[Footnote A: Pipe-summons, or gathering-song, of Donald the Black.]
[1481.]
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,Pibroch of Donuil,Wake thy wild voice anew,Summon Clan Conuil.Come away, come away,Hark to the summons!Come in your war array,Gentles and commons.
Come from deep glen, andFrom mountains so rocky;The war-pipe and pennonAre at Inverlochy.Come every hill-plaid, andTrue heart that wears one,Come every steel blade, andStrong hand that bears one.
Leave untended the herd,The flock without shelter;Leave the corpse uninterred,The bride at the altar;Leave the deer, leave the steer,Leave nets and barges;Come with your fighting gear,Broadswords and targes.
Come as the winds come, whenForests are rended;Come as the waves come, whenNavies are stranded;Faster come, faster come.Faster and faster,Chief, vassal, page and groom,Tenant and master.
Fast they come, fast they come;See how they gather!Wide waves the eagle plumeBlended with heather.Cast your plaids, draw your blades,Forward each man set!Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,Knell for the onset!
* * * * *
[September, 1513.]
A moment then Lord Marmion stayed,And breathed his steed, his men arrayed,Then forward moved his band,Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won,He halted by a cross of stone,That, on a hillock standing lone,Did all the field command.
Hence might they see the full arrayOf either host for deadly fray;Their marshalled lines stretched east and west,And fronted north and south,And distant salutation pastFrom the loud cannon-mouth;Not in the close successive rattleThat breathes the voice of modern battle,But slow and far between.—The hillock gained, Lord Marmion stayed:"Here, by this cross," he gently said,"You well may view the scene;Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare:O, think of Marmion in thy prayer!—Thou wilt not?—well,—no less my careShall, watchful, for thy weal prepare.—You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard,With ten picked archers of my train;With England if the day go hard,To Berwick speed amain,—But, if we conquer, cruel maid,My spoils shall at your feet be laid,When here we meet again."He waited not for answer there,And would not mark the maid's despair,Nor heed the discontented lookFrom either squire: but spurred amain,And, dashing through the battle-plain,His way to Surrey took.
* * * * *
Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested stillWith Lady Clare upon the hill;On which (for far the day was spent)The western sunbeams now were bent.The cry they heard, its meaning knew,Could plain their distant comrades view:Sadly to Blount did Eustace say,"Unworthy office here to stay!No hope of gilded spurs to-day.—But, see! look up,—on Flodden bentThe Scottish foe has fired his tent."—And sudden, as he spoke,From the sharp ridges of the hill,All downward to the banks of TillWas wreathed in sable smoke.Volumed and vast, and rolling far,The cloud enveloped Scotland's war,As down the hill they broke;Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone,Announced their march; their tread alone,At times their warning trumpet blown,At times a stifled hum,Told England, from his mountain-throneKing James did rushing come.—Scarce could they hear or see their foes,Until at weapon-point they close.—They close in clouds of smoke and dust,With sword-sway and with lance's thrust;And such a yell was there,Of sudden and portentous birth,As if men fought upon the earthAnd fiends in upper air:O, life and death were in the shout,Recoil and rally, charge and rout,And triumph and despair.Long looked the anxious squires; their eyeCould in the darkness naught descry.
At length the freshening western blastAside the shroud of battle cast;And, first, the ridge of mingled spearsAbove the brightened cloud appears;And in the smoke the pennons flew,As in the storm the white sea-mew.Then marked they, dashing broad and far,The broken billows of the war,And plumèd crests of chieftains braveFloating like foam upon the wave;But naught distinct they see:Wide raged the battle on the plain;Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain;Fell England's arrow-flight like rain;Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again,Wild and disorderly.Amid the scene of tumult, highThey saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly:And stainless Tunstall's banner white,And Edmund Howard's lion bright,Still bear them bravely in the fight;Although against them comeOf gallant Gordons many a one,And many a stubborn Highlandman,And many a rugged Border clan,With Huntley and with Home.
Far on the left, unseen the while,Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle;Though there the western mountaineerRushed with bare bosom on the spear,And flung the feeble targe aside,And with both hands the broadsword plied,'Twas vain:—But Fortune, on the right,With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight.Then fell that spotless banner white,The Howard's lion fell;Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flewWith wavering flight, while fiercer grewAround the battle-yell.The Border slogan rent the sky!A Home! a Gordon! was the cry:Loud were the clanging blows;Advanced,—forced back,—now low, now high,The pennon sunk and rose;As bends the bark's mast in the gale,When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail,It wavered mid the foes.No longer Blount the view could bear:—"By heaven and all its saints, I swear,I will not see it lost!Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady ClareMay bid your beads, and patter prayer,—I gallop to the host."And to the fray he rode amain,Followed by all the archer train.The fiery youth, with desperate charge,Made, for a space, an opening large,The rescued banner rose.But darkly closed the war around.Like pine-tree rooted from the ground.It sunk among the foes.Then Eustace mounted too;—yet stayed,As loath to leave the helpless maid,When, fast as shaft can fly,Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread,The loose rein dangling from his head,Housing and saddle bloody red,Lord Marmion's steed rushed by;And Eustace, maddening at the sight,A look and sign to Clara cast,To mark he would return in haste,Then plunged into the fight.
Ask me not what the maiden feels,Left in that dreadful hour alone:Perchance her reason stoops or reels;Perchance a courage, not her own,Braces her mind to desperate tone.—The scattered van of England wheels;—She only said, as loud in air;The tumult roared, "Is Wilton there?"They fly, or, maddened by despair,Fight but to die,—"Is Wilton there?"With that, straight up the hill there rode;Two horsemen drenched with gore,And in their arms, a helpless load,A wounded knight they bore.His hand still strained the broken brand;His arms were smeared with blood and sand.Dragged from among the horses' feet,With dinted shield, and helmet beat,The falcon-crest and plumage gone,Can that be haughty Marmion!…Young Blount his armor did unlace,And, gazing on his ghastly face,Said,—"By Saint George, he's gone!That spear-wound has our master sped,—And see the deep cut on his head!Good night to Marmion."—"Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease:He opes his eyes," said Eustace; "peace!"
When, doffed his casque, he felt free air,Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare:—"Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where?Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare!Redeem my pennon,—charge again!Cry—'Marmion to the rescue!'—vain!Last of my race, on battle-plainThat shout shall ne'er be heard again!—Yet my last thought is England's:—fly,To Dacre bear my signet-ring:Tell him his squadrons up to bring:—Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie;Tunstall lies dead upon the field,His life-blood stains the spotless shield:Edmund is down;—my life is reft;—The Admiral alone is left.Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,—With Chester charge, and Lancashire,Full upon Scotland's central host,Or victory and England's lost.—Must I bid twice?—hence, varlets! fly!Leave Marmion here alone—to die."They parted, and alone he lay:Clare drew her from the sight away,Till pain rung forth a lowly moan,And half he murmured,—"Is there none,Of all my halls have nurst.Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring,Of blessèd water from the spring,To slake my dying thirst?"
O woman! in our hours of ease,Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,And variable as the shadeBy the light quivering aspen made;When pain and anguish wring the brow,A ministering angel thou!—Scarce were the piteous accents said,When, with the Baron's casque, the maidTo the nigh streamlet ran;Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears;The plaintive voice alone she hears,Sees but the dying man.She stooped her by the runnel's side,But in abhorrence backward drew;For, oozing from the mountain's side,Where raged the war, a dark-red tideWas curdling in the streamlet blue,Where shall she turn!—behold her markA little fountain cell,Where water, clear as diamond-spark,In a stone basin fell.Above, some half-worn letters say,Drink : weary : pilgrim : drink : and : pray :for : the : kind : soul : of : Sybil : Gray :Who : built : this : cross : and : well :She filled the helm, and back she hied,And with surprise and joy espiedA monk supporting Marmion's head;A pious man whom duty broughtTo dubious verge of battle fought,To shrive the dying, bless the dead.
Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave,And, as she stooped his brow to lave,—"Is it the hand of Clare," he said,"Or injured Constance, bathes my head?"Then, as remembrance rose,—"Speak not to me of shrift or prayer!I must redress her woes.Short space, few words, are mine to spare;Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!"—"Alas!" she said, "the while.—O, think of your immortal weal!In vain for Constance is your zeal;She—died at Holy Isle."—Lord Marmion started from the ground,As light as if he felt no wound;Though in the action burst the tideIn torrents from his wounded side."Then it was truth!" he said,—"I knewThat the dark presage must be true.—I would the Fiend, to whom belongsThe vengeance due to all her wrongs,Would spare me but a day!For wasting fire, and dying groan,And priests slain on the altar stone,Might bribe him for delay.It may not be!—this dizzy trance,—Curse on yon base marauder's lance,And doubly cursed my failing brand!A sinful heart makes feeble hand."Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,Supported by the trembling monk.
With fruitless labor, Clara bound,And strove to stanch the gushing wound:The monk, with unavailing cares,Exhausted all the Church's prayers.Ever, he said, that, close and near,A lady's voice was in his ear,And that the priest he could not hear,For that she ever sung,"In the lost battle, borne down by the flying,Where mingles war's rattle with groans of thedying!"So the notes rung:—"Avoid thee, Fiend!—with cruel hand,Shake not the dying sinner's sand!—O, look, my son, upon yon signOf the Redeemer's grace divine:O, think on faith and bliss!—By many a death-bed I have been,And many a sinner's parting seen,But never aught like this."
The war, that for a space did fail,Now trebly thundering swelled the gale,And STANLEY! was the cry:—A light on Marmion's visage spread,And fired his glazing eye:With dying hand above his headHe shook the fragment of his blade,And shouted "Victory!—Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!"Were the last words of Marmion.
* * * * *
[About 1688.]
To the lords of convention 'twas Claverhouse spoke,"Ere the king's crown shall fall, there are crowns to be broke;So let each cavalier who loves honor and meCome follow the bonnets of bonnie Dundee!"
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can;Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;Come open the Westport and let us gang free,And it's room for the bonnets of bonnie Dundee!
Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street,The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat;But the provost, douce man, said, "Just e'en let him be,The gude toun is well quit of that deil of Dundee!"
As he rode doun the sanctified bends of the Bow,Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow;But the young plants of grace they looked cowthie and slee,Thinking, Luck to thy bonnet, thou bonnie Dundee!
With sour-featured whigs the Grass-market was thranged,As if half the west had set tryst to be hanged;There was spite in each look, there was fear in each ee,As they watched for the bonnets of bonnie Dundee.
These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears,And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers;But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was freeAt the toss of the bonnet of bonnie Dundee.
He spurred to the foot of the proud castle rock,And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke:"Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three,For the love of the bonnet of bonnie Dundee."
The Gordon demands of him which way he goes."Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose!Your grace in short space shall hear tidings of me,Or that low lies the bonnet of bonnie Dundee.
"There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond Forth;If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the north;There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times threeWill cry 'Hoigh!' for the bonnet of bonnie Dundee.
"There's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide,There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside;The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free,At a toss of the bonnet of bonnie Dundee.
"Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks,Ere I own an usurper I'll couch with the fox;And tremble, false whigs, in the midst of your glee,You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me."
He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown,The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on,Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's leaDied away the wild war-notes of bonnie Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can;Come saddle the horses, and call up the men;Come open your doors and let me gae free,For it's up with the bonnets of bonnie Dundee!
* * * * *
[1775.]
In a chariot of light from the regions of day,The Goddess of Liberty came;Ten thousand celestials directed the way,And hither conducted the dame.A fair budding branch from the gardens above,Where millions with millions agree,She brought in her hand as a pledge of her love,And the plant she namedLiberty Tree.
The celestial exotic struck deep in the ground,Like a native it flourished and bore;The fame of its fruit drew the nations around,To seek out this peaceable shore.Unmindful of names or distinction they came,For freemen like brothers agree;With one spirit endued, they one friendship pursued,And their temple wasLiberty Tree.
Beneath this fair tree, like the patriarchs of old,Their bread in contentment they ate,Unvexed with the troubles of silver and gold,The cares of the grand and the great.With timber and tar they Old England supplied,And supported her power on the sea;Her battles they fought, without getting a groat,For the honor ofLiberty Tree.
But hear, O ye swains, 'tis a tale most profane,How all the tyrannical powers,Kings, Commons, and Lords, are united amain.To cut down this guardian of ours;From the east to the west blow the trumpet to arms,Through the land let the sound of it flee,Let the far and the near, all unite with a cheer,In defence of ourLiberty Tree.
* * * * *
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,Here once the embattled farmers stood,And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;And Time the ruined bridge has sweptDown the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,We set to-day a votive stone;That memory may their deed redeem,When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dareTo die, or leave their children free,Bid Time and Nature gently spareThe shaft we raise to them and thee.
* * * * *
[Footnote A: General Joseph Warren, who fell at the battle of BunkerHill, June 17, 1775.]
Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!Will ye give it up to slaves?Will ye look for greener graves?Hope ye mercy still?What's the mercy despots feel?Hear it in that battle-peal!Read it on yon bristling steel!Ask it,—ye who will.
Fear ye foes who kill for hire?Will ye to yourhomesretire?Look behind you!—they're afire!And, before you, seeWho have done it! From the valeOn they come!—and will ye quail?Leaden rain and iron hailLet their welcome be!
In the God of battles trust!Die we may,—and die we must:But, O, where can dust to dustBe consigned so well,As where heaven its dews shall shedOn the martyred patriot's bed,And the rocks shall raise their head,Of his deeds to tell?
* * * * *
The trump hath blown,And now upon that reeking hillSlaughter rides screaming on the vengeful ball;While with terrific signal shrill,The vultures from their bloody eyries flown,Hang o'er them like a pall.Now deeper roll the maddening drums,And the mingling host like ocean heaves;While from the midst a horrid wailing comes,And high above the fight the lonely bugle grieves!
* * * * *
[Footnote A: Hanged as a spy by the British, in New York City,September 22, 1776.]
To drum-beat and heart-beatA soldier marches by:There is color in his cheek,There is courage in his eye,Yet to drum-beat and heart-beatIn a moment he must die.
By starlight and moonlight,He seeks the Briton's camp;He hears the rustling flag,And the armèd sentry's tramp;And the starlight and moonlightHis silent wanderings lamp.
With slow tread and still tread,He scans the tented line;And he counts the battery gunsBy the gaunt and shadowy pine;And his slow tread and still treadGives no warning sign.
The dark wave, the plumed wave,It meets his eager glance;And it sparkles 'neath the stars,Like the glimmer of a lance—A dark wave, a plumed wave,On an emerald expanse.
A sharp clang, a steel clang,And terror in the sound!For the sentry, falcon-eyed,In the camp a spy hath found;With a sharp clang, a steel clang,The patriot is bound.
With calm brow, steady brow,He listens to his doom;In his look there is no fear,Nor a shadow-trace of gloom;But with calm brow and steady browHe robes him for the tomb.
In the long night, the still night,He kneels upon the sod;And the brutal guards withholdE'en the solemn Word of God!In the long night, the still night,He walks where Christ hath trod.
'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn,He dies upon the tree;And he mourns that he can loseBut one life for Liberty;And in the blue morn, the sunny morn,His spirit-wings are free.
But his last words, his message-words,They burn, lest friendly eyeShould read how proud and calmA patriot could die,With his last words, his dying words,A soldier's battle-cry.
From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,From monument and urn,The sad of earth, the glad of heaven,His tragic fate shall learn;And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leafThe name of HALE shall burn!
* * * * *
[Footnote A: General Francis Marion, of South Carolina, renowned as a daring patriot partisan leader during the Revolutionary War.]
Our band is few, but true and tried,Our leader frank and bold;The British soldier tremblesWhen Marion's name is told.Our fortress is the good greenwood,Our tent the cypress-tree;We know the forest round us,As seamen know the sea;We know its walls of thorny vines,Its glades of reedy grass,Its safe and silent islandsWithin the dark morass.
Woe to the English soldieryThat little dread us near!On them shall light at midnightA strange and sudden fear;When, waking to their tents on fire,They grasp their arms in vain,And they who stand to face usAre beat to earth again;And they who fly in terror deemA mighty host behind,And hear the tramp of thousandsUpon the hollow wind.
Then sweet the hour that brings releaseFrom danger and from toil;We talk the battle over,And share the battle's spoil.The woodland rings with laugh and shout,As if a hunt were up,And woodland flowers are gatheredTo crown the soldier's cup.With merry songs we mock the windThat in the pine-top grieves,And slumber long and sweetlyOn beds of oaken leaves.
Well knows the fair and friendly moonThe band that Marion leads,—The glitter of their rifles,The scampering of their steeds.'Tis life to guide the fiery barbAcross the moonlight plain;'Tis life to feel the night-windThat lifts his tossing mane.A moment in the British camp—A moment—and awayBack to the pathless forest,Before the peep of day.
Grave men there are by broad Santee,Grave men with hoary hairs;Their hearts are all with Marion,For Marion are their prayers.And lovely ladies greet our bandWith kindliest welcoming,With smiles like those of summer,And tears like those of spring.For them we wear these trusty arms,And lay them down no moreTill we have driven the BritonForever from our shore.
* * * * *
In their ragged regimentalsStood the old Continentals,Yielding not.When the grenadiers were lunging,And like hail fell the plungingCannon-shot;When the filesOf the isles,From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the rampantUnicorn,And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll of the drummer,Through the morn!
Then with eyes to the front all,And with guns horizontal,Stood our sires;And the balls whistled deadly,And in streams flashing redlyBlazed the fires;As the roarOn the shore,Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acresOf the plain;And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gun-powder,Cracking amain!
Now like smiths at their forgesWorked the red St. George'sCannoneers;And the "villanous saltpetre"Rung a fierce, discordant metreRound their ears;As the swiftStorm-drift,With hot sweeping anger, came the horseguards' clangorOn our flanks;Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old fashioned fireThrough the ranks!
Then the bare-headed colonelGalloped through the white infernalPowder-cloud;And his broad sword was swingingAnd his brazen throat was ringingTrumpet-loud.Then the blueBullets flew,And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leadenRifle-breath;And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder,Hurling death!
* * * * *
[Published soon after the surrender of Cornwallis.]
Cornwallis led a country dance,The like was never seen, sir,Much retrogade and much advance,And all with General Greene, sir.
They rambled up and rambled down,Joined hands, then off they run, sir.Our General Greene to Charlestown,The earl to Wilmington, sir.
Greene in the South then danced a set.And got a mighty name, sir,Cornwallis jigged with young Fayette,But suffered in his fame, sir.
Then down he figured to the shore,Most like a lordly dancer,And on his courtly honor sworeHe would no more advance, sir.
Quoth he, my guards are weary grownWith footing country dances,They never at St. James's shone,At capers, kicks, or prances.
Though men so gallant ne'er were seen,While sauntering on parade, sir,Or wiggling o'er the park's smooth green,Or at a masquerade, sir.
Yet are red heels and long-laced skirts,For stumps and briars meet, sir?Or stand they chance with hunting-shirts,Or hardy veteran feet, sir?
Now housed in York, he challenged all,At minuet or all 'amande,And lessons for a courtly ballHis guards by day and night conned.
This challenge known, full soon there cameA set who had the bon ton,De Grasse and Rochambeau, whose fameFut brillant pour un long tems.
And Washington, Columbia's son,Whom every nature taught, sir,That grace which can't by pains be won,Or Plutus's gold be bought, sir.
Now hand in hand they circle roundThis ever-dancing peer, sir;Their gentle movements soon confoundThe earl as they draw near, sir.
His music soon forgets to play—His feet can move no more, sir,And all his bands now curse the dayThey jiggèd to our shore, sir.
Now Tories all, what can ye say?Come—is not this a griper,That while your hopes are danced away,'Tis you must pay the piper?
* * * * *
[Mexico, September 19, 1846.]
We were not many,—we who stoodBefore the iron sleet that day;Yet many a gallant spirit wouldGive half his years if but he couldHave been with us at Monterey.
Now here, now there, the shot it hailedIn deadly drifts of fiery spray,Yet not a single soldier quailedWhen wounded comrades round them wailedTheir dying shouts at Monterey.
And on, still on our column kept,Through walls of flame its withering way;Where fell the dead, the living stept,Still charging on the guns which sweptThe slippery streets of Monterey.
The foe himself recoiled aghast,When striking where he strongest lay,We swooped his flanking batteries past,And, braving full their murderous blast,Stormed home the towers of Monterey.
Our banners on those turrets wave,And there our evening bugles play;Where orange boughs above their grave,Keep green the memory of the braveWho fought and fell at Monterey.
We are not many,—we who pressedBeside the brave who fell that day;But who of us has not confessedHe'd rather share their warrior restThan not have been at Monterey?
* * * * *
[April, 1861.]
World, art thou 'ware of a storm?Hark to the ominous sound;How the far-off gales their battle form,And the great sea-swells feel ground!
It comes, the Typhoon of Death—Nearer and nearer it comes!The horizon thunder of cannon-breathAnd the roar of angry drums!
Hurtle, Terror sublime!Swoop o'er the Land to-day—So the mist of wrong and crime,The breath of our Evil TimeBe swept, as by fire, away!
* * * * *
O keeper of the Sacred Key,And the Great Seal of Destiny.Whose eye is the blue canopy.Look down upon the warring world, and tell us what the end will be.
"Lo, through the wintry atmosphere.On the white bosom of the sphere,A cluster of five lakes appear;And all the land looks like a couch, or warrior's shield, or sheetedbier.
"And on that vast and hollow field,With both lips closed and both eyes sealed,A mighty Figure is revealed,—Stretched at full length, and stiff and stark, as in the hollow of ashield.
"The winds have tied the drifted snowAround the face and chin; and lo,The sceptred Giants come and go,And shake their shadowy crowns and say: 'We always feared it wouldbe so!'
"She came of an heroic race:A giant's strength, a maiden's grace,Like two in one seem to embrace,And match, and bend, and thorough-blend, in her colossal form and face.
"Where can her dazzling falchion be?One hand is fallen in the sea;The Gulf Stream drifts it far and free;And in that hand her shining brand gleams from the depths resplendently.
"And by the other, in its rest,The starry banner of the WestIs clasped forever to her breast;And of her silver helmet, lo, a soaring eagle is the crest.
"And on her brow, a softened light,As of a star concealed from sightBy some thin veil of fleecy white,Or of the rising moon behind the raining vapors of the night.
"The Sisterhood that was so sweet,The Starry System sphered complete,Which the mazed Orient used to greet,The Four-and-Thirty fallen Stars glimmer and glitter at her feet.
"And over her,—and over all.For panoply and coronal,—The mighty Immemorial,And everlasting Canopy and Starry Arch and Shield of All.
"Three cold, bright moons have marched and wheeled;And the white cerement that revealedA Figure stretched upon a Shield,Is turned to verdure; and the Land is now one mighty battle-field.
"And lo, the children which she bred,And more than all else cherished,To make them true in heart and head,Stand face to face, as mortal foes, with their swords crossed abovethe dead.
"Each hath a mighty stroke and stride:One true,—the more that he is tried;The other dark and evil-eyed;—And by the hand of one of them, his own dear mother surely died!
"A stealthy step, a gleam of hell,—It is the simple truth to tell,—The Son stabbed and the Mother fell:And so she lies, all mute and pale, and pure and irreproachable!
"And then the battle-trumpet blew;And the true brother sprang and drewHis blade to smite the traitor through;And so they clashed above the bier, and the Night sweated bloody dew.
"And all their children, far and wide,That are so greatly multiplied,Rise up in frenzy and divide;And choosing, each whom he will serve, unsheathe the sword and taketheir side.
"And in the low sun's bloodshot rays,Portentous of the coming days,The Two great Oceans blush and blaze,With the emergent continent between them, wrapt in crimson haze.
"Now whichsoever stand or fall,As God is great, and man is small,The Truth shall triumph over all:Forever and forevermore, the Truth shall triumph over all!
"I see the champion sword-strokes flash;I see them fall and hear them clash;I hear the murderous engines crash;I see a brother stoop to loose a foeman-brother's bloody sash.
"I see the torn and mangled corse,The dead and dying heaped in scores,The headless rider by his horse,The wounded captive bayoneted through and through without remorse.
"I hear the dying sufferer cry,With his crushed face turned to the sky,I see him crawl in agonyTo the foul pool, and bow his head into bloody slime, and die.
"I see the assassin crouch and fire,I see his victim fall,—expire;I see the murderer creeping nigherTo strip the dead. He turns the head,—the face! The son beholds hissire!
"I hear the curses and the thanks;I see the mad charge on the flanks,The rents, the gaps, the broken ranks,The vanquished squadrons driven headlong down the river's bridgelessbanks.
"I see the death-gripe on the plain,The grappling monsters on the main,The tens of thousands that are slain,And all the speechless suffering and agony of heart and brain.
"I see the dark and bloody spots,The crowded rooms and crowded cots,The bleaching bones, the battle blots,—And writ on many a nameless grave, a legend of forget-me-nots.
"I see the gorgèd prison-den,The dead line and the pent-up pen,The thousands quartered in the fen,The living-deaths of skin and bone that were the goodly shapes of men.
"And still the bloody Dew must fall!And His great Darkness with the PallOf His dread Judgment cover all,Till the Dead Nation rise Transformed by Truth to triumph over all!"
"And Last—and Last I see—The Dead."Thus saith the Keeper of the Key,And the Great Seal of Destiny,Whose eye is the blue canopy,And leaves the Pall of His great Darkness over all the Land and Sea.
* * * * *
[March 25, 1861, South Carolina having adopted the Ordinance ofSecession.]
She has gone,—she has left us in passion and pride—Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side!She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow,And turned on her brother the face of a foe!
O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,We can never forget that our hearts have been one,—Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's name,From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame!
You were always too ready to fire at a touch;But we said: "She is hasty—she does not mean much."We have scowled when you uttered some turbulent threat;But friendship still whispered: "Forgive and forget."
Has our love all died out? Have its altars grown cold?Has the curse come at last which the fathers foretold?Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chainThat her petulant children would sever in vain.
They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with their spoil,—Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil,Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their caves,And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves:
In vain is the strife! When its fury is past,Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last,As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snowRoll mingled in peace in the valleys below.
Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky;Man breaks not the medal when God cuts the die!Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with steel,The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal!
O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,There are battles with fate that can never be won!The star-flowering banner must never be furled,For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world!
Go, then, our rash sister, afar and aloof,—Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof;But when your heart aches and your feet have grown sore,Remember the pathway that leads to our door!
* * * * *
It don't seem hardly right, John,When both my hands was full,To stump me to a fight, John,—Your cousin, tu, John Bull!Old Uncle S., sez he, "I guessWe know it now," sez he,"The Lion's paw is all the law,Accordin' to J.B.,Thet's fit for you and me!"
You wonder why we're hot, John?Your mark wuz on the guns,The neutral guns, thet shot, John,Our brothers an' our sons:Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guessThere's human blood," sez he,"By fits an' starts, in Yankee hearts,Though 't may surprise J.B.More 'n it would you an' me."
Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John,Onyourfront parlor stairs,Would it just meet your views, John,To wait an' sue their heirs?Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess,I on'y guess," sez he,"Thet ef Vattel onhistoes fell,'T would kind o' rile J.B.,Ez wal ez you an' me!"
Who made the law thet hurts, John,Heads I win—ditto tails?"J.B." was on his shirts, John,Onless my memory fails.Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess(I'm good at thet)," sez he,"Thet sauce for goose ain'tjestthe juiceFor ganders with J.B.,No more 'n with you or me!"
When your rights was our wrongs, John,You didn't stop for fuss,—Britanny's trident prongs, John,Was good 'nough law for us.Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guessThough physic's good," sez he,"It doesn't foller thet he can swallerPrescriptions signed 'J.B.'Put up by you an' me."
We own the ocean, tu, John,You mus'n' take it hard,Ef we can't think with you, John,It's jest your own back yard.Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guessEfthet'shis claim," sez he,"The fencin' stuff'll cost enoughTo bust up friend J.B.Ez wal ez you an' me!"
Why talk so dreffle big, John,Of honor when it meantYou didn't care a fig, John,But jest forten per cent?Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guessHe's like the rest," sez he,"When all is done, it's number oneThet's nearest to J.B.,Ez wal ez t' you an' me!"
We give the critters back, John,Cos Abram thought 'twas right;It warn't your bullyin' clack, John,Provokin' us to fight.Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guessWe've a hard row," sez he,"To hoe just now; but thet, somehow,May happen to J.B.,Ez well ez you an' me!"
We ain't so weak an' poor, John,With twenty million people,An' close to every door, John,A school house an' a steeple.Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guessIt is a fact," sez he,"The surest plan to make a ManIs, think him so, J.B.,Ez much ez you an' me!"
Our folks believe in Law, John;An' it's fer her sake, now,They've left the axe an' saw, John,The anvil an' the plow.Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guessEf 't warn't fer law," sez he,"There'd be one shindy from here to Indy;An'thetdon't suit J.B.(When 'tain't 'twixt you an' me!)"
We know we've got a cause, John,Thet's honest, just, an' true;We thought 't would win applause, John,Ef nowhere else, from you.Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guessHis love of right," sez he,"Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton;There's natur' in J.B.,Ez well ez you an' me!"
The South says, "Poor folks down!" John,An' "All men up!" say we,—White, yaller, black, an' brown, John;Now which is your idee?Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guessJohn preaches wal," sez he;"But, sermon thru, an' come todu,Why there's the old J.B.A-crowdin' you an' me!"
Shall it be love or hate, John?It's you thet's to decide;Ain'tyourbonds held by Fate, John,Like all the world's beside?Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guessWise men fergive," sez he,"But not ferget; an' some time yetThet truth may strike J.B.,Ez wal ez you an' me!"
God means to make this land, John,Clear thru, from sea to sea,Believe an' understand, John,Thewutho' bein' free.Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guessGod's price is high," sez he;"But nothin' else than wut he sellsWears long, an' thet J.B.May larn, like you an' me!"
* * * * *
"All quiet along the Potomac," they say,"Except now and then a stray picketIs shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,By a rifleman hid in the thicket.'Tis nothing: a private or two, now and then,Will not count in the news of the battle;Not an officer lost,—only one of the men,Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle."
All quiet along the Potomac to-night,Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming.A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-windThrough the forest leaves softly is creeping;While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,Keep guard,—for the army is sleeping.
There's only the sound of the lone sentry's treadAs he tramps from the rock to the fountain,And he thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed,Far away in the cot on the mountain.His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,Grows gentle with memories tender,As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,For their mother,—may Heaven defend her!
The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,That night when the love yet unspokenLeaped up to his lips,—when low, murmured vowsWere pledged to be ever unbroken;Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,He dashes off tears that are welling,And gathers his gun closer up to its place,As if to keep down the heart-swelling.
He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,—The footstep is lagging and weary;Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary, good-bye!"And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.
All quiet along the Potomac to-night,—No sound save the rush of the river;While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,—The picket's off duty forever.
* * * * *
Alas the weary hours pass slow,The night is very dark and still,And in the marshes far belowI hear the bearded whippoorwill.I scarce can see a yard ahead;My ears are strained to catch each sound;I hear the leaves about me shed,And the spring's bubbling through the ground.
Along the beaten path I pace,Where white rags mark my sentry's track;In formless shrubs I seem to traceThe foeman's form, with bending back;I think I see him crouching low—I stop and list—I stoop and peer,Until the neighboring hillocks growTo groups of soldiers far and near.
With ready piece I wait and watch,Until my eyes, familiar grown,Detect each harmless earthen notch,And turn guerrillas into stone;And then amid the lonely gloom,Beneath the tall old chestnut trees,My silent marches I resume,And think of other times than these.
"Halt! who goes there?" my challenge cry,It rings along the watchful line;"Relief!" I hear a voice reply—"Advance, and give the countersign!"With bayonet at the charge I wait—The corporal gives the mystic spell;With arms aport I charge my mate,Then onward pass, and all is well.
But in the tent that night awake,I ask, if in the fray I fall,Can I the mystic answer make,When the angelic sentries call?And pray that Heaven may so ordain,Where'er I go, what fate be mine,Whether in pleasure or in pain,I still may have the countersign.
* * * * *
"Rifleman shoot me a fancy shotStraight at the heart of yon prowling vidette;Ring me a ball in the glittering spotThat shines on his breast like an amulet!"
"Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead,There's music around when my barrel's in tune!"Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped,And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.
"Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatchFrom your victim some trinket to handsel first blood;A button, a loop, or that luminous patchThat gleams in the moon like a diamond stud!"
"O captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track,When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette,For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back,That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.
"But I snatched off the trinket,—this locket of gold;An inch from the centre my lead broke its way,Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,Of a beautiful lady in bridal array."
"Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket!—'tis she,My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoonWas her husband—Hush! soldier, 'twas Heaven's decree,We must bury him there, by the light of the moon!
"But hark! the far bugles their warnings unite;War is a virtue,—weakness a sin;There's a lurking and loping around us to-night,Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!"
* * * * *
The colonel rode by his picket-lineIn the pleasant morning sun,That glanced from him far off to shineOn the crouching rebel picket's gun.
From his command the captain strodeOut with a grave salute,And talked with the colonel as he rode:—The picket levelled his piece to shoot.
The colonel rode and the captain walked,—The arm of the picket tired;Their faces almost touched as they talked,And, swerved from his aim, the picket fired.
The captain fell at the horse's feet,Wounded and hurt to death,Calling upon a name that was sweetAs God is good, with his dying breath.
And the colonel that leaped from his horse and kneltTo close the eyes so dim,A high remorse for God's mercy felt,Knowing the shot was meant for him.
And he whispered, prayer-like, under his breath,The name of his own young wife:For Love, that had made his friend's peace with Death,Alone could make his with life.
* * * * *