[An incident in one of the battles in the Wilderness at the beginning of the campaign of 1864.]
Dawn of a pleasant morning in MayBroke through the Wilderness cool and gray;While perched in the tallest tree-tops, the birdsWere carolling Mendelssohn's "Songs without Words."
Far from the haunts of men remote,The brook brawled on with a liquid note;And Nature, all tranquil and lovely, woreThe smile of the spring, as in Eden of yore.
Little by little, as daylight increased,And deepened the roseate flush in the East—Little by little did morning revealTwo long glittering lines of steel;
Where two hundred thousand bayonets gleam,Tipped with the light of the earliest beam,And the faces are sullen and grim to seeIn the hostile armies of Grant and Lee.
All of a sudden, ere rose the sun,Pealed on the silence the opening gun—A little white puff of smoke there came,And anon the valley was wreathed in flame.
Down on the left of the Rebel lines,Where a breastwork stands in a copse of pines,Before the Rebels their ranks can form,The Yankees have carried the place by storm.
Stars and Stripes on the salient wave,Where many a hero has found a grave,And the gallant Confederates strive in vainThe ground they have drenched with their blood, to regain.
Yet louder the thunder of battle roared—Yet a deadlier fire on the columns poured;Slaughter infernal rode with Despair,Furies twain, through the murky air.
Not far off, in the saddle there satA gray-bearded man in a black slouched hat;Not much moved by the fire was he,Calm and resolute Robert Lee.
Quick and watchful he kept his eyeOn the bold Rebel brigades close by,—Reserves that were standing (and dying) at ease,While the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees.
For still with their loud, deep, bull-dog bay,The Yankee batteries blazed away,And with every murderous second that spedA dozen brave fellows, alas! fell dead.
The grand old graybeard rode to the spaceWhere Death and his victims stood face to face,And silently waved his old slouched hat—A world of meaning there was in that!
"Follow me! Steady! We'll save the day!"This was what he seemed to say;And to the light of his glorious eyeThe bold brigades thus made reply:
"We'll go forward, but you must go back "—And they moved not an inch in the perilous track:"Go to the rear, and we'll send them to hell!"And the sound of the battle was lost in their yell.
Turning his bridle, Robert LeeRode to the rear. Like waves of the sea,Bursting the dikes in their overflow,Madly his veterans dashed on the foe.
And backward in terror that foe was driven,Their banners rent and their columns riven,Wherever the tide of battle rolledOver the Wilderness, wood and wold.
Sunset out of a crimson skyStreamed o'er a field of ruddier dye,And the brook ran on with a purple stain,From the blood of ten thousand foemen slain.
Seasons have passed since that day and year—Again o'er its pebbles the brook runs clear,And the field in a richer green is drestWhere the dead of a terrible conflict rest.
Hushed is the roll of the Rebel drum,The sabres are sheathed, and the cannon are dumb;And Fate, with his pitiless hand, has furledThe flag that once challenged the gaze of the world;
But the fame of the Wilderness fight abides;And down into history grandly rides,Calm and unmoved as in battle he sat,The gray-bearded man in the black slouched hat.
* * * * *
Out of the clover and blue-eyed grassHe turned them into the river-lane;One after another he let them pass,Then fastened the meadow bars again.
Under the willows, and over the hill,He patiently followed their sober pace;The merry whistle for once was still,And something shadowed the sunny face.
Only a boy! and his father had saidHe never could let his youngest go;Two already were lying deadUnder the feet of the trampling foe.
But after the evening work was done,And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp,Over his shoulder he slung his gunAnd stealthily followed the foot-path damp,
Across the clover and through the wheatWith resolute heart and purpose grim,Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet,And the blind bat's flitting startled him.
Thrice since then had the lanes been white,And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom;And now, when the cows came back at night,The feeble father drove them home.
For news had come to the lonely farmThat three were lying where two had lain;And the old man's tremulous, palsied armCould never lean on a son's again.
The summer day grew cool and late,He went for the cows when the work was done;But down the lane, as he opened the gate,He saw them coming one by one,—
Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,Shaking their horns in the evening wind;Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,—But who was it following close behind?
Loosely swung in the idle airThe empty sleeve of army blue;And worn and pale, from the crisping hair,Looked out a face that the father knew.
For gloomy prisons will sometimes yawn,And yield their dead unto life again;And the day that comes with a cloudy dawnIn golden glory at last may wane.
The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes;For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb;And under the silent evening skiesTogether they followed the cattle home.
* * * * *
[Footnote A: This song was sung by thousands of Sherman's soldiers after the march, and had the honor of giving its name to the campaign it celebrates. Its author had been one of Sherman's army, and was captured at the battle of Chattanooga. While a prisoner he escaped, disguised himself in a Confederate uniform, went to the Southern army, and witnessed some of the fierce fighting about Atlanta. He was discovered and sent back to prison at Columbia, S.C., where he wrote the song. He soon escaped again, rejoined Sherman's army, and for a time served on General Sherman's staff. From Cape Fear River he was sent North with despatches to Grant and President Lincoln, bringing the first news of Sherman's successes in the Carolinas.]
[May 4 to December 21, 1864.]
Our camp-fires shone bright on the mountainsThat frowned on the river below,While we stood by our guns in the morningAnd eagerly watched for the foe,When a rider came out of the darknessThat hung over the mountain and tree,And shouted, "Boys, up and be ready!For Sherman will march to the sea."
Then cheer upon cheer for bold ShermanWent up from each valley and glen,And the bugles re-echoed the musicThat came from the lips of the men;For we knew that the stars in our bannerMore bright in their splendor would be,And that blessings from Northland would greet usWhen Sherman marched down to the sea.
Then forward, boys, forward to battle,We marched on our wearisome way,We stormed the wild hills of Resaca;God bless those who fell on that day!Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory,Frowned down on the flag of the free,But the East and the West bore our standards,And Sherman marched on to the sea.
Still onward we pressed, till our bannersSwept out from Atlanta's grim walls,And the blood of the patriot dampenedThe soil where the traitor flag falls;Yet we paused not to weep for the fallen,Who slept by each river and tree;We twined them a wreath of the laurelAs Sherman marched down to the sea.
Oh! proud was our army that morning,That stood where the pine darkly towers,When Sherman said: "Boys, you are weary;This day fair Savannah is ours!"Then sang we a song for our chieftain,That echoed o'er river and lea,And the stars in our banner shone brighterWhen Sherman marched down to the sea.
* * * * *
Ho! pony. Down the lonely roadStrike now your cheeriest pace!The woods on fire do not burn higherThan burns my anxious face;Far have you sped, but all this nightMust feel my nervous spur;If we be late, the world must waitThe tidings we aver:—To home and hamlet, town and hearth,To thrill child, mother, man,I carry to the waiting NorthGreat news from Sheridan!
The birds are dead among the pines,Slain by the battle fright,Prone in the road the steed reclinesThat never readied the fight;Yet on we go,—the wreck belowOf many a tumbled wain,—By ghastly pools where stranded mulesDie, drinking of the rain;With but my list of killed and missedI spur my stumbling nag,To tell of death at many a tryst,But victory to the flag!
"Halt! who comes there? The countersign!"—"A friend."—"Advance! The fight,—How goes it, say?"—"We won the day!"—"Huzza! Pass on!"—"Good-night!"—And parts the darkness on before,And down the mire we tramp,And the black sky is painted o'erWith many a pulsing camp;O'er stumps and ruts, by ruined huts,Where ghosts look through the gloam,—Behind my tread I hear the deadFollow the news toward home!
The hunted souls I see behind,In swamp and in ravine,Whose cry for mercy thrills the windTill cracks the sure carbine;The moving lights, which scare the dark,And show the trampled placeWhere, in his blood, some mother's budTurns up his young, dead face;The captives spent, whose standards rentThe conqueror parades,As at the Five Forks roads arriveThe General's dashing aides.
O wondrous Youth! through this grand ruthRuns my boy's life its thread;The General's fame, the battle's name,The rolls of maimed and deadI bear, with my thrilled soul astir,And lonely thoughts and fears;And am but History's courierTo bind the conquering years;A battle-ray, through ages grayTo light to deeds sublime,And flash the lustre of this dayDown all the aisles of Time!
Ho! pony,—'tis the signal gunThe night-assault decreed;On Petersburg the thunderboltsCrash from the lines of Meade;Fade the pale, frightened stars o'erhead,And shrieks the bursting air;The forest foliage, tinted red,Grows ghastlier in the glare;Though in her towers, reached her last hours,Rocks proud Rebellion's crest—The world may sag, if but my nagGet in before the rest!
With bloody flank, and fetlocks dank,And goad, and lash, and shout—Great God! as every hoof-beat fallsA hundred lives beat out!As weary as this broken steedReels down the corduroys,So, weary, fight for morning lightOur hot and grimy boys;Through ditches wet, o'er parapetAnd guns barbette, they catchThe last, lost breach; and I,—I reachThe mail with my despatch!
Sure it shall speed, the land to read,As sped the happiest shell!The shot I send strike the world's end;Thistells my pony's knell;His long race run, the long war done,My occupation gone,—Above his bier, prone on the pier,The vultures fleck the dawn.Still, rest his bones where soldiers dwell,Till the Long Roll they catch.He fell the day that Richmond fell,And took the first despatch!
* * * * *
[Footnote A: Sung by negro troops when entering Richmond. George Gary Eggleston, in his collection of "American War Ballads," says that it soon found favor among the people and "was sung with applause by young men and maidens in well-nigh every house in Virginia."]
Say, darkeys, hab you seen de massa,Wid de muffstash on he face,Go long de road some time dis mornin',Like he gwine leabe de place?He see de smoke way up de ribberWhar de Lincum gunboats lay;He took he hat an' leff berry sudden,And I spose he's runned away.
De massa run, ha, ha!De darkey stay, ho, ho!It mus' be now de kingdum comin',An' de yar ob jubilo.
He six foot one way an' two foot todder,An' he weigh six hundred poun';His coat so big he couldn't pay de tailor,An' it won't reach half way roun';He drill so much dey calls him cap'n,An he git so mighty tanned,I spec he'll try to fool dem Yankees,For to tink he contraband,De massa run, ha, ha!De darkey stay, ho, ho!It mus' be now de kingdum comin',An' de yar ob jubilo.
De darkeys got so lonesome libb'nIn de log hut on de lawn,Dey moved dere tings into massa's parlorFor to keep it while he gone.Dar's wine an' cider in de kitchin,An' de darkeys dey hab some,I spec it will be all fiscated,When de Lincum sojers come.De massa run, ha, ha!De darkey stay, ho, ho!It mus' be now de kingdum comin',An' de yar ob jubilo.
De oberseer he makes us trubble,An' he dribe us roun' a spell,We lock him up in de smoke-house cellar,Wid de key flung in de well.De whip am lost, de han'-cuff broke,But de massy hab his pay;He big an' ole enough for to know betterDan to went an' run away.De massa run, ha, ha!De darkey stay, ho, ho!It mus' be now de kingdum comin',An' de yar ob jubilo.
* * * * *
Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary;Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary:Furl it, fold it,—it is best;For there's not a man to wave it,And there's not a sword to save it,And there's not one left to lave itIn the blood which heroes gave it,And its foes now scorn and brave it:Furl it, hide it,—let it rest!
Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered;Broken is its staff and shattered;And the valiant hosts are scattered,Over whom it floated high.Oh, 'tis hard for us to fold it,Hard to think there's none to hold it,Hard that those who once unrolled itNow must furl it with a sigh!
Furl that Banner—furl it sadly!Once ten thousands hailed it gladly,And ten thousands wildly, madly,Swore it should forever wave;Swore that foeman's sword should neverHearts like theirs entwined dissever,Till that flag should float foreverO'er their freedom or their grave!
Furl it! for the hands that grasped it,And the hearts that fondly clasped it,Cold and dead are lying low;And that Banner—it is trailing,While around it sounds the wailingOf its people in their woe.
For, though conquered, they adore it,—Love the cold, dead hands that bore it,Weep for those who fell before it,Pardon those who trailed and tore it;And oh, wildly they deplore it,Now to furl and fold it so!
Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory,Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory,And 't will live in song and storyThough its folds are in the dust!For its fame on brightest pages,Penned by poets and by sages,Shall go sounding down the ages—Furl its folds though now we must.
Furl that Banner, softly, slowly!Treat it gently—it is holy,For it droops above the dead.Touch it not—unfold it never;Let it droop there, furled forever,—For its people's hopes are fled!
* * * * *
There hangs a sabre, and there a rein,With a rusty buckle and green curb chain;A pair of spurs on the old gray wall,And a mouldy saddle—well, that is all.
Come out to the stable—it is not far;The moss grown door is hanging ajar.Look within! There's an empty stall,Where once stood a charger, and that is all.
The good black horse came riderless home,Flecked with blood drops as well as foam;See yonder hillock where dead leaves fall;The good black horse pined to death—that's all.
All? O, God! it is all I can speak.Question me not—I am old and weak;His sabre and his saddle hang on the wall,And his horse pined to death—I have told you all.
* * * * *
Within the sober realm of leafless trees,The russet year inhaled the dreamy air;Like some tanned reaper, in his hour of ease,When all the fields are lying brown and bare.
The gray barns looking from their hazy hills,O'er the dun waters widening in the vales,Sent down the air a greeting to the millsOn the dull thunder of alternate flails.
All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued,The hills seemed further and the stream sang low,As in a dream the distant woodman hewedHis winter log with many a muffled blow.
The embattled forests, erewhile armed with gold,Their banners bright with every martial hue,Now stood like some sad, beaten host of old,Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue.
On slumb'rous wings the vulture held his flight;The dove scarce heard its sighing mate's complaint;And, like a star slow drowning in the light,The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint.
The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew,—Crew thrice,—and all was stiller than before;Silent, till some replying warden blewHis alien horn, and then was heard no more.
Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest,Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young;And where the oriole hung her swaying nest,By every light wind like a censer swung;—
Where sang the noisy martens of the eaves,The busy swallows circling ever near,—Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,An early harvest and a plenteous year;—
Where every bird which charmed the vernal feastShook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn,To warn the reaper of the rosy east:—All now was sunless, empty, and forlorn.
Alone from out the stubble piped the quail,And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom;Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale,Made echo to the distant cottage-loom.
There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers;The spiders moved their thin shrouds night by night,The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers,Sailed slowly by,—passed noiseless out of sight.
Amid all this—in this most cheerless air,And where the woodbine shed upon the porchIts crimson leaves, as if the Year stood thereFiring the floor with his inverted torch,—
Amid all this, the centre of the scene,The white-haired matron with monotonous treadPlied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mienSat, like a fate, and watched the flying thread,
She had known Sorrow,—he had walked with her,Oft supped, and broke the bitter ashen crust;And in the dead leaves still she heard the stirOf his black mantle trailing in the dust.
While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom,Her country summoned and she gave her all;And twice War bowed to her his sable plume,—Re-gave the swords to rust upon the wall.
Re-gave the swords, but not the hand that drewAnd struck for Liberty the dying blow;Nor him who, to his sire and country true,Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe.
Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;Long, but not loud, the memory of the goneBreathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune.
At last the thread was snapped; her head was bowed;Life dropt the distaff through his hands serene;And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud,While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene.
* * * * *
[The Spanish-American War, 1898.]
A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here's to the Captain bold,And never forget the Commodore's debt when the deeds of might aretold!They stand to the deck through the battle's wreck when the greatshells roar and screech—And never they fear when the foe is near to practise what theypreach:But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia's true-bluesons,The men below who batter the foe—the men behind the guns!
Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into port oncemore,When, with more than enough of the "green-backed stuff," they startfor their leave-o'-shore;And you'd think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who loll alongthe streetAre a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce "mustache" toeat—Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stunsThe modest worth of the sailor boys—the lads who serve the guns.
But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells the fight ison.Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships of"Yank" and "Don,"Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell,And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living hell;Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the midday suns,You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps—the men behind theguns!
Oh, well they know how the cyclones blow that they loose from theircloud of death,And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten-inchersaith!The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with thegreat recoil,And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches for hisspoil—But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and runs,Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind theguns!
* * * * *
[May I, 1898.]
By Cavité on the bay'Twas the Spanish squadron lay;And the red dawn was creepingO'er the city that lay sleepingTo the east, like a bride, in the May.There was peace at Manila,In the May morn at Manila,—When ho, the Spanish admiralAwoke to find our lineHad passed by gray Corregidor,Had laughed at shoal and mine,And flung to the sky its bannersWith "Remember" for the sign!
With the ships of Spain beforeIn the shelter of the shore,And the forts on the right,They drew forward to the fight,And the first was the gallant Commodore;In the bay of Manila,In the doomed bay of Manila—With succor half the world away,No port beneath that sky,With nothing but their ships and gunsAnd Yankee pluck to try,They had left retreat behind them,They had come to win or die!
* * * * *
For we spoke at Manila,We said it at Manila,Oh be ye brave, or be ye strong,Ye build your ships in vain;The children of the sea queen's broodWill not give up the main;We hold the sea against the worldAs we held it against Spain.
Be warned by Manila,Take warning by Manila,Ye may trade by land, ye may fight by land,Ye may hold the land in fee;But not go down to the sea in shipsTo battle with the free;For England and AmericaWill keep and hold the sea!
* * * * *
* * * * *
Daughter of God! that sitt'st on highAmid the dances of the sky,And guidest with thy gentle swayThe planets on their tuneful way;Sweet Peace! shall ne'er againThe smile of thy most holy face,From thine ethereal dwelling-place,Rejoice the wretched, weary raceOf discord-breathing men?Too long, O gladness-giving Queen!Thy tarrying in heaven has been;Too long o'er this fair blooming worldThe flag of blood has been unfurled,Polluting God's pure day;Whilst, as each maddening people reels,War onward drives his scythed wheels,And at his horses' bloody heelsShriek Murder and Dismay.
Oft have I wept to hear the cryOf widow wailing bitterly;To see the parent's silent tearFor children fallen beneath the spear;And I have felt so soreThe sense of human guilt and woe,That I, in Virtue's passioned glow,Have cursed (my soul was wounded so)The shape of man I bore!Then come from thy serene abode,Thou gladness-giving child of God!And cease the world's ensanguined strife,And reconcile my soul to life;For much I long to see,Ere I shall to the grave descend,Thy hand its blessed branch extend,And to the world's remotest endWave Love and Harmony!
* * * * *
Now is the winter of our discontentMade glorious summer by this sun of York,And all the clouds that lowered upon our houseIn the deep bosom of the ocean buried.Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;Our bruisèd arms hung up for monuments;Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.Grim-visaged War hath smoothed his wrinkled front.And now, instead of mounting barbed steedsTo fright the souls of fearful adversaries,He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber,To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
* * * * *
"Put up the sword!" the voice of Christ once moreSpeaks, in the pauses of the cannon's roar,O'er fields of corn by fiery sickles reapedAnd left dry ashes; over trenches heapedWith nameless dead; o'er cities starving slowUnder a rain of fire; through wards of woeDown which a groaning diapason runsFrom tortured brothers, husbands, lovers, sonsOf desolate women in their far-off homes,Waiting to hear the step that never comes!O men and brothers! let that voice be heard.War fails, try peace; put up the useless sword!
Fear not the end. There is a story toldIn Eastern tents, when autumn nights grow cold,And round the fire the Mongol shepherds sitWith grave responses listening unto it:Once on the errands of his mercy bent,Buddha, the holy and benevolent,Met a fell monster, huge and fierce of look,Whose awful voice the hills and forests shook.
"O son of peace!" the giant cried, "thy fateIs sealed at last, and love shall yield to hate."The unarmed Buddha looking, with no traceOf fear or anger, in the monster's face,In pity said, "Poor fiend, even thee I love."Lo! as he spake the sky-tall terror sankTo hand-breadth size; the huge abhorrence shrankInto the form and fashion of a dove;And where the thunder of its rage was heard,Circling above him sweetly sang the bird:"Hate hath no harm for love," so ran the song,"And peace unweaponed conquers every wrong!"
* * * * *
Old Tubal Cain was a man of might,In the days when earth was young;By the fierce red light of his furnace bright,The strokes of his hammer rung:And he lifted high his brawny handOn the iron glowing clear,Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers,As he fashioned the sword and the spear.And he sang: "Hurrah for my handiwork!Hurrah for the spear and the sword!Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well,For he shall be king and lord."
To Tubal Cain came many a one,As he wrought by his roaring fire,And each one prayed for a strong steel bladeAs the crown of his desire:And he made them weapons sharp and strong,Till they shouted loud for glee,And gave him gifts of pearl and gold,And spoils of the forest free.And they sang: "Hurrah for Tubal Cain,Who hath given us strength anew!Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire,And hurrah for the metal true!"
But a sudden change came o'er his heart,Ere the setting of the sun,And Tubal Cain was filled with painFor the evil he had done;He saw that men, with rage and hate,Made war upon their kind,That the land was red with the blood they shed,In their lust for carnage blind.And he said: "Alas! that ever I made,Or that skill of mine should plan,The spear and the sword for men whose joyIs to slay their fellow-man!"
And for many a day old Tubal CainSat brooding o'er his woe;And his hand forbore to smite the ore,And his furnace smouldered low.But he rose at last with a cheerful face,And a bright courageous eye,And bared his strong right arm for work,While the quick flames mounted high.And he sang: "Hurrah for my handiwork!"And the red sparks lit the air;"Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made,"—And he fashioned the first ploughshare.
And men, taught wisdom from the past,In friendship joined their hands,Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,And ploughed the willing lands;And sang: "Hurrah for Tubal Cain!Our stanch good friend is he;And for the ploughshare and the ploughTo him our praise shall be.But while oppression lifts its head,Or a tyrant would be lord,Though we may thank him for the plough,We'll not forget the sword!"
* * * * *
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?Where may the grave of that good man be?—By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,Under the twigs of a young birch-tree!The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,And whistled and roared in the winter alone,Is gone,—and the birch in its stead is grown.—The knight's bones are dust,And his good sword rust;—His soul is with the saints, I trust.
* * * * *
"To fall on the battle-field fighting for my dear country,—that would not be hard."—The Neighbors.
O no, no,—let me lieNot on a field of battle when I die!Let not the iron treadOf the mad war-horse crush my helmèd head;Nor let the reeking knife,That I have drawn against a brother's life,Be in my hand when DeathThunders along, and tramples me beneathHis heavy squadron's heels,Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels.
From such a dying bed,Though o'er it float the stripes of white and red,And the bald eagle bringsThe clustered stars upon his wide-spread wingsTo sparkle in my sight,O, never let my spirit take her flight!
I know that beauty's eyeIs all the brighter where gay pennants fly,And brazen helmets dance,And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance;I know that bards have sung,And people shouted till the welkin rung,In honor of the braveWho on the battle-field have found a grave;I know that o'er their bonesHow grateful hands piled monumental stones.Some of those piles I've seen:The one at Lexington upon the greenWhere the first blood was shed,And to my country's independence led;And others, on our shore,The "Battle Monument" at Baltimore,And that on Bunker's Hill.Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still;Thy "tomb," Themistocles,That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas,And which the waters kissThat issue from the gulf of Salamis.And thine, too, have I seen,Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green,That, like a natural knoll,Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll,Watched by some turbaned boy,Upon the margin of the plain of Troy.Such honors grace the bed,I know, whereon the warrior lays his head,And hears, as life ebbs out,The conquered flying, and the conqueror's shout;But as his eye grows dim,What is a column or a mound to him?What, to the parting soul.The mellow note of bugles? What the rollOf drums? No, let me dieWhere the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly,And the soft summer air,As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair,And from my forehead driesThe death-damp as it gathers, and the skiesSeem waiting to receiveMy soul to their clear depths! Or let me leaveThe world when round my bedWife, children, weeping friends are gatherèd,And the calm voice of prayerAnd holy hymning shall my soul prepareTo go and be at restWith kindred spirits,—spirits who have blessedThe human brotherhoodBy labors, cares, and counsels for their good.
* * * * *
Come hither lads and hearken,for a tale there is to tell,Of the wonderful days a-coming,when all shall be better than well.
And the tale shall be told of a country,a land in the midst of the sea,And folk shall call it Englandin the days that are going to be.
There more than one in a thousand,in the days that are yet to come,Shall have some hope of the morrow,some joy of the ancient home.
For then—laugh not, but listento this strange tale of mine—All folk that are in Englandshall be better lodged than swine.
Then a man shall work and bethink him,and rejoice in the deeds of his hand;Nor yet come home in the eventoo faint and weary to stand.
Men in that time a-comingshall work and have no fearFor to-morrow's lack of earning,and the hunger-Wolf anear.
I tell you this for a wonder,that no man then shall be gladOf his fellow's fall and mishap,to snatch at the work he had.
For that which the worker winnethshall then be his indeed,Nor shall half be reaped for nothingby him that sowed no seed.
Oh, strange new wonderful justice!But for whom shall we gather the gain?For ourselves and for each of our fellows,and no hand shall labor in vain.
Then all Mine and all Thine shall be Ours,and no more shall any man craveFor riches that serve for nothingbut to fetter a friend for a slave.
And what wealth then shall be left us,when none shall gather goldTo buy his friend in the market,and pinch and pine the sold?
Nay, what save the lovely city,and the little house on the hill,And the wastes and the woodland beauty,and the happy fields we till;
And the homes of ancient stories,the tombs of the mighty dead;And the wise men seeking out marvels,and the poet's teeming head;
And the painter's hand of wonder,and the marvellous fiddle-bow,And the banded choirs of music:all those that do and know.
For all these shall be ours and all men's;nor shall any lack a shareOf the toil and the gain of living,in the days when the world grows fair.
Ah! such are the days that shall be!But what are the deeds of to-day,In the days of the years we dwell in,that wear our lives away?
Why, then, and for what are we waiting?There are three words to speak:We will it, and what is the foemanbut the dream-strong wakened and weak?
Oh, why and for what are we waiting,while our brothers droop and die,And on every wind of the heavensa wasted life goes by?
How long shall they reproach us,where crowd on crowd they dwell,—Poor ghosts of the wicked city,the gold-crushed hungry hell?
Through squalid life they labored,in sordid grief they died,—Those sons of a mighty mother,those props of England's pride.
They are gone; there is none can undo it,nor save our souls from the curse:But many a million cometh,and shall they be better or worse?
It is we must answer and hasten,and open wide the doorFor the rich man's hurrying terror,and the slow-foot hope of the poor.
Yea, the voiceless wrath of the wretched,and their unlearned discontent,—We must give it voice and wisdomtill the waiting-tide be spent.
Come then, since all things call us,the living and the dead,And o'er the weltering tanglea glimmering light is shed.
Come then, let us cast off fooling,and put by ease and rest,For the Cause alone is worthytill the good days bring the best.
Come, join in the only battlewherein no man can fail,Where whoso fadeth and dieth,yet his deed shall still prevail.
Ah! come, cast off all fooling,for this, at least, we know:That the dawn and the day is coming,and forth the banners go.
* * * * *
On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billowsAssail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave,The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows,Like fond weeping mourners, lean over the grave.The lightnings may flash, and the loud thunders rattle:He heeds not, he hears not, he's free from all pain;—He sleeps his last sleep—he has fought his last battle!No sound can awake him to glory again!
O shade of the mighty, where now are the legionsThat rushed but to conquer when thou led'st them on?Alas! they have perished in far hilly regions,And all save the fame of their triumph is gone!The trumpet may sound, and the loud cannon rattle!They heed not, they hear not, they're free from all pain:They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their last battle!No sound can awake them to glory again!
Yet, spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee,For, like thine own eagle that soared to the sun,Thou springest from bondage and leavest behind theeA name which before thee no mortal had won.Though nations may combat, and war's thunders rattle,No more on the steed wilt thou sweep o'er the plain:Thou sleep'st thy last sleep, thou hast fought thy last battle!No sound can awake thee to glory again!
* * * * *
[In Bavaria, August 13, 1704, between the English and Austrians on one side, under the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, and the French and Bavarians on the other side, led by Marshal Tallart and the Elector of Bavaria. The latter party was defeated, and the schemes of Louis XIV. of France were materially checked.]
It was a summer evening,—Old Kaspar's work was done,And he before his cottage doorWas sitting in the sun;And by him sported on the greenHis little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother PeterkinRoll something large and round,Which he beside the rivulet,In playing there, had found;He came to ask what he had foundThat was so large and smooth and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,Who stood expectant by;And then the old man shook his head,And, with a natural sigh,—"'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,"Who fell in the great victory.
"I find them in the garden,For there's many hereabout;And often, when I go to plough,The ploughshare turns them out;For many thousand men," said he,"Were slain in the great victory."
"Now tell us what 'twas all about."Young Peterkin he cries;And little Wilhelmine looks upWith wonder-waiting eyes,—"Now tell us all about the war,And what they fought each other for."
"It was the English," Kaspar cried,"Who put the French to rout;But what they fought each other forI could not well make out;But everybody said," quoth he,"That 'twas a famous victory.
"My father lived at Blenheim then,Yon little stream hard by;They burnt his dwelling to the ground,And he was forced to fly;So with his wife and child he fled,Nor had he where to rest his head.
"With fire and sword the country roundWas wasted far and wide;And many a childing mother there,And new-born baby died;But things like that, you know, must beAt every famous victory.
"They say it was a shocking sightAfter the field was won,—For many thousand bodies hereLay rotting in the sun;But things like that, you know must beAfter a famous victory.
"Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won,And our good Prince Eugene.""Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"Said little Wilhelmine."Nay, nay, my little girl!" quoth he,"It was a famous victory.
"And everybody praised the dukeWho this great fight did win.""But what good came of it at last?"Quoth little Peterkin."Why, that I cannot tell," said he;"But 'twas a famous victory."
* * * * *
England, I stand on thy imperial groundNot all a stranger; as thy bugles blow,I feel within my blood old battles flow,—The blood whose ancient founts are in thee foundStill surging dark against the Christian boundWhile Islam presses; well its peoples knowThy heights that watch them wandering below:I think how Lucknow heard their gathering sound.
I turn and meet the cruel, turbaned face.England! 'tis sweet to be so much thy son!I feel the conqueror in my blood and race;Last night Trafalgar awed me, and to-dayGibraltar wakened; hark, thy evening gunStartles the desert over Africa.
Thou art the rock of empire set mid-seasBetween the East and West, that God has built;Advance thy Roman borders where thou wilt,While run thy armies true with his decrees;Law, justice, liberty,—great gifts are these.Watch that they spread where English blood is spilt,Lest, mixed and sullied with his country's guiltThe soldier's life-stream flow, and Heaven displease!
Two swords there are: one naked, apt to smite,Thy blade of war; and, battle-storied, oneRejoices in the sheath, and hides from light.American I am; would wars were done!Now westward, look, my country bids good night,—Peace to the world, from ports without a gun!
* * * * *
[Dedication of a monument to Kentucky volunteers, killed at BuenaVista, Mexico.]
The muffled drum's sad roll has beatThe soldier's last tattoo;No more on Life's parade shall meetThat brave and fallen few.On Fame's eternal camping-groundTheir silent tents are spread,And Glory guards, with solemn round,The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advanceNow swells upon the wind;No troubled thought at midnight hauntsOf loved ones left behind;No vision of the morrow's strifeThe warrior's dream alarms;No braying horn nor screaming fifeAt dawn shall call to arms.
Their shivered swords are red with rust,Their plumèd heads are bowed;Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,Is now their martial shroud.And plenteous funeral tears have washedThe red stains from each brow,And the proud forms, by battle gashed,Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,The bugle's stirring blast,The charge, the dreadful cannonade,The din and shout, are past;Nor war's wild note nor glory's pealShall thrill with fierce delightThose breasts that nevermore may feelThe rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce northern hurricaneThat sweeps his great plateau,Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,Came down the serried foe.Who heard the thunder of the frayBreak o'er the field beneath,Knew well the watchword of that dayWas "Victory or Death."
Long had the doubtful conflict ragedO'er all that stricken plain,For never fiercer fight had wagedThe vengeful blood of Spain;And still the storm of battle blew,Still swelled the gory tide;Not long, our stout old chieftain knew,Such odds his strength could bide.
'Twas in that hour his stern commandCalled to a martyr's graveThe flower of his beloved land,The nation's flag to save.By rivers of their fathers' goreHis first-born laurels grew,And well he deemed the sons would pourTheir lives for glory too.
Full many a norther's breath has sweptO'er Angostura's plain,And long the pitying sky has weptAbove its mouldered slain.The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,Or shepherd's pensive lay,Alone awakes each sullen heightThat frowned o'er that dread fray.
Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground,Ye must not slumber there,Where stranger steps and tongues resoundAlong the heedless air.Your own proud land's heroic soilShall be your fitter grave:She claims from war his richest spoil—The ashes of her brave.
Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,Far from the gory field,Borne to a Spartan mother's breastOn many a bloody shield;The sunshine of their native skySmiles sadly on them here,And kindred eyes and hearts watch byThe heroes' sepulchre.
Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!Dear as the blood ye gave;No impious footstep here shall treadThe herbage of your grave;Nor shall your glory be forgotWhile Fame her record keeps,Or Honor points the hallowed spotWhere Valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stoneIn deathless song shall tell,When many a vanished age hath flown,The story how ye fell;Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,Nor Time's remorseless doom.Shall dim one ray of glory's lightThat gilds your deathless tomb.
* * * * *
This is the arsenal. From floor to ceiling,Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;But from their silent pipes no anthem pealingStartles the villages with strange alarms.
Ah! what a sound will rise—how wild and dreary—When the death-angel touches those swift keys!What loud lament and dismal miserereWill mingle with their awful symphonies!
I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus—The cries of agony, the endless groan,Which, through the ages that have gone before us,In long reverberations reach our own.
On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer;Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song;And loud amid the universal clamor,O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.
I hear the Florentine, who from his palaceWheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din;And Aztec priests upon their teocallisBeat the wild war-drums made of serpents' skin;
The tumult of each sacked and burning village;The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;
The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,The rattling musketry, the clashing blade—And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,The diapason of the cannonade.
Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,With such accursed instruments as these,Thou drownest nature's sweet and kindly voices,And jarrest the celestial harmonies?
Were half the power that fills the world with terror,Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,Given to redeem the human mind from error,There were no need of arsenals nor forts;
The warrior's name would be a name abhorred;And every nation that should lift againIts hand against a brother, on its foreheadWould wear forevermore the curse of Cain!
Down the dark future, through long generations,The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!"
Peace!—and no longer from its brazen portalsThe blast of war's great organ shakes the skies;But, beautiful as songs of the immortals,The holy melodies of love arise.
* * * * *