s height, and Ashland’s grovesStill vocal with unearthly eloquence,Statesmen and Chiefs who loved their native landAnd led her up to fame. With solemn airAnd thrilling voice they point to freedom’s flagWar-rent and laced with sacrificial blood,By noble martyrs shed; and thus they speak—“O sons once named Americans, but nowThe world-mocked orphans of a nameless land,Why rush ye to destruction? Happier farThan ye the tawny tribes your fathers droveFrom the primeval forest—the red chiefsWho bravely perished on their hunting-grounds,Or passing o’er the mountains of the West,Went down in gloom, like nature’s final sun,To rise no more forever. Better thusThan live the foul dishonor of your sires,Whose progeny like Lucifer of oldRebelled against the power that made them Gods,And perished in their treason. Come, ye winds,Swift-winged couriers of the tropic sky,Heralds of death and ruin—come, ye firesThat in volcanic caverns ever burn,And crush pale cities in your molten jaws—Come, burning plagues, and ye tempestuous waves,Who strangle navies in your watery arms—Earthquakes and lightning-strokes, all earthly illsWhich Heaven inflicts, and trembling men abhor—Fell bolts in God’s red armory of wrath,With all your terrors in one stroke combined,Come; and in mercy blast the land with ruinRather than we should see Columbia’s plainsDrenched in a crimson sea of fratricide,Lust, rapine, malice, treachery, revenge,The tall and crowning Teneriffe of crime.”
I hear a passing bell—the muffled drumRolls its sepulchral echoes on the nightWhich spreads across the sky the starless pallOf desolation. And upon my earFalls the wild burden of a dismal songLike that of mocking fiends in revelry.
The Disunion Banner.
Fiends who in the lurid gloomOf Hell do ply the fatal loom,Weave a banner of despairFor Columbia’s tainted air,Like the boding raven’s wingAll the land o’ershadowing.In the murky woof embroiderDarkness, death, and Hell’s disorder.On the fatal standard showEvery form of guilt and woe—Murder drinking deep of blood,Rolling round him like a flood,All the fetid gall that dripsFrom the land’s infected lips,In the murky woof embroiderDarkness, death, and Hell’s disorder.Weave ye in the magic loomPiles of slain without a tomb,Cities lit with midnight fires,Crashing walls and toppling spires,Famine’s sunken, ghastly cheek,Outraged woman’s helpless shriek,Hoary age and infancyPlunged in one wide misery;In the murky woof embroiderDarkness, death, and Hell’s disorder.Let the banner’s fold be boundWith a fiery serpent round;Eden’s destroyer shall recallThe new temptation, sin, and fall.We have changed the stripes of flameTo the burning blush of shame,And the streaks of spotless whiteTo the pallor of affright,And the stars which blazoned allTo Wormwood in its endless fall.The song of treason ceased—the phantoms fled,And as I mused in the dark bitternessOf grief to this sad prophecy of woe,I heard a sound, as when the ocean movesHis moist battalions to the tempest’s march,To storm the fortress of the rocky isles,And hosts innumerable thronged aroundIn panoply of war. From every heightAnd every valley rolled the martial drum,And bugles calling to the gory chargeThe loyal and the bold, while streamed on highGay banners glittering with the hues of heaven.“We come, oh, bleeding country,” was their cry,“To beat aside the parricidal steel,And shield the snowy breast that gave us life.”New England’s seamen swelled the rallying cryAlong the coasts; the Middle States repliedFrom thronging marts; the echoes leaped alongThe Mississippi Valley, whose vast floodsThrob like the pulses of the Nation’s heart,And pale Virginia, all besprinkled nowWith War’s red baptism, to Kentucky spoke;Kentucky, tried but faithful unto death,To sad Missouri called; Missouri passedThe kindling watchword to the vast Northwest,Ohio, Indiana, Illinois,Who louder sang than Niagara’s roarTo the unconquered heights of Tennessee;Hoarse echoes, like the low sepulchral moanOf subterranean fires, disturbed the Gulf—The bleeding Gulf betrayed and overawed—Then swelling loud as an Archangel’s trump,Or shrill winds piping o’er the stormy flood,It thundered back from far Pacific’s coast.Come to the tombs by mourning millions throngedBeneath the oak of weeping. Glorious dead,Fame’s cemetery holds no hero dustMore dearly honored in sublime repose.Pale ashes, with a nation’s tears bedewed,And fanned by sighs as numerous as the winds,The laurels that you nurture shall be greenAnd bloom forever round the precious urnsOf Baker and Lyon. Fortune smiledUpon them, casting from her ample lap,Her lavish stores of fame and wealth and ease,And wooed them to repose. Though sweet her song,She sang unheeded. Honor, fortune, lifeThey offered freely on their country’s shrine,In the red heat and fury of the fight,Deeming the dearest jewels of the worldWere nought when weighed against the nation’s life.
Fiends who in the lurid gloomOf Hell do ply the fatal loom,Weave a banner of despairFor Columbia’s tainted air,Like the boding raven’s wingAll the land o’ershadowing.In the murky woof embroiderDarkness, death, and Hell’s disorder.On the fatal standard showEvery form of guilt and woe—Murder drinking deep of blood,Rolling round him like a flood,All the fetid gall that dripsFrom the land’s infected lips,In the murky woof embroiderDarkness, death, and Hell’s disorder.Weave ye in the magic loomPiles of slain without a tomb,Cities lit with midnight fires,Crashing walls and toppling spires,Famine’s sunken, ghastly cheek,Outraged woman’s helpless shriek,Hoary age and infancyPlunged in one wide misery;In the murky woof embroiderDarkness, death, and Hell’s disorder.Let the banner’s fold be boundWith a fiery serpent round;Eden’s destroyer shall recallThe new temptation, sin, and fall.We have changed the stripes of flameTo the burning blush of shame,And the streaks of spotless whiteTo the pallor of affright,And the stars which blazoned allTo Wormwood in its endless fall.The song of treason ceased—the phantoms fled,And as I mused in the dark bitternessOf grief to this sad prophecy of woe,I heard a sound, as when the ocean movesHis moist battalions to the tempest’s march,To storm the fortress of the rocky isles,And hosts innumerable thronged aroundIn panoply of war. From every heightAnd every valley rolled the martial drum,And bugles calling to the gory chargeThe loyal and the bold, while streamed on highGay banners glittering with the hues of heaven.“We come, oh, bleeding country,” was their cry,“To beat aside the parricidal steel,And shield the snowy breast that gave us life.”New England’s seamen swelled the rallying cryAlong the coasts; the Middle States repliedFrom thronging marts; the echoes leaped alongThe Mississippi Valley, whose vast floodsThrob like the pulses of the Nation’s heart,And pale Virginia, all besprinkled nowWith War’s red baptism, to Kentucky spoke;Kentucky, tried but faithful unto death,To sad Missouri called; Missouri passedThe kindling watchword to the vast Northwest,Ohio, Indiana, Illinois,Who louder sang than Niagara’s roarTo the unconquered heights of Tennessee;Hoarse echoes, like the low sepulchral moanOf subterranean fires, disturbed the Gulf—The bleeding Gulf betrayed and overawed—Then swelling loud as an Archangel’s trump,Or shrill winds piping o’er the stormy flood,It thundered back from far Pacific’s coast.Come to the tombs by mourning millions throngedBeneath the oak of weeping. Glorious dead,Fame’s cemetery holds no hero dustMore dearly honored in sublime repose.Pale ashes, with a nation’s tears bedewed,And fanned by sighs as numerous as the winds,The laurels that you nurture shall be greenAnd bloom forever round the precious urnsOf Baker and Lyon. Fortune smiledUpon them, casting from her ample lap,Her lavish stores of fame and wealth and ease,And wooed them to repose. Though sweet her song,She sang unheeded. Honor, fortune, lifeThey offered freely on their country’s shrine,In the red heat and fury of the fight,Deeming the dearest jewels of the worldWere nought when weighed against the nation’s life.
Fiends who in the lurid gloomOf Hell do ply the fatal loom,Weave a banner of despairFor Columbia’s tainted air,Like the boding raven’s wingAll the land o’ershadowing.In the murky woof embroiderDarkness, death, and Hell’s disorder.
On the fatal standard showEvery form of guilt and woe—Murder drinking deep of blood,Rolling round him like a flood,All the fetid gall that dripsFrom the land’s infected lips,In the murky woof embroiderDarkness, death, and Hell’s disorder.
Weave ye in the magic loomPiles of slain without a tomb,Cities lit with midnight fires,Crashing walls and toppling spires,Famine’s sunken, ghastly cheek,Outraged woman’s helpless shriek,Hoary age and infancyPlunged in one wide misery;In the murky woof embroiderDarkness, death, and Hell’s disorder.
Let the banner’s fold be boundWith a fiery serpent round;Eden’s destroyer shall recallThe new temptation, sin, and fall.We have changed the stripes of flameTo the burning blush of shame,And the streaks of spotless whiteTo the pallor of affright,And the stars which blazoned allTo Wormwood in its endless fall.
The song of treason ceased—the phantoms fled,And as I mused in the dark bitternessOf grief to this sad prophecy of woe,I heard a sound, as when the ocean movesHis moist battalions to the tempest’s march,To storm the fortress of the rocky isles,And hosts innumerable thronged aroundIn panoply of war. From every heightAnd every valley rolled the martial drum,And bugles calling to the gory chargeThe loyal and the bold, while streamed on highGay banners glittering with the hues of heaven.“We come, oh, bleeding country,” was their cry,“To beat aside the parricidal steel,And shield the snowy breast that gave us life.”
New England’s seamen swelled the rallying cryAlong the coasts; the Middle States repliedFrom thronging marts; the echoes leaped alongThe Mississippi Valley, whose vast floodsThrob like the pulses of the Nation’s heart,And pale Virginia, all besprinkled nowWith War’s red baptism, to Kentucky spoke;Kentucky, tried but faithful unto death,To sad Missouri called; Missouri passedThe kindling watchword to the vast Northwest,Ohio, Indiana, Illinois,Who louder sang than Niagara’s roarTo the unconquered heights of Tennessee;Hoarse echoes, like the low sepulchral moanOf subterranean fires, disturbed the Gulf—The bleeding Gulf betrayed and overawed—Then swelling loud as an Archangel’s trump,Or shrill winds piping o’er the stormy flood,It thundered back from far Pacific’s coast.
Come to the tombs by mourning millions throngedBeneath the oak of weeping. Glorious dead,Fame’s cemetery holds no hero dustMore dearly honored in sublime repose.Pale ashes, with a nation’s tears bedewed,And fanned by sighs as numerous as the winds,The laurels that you nurture shall be greenAnd bloom forever round the precious urnsOf Baker and Lyon. Fortune smiledUpon them, casting from her ample lap,Her lavish stores of fame and wealth and ease,And wooed them to repose. Though sweet her song,She sang unheeded. Honor, fortune, lifeThey offered freely on their country’s shrine,In the red heat and fury of the fight,Deeming the dearest jewels of the worldWere nought when weighed against the nation’s life.
Dirge.
He who led our faltering ranksUp the ambuscaded banks—He who poured his heart’s red rainOver Springfield’s stormy plain,Heeding not the volleys deadlyNor the life’s blood running redly,Cold in death shall lead no moreWhere our country’s eagles soar.Such, oh War, thy fearful pleasure,Priceless blood and costliest treasure,Still the victims whom thou smitestAre the loveliest and the brightest.But the martyrs shall be gloriousWhen our flag returns victorious;Death, who seals such patriot eyes,Opens them in Paradise.As wistfully I gazed upon their gravesA vision passed before me. On a mountThat glowed with light ineffable appearedThe New Year, in imperial garments clad,Erect and tall and God-like in his mien,With strength immortal in his manly limbsAnd hope and courage beaming from his eyes.And lo, swift breaking from the clouds, he sawComing in splendor like the morning sun,The reunited Empire of the West,Swelled on the ear the ever-murmuring huOf populous cities on unnumbered streams,And marts of commerce by a hundred lakes.The teeming fields, with varied harvests, waved,And tinkling bells on distant hills revivedSweet memories of Arcadia’s pastoral days.Fair science led her train by every groveAnd hill and stream, and pure religion filledHer solemn temples with perpetual hymnsAnd fervent supplication to her God.And from above the shades of years departedSang with a voice that filled the firmament:“Hail, New Year, hail the noblest child of Time;The Power which brought the fathers o’er the floodHas saved the offspring from the sevenfold fire.A Union healed shall date its life from thee,Redemption’s golden era. From its shieldNo star shall vanish in forlorn eclipse,Nor exiled Pleiad chant in skies remoteHer solitary song, nor sundered beThe marriage bond of States, by law confirmedAnd the eternal oracles of God.”
He who led our faltering ranksUp the ambuscaded banks—He who poured his heart’s red rainOver Springfield’s stormy plain,Heeding not the volleys deadlyNor the life’s blood running redly,Cold in death shall lead no moreWhere our country’s eagles soar.Such, oh War, thy fearful pleasure,Priceless blood and costliest treasure,Still the victims whom thou smitestAre the loveliest and the brightest.But the martyrs shall be gloriousWhen our flag returns victorious;Death, who seals such patriot eyes,Opens them in Paradise.As wistfully I gazed upon their gravesA vision passed before me. On a mountThat glowed with light ineffable appearedThe New Year, in imperial garments clad,Erect and tall and God-like in his mien,With strength immortal in his manly limbsAnd hope and courage beaming from his eyes.And lo, swift breaking from the clouds, he sawComing in splendor like the morning sun,The reunited Empire of the West,Swelled on the ear the ever-murmuring huOf populous cities on unnumbered streams,And marts of commerce by a hundred lakes.The teeming fields, with varied harvests, waved,And tinkling bells on distant hills revivedSweet memories of Arcadia’s pastoral days.Fair science led her train by every groveAnd hill and stream, and pure religion filledHer solemn temples with perpetual hymnsAnd fervent supplication to her God.And from above the shades of years departedSang with a voice that filled the firmament:“Hail, New Year, hail the noblest child of Time;The Power which brought the fathers o’er the floodHas saved the offspring from the sevenfold fire.A Union healed shall date its life from thee,Redemption’s golden era. From its shieldNo star shall vanish in forlorn eclipse,Nor exiled Pleiad chant in skies remoteHer solitary song, nor sundered beThe marriage bond of States, by law confirmedAnd the eternal oracles of God.”
He who led our faltering ranksUp the ambuscaded banks—He who poured his heart’s red rainOver Springfield’s stormy plain,Heeding not the volleys deadlyNor the life’s blood running redly,Cold in death shall lead no moreWhere our country’s eagles soar.
Such, oh War, thy fearful pleasure,Priceless blood and costliest treasure,Still the victims whom thou smitestAre the loveliest and the brightest.But the martyrs shall be gloriousWhen our flag returns victorious;Death, who seals such patriot eyes,Opens them in Paradise.
As wistfully I gazed upon their gravesA vision passed before me. On a mountThat glowed with light ineffable appearedThe New Year, in imperial garments clad,Erect and tall and God-like in his mien,With strength immortal in his manly limbsAnd hope and courage beaming from his eyes.And lo, swift breaking from the clouds, he sawComing in splendor like the morning sun,The reunited Empire of the West,Swelled on the ear the ever-murmuring huOf populous cities on unnumbered streams,And marts of commerce by a hundred lakes.The teeming fields, with varied harvests, waved,And tinkling bells on distant hills revivedSweet memories of Arcadia’s pastoral days.Fair science led her train by every groveAnd hill and stream, and pure religion filledHer solemn temples with perpetual hymnsAnd fervent supplication to her God.And from above the shades of years departedSang with a voice that filled the firmament:“Hail, New Year, hail the noblest child of Time;The Power which brought the fathers o’er the floodHas saved the offspring from the sevenfold fire.A Union healed shall date its life from thee,Redemption’s golden era. From its shieldNo star shall vanish in forlorn eclipse,Nor exiled Pleiad chant in skies remoteHer solitary song, nor sundered beThe marriage bond of States, by law confirmedAnd the eternal oracles of God.”
On the Death of Abraham Lincoln.
[Read at a Memorial Meeting, Nashville, held at the State House, April 16, 1865. Governor Brownlow delivered the address.]
Soft breathe the vernal winds, the sky is fair,And April’s fragrance scents the dewy air.Yon Heaven looks down on earth with eyes as mildAs a young mother’s on her sleeping child,Jealous lest aught should break her infant’s calm,And lulling its soft slumbers with a psalm.So soft, so holy, comes the forest hymn,From yon far hill-tops, misty, blue and dim,While war’s discordant tumult seems to ceaseIn the sweet music of returning peace.Yet where the fount of joy in crystal springs,Some venomed asp its rankling poison flings,And where the violets shed their fragrant breathThe nightshade pours the blistering dews of deathWhat bloody phantom with a brow of wrathStalks in the van of our triumphal path,And o’er our banners flings a funeral veil,Till Heaven grows black and mortal cheeks grow pale?’Twas in the halls of mirth, a gala night,Bright lamps o’er joyful thousands shed their light,The nation’s Father sat amid the throng,Relaxed his brow and heard the festal song;He dreams not of conspiracy, nor seesAbove his head the sword of Damocles;Wide opes the sepulchre its marble jaws,All nature seems to make a breathless pause;The deadly aim is made—the death-shot flies,And Freedom’s martyr passes to the skies.Oh, Statesman, Hero, Patriot, Friend, and Sire,Now the pale tenant of a funeral pyre,Whose red right hand four years has held the rod,The minister of Freedom and of God,Yet with the rod the blooming olive held,While the dark deluge of rebellion swelledAnd thundered round our Ark—an ArgosyMore dear than all the jewels of the sea,And still with outstretched arms essayed to saveThe shipwrecked seamen from the yawning wave!Thy love was strong as woman’s—who like theeTheir interceding angel now shall be?A genial wit, a homely native sense,Nearer to truth than studied eloquence,A quiet courage to defend the right,And leave to Heaven the issue of the fight;A will of adamant, which seemed to beThe very flower of maiden modesty,A conscience, holding truth of greater worthThan all the crowns and treasures of the earth;A love, whose strong affections seemed to bindIn one the happiness of all mankind;These were the jewels whose celestial flameShall burn with quenchless glow round Lincoln’s name,The virtues which shall make his memory dearWhile Justice reigns in yon eternal sphere.And millions shall lament, with honest grief,The People’s friend and Freedom’s fallen chief;The huntsman shall forget the eager chase,And pause to wipe his weatherbeaten face,The daring sailor, on the distant sea,Shall shed a teardrop to his memory;The widow’s tears shall quench her cottage fire,The soldier’s orphan moan his second sire.There need no glittering trappings of the tomb,No martial dirge, nor hearse with nodding plume,To tell their grief; but words devoid of artShow how this stroke has pierced the Nation’s heart.Precious the tears shall be the Nation weeps,And sacred be the sod where Lincoln sleeps.His fame shall be the jewel of the West,Like a rich pearl on Beauty’s throbbing breast.Mourn, O ye Mountains!—altars of the sky—Fit monuments of him who cannot die;Mourn, loud Atlantic! let thy thunder-dirgeChant the sad requiem with Pacific’s surge.Mourn, O New England! on thy granite base.Mourn, Illinois, thy desolate dwelling-place;Kentucky, mourn! thy second God-like sonSleeps in the dust, life’s duty nobly done;Mourn, Tennessee! The Hero of the AgeSleeps with the Lion of the Hermitage;Chanted the melancholy song shall be,By all thy streams which hasten to the sea,While Nashville’s echoing wall of cedared hillsWith mournful cadence all the valley fills.
Soft breathe the vernal winds, the sky is fair,And April’s fragrance scents the dewy air.Yon Heaven looks down on earth with eyes as mildAs a young mother’s on her sleeping child,Jealous lest aught should break her infant’s calm,And lulling its soft slumbers with a psalm.So soft, so holy, comes the forest hymn,From yon far hill-tops, misty, blue and dim,While war’s discordant tumult seems to ceaseIn the sweet music of returning peace.Yet where the fount of joy in crystal springs,Some venomed asp its rankling poison flings,And where the violets shed their fragrant breathThe nightshade pours the blistering dews of deathWhat bloody phantom with a brow of wrathStalks in the van of our triumphal path,And o’er our banners flings a funeral veil,Till Heaven grows black and mortal cheeks grow pale?’Twas in the halls of mirth, a gala night,Bright lamps o’er joyful thousands shed their light,The nation’s Father sat amid the throng,Relaxed his brow and heard the festal song;He dreams not of conspiracy, nor seesAbove his head the sword of Damocles;Wide opes the sepulchre its marble jaws,All nature seems to make a breathless pause;The deadly aim is made—the death-shot flies,And Freedom’s martyr passes to the skies.Oh, Statesman, Hero, Patriot, Friend, and Sire,Now the pale tenant of a funeral pyre,Whose red right hand four years has held the rod,The minister of Freedom and of God,Yet with the rod the blooming olive held,While the dark deluge of rebellion swelledAnd thundered round our Ark—an ArgosyMore dear than all the jewels of the sea,And still with outstretched arms essayed to saveThe shipwrecked seamen from the yawning wave!Thy love was strong as woman’s—who like theeTheir interceding angel now shall be?A genial wit, a homely native sense,Nearer to truth than studied eloquence,A quiet courage to defend the right,And leave to Heaven the issue of the fight;A will of adamant, which seemed to beThe very flower of maiden modesty,A conscience, holding truth of greater worthThan all the crowns and treasures of the earth;A love, whose strong affections seemed to bindIn one the happiness of all mankind;These were the jewels whose celestial flameShall burn with quenchless glow round Lincoln’s name,The virtues which shall make his memory dearWhile Justice reigns in yon eternal sphere.And millions shall lament, with honest grief,The People’s friend and Freedom’s fallen chief;The huntsman shall forget the eager chase,And pause to wipe his weatherbeaten face,The daring sailor, on the distant sea,Shall shed a teardrop to his memory;The widow’s tears shall quench her cottage fire,The soldier’s orphan moan his second sire.There need no glittering trappings of the tomb,No martial dirge, nor hearse with nodding plume,To tell their grief; but words devoid of artShow how this stroke has pierced the Nation’s heart.Precious the tears shall be the Nation weeps,And sacred be the sod where Lincoln sleeps.His fame shall be the jewel of the West,Like a rich pearl on Beauty’s throbbing breast.Mourn, O ye Mountains!—altars of the sky—Fit monuments of him who cannot die;Mourn, loud Atlantic! let thy thunder-dirgeChant the sad requiem with Pacific’s surge.Mourn, O New England! on thy granite base.Mourn, Illinois, thy desolate dwelling-place;Kentucky, mourn! thy second God-like sonSleeps in the dust, life’s duty nobly done;Mourn, Tennessee! The Hero of the AgeSleeps with the Lion of the Hermitage;Chanted the melancholy song shall be,By all thy streams which hasten to the sea,While Nashville’s echoing wall of cedared hillsWith mournful cadence all the valley fills.
Soft breathe the vernal winds, the sky is fair,And April’s fragrance scents the dewy air.Yon Heaven looks down on earth with eyes as mildAs a young mother’s on her sleeping child,Jealous lest aught should break her infant’s calm,And lulling its soft slumbers with a psalm.So soft, so holy, comes the forest hymn,From yon far hill-tops, misty, blue and dim,While war’s discordant tumult seems to ceaseIn the sweet music of returning peace.Yet where the fount of joy in crystal springs,Some venomed asp its rankling poison flings,And where the violets shed their fragrant breathThe nightshade pours the blistering dews of death
What bloody phantom with a brow of wrathStalks in the van of our triumphal path,And o’er our banners flings a funeral veil,Till Heaven grows black and mortal cheeks grow pale?’Twas in the halls of mirth, a gala night,Bright lamps o’er joyful thousands shed their light,The nation’s Father sat amid the throng,Relaxed his brow and heard the festal song;He dreams not of conspiracy, nor seesAbove his head the sword of Damocles;Wide opes the sepulchre its marble jaws,All nature seems to make a breathless pause;The deadly aim is made—the death-shot flies,And Freedom’s martyr passes to the skies.
Oh, Statesman, Hero, Patriot, Friend, and Sire,Now the pale tenant of a funeral pyre,Whose red right hand four years has held the rod,The minister of Freedom and of God,Yet with the rod the blooming olive held,While the dark deluge of rebellion swelledAnd thundered round our Ark—an ArgosyMore dear than all the jewels of the sea,And still with outstretched arms essayed to saveThe shipwrecked seamen from the yawning wave!Thy love was strong as woman’s—who like theeTheir interceding angel now shall be?
A genial wit, a homely native sense,Nearer to truth than studied eloquence,A quiet courage to defend the right,And leave to Heaven the issue of the fight;A will of adamant, which seemed to beThe very flower of maiden modesty,A conscience, holding truth of greater worthThan all the crowns and treasures of the earth;A love, whose strong affections seemed to bindIn one the happiness of all mankind;These were the jewels whose celestial flameShall burn with quenchless glow round Lincoln’s name,The virtues which shall make his memory dearWhile Justice reigns in yon eternal sphere.
And millions shall lament, with honest grief,The People’s friend and Freedom’s fallen chief;The huntsman shall forget the eager chase,And pause to wipe his weatherbeaten face,The daring sailor, on the distant sea,Shall shed a teardrop to his memory;The widow’s tears shall quench her cottage fire,The soldier’s orphan moan his second sire.There need no glittering trappings of the tomb,No martial dirge, nor hearse with nodding plume,To tell their grief; but words devoid of artShow how this stroke has pierced the Nation’s heart.
Precious the tears shall be the Nation weeps,And sacred be the sod where Lincoln sleeps.His fame shall be the jewel of the West,Like a rich pearl on Beauty’s throbbing breast.Mourn, O ye Mountains!—altars of the sky—Fit monuments of him who cannot die;Mourn, loud Atlantic! let thy thunder-dirgeChant the sad requiem with Pacific’s surge.Mourn, O New England! on thy granite base.Mourn, Illinois, thy desolate dwelling-place;Kentucky, mourn! thy second God-like sonSleeps in the dust, life’s duty nobly done;Mourn, Tennessee! The Hero of the AgeSleeps with the Lion of the Hermitage;Chanted the melancholy song shall be,By all thy streams which hasten to the sea,While Nashville’s echoing wall of cedared hillsWith mournful cadence all the valley fills.
[Written for a celebration given by the young ladies of Elder Enos Campbell’s School, Hopkinsville, February 22, 1861.]