But, Dinah! Shuh dat gal jes' like dis little hick'ry tree,De sap's jes' risin in her; she do grow owdaciouslee —Lord, ef you's clarin' de underbrush, don't cut her down, cut me!
I would not proud persume — but I'll boldly make reques';Sence Jacob had dat wrastlin'-match, I, too, gwine do my bes';When Jacob got all underholt, de Lord he answered Yes!
And what for waste de vittles, now, and th'ow away de bread,Jes' for to strength dese idle hands to scratch dis ole bald head?T'ink of de 'conomy, Marster, ef dis ole Jim was dead!
Stop; — ef I don't believe de Debble's gone on up de stream!Jes' now he squealed down dar; — hush; dat's a mighty weakly scream!Yas, sir, he's gone, he's gone; — he snort way off, like in a dream!
O glory hallelujah to de Lord dat reigns on high!De Debble's fai'ly skeered to def, he done gone flyin' by;I know'd he couldn' stand dat pra'r, I felt my Marster nigh!
You, Dinah; ain't you 'shamed, now, dat you didn' trust to grace?I heerd you thrashin' th'u' de bushes when he showed his face!You fool, you think de Debble couldn't beat YOU in a race?
I tell you, Dinah, jes' as shuh as you is standin' dar,When folks starts prayin', answer-angels drops down th'u' de a'r.YAS, DINAH, WHAR 'OULD YOU BE NOW, JES' 'CEPTIN' FUR DAT PRA'R?
____ Baltimore, 1875.
Unrevised Early Poems.
These unrevised poems are not necessarily exponents of Mr. Lanier's later teaching, but are offered as examples of his youthful spirit, his earlier methods and his instructive growth. To many friends they present in addition a wealth of dear associations. But, putting Mr. Lanier upon trial as an artist, it is fair to remember that probably none of these poems would have been republished by him without material alterations, the slightest of which no other hand can be authorized to make.
The Jacquerie. A Fragment.
Once on a time, a Dawn, all red and brightLeapt on the conquered ramparts of the Night,And flamed, one brilliant instant, on the world,Then back into the historic moat was hurledAnd Night was King again, for many years.— Once on a time the Rose of Spring blushed outBut Winter angrily withdrew it backInto his rough new-bursten husk, and shutThe stern husk-leaves, and hid it many years.— Once Famine tricked himself with ears of corn,And Hate strung flowers on his spiked belt,And glum Revenge in silver lilies pranked him,And Lust put violets on his shameless front,And all minced forth o' the street like holiday folkThat sally off afield on Summer morns.— Once certain hounds that knew of many a chase,And bare great wounds of antler and of tuskThat they had ta'en to give a lord some sport,— Good hounds, that would have died to give lords sport —Were so bewrayed and kicked by these same lordsThat all the pack turned tooth o' the knights and bitAs knights had been no better things than boars,And took revenge as bloody as a man's,Unhoundlike, sudden, hot i' the chops, and sweet.— Once sat a falcon on a lady's wrist,Seeming to doze, with wrinkled eye-lid drawn,But dreaming hard of hoods and slaveriesAnd of dim hungers in his heart and wings.Then, while the mistress gazed above for game,Sudden he flew into her painted faceAnd hooked his horn-claws in her lily throatAnd drove his beak into her lips and eyesIn fierce and hawkish kissing that did scarAnd mar the lady's beauty evermore.— And once while Chivalry stood tall and litheAnd flashed his sword above the stricken eyesOf all the simple peasant-folk of France:While Thought was keen and hot and quick,And did not play, as in these later days,Like summer-lightning flickering in the west— As little dreadful as if glow-worms layIn the cool and watery clouds and glimmered weak —But gleamed and struck at once or oak or man,And left not space for Time to wave his wingBetwixt the instantaneous flash and stroke:While yet the needs of life were brave and fierceAnd did not hide their deeds behind their words,And logic came not 'twixt desire and act,And Want-and-Take was the whole Form of life:While Love had fires a-burning in his veins,And hidden Hate could flash into revenge:Ere yet young Trade was 'ware of his big thewsOr dreamed that in the bolder afterdaysHe would hew down and bind old ChivalryAnd drag him to the highest height of fameAnd plunge him thence in the sea of still RomanceTo lie for aye in never-rusted mailGleaming through quiet ripples of soft songsAnd sheens of old traditionary tales; —On such a time, a certain May aroseFrom out that blue Sea that between five landsLies like a violet midst of five large leaves,Arose from out this violet and flew onAnd stirred the spirits of the woods of FranceAnd smoothed the brows of moody Auvergne hills,And wrought warm sea-tints into maidens' eyes,And calmed the wordy air of market-townsWith faint suggestions blown from distant buds,Until the land seemed a mere dream of land,And, in this dream-field Life sat like a doveAnd cooed across unto her dove-mate Death,Brooding, pathetic, by a river, lone.Oh, sharper tangs pierced through this perfumed May.Strange aches sailed by with odors on the windAs when we kneel in flowers that grow on gravesOf friends who died unworthy of our love.King John of France was proving such an acheIn English prisons wide and fair and grand,Whose long expanses of green park and chaceDid ape large liberty with such successAs smiles of irony ape smiles of love.Down from the oaks of Hertford Castle park,Double with warm rose-breaths of southern SpringCame rumors, as if odors too had thorns,Sharp rumors, how the three Estates of France,Like old Three-headed Cerberus of HellHad set upon the Duke of Normandy,Their rightful Regent, snarled in his great face,Snapped jagged teeth in inch-breadth of his throat,And blown such hot and savage breath upon him,That he had tossed great sops of royaltyUnto the clamorous, three-mawed baying beast.And was not further on his way withal,And had but changed a snarl into a growl:How Arnold de Cervolles had ta'en the trackThat war had burned along the unhappy land,Shouting, `since France is then too poor to payThe soldiers that have bloody devoir done,And since needs must, pardie! a man must eat,Arm, gentlemen! swords slice as well as knives!'And so had tempted stout men from the ranks,And now was adding robbers' waste to war's,Stealing the leavings of remorseless battle,And making gaunter the gaunt bones of want:How this Cervolles (called "Arch-priest" by the mass)Through warm Provence had marched and menace madeAgainst Pope Innocent at Avignon,And how the Pope nor ate nor drank nor slept,Through godly fear concerning his red wines.For if these knaves should sack his holy houseAnd all the blessed casks be knocked o' the head,HORRENDUM! all his Holiness' drink to beProfanely guzzled down the reeking throatsOf scoundrels, and inflame them on to seizeThe massy coffers of the Church's gold,And steal, mayhap, the carven silver shrineAnd all the golden crucifixes? No! —And so the holy father Pope made stirAnd had sent forth a legate to Cervolles,And treated with him, and made compromise,And, last, had bidden all the Arch-priest's troopTo come and banquet with him in his house,Where they did wassail high by night and dayAnd Father Pope sat at the board and carvedMidst jokes that flowed full greasily,And priest and soldier trolled good songs for mass,And all the prayers the Priests made were, `pray, drink,'And all the oaths the Soldiers swore were, `drink!'Till Mirth sat like a jaunty postillonUpon the back of Time and urged him onWith piquant spur, past chapel and past cross:How Charles, King of Navarre, in long duressBy mandate of King John within the wallsOf Crevacoeur and then of strong Alleres,In faithful ward of Sir Tristan du Bois,Was now escaped, had supped with Guy Kyrec,Had now a pardon of the Regent DukeBy half compulsion of a Paris mob,Had turned the people's love upon himselfBy smooth harangues, and now was bold to claimThat France was not the Kingdom of King John,But, By our Lady, his, by right and worth,And so was plotting treason in the State,And laughing at weak Charles of Normandy.Nay, these had been like good news to the King,Were any man but bold enough to tellThe King what [bitter] sayings men had madeAnd hawked augmenting up and down the landAgainst the barons and great lords of FranceThat fled from English arrows at Poictiers.POICTIERS, POICTIERS: this grain i' the eye of FranceHad swelled it to a big and bloodshot ballThat looked with rage upon a world askew.Poictiers' disgrace was now but two years old,Yet so outrageous rank and full was grownThat France was wholly overspread with shade,And bitter fruits lay on the untilled groundThat stank and bred so foul contagious smellsThat not a nose in France but stood awry,Nor boor that cried not FAUGH! upon the air.
Franciscan friar John de RochetailladeWith gentle gesture lifted up his handAnd poised it high above the steady eyesOf a great crowd that thronged the market-placeIn fair Clermont to hear him prophesy.Midst of the crowd old Gris Grillon, the maimed,— A wretched wreck that fate had floated outFrom the drear storm of battle at Poictiers.A living man whose larger moietyWas dead and buried on the battle-field —A grisly trunk, without or arms or legs,And scarred with hoof-cuts over cheek and brow,Lay in his wicker-cradle, smiling."Jacques,"Quoth he, "My son, I would behold this priestThat is not fat, and loves not wine, and fasts,And stills the folk with waving of his hand,And threats the knights and thunders at the Pope.Make way for Gris, ye who are whole of limb!Set me on yonder ledge, that I may see."Forthwith a dozen horny hands reached outAnd lifted Gris Grillon upon the ledge,Whereon he lay and overlooked the crowd,And from the gray-grown hedges of his browsShot forth a glance against the friar's eyeThat struck him like an arrow.Then the friar,With voice as low as if a maiden hummedLove-songs of Provence in a mild day-dream:"And when he broke the second seal, I heardThe second beast say, Come and see.And thenWent out another horse, and he was red.And unto him that sat thereon was givenTo take the peace of earth away, and setMen killing one another: and they gaveTo him a mighty sword."The friar pausedAnd pointed round the circle of sad eyes."There is no face of man or woman hereBut showeth print of the hard hoof of war.Ah, yonder leaneth limbless Gris Grillon.Friends, Gris Grillon is France.Good France; my France,Wilt never walk on glory's hills again?Wilt never work among thy vines again?Art footless and art handless evermore?— Thou felon, War, I do arraign thee nowOf mayhem of the four main limbs of France!Thou old red criminal, stand forth; I charge— But O, I am too utter sorrowfulTo urge large accusation now.Nathless,My work to-day, is still more grievous. Hear!The stains that war hath wrought upon the landShow but as faint white flecks, if seen o' the sideOf those blood-covered images that stalkThrough yon cold chambers of the future, asThe prophet-mood, now stealing on my soul,Reveals them, marching, marching, marching. See!There go the kings of France, in piteous file.The deadly diamonds shining in their crownsDo wound the foreheads of their MajestiesAnd glitter through a setting of blood-goutsAs if they smiled to think how men are slainBy the sharp facets of the gem of power,And how the kings of men are slaves of stones.But look! The long procession of the kingsWavers and stops; the world is full of noise,The ragged peoples storm the palaces,They rave, they laugh, they thirst, they lap the streamThat trickles from the regal vestments down,And, lapping, smack their heated chaps for more,And ply their daggers for it, till the kingsAll die and lie in a crooked sprawl of death,Ungainly, foul, and stiff as any heapOf villeins rotting on a battle-field.'Tis true, that when these things have come to passThen never a king shall rule again in France,For every villein shall be king in France:And who hath lordship in him, whether bornIn hedge or silken bed, shall be a lord:And queens shall be as thick i' the land as wives,And all the maids shall maids of honor be:And high and low shall commune solemnly:And stars and stones shall have free interview.But woe is me, 'tis also piteous trueThat ere this gracious time shall visit France,Your graves, Beloved, shall be some centuries old,And so your children's, and their children's gravesAnd many generations'.Ye, O yeShall grieve, and ye shall grieve, and ye shall grieve.Your Life shall bend and o'er his shuttle toil,A weaver weaving at the loom of grief.Your Life shall sweat 'twixt anvil and hot forge,An armorer working at the sword of grief.Your Life shall moil i' the ground, and plant his seed,A farmer foisoning a huge crop of grief.Your Life shall chaffer in the market-place,A merchant trading in the goods of grief.Your Life shall go to battle with his bow,A soldier fighting in defence of grief.By every rudder that divides the seas,Tall Grief shall stand, the helmsman of the ship.By every wain that jolts along the roads,Stout Grief shall walk, the driver of the team.Midst every herd of cattle on the hills,Dull Grief shall lie, the herdsman of the drove.Oh Grief shall grind your bread and play your lutesAnd marry you and bury you.— How else?Who's here in France, can win her people's faithAnd stand in front and lead the people on?Where is the Church?The Church is far too fat.Not, mark, by robust swelling of the thews,But puffed and flabby large with gross increaseOf wine-fat, plague-fat, dropsy-fat.O shame,Thou Pope that cheatest God at Avignon,Thou that shouldst be the Father of the worldAnd Regent of it whilst our God is gone;Thou that shouldst blaze with conferred majestyAnd smite old Lust-o'-the-Flesh so as by flame;Thou that canst turn thy key and lock Grief upOr turn thy key and unlock Heaven's Gate,Thou that shouldst be the veritable handThat Christ down-stretcheth out of heaven yetTo draw up him that fainteth to His heart,Thou that shouldst bear thy fruit, yet virgin live,As she that bore a man yet sinned not,Thou that shouldst challenge the most special eyesOf Heaven and Earth and Hell to mark thee, sinceThou shouldst be Heaven's best captain, Earth's best friend,And Hell's best enemy — false Pope, false Pope,The world, thy child, is sick and like to die,But thou art dinner-drowsy and cannot come:And Life is sore beset and crieth `help!'But thou brook'st not disturbance at thy wine:And France is wild for one to lead her souls;But thou art huge and fat and laggest backAmong the remnants of forsaken camps.Thou'rt not God's Pope, thou art the Devil's Pope.Thou art first Squire to that most puissant knight,Lord Satan, who thy faithful squireship longHath watched and well shall guerdon.Ye sad souls,So faint with work ye love not, so thin-wornWith miseries ye wrought not, so outragedBy strokes of ill that pass th' ill-doers' headsAnd cleave the innocent, so desperate tiredOf insult that doth day by day abuseThe humblest dignity of humblest men,Ye cannot call toward the Church for help.The Church already is o'erworked with careOf its dyspeptic stomach.Ha, the ChurchForgets about eternity.I hadA vision of forgetfulness.O DreamBorn of a dream, as yonder cloud is bornOf water which is born of cloud!I thoughtI saw the moonlight lying large and calmUpon the unthrobbing bosom of the earth,As a great diamond glittering on a shroud.A sense of breathlessness stilled all the world.Motion stood dreaming he was changed to Rest,And Life asleep did fancy he was Death.A quick small shadow spotted the white world;Then instantly 'twas huge, and huger grewBy instants till it did o'ergloom all space.I lifted up mine eyes — O thou just God!I saw a spectre with a million headsCome frantic downward through the universe,And all the mouths of it were uttering cries,Wherein was a sharp agony, and yetThe cries were much like laughs: as if Pain laughed.Its myriad lips were blue, and sometimes theyClosed fast and only moaned dim sounds that shapedThemselves to one word, `Homeless', and the starsDid utter back the moan, and the great hillsDid bellow it, and then the stars and hillsBandied the grief o' the ghost 'twixt heaven and earth.The spectre sank, and lay upon the air,And brooded, level, close upon the earth,With all the myriad heads just over me.I glanced in all the eyes and marked that someDid glitter with a flame of lunacy,And some were soft and false as feigning love,And some were blinking with hypocrisy,And some were overfilmed by sense, and someBlazed with ambition's wild, unsteady fire,And some were burnt i' the sockets black, and someWere dead as embers when the fire is out.A curious zone circled the Spectre's waist,Which seemed with strange device to symbol Time.It was a silver-gleaming thread of daySpiral about a jet-black band of night.This zone seemed ever to contract and allThe frame with momentary spasms heavedIn the strangling traction which did never cease.I cried unto the spectre, `Time hath boundThy body with the fibre of his hours.'Then rose a multitude of mocking sounds,And some mouths spat at me and cried `thou fool',And some, `thou liest', and some, `he dreams': and thenSome hands uplifted certain bowls they boreTo lips that writhed but drank with eagerness.And some played curious viols, shaped like heartsAnd stringed with loves, to light and ribald tunes,And other hands slit throats with knives,And others patted all the painted cheeksIn reach, and others stole what others hadUnseen, or boldly snatched at alien rights,And some o' the heads did vie in a foolish gameOF WHICH COULD HOLD ITSELF THE HIGHEST, andOF WHICH ONE'S NECK WAS STIFF THE LONGEST TIME.And then the sea in silence wove a veilOf mist, and breathed it upward and about,And waved and wound it softly round the world,And meshed my dream i' the vague and endless folds,And a light wind arose and blew these off,And I awoke.The many heads are priestsThat have forgot eternity: and TimeHath caught and bound them with a witheInto a fagot huge, to burn in hell.— Now if the priesthood put such shame uponYour cry for leadership, can better helpCome out of knighthood?Lo! you smile, you boors?You villeins smile at knighthood?Now, thou FranceThat wert the mother of fair chivalry,Unclose thine eyes, unclose thine eyes, here, see,Here stand a herd of knaves that laugh to scornThy gentlemen!O contumely hard,O bitterness of last disgrace, O stingThat stings the coward knights of lost Poictiers!I would —" but now a murmur rose i' the crowdOf angry voices, and the friar leaptFrom where he stood to preach and pressed a pathBetwixt the mass that way the voices came.
Lord Raoul was riding castleward from field.At left hand rode his lady and at rightHis fool whom he loved better; and his bird,His fine ger-falcon best beloved of all,Sat hooded on his wrist and gently swayedTo the undulating amble of the horse.Guest-knights and huntsmen and a noisy trainOf loyal-stomached flatterers and their squiresClattered in retinue, and aped his pace,And timed their talk by his, and worked their eyesBy intimation of his glance, with greatAnd drilled precision.Then said the fool:"'Twas a brave flight, my lord, that last one! brave.Didst note the heron once did turn about,And show a certain anger with his wing,And make as if he almost dared, not quite,To strike the falcon, ere the falcon him?A foolish damnable advised bird,Yon heron! What? Shall herons grapple hawks?God made the herons for the hawks to strike,And hawk and heron made he for lords' sport.""What then, my honey-tongued Fool, that knowestGod's purposes, what made he fools for?""ForTo counsel lords, my lord. Wilt hear me proveFools' counsel better than wise men's advice?""Aye, prove it. If thy logic fail, wise fool,I'll cause two wise men whip thee soundly.""So:`Wise men are prudent: prudent men have careFor their own proper interest; therefore theyAdvise their own advantage, not another's.But fools are careless: careless men care notFor their own proper interest; therefore theyAdvise their friend's advantage, not their own.'Now hear the commentary, Cousin Raoul.This fool, unselfish, counsels thee, his lord,Go not through yonder square, where, as thou see'stYon herd of villeins, crick-necked all with strainOf gazing upward, stand, and gaze, and takeWith open mouth and eye and ear, the quipsAnd heresies of John de Rochetaillade."Lord Raoul half turned him in his saddle round,And looked upon his fool and vouchsafed himWhat moiety of fastidious wondermentA generous nobleness could deign to giveTo such humility, with eye superbWhere languor and surprise both showed themselves,Each deprecating t'other."Now, dear knave,Be kind and tell me — tell me quickly, too, —Some proper reasonable ground or cause,Nay, tell me but some shadow of some cause,Nay, hint me but a thin ghost's dream of cause,(So will I thee absolve from being whipped)Why I, Lord Raoul, should turn my horse asideFrom riding by yon pitiful villein gang,Or ay, by God, from riding o'er their headsIf so my humor serve, or through their bodies,Or miring fetlocks in their nasty brains,Or doing aught else I will in my Clermont?Do me this grace, mine Idiot.""Please thy WisdomAn thou dost ride through this same gang of boors,'Tis my fool's-prophecy, some ill shall fall.Lord Raoul, yon mass of various flesh is fusedAnd melted quite in one by white-hot wordsThe friar speaks. Sir, sawest thou ne'er, sometimes,Thine armorer spit on iron when 'twas hot,And how the iron flung the insult back,Hissing? So this contempt now in thine eye,If it shall fall on yonder heated surfaceMay bounce back upward. Well: and then? What then?Why, if thou cause thy folk to crop some villein's ears,So, evil falls, and a fool foretells the truth.Or if some erring crossbow-bolt should breakThine unarmed head, shot from behind a house,So, evil falls, and a fool foretells the truth.""Well," quoth Lord Raoul, with languid utterance,"'Tis very well — and thou'rt a foolish fool,Nay, thou art Folly's perfect witless man,Stupidity doth madly dote on thee,And Idiocy doth fight her for thy love,Yet Silliness doth love thee best of all,And while they quarrel, snatcheth thee to herAnd saith `Ah! 'tis my sweetest No-brains: mine!'— And 'tis my mood to-day some ill shall fall."And there right suddenly Lord Raoul gave reinAnd galloped straightway to the crowded square,— What time a strange light flickered in the eyesOf the calm fool, that was not folly's gleam,But more like wisdom's smile at plan well laidAnd end well compassed. In the noise of hoofsSecure, the fool low-muttered: "`Folly's love!'So: `Silliness' sweetheart: no-brains:' quoth my Lord.Why, how intolerable an ass is heWhom Silliness' sweetheart drives so, by the ear!Thou languid, lordly, most heart-breaking Nought!Thou bastard zero, that hast come to power,Nothing's right issue failing! Thou mere `pooh'That Life hath uttered in some moment's pet,And then forgot she uttered thee! Thou gapIn time, thou little notch in circumstance!"
Lord Raoul drew rein with all his company,And urged his horse i' the crowd, to gain fair viewOf him that spoke, and stopped at last, and satStill, underneath where Gris Grillon was laid,And heard, somewhile, with languid scornful gaze,The friar putting blame on priest and knight.But presently, as 'twere in weariness,He gazed about, and then above, and soMade mark of Gris Grillon."So, there, old man,Thou hast more brows than legs!""I would," quoth Gris,"That thou, upon a certain time I wot,Hadst had less legs and bigger brows, my Lord!"Then all the flatterers and their squires cried outSolicitous, with various voice, "Go to,Old Rogue," or "Shall I brain him, my good Lord?"Or, "So, let me but chuck him from his perch,"Or, "Slice his tongue to piece his leg withal,"Or, "Send his eyes to look for his missing arms."But my Lord Raoul was in the mood, to-day,Which craves suggestions simply with a viewTo flout them in the face, and so waved handBackward, and stayed the on-pressing sycophantsEager to buy rich praise with bravery cheap."I would know why," — he said — "thou wishedst meLess legs and bigger brows; and when?""Wouldst know?Learn then," cried Gris Grillon and stirred himself,In a great spasm of passion mixed with pain;"An thou hadst had more courage and less speed,Then, ah my God! then could not I have beenThat piteous gibe of a man thou see'st I am.Sir, having no disease, nor any taintNor old hereditament of sin or shame,— But, feeling the brave bound and energyOf daring health that leaps along the veins —As a hart upon his river banks at morn,— Sir, wild with the urgings and hot strenuous beatsOf manhood's heart in this full-sinewed breastWhich thou may'st even now discern is mine,— Sir, full aware, each instant in each day,Of motions of great muscles, once were mine,And thrill of tense thew-knots, and stinging senseOf nerves, nice, capable and delicate:— Sir, visited each hour by passions greatThat lack all instrument of utterance,Passion of love — that hath no arm to curve;Passion of speed — that hath no limb to stretch;Yea, even that poor feeling of desireSimply to turn me from this side to that,(Which brooded on, into wild passion growsBy reason of the impotence that broods)Balked of its end and unachievableWithout assistance of some foreign arm,— Sir, moved and thrilled like any perfect man,O, trebly moved and thrilled, since poor desiresThat are of small import to happy menWho easily can compass them, to meBecome mere hopeless Heavens or actual Hells,— Sir, strengthened so with manhood's seasoned soul,I lie in this damned cradle day and night,Still, still, so still, my Lord: less than a babeIn powers but more than any man in needs;Dreaming, with open eye, of days when menHave fallen cloven through steel and bone and fleshAt single strokes of this — of that big armOnce wielded aught a mortal arm might wield,Waking a prey to any foolish gnatThat wills to conquer my defenceless browAnd sit thereon in triumph; hounded everBy small necessities of barest useWhich, since I cannot compass them alone,Do snarl my helplessness into mine ear,Howling behind me that I have no hands,And yelping round me that I have no feet:So that my heart is stretched by tiny illsThat are so much the larger that I knewIn bygone days how trifling small they were:— Dungeoned in wicker, strong as 'twere in stone;— Fast chained with nothing, firmer than with steel;— Captive in limb, yet free in eye and ear,Sole tenant of this puny Hell in Heaven:— And this — all this — because I was a man!For, in the battle — ha, thou know'st, pale-face!When that the four great English horsemen boreSo bloodily on thee, I leapt to frontTo front of thee — of thee — and fought four blades,Thinking to win thee time to snatch thy breath,And, by a rearing fore-hoof stricken down,Mine eyes, through blood, my brain, through pain,— Midst of a dim hot uproar fainting down —Were 'ware of thee, far rearward, fleeing! Hound!"
Then, as the passion of old Gris GrillonA wave swift swelling, grew to highest heightAnd snapped a foaming consummation forthWith salty hissing, came the friar throughThe mass. A stillness of white faces wroughtA transient death on all the hands and breastsOf all the crowd, and men and women stood,One instant, fixed, as they had died upright.Then suddenly Lord Raoul rose up in selleAnd thrust his dagger straight upon the breastOf Gris Grillon, to pin him to the wall;But ere steel-point met flesh, tall Jacques GrillonHad leapt straight upward from the earth, and inThe self-same act had whirled his bow by endWith mighty whirr about his head, and struckThe dagger with so featly stroke and fullThat blade flew up and hilt flew down, and leftLord Raoul unfriended of his weapon.ThenThe fool cried shrilly, "Shall a knight of FranceGo stabbing his own cattle?" And Lord Raoul,Calm with a changing mood, sat still and called:"Here, huntsmen, 'tis my will ye seize the hindThat broke my dagger, bind him to this treeAnd slice both ears to hair-breadth of his head,To be his bloody token of regretThat he hath put them to so foul employAs catching villainous breath of strolling priestsThat mouth at knighthood and defile the Church."The knife . . . . . [Rest of line lost.]To place the edge . . . [Rest of line lost.]Mary! the blood! it oozes sluggishly,Scorning to come at call of blade so base.Sathanas! He that cuts the ear has leftThe blade sticking at midway, for to turnAnd ask the Duke "if 'tis not doneThus far with nice precision," and the DukeLeans down to see, and cries, "'tis marvellous nice,Shaved as thou wert ear-barber by profession!"Whereat one witling cries, "'tis monstrous fit,In sooth, a shaven-pated priest should haveA shaven-eared audience;" and another,"Give thanks, thou Jacques, to this most gracious DukeThat rids thee of the life-long dread of lossOf thy two ears, by cropping them at once;And now henceforth full safely thou may'st dareThe powerfullest Lord in France to touchAn ear of thine;" and now the knave o' the knifeSeizes the handle to commence again, and sawsAnd . . ha! Lift up thine head, O Henry! Friend!'Tis Marie, walking midway of the street,As she had just stepped forth from out the gateOf the very, very Heaven where God is,Still glittering with the God-shine on her! Look!And there right suddenly the fool looked upAnd saw the crowd divided in two ranks.Raoul pale-stricken as a man that waitsGod's first remark when he hath died intoGod's sudden presence, saw the cropping knaveA-pause with knife in hand, the wondering folkAll straining forward with round-ringed eyes,And Gris Grillon calm smiling while he prayedThe Holy Virgin's blessing.Down the laneBetwixt the hedging bodies of the crowd,[Part of line lost.] . . . . majesty[Part of line lost.] . . a spirit pacing on the topOf springy clouds, and bore straight on towardThe Duke. On him her eyes burned steadilyWith such gray fires of heaven-hot commandAs Dawn burns Night away with, and she heldHer white forefinger quivering aloftAt greatest arm's-length of her dainty arm,In menace sweeter than a kiss could beAnd terribler than sudden whispers areThat come from lips unseen, in sunlit room.So with the spell of all the Powers of SenseThat e'er have swayed the savagery of hot bloodRaying from her whole body beautiful,She held the eyes and wills of all the crowd.Then from the numbed hand of him that cut,The knife dropped down, and the quick fool stole inAnd snatched and deftly severed all the withesUnseen, and Jacques burst forth into the crowd,And then the mass completed the long breathThey had forgot to draw, and surged uponThe centre where the maiden stood with soundOf multitudes of blessings, and Lord RaoulRode homeward, silent and most pale and strange,Deep-wrapt in moody fits of hot and cold.(End of Chapter V.). . . . . . .
____ Macon, Georgia, 1868.
Song for "The Jacquerie".
May the maiden,Violet-ladenOut of the violet sea,Comes and hoversOver lovers,Over thee, Marie, and me,Over me and thee.
Day the stately,Sunken latelyInto the violet sea,Backward hoversOver lovers,Over thee, Marie, and me,Over me and thee.
Night the holy,Sailing slowlyOver the violet sea,Stars uncoversOver lovers,Stars for thee, Marie, and me,Stars for me and thee.
____ Macon, Georgia, 1868.
Song for "The Jacquerie".
Betrayal.
The sun has kissed the violet sea,And burned the violet to a rose.O Sea! wouldst thou not better beMere violet still? Who knows? who knows?Well hides the violet in the wood:The dead leaf wrinkles her a hood,And winter's ill is violet's good;But the bold glory of the rose,It quickly comes and quickly goes —Red petals whirling in white snows,Ah me!
The sun has burnt the rose-red sea:The rose is turned to ashes gray.O Sea, O Sea, mightst thou but beThe violet thou hast been to-day!The sun is brave, the sun is bright,The sun is lord of love and light;But after him it cometh night.Dim anguish of the lonesome dark! —Once a girl's body, stiff and stark,Was laid in a tomb without a mark,Ah me!
____ Macon, Georgia, 1868.
Song for "The Jacquerie".
The hound was cuffed, the hound was kicked,O' the ears was cropped, o' the tail was nicked,(All.) Oo-hoo-o, howled the hound.The hound into his kennel crept;He rarely wept, he never slept.His mouth he always open keptLicking his bitter wound,The hound,(All.) U-lu-lo, HOWLED THE HOUND.
A star upon his kennel shoneThat showed the hound a meat-bare bone.(All.) O hungry was the hound!The hound had but a churlish wit.He seized the bone, he crunched, he bit."An thou wert Master, I had slitThy throat with a huge wound,"Quo' hound.(All.) O, angry was the hound.
The star in castle-window shone,The Master lay abed, alone.(All.) Oh ho, why not? quo' hound.He leapt, he seized the throat, he toreThe Master, head from neck, to floor,And rolled the head i' the kennel door,And fled and salved his wound,Good hound!(All.) U-lu-lo, HOWLED THE HOUND.
____ Macon, Georgia, 1868.
The Golden Wedding of Sterling and Sarah Lanier, September 27, 1868.
By the Eldest Grandson.
A rainbow span of fifty years,Painted upon a cloud of tears,In blue for hopes and red for fears,Finds end in a golden hour to-day.Ah, YOU to our childhood the legend told,"At the end of the rainbow lies the gold,"And now in our thrilling hearts we holdThe gold that never will pass away.
Gold crushed from the quartz of a crystal life,Gold hammered with blows of human strife,Gold burnt in the love of man and wife,Till it is pure as the very flame:Gold that the miser will not have,Gold that is good beyond the grave,Gold that the patient and the braveAmass, neglecting praise and blame.
O golden hour that caps the timeSince, heart to heart like rhyme to rhyme,You stood and listened to the chimeOf inner bells by spirits rung,That tinkled many a secret sweetConcerning how two souls should meet,And whispered of Time's flying feetWith a most piquant silver tongue.
O golden day, — a golden crownFor the kingly heads that bowed not downTo win a smile or 'scape a frown,Except the smile and frown of Heaven!Dear heads, still dark with raven hair;Dear hearts, still white in spite of care;Dear eyes, still black and bright and fairAs any eyes to mortals given!
Old parents of a restless race,You miss full many a bonny faceThat would have smiled a filial graceAround your Golden Wedding wine.But God is good and God is great.His will be done, if soon or late.Your dead stand happy in yon GateAnd call you blessed while they shine.
So, drop the tear and dry the eyes.Your rainbow glitters in the skies.Here's golden wine: young, old, arise:With cups as full as our souls, we say:"Two Hearts, that wrought with smiles through tearsThis rainbow span of fifty years,Behold how true, true love appearsTrue gold for your Golden Wedding day!"
____ Macon, Georgia, September, 1868.
Strange Jokes.
Well: Death is a huge omnivorous ToadGrim squatting on a twilight road.He catcheth all that CircumstanceHath tossed to him.He curseth all who upward glanceAs lost to him.
Once in a whimsey mood he satAnd talked of life, in proverbs pat,To Eve in Eden, — "Death, on Life" —As if he knew!And so he toadied Adam's wifeThere, in the dew.
O dainty dew, O morning dewThat gleamed in the world's first dawn, did youAnd the sweet grass and manful oaksGive lair and restTo him who toadwise sits and croaksHis death-behest?
Who fears the hungry Toad? Not I!He but unfetters me to fly.The German still, when one is dead,Cries out "Der Tod!"But, pilgrims, Christ will walk aheadAnd clear the road.
____ Macon, Georgia, July, 1867.
Nirvana.
Through seas of dreams and seas of phantasies,Through seas of solitudes and vacancies,And through my Self, the deepest of the seas,I strive to thee, Nirvana.
Oh long ago the billow-flow of sense,Aroused by passion's windy vehemence,Upbore me out of depths to heights intense,But not to thee, Nirvana.
By waves swept on, I learned to ride the waves.I served my masters till I made them slaves.I baffled Death by hiding in his graves,His watery graves, Nirvana.
And once I clomb a mountain's stony crownAnd stood, and smiled no smile and frowned no frown,Nor ate, nor drank, nor slept, nor faltered down,Five days and nights, Nirvana.
Sunrise and noon and sunset and strange nightAnd shadow of large clouds and faint starlightAnd lonesome Terror stalking round the height,I minded not, Nirvana.
The silence ground my soul keen like a spear.My bare thought, whetted as a sword, cut sheerThrough time and life and flesh and death, to clearMy way unto Nirvana.
I slew gross bodies of old ethnic hatesThat stirred long race-wars betwixt States and States.I stood and scorned these foolish dead debates,Calmly, calmly, Nirvana.
I smote away the filmy base of Caste.I thrust through antique blood and riches vast,And all big claims of the pretentious PastThat hindered my Nirvana.
Then all fair types, of form and sound and hue,Up-floated round my sense and charmed anew.— I waved them back into the void blue:I love them not, Nirvana.
And all outrageous ugliness of time,Excess and Blasphemy and squinting CrimeBeset me, but I kept my calm sublime:I hate them not, Nirvana.
High on the topmost thrilling of the surgeI saw, afar, two hosts to battle urge.The widows of the victors sang a dirge,But I wept not, Nirvana.
I saw two lovers sitting on a star.He kissed her lip, she kissed his battle-scar.They quarrelled soon, and went two ways, afar.O Life! I laughed, Nirvana.
And never a king but had some king above,And never a law to right the wrongs of Love,And ever a fanged snake beneath a dove,Saw I on earth, Nirvana.
But I, with kingship over kings, am free.I love not, hate not: right and wrong agree:And fangs of snakes and lures of doves to meAre vain, are vain, Nirvana.
So by mine inner contemplation long,By thoughts that need no speech nor oath nor song,My spirit soars above the motley throngOf days and nights, Nirvana.
O Suns, O Rains, O Day and Night, O Chance,O Time besprent with seven-hued circumstance,I float above ye all into the tranceThat draws me nigh Nirvana.
Gods of small worlds, ye little DeitiesOf humble Heavens under my large skies,And Governor-Spirits, all, I rise, I rise,I rise into Nirvana.
The storms of Self below me rage and die.On the still bosom of mine ecstasy,A lotus on a lake of balm, I lieForever in Nirvana.
____ Macon, Georgia, 1869.
——————————————————————————————————— | The two poems which follow "The Raven Days" have not | | been included in earlier editions. All three are calls | | from those desperate years for the South just after the Civil War. | | The reader of to-day, seeing that forlorn period | | in the just perspective of half a century, will not wonder | | at the tone of anguished remonstrance; but, rather, | | that so few notes of mourning have come from a poet | | who missed nothing of what the days of Reconstruction | | brought to his people. | ———————————————————————————————————
The Raven Days.
Our hearths are gone out and our hearts are broken,And but the ghosts of homes to us remain,And ghastly eyes and hollow sighs give tokenFrom friend to friend of an unspoken pain.
O Raven days, dark Raven days of sorrow,Bring to us in your whetted ivory beaksSome sign out of the far land of To-morrow,Some strip of sea-green dawn, some orange streaks.
Ye float in dusky files, forever croaking.Ye chill our manhood with your dreary shade.Dumb in the dark, not even God invoking,We lie in chains, too weak to be afraid.
O Raven days, dark Raven days of sorrow,Will ever any warm light come again?Will ever the lit mountains of To-morrowBegin to gleam athwart the mournful plain?
____ Prattville, Alabama, February, 1868.
Our Hills.
Dear Mother-EarthOf Titan birth,Yon hills are your large breasts, and often IHave climbed to their top-nipples, fain and dryTo drink my mother's-milk so near the sky.
O ye hill-stains,Red, for all rains!The blood that made you has all bled for us,The hearts that paid you are all dead for us,The trees that shade you groan with lead, for us!
And O, hill-sides,Like giants' bridesYe sleep in ravine-rumpled draperies,And weep your springs in tearful memoriesOf days that stained your robes with stains like these!
Sleep on, ye hills!Weep on, ye rills!The stainers have decreed the stains shall stay.They chain the hands might wash the stains away.They wait with cold hearts till we "rue the day".
O Mother-EarthOf Titan birth,Thy mother's-milk is curdled with aloe.— Like hills, Men, lift calm heads through any woe,And weep, but bow not an inch, for any foe!
Thou Sorrow-heightWe climb by night,Thou hast no hell-deep chasm save Disgrace.To stoop, will fling us down its fouled space:Stand proud! The Dawn will meet us, face to face,For down steep hills the Dawn loves best to race!
Laughter in the Senate.
In the South lies a lonesome, hungry Land;He huddles his rags with a cripple's hand;He mutters, prone on the barren sand,What time his heart is breaking.
He lifts his bare head from the ground;He listens through the gloom around:The winds have brought him a strange soundOf distant merrymaking.
Comes now the Peace so long delayed?Is it the cheerful voice of Aid?Begins the time his heart has prayed,When men may reap and sow?
Ah, God! Back to the cold earth's breast!The sages chuckle o'er their jest;Must they, to give a people rest,Their dainty wit forego?
The tyrants sit in a stately hall;They jibe at a wretched people's fall;The tyrants forget how fresh is the pallOver their dead and ours.
Look how the senators ape the clown,And don the motley and hide the gown,But yonder a fast-rising frownOn the people's forehead lowers.
____ 1868.
Baby Charley.
He's fast asleep. See how, O Wife,Night's finger on the lip of lifeBids whist the tongue, so prattle-rife,Of busy Baby Charley.
One arm stretched backward round his head,Five little toes from out the bedJust showing, like five rosebuds red,— So slumbers Baby Charley.
Heaven-lights, I know, are beaming throughThose lucent eyelids, veined with blue,That shut away from mortal viewLarge eyes of Baby Charley.
O sweet Sleep-Angel, throned nowOn the round glory of his brow,Wave thy wing and waft my vowBreathed over Baby Charley.
I vow that my heart, when death is nigh,Shall never shiver with a sighFor act of hand or tongue or eyeThat wronged my Baby Charley!
____ Macon, Georgia, December, 1869.
A Sea-Shore Grave. To M. J. L.
By Sidney and Clifford Lanier.
O wish that's vainer than the plashOf these wave-whimsies on the shore:"Give us a pearl to fill the gash —God, let our dead friend live once more!"
O wish that's stronger than the strokeOf yelling wave and snapping levin;"God, lift us o'er the Last Day's smoke,All white, to Thee and her in Heaven!"
O wish that's swifter than the raceOf wave and wind in sea and sky;Let's take the grave-cloth from her faceAnd fall in the grave, and kiss, and die!
Look! High above a glittering calmOf sea and sky and kingly sun,She shines and smiles, and waves a palm —And now we wish — Thy will be done!
____ Montgomery, Alabama, 1866.
Souls and Rain-Drops.
Light rain-drops fall and wrinkle the sea,Then vanish, and die utterly.One would not know that rain-drops fellIf the round sea-wrinkles did not tell.
So souls come down and wrinkle lifeAnd vanish in the flesh-sea strife.One might not know that souls had placeWere't not for the wrinkles in life's face.
Nilsson.
A rose of perfect red, embossedWith silver sheens of crystal frost,Yet warm, nor life nor fragrance lost.
High passion throbbing in a sphereThat Art hath wrought of diamond clear,— A great heart beating in a tear.
The listening soul is full of dreamsThat shape the wondrous-varying themesAs cries of men or plash of streams.
Or noise of summer rain-drops roundThat patter daintily a-groundWith hints of heaven in the sound.
Or noble wind-tones chanting freeThrough morning-skies across the seaWild hymns to some strange majesty.
O, if one trope, clear-cut and keen,May type the art of Song's best queen,White-hot of soul, white-chaste of mien,
On Music's heart doth Nilsson dwellAs if a Swedish snow-flake fellInto a glowing flower-bell.
____ New York, 1871.
Night and Day.
The innocent, sweet Day is dead.Dark Night hath slain her in her bed.O, Moors are as fierce to kill as to wed!— Put out the light, said he.
A sweeter light than ever rayedFrom star of heaven or eye of maidHas vanished in the unknown Shade.— She's dead, she's dead, said he.
Now, in a wild, sad after-moodThe tawny Night sits still to broodUpon the dawn-time when he wooed.— I would she lived, said he.
Star-memories of happier times,Of loving deeds and lovers' rhymes,Throng forth in silvery pantomimes.— Come back, O Day! said he.
____ Montgomery, Alabama, 1866.
A Birthday Song. To S. G.
For ever wave, for ever float and shineBefore my yearning eyes, oh! dream of mineWherein I dreamed that time was like a vine,
A creeping rose, that clomb a height of dreadOut of the sea of Birth, all filled with dead,Up to the brilliant cloud of Death o'erhead.
This vine bore many blossoms, which were years.Their petals, red with joy, or bleached by tears,Waved to and fro i' the winds of hopes and fears.
Here all men clung, each hanging by his spray.Anon, one dropped; his neighbor 'gan to pray;And so they clung and dropped and prayed, alway.
But I did mark one lately-opened bloom,Wherefrom arose a visible perfumeThat wrapped me in a cloud of dainty gloom.
And rose — an odor by a spirit haunted —And drew me upward with a speed enchanted,Swift floating, by wild sea or sky undaunted,
Straight through the cloud of death, where men are free.I gained a height, and stayed and bent my knee.Then glowed my cloud, and broke and unveiled thee.
"O flower-born and flower-souled!" I said,"Be the year-bloom that breathed thee ever red,Nor wither, yellow, down among the dead.
"May all that cling to sprays of time, like me,Be sweetly wafted over sky and seaBy rose-breaths shrining maidens like to thee!"
Then while we sat upon the height afarCame twilight, like a lover late from war,With soft winds fluting to his evening star.
And the shy stars grew bold and scattered gold,And chanting voices ancient secrets told,And an acclaim of angels earthward rolled.
____ Montgomery, Alabama, October, 1866.
Resurrection.
Sometimes in morning sunlights by the riverWhere in the early fall long grasses wave,Light winds from over the moorland sink and shiverAnd sigh as if just blown across a grave.
And then I pause and listen to this sighing.I look with strange eyes on the well-known stream.I hear wild birth-cries uttered by the dying.I know men waking who appear to dream.
Then from the water-lilies slow uprisesThe still vast face of all the life I know,Changed now, and full of wonders and surprises,With fire in eyes that once were glazed with snow.
Fair now the brows old Pain had erewhile wrinkled,And peace and strength about the calm mouth dwell.Clean of the ashes that Repentance sprinkled,The meek head poises like a flower-bell.
All the old scars of wanton wars are vanished;And what blue bruises grappling Sense had leftAnd sad remains of redder stains are banished,And the dim blotch of heart-committed theft.
O still vast vision of transfigured featuresUnvisited by secret crimes or dooms,Remain, remain amid these water-creatures,Stand, shine among yon water-lily blooms.
For eighteen centuries ripple down the river,And windy times the stalks of empires wave,— Let the winds come from the moor and sigh and shiver,Fain, fain am I, O Christ, to pass the grave.
To ——.
The Day was dying; his breathWavered away in a hectic gleam;And I said, if Life's a dream, and DeathAnd Love and all are dreams — I'll dream.
A mist came over the bayLike as a dream would over an eye.The mist was white and the dream was greyAnd both contained a human cry,
The burthen whereof was "Love",And it filled both mist and dream with pain,And the hills below and the skies aboveWere touched and uttered it back again.
The mist broke: down the riftA kind ray shot from a holy star.Then my dream did waver and break and lift —Through it, O Love, shone thy face, afar.
So Boyhood sets: comes Youth,A painful night of mists and dreams;That broods till Love's exquisite truth,The star of a morn-clear manhood, beams.
____ Boykin's Bluff, Virginia, 1863.
The Wedding.
O marriage-bells, your clamor tellsTwo weddings in one breath.SHE marries whom her love compels:— And I wed Goodman Death!My brain is blank, my tears are red;Listen, O God: — "I will," he said: —And I would that I were dead.Come groomsman Grief and bridesmaid PainCome and stand with a ghastly twain.My Bridegroom Death is come o'er the meresTo wed a bride with bloody tears.Ring, ring, O bells, full merrily:Life-bells to her, death-bells to me:O Death, I am true wife to thee!
____ Macon, Georgia, 1865.
The Palm and the Pine.
From the German of Heine.
In the far North stands a Pine-tree, lone,Upon a wintry height;It sleeps: around it snows have thrownA covering of white.
It dreams forever of a PalmThat, far i' the Morning-land,Stands silent in a most sad calmMidst of the burning sand.
____ Point Lookout Prison, 1864.
Spring Greeting.
From the German of Herder.
All faintly through my soul to-day,As from a bell that far awayIs tinkled by some frolic fay,Floateth a lovely chiming.Thou magic bell, to many a fellAnd many a winter-saddened dellThy tongue a tale of Spring doth tell,Too passionate-sweet for rhyming.
Chime out, thou little song of Spring,Float in the blue skies ravishing.Thy song-of-life a joy doth bringThat's sweet, albeit fleeting.Float on the Spring-winds e'en to my home:And when thou to a rose shalt comeThat hath begun to show her bloom,Say, I send her greeting!
____ Point Lookout Prison, 1864.
The Tournament.
Joust First.
Bright shone the lists, blue bent the skies,And the knights still hurried amainTo the tournament under the ladies' eyes,Where the jousters were Heart and Brain.
Flourished the trumpets: entered Heart,A youth in crimson and gold.Flourished again: Brain stood apart,Steel-armored, dark and cold.
Heart's palfrey caracoled gayly round,Heart tra-li-ra'd merrily;But Brain sat still, with never a sound,So cynical-calm was he.
Heart's helmet-crest bore favors threeFrom his lady's white hand caught;While Brain wore a plumeless casque; not heOr favor gave or sought.
The herald blew; Heart shot a glanceTo find his lady's eye,But Brain gazed straight ahead his lanceTo aim more faithfully.
They charged, they struck; both fell, both bled.Brain rose again, ungloved,Heart, dying, smiled and faintly said,"My love to my beloved!"
____ Camp French, Wilmington, N.C., May, 1862.
Joust Second.
A-many sweet eyes wept and wept,A-many bosoms heaved again;A-many dainty dead hopes sleptWith yonder Heart-knight prone o' the plain.
Yet stars will burn through any mists,And the ladies' eyes, through rains of fate,Still beamed upon the bloody listsAnd lit the joust of Love and Hate.
O strange! or ere a trumpet blew,Or ere a challenge-word was given,A knight leapt down i' the lists; none knewWhether he sprang from earth or heaven.
His cheek was soft as a lily-bud,His grey eyes calmed his youth's alarm;Nor helm nor hauberk nor even a hoodHad he to shield his life from harm.
No falchion from his baldric swung,He wore a white rose in its place.No dagger at his girdle hung,But only an olive-branch, for grace.
And "Come, thou poor mistaken knight,"Cried Love, unarmed, yet dauntless there,"Come on, God pity thee! — I fightSans sword, sans shield; yet, Hate, beware!"
Spurred furious Hate; he foamed at mouth,His breath was hot upon the air,His breath scorched souls, as a dry droughtWithers green trees and burns them bare.
Straight drives he at his enemy,His hairy hands grip lance in rest,His lance it gleams full bitterly,God! — gleams, true-point, on Love's bare breast!
Love's grey eyes glow with a heaven-heat,Love lifts his hand in a saintly prayer;Look! Hate hath fallen at his feet!Look! Hate hath vanished in the air!
Then all the throng looked kind on all;Eyes yearned, lips kissed, dumb souls were freed;Two magic maids' hands lifted a pallAnd the dead knight, Heart, sprang on his steed.
Then Love cried, "Break me his lance, each knight!Ye shall fight for blood-athirst Fame no more!"And the knights all doffed their mailed mightAnd dealt out dole on dole to the poor.
Then dove-flights sanctified the plain,And hawk and sparrow shared a nest.And the great sea opened and swallowed Pain,And out of this water-grave floated Rest!
____ Macon, Georgia, 1865.
The Dying Words of Stonewall Jackson.
"Order A. P. Hill to prepare for battle.""Tell Major Hawks to advance the Commissary train.""Let us cross the river and rest in the shade."
The stars of Night contain the glittering DayAnd rain his glory down with sweeter graceUpon the dark World's grand, enchanted face —All loth to turn away.
And so the Day, about to yield his breath,Utters the stars unto the listening Night,To stand for burning fare-thee-wells of lightSaid on the verge of death.
O hero-life that lit us like the sun!O hero-words that glittered like the starsAnd stood and shone above the gloomy warsWhen the hero-life was done!
The phantoms of a battle came to dwellI' the fitful vision of his dying eyes —Yet even in battle-dreams, he sends suppliesTo those he loved so well.
His army stands in battle-line arrayed:His couriers fly: all's done: now God decide!— And not till then saw he the Other SideOr would accept the shade.
Thou Land whose sun is gone, thy stars remain!Still shine the words that miniature his deeds.O thrice-beloved, where'er thy great heart bleeds,Solace hast thou for pain!
____ Georgia, September, 1865.
To Wilhelmina.
A white face, drooping, on a bending neck:A tube-rose that with heavy petal curvesHer stem: a foam-bell on a wave that swervesBack from the undulating vessel's deck.
From out the whitest cloud of summer stealsThe wildest lightning: from this face of thineThy soul, a fire-of-heaven, warm and fine,In marvellous flashes its fair self reveals.
As when one gazes from the summer seaOn some far gossamer cloud, with straining eye,Fearing to see it vanish in the sky,So, floating, wandering Cloud-Soul, I watch thee.
____ Montgomery, Alabama, 1866.
Wedding-Hymn.
Thou God, whose high, eternal LoveIs the only blue sky of our life,Clear all the Heaven that bends aboveThe life-road of this man and wife.
May these two lives be but one noteIn the world's strange-sounding harmony,Whose sacred music e'er shall floatThrough every discord up to Thee.