OCCASIONAL POEMS.

OCCASIONAL POEMS.Several of the earlier productions under this title are reprinted in answer to frequent requests for copies of them, and in deference to a public sentiment which received them kindly when they first appeared.OCCASIONAL POEMS.

Several of the earlier productions under this title are reprinted in answer to frequent requests for copies of them, and in deference to a public sentiment which received them kindly when they first appeared.

Came the morning of that dayWhen the God to whom we prayGave the soul of Henry ClayTo the land;How we loved him, living, dying!But his birthday banners flyingSaw us asking and replyingHand to hand.For we knew that far away,Round the fort in Charleston Bay,Hung the dark impending fray,Soon to fall;And that Sumter’s brave defenderHad the summons to surrenderSeventy loyal hearts and tender,—(Those were all!)And we knew the April sunLit the length of many a gun,—Hosts of batteries to the oneIsland crag;Guns and mortars grimly frowning,Johnson, Moultrie, Pinckney, crowning,And ten thousand men disowningThe old flag.O, the fury of the fightEven then was at its height!Yet no breath, from noon till night,Reached us here;We had almost ceased to wonder,And the day had faded under,When the echo of the thunderFilled each ear!Then our hearts more fiercely beat,As we crowded on the street,Hot to gather and repeatAll the tale;All the doubtful chances turning,Till our souls with shame were burning,As if twice our bitter yearningCould avail!Who had fired the earliest gun?Was the fort by traitors won?Was there succor? What was doneWho could know?And once more our thoughts would wanderTo the gallant, lone commander,On his battered ramparts granderThan the foe.Not too long the brave shall wait:On their own heads be their fate,Who against the hallowed StateDare begin;Flag defied and compact riven!In the record of high HeavenHow shall Southern men be shrivenFor the sin?

Came the morning of that dayWhen the God to whom we prayGave the soul of Henry ClayTo the land;How we loved him, living, dying!But his birthday banners flyingSaw us asking and replyingHand to hand.

Came the morning of that day

When the God to whom we pray

Gave the soul of Henry Clay

To the land;

How we loved him, living, dying!

But his birthday banners flying

Saw us asking and replying

Hand to hand.

For we knew that far away,Round the fort in Charleston Bay,Hung the dark impending fray,Soon to fall;And that Sumter’s brave defenderHad the summons to surrenderSeventy loyal hearts and tender,—(Those were all!)

For we knew that far away,

Round the fort in Charleston Bay,

Hung the dark impending fray,

Soon to fall;

And that Sumter’s brave defender

Had the summons to surrender

Seventy loyal hearts and tender,—

(Those were all!)

And we knew the April sunLit the length of many a gun,—Hosts of batteries to the oneIsland crag;Guns and mortars grimly frowning,Johnson, Moultrie, Pinckney, crowning,And ten thousand men disowningThe old flag.

And we knew the April sun

Lit the length of many a gun,—

Hosts of batteries to the one

Island crag;

Guns and mortars grimly frowning,

Johnson, Moultrie, Pinckney, crowning,

And ten thousand men disowning

The old flag.

O, the fury of the fightEven then was at its height!Yet no breath, from noon till night,Reached us here;We had almost ceased to wonder,And the day had faded under,When the echo of the thunderFilled each ear!

O, the fury of the fight

Even then was at its height!

Yet no breath, from noon till night,

Reached us here;

We had almost ceased to wonder,

And the day had faded under,

When the echo of the thunder

Filled each ear!

Then our hearts more fiercely beat,As we crowded on the street,Hot to gather and repeatAll the tale;All the doubtful chances turning,Till our souls with shame were burning,As if twice our bitter yearningCould avail!

Then our hearts more fiercely beat,

As we crowded on the street,

Hot to gather and repeat

All the tale;

All the doubtful chances turning,

Till our souls with shame were burning,

As if twice our bitter yearning

Could avail!

Who had fired the earliest gun?Was the fort by traitors won?Was there succor? What was doneWho could know?And once more our thoughts would wanderTo the gallant, lone commander,On his battered ramparts granderThan the foe.

Who had fired the earliest gun?

Was the fort by traitors won?

Was there succor? What was done

Who could know?

And once more our thoughts would wander

To the gallant, lone commander,

On his battered ramparts grander

Than the foe.

Not too long the brave shall wait:On their own heads be their fate,Who against the hallowed StateDare begin;Flag defied and compact riven!In the record of high HeavenHow shall Southern men be shrivenFor the sin?

Not too long the brave shall wait:

On their own heads be their fate,

Who against the hallowed State

Dare begin;

Flag defied and compact riven!

In the record of high Heaven

How shall Southern men be shriven

For the sin?

Back from the trebly crimsoned fieldTerrible words are thunder-tost;Full of the wrath that will not yield,Full of revenge for battles lost!Hark to their echo, as it crostThe Capital, making faces wan:“End this murderous holocaust;Abraham Lincoln, give us aman!“Give us a man of God’s own mould,Born to marshal his fellow-men;One whose fame is not bought and soldAt the stroke of a politician’s pen;Give us the man of thousands ten,Fit to do as well as to plan;Give us a rallying-cry, and then,Abraham Lincoln, give us aman!“No leader to shirk the boasting foe,And to march and countermarch our brave,Till they fall like ghosts in the marshes low,And swamp-grass covers each nameless grave;Nor another, whose fatal banners waveAye in Disaster’s shameful van;Nor another, to bluster, and lie, and rave;—Abraham Lincoln, give us aman!“Hearts are mourning in the North,While the sister rivers seek the main,Red with our life-blood flowing forth,—Who shall gather it up again?Though we march to the battle-plainFirmly as when the strife began,Shall all our offering be in vain?—Abraham Lincoln, give us aman!“Is there never one in all the land,One on whose might the Cause may lean?Are all the common ones so grand,And all the titled ones so mean?What if your failure may have beenIn trying to make good bread from bran,From worthless metal a weapon keen?—Abraham Lincoln, find us aman!“O, we will follow him to the death,Where the foeman’s fiercest columns are!O, we will use our latest breath,Cheering for every sacred star!His to marshal us high and far;Ours to battle, as patriots canWhen a Hero leads the Holy War!—Abraham Lincoln, give us aman!”

Back from the trebly crimsoned field

Terrible words are thunder-tost;

Full of the wrath that will not yield,

Full of revenge for battles lost!

Hark to their echo, as it crost

The Capital, making faces wan:

“End this murderous holocaust;

Abraham Lincoln, give us aman!

“Give us a man of God’s own mould,Born to marshal his fellow-men;One whose fame is not bought and soldAt the stroke of a politician’s pen;Give us the man of thousands ten,Fit to do as well as to plan;Give us a rallying-cry, and then,Abraham Lincoln, give us aman!

“Give us a man of God’s own mould,

Born to marshal his fellow-men;

One whose fame is not bought and sold

At the stroke of a politician’s pen;

Give us the man of thousands ten,

Fit to do as well as to plan;

Give us a rallying-cry, and then,

Abraham Lincoln, give us aman!

“No leader to shirk the boasting foe,And to march and countermarch our brave,Till they fall like ghosts in the marshes low,And swamp-grass covers each nameless grave;Nor another, whose fatal banners waveAye in Disaster’s shameful van;Nor another, to bluster, and lie, and rave;—Abraham Lincoln, give us aman!

“No leader to shirk the boasting foe,

And to march and countermarch our brave,

Till they fall like ghosts in the marshes low,

And swamp-grass covers each nameless grave;

Nor another, whose fatal banners wave

Aye in Disaster’s shameful van;

Nor another, to bluster, and lie, and rave;—

Abraham Lincoln, give us aman!

“Hearts are mourning in the North,While the sister rivers seek the main,Red with our life-blood flowing forth,—Who shall gather it up again?Though we march to the battle-plainFirmly as when the strife began,Shall all our offering be in vain?—Abraham Lincoln, give us aman!

“Hearts are mourning in the North,

While the sister rivers seek the main,

Red with our life-blood flowing forth,—

Who shall gather it up again?

Though we march to the battle-plain

Firmly as when the strife began,

Shall all our offering be in vain?—

Abraham Lincoln, give us aman!

“Is there never one in all the land,One on whose might the Cause may lean?Are all the common ones so grand,And all the titled ones so mean?What if your failure may have beenIn trying to make good bread from bran,From worthless metal a weapon keen?—Abraham Lincoln, find us aman!

“Is there never one in all the land,

One on whose might the Cause may lean?

Are all the common ones so grand,

And all the titled ones so mean?

What if your failure may have been

In trying to make good bread from bran,

From worthless metal a weapon keen?—

Abraham Lincoln, find us aman!

“O, we will follow him to the death,Where the foeman’s fiercest columns are!O, we will use our latest breath,Cheering for every sacred star!His to marshal us high and far;Ours to battle, as patriots canWhen a Hero leads the Holy War!—Abraham Lincoln, give us aman!”

“O, we will follow him to the death,

Where the foeman’s fiercest columns are!

O, we will use our latest breath,

Cheering for every sacred star!

His to marshal us high and far;

Ours to battle, as patriots can

When a Hero leads the Holy War!—

Abraham Lincoln, give us aman!”

September 8, 1862.

Sons of New England, in the fray,Do you hear the clamor behind your back?Do you hear the yelping of Blanche, and Tray,Sweetheart, and all the mongrel pack?Girded well with her ocean crags,Little our mother heeds their noise;Her eyes are fixed on crimsoned flags:But you—do you hear it, Yankee boys?Do you hear them say that the patriot fireBurns on her altars too pure and bright,To the darkened heavens leaping higher,Though drenched with the blood of every fight;That in the light of its searching flameTreason and tyrants stand revealed,And the yielding craven is put to shame,On Capitol floor or foughten field?Do you hear the hissing voice, which saithThat she—who bore through all the landThe lyre of Freedom, the torch of Faith,And young Invention’s mystic wand—Should gather her skirts and dwell apart,With not one of her sisters to share her fate,—A Hagar, wandering sick at heart;A pariah, bearing the Nation’s hate?Sons, who have peopled the distant West,And planted the Pilgrim vine anew,Where, by a richer soil carest,It grows as ever its parent grew,Say, do you hear,—while the very bellsOf your churches ring with her ancient voice,And the song of your children sweetly tellsHow true was the land of your fathers’ choice,—Do you hear the traitors who bid you speakThe word that shall sever the sacred tie?And ye, who dwell by the golden Peak,Has the subtle whisper glided by?Has it crost the immemorial plains,To coasts where the gray Pacific roarsAnd the Pilgrim blood in the people’s veinsIs pure as the wealth of their mountain ores?Spirits of sons who, side by side,In a hundred battles fought and fell,Whom now no East and West divide,In the isles where the shades of heroes dwell;Say, has it reached your glorious rest,And ruffled the calm which crowns you there,—The shame that recreants have confest,The plot that floats in the troubled air?Sons of New England, here and there,Wherever men are still holding byThe honor our fathers left so fair!Say, do you hear the cowards’ cry?Crouching among her grand old crags,Lightly our mother heeds their noise,With her fond eyes fixed on distant flags;But you—do you hear it, Yankee boys?

Sons of New England, in the fray,

Do you hear the clamor behind your back?

Do you hear the yelping of Blanche, and Tray,

Sweetheart, and all the mongrel pack?

Girded well with her ocean crags,

Little our mother heeds their noise;

Her eyes are fixed on crimsoned flags:

But you—do you hear it, Yankee boys?

Do you hear them say that the patriot fireBurns on her altars too pure and bright,To the darkened heavens leaping higher,Though drenched with the blood of every fight;That in the light of its searching flameTreason and tyrants stand revealed,And the yielding craven is put to shame,On Capitol floor or foughten field?

Do you hear them say that the patriot fire

Burns on her altars too pure and bright,

To the darkened heavens leaping higher,

Though drenched with the blood of every fight;

That in the light of its searching flame

Treason and tyrants stand revealed,

And the yielding craven is put to shame,

On Capitol floor or foughten field?

Do you hear the hissing voice, which saithThat she—who bore through all the landThe lyre of Freedom, the torch of Faith,And young Invention’s mystic wand—Should gather her skirts and dwell apart,With not one of her sisters to share her fate,—A Hagar, wandering sick at heart;A pariah, bearing the Nation’s hate?

Do you hear the hissing voice, which saith

That she—who bore through all the land

The lyre of Freedom, the torch of Faith,

And young Invention’s mystic wand—

Should gather her skirts and dwell apart,

With not one of her sisters to share her fate,—

A Hagar, wandering sick at heart;

A pariah, bearing the Nation’s hate?

Sons, who have peopled the distant West,And planted the Pilgrim vine anew,Where, by a richer soil carest,It grows as ever its parent grew,Say, do you hear,—while the very bellsOf your churches ring with her ancient voice,And the song of your children sweetly tellsHow true was the land of your fathers’ choice,—

Sons, who have peopled the distant West,

And planted the Pilgrim vine anew,

Where, by a richer soil carest,

It grows as ever its parent grew,

Say, do you hear,—while the very bells

Of your churches ring with her ancient voice,

And the song of your children sweetly tells

How true was the land of your fathers’ choice,—

Do you hear the traitors who bid you speakThe word that shall sever the sacred tie?And ye, who dwell by the golden Peak,Has the subtle whisper glided by?Has it crost the immemorial plains,To coasts where the gray Pacific roarsAnd the Pilgrim blood in the people’s veinsIs pure as the wealth of their mountain ores?

Do you hear the traitors who bid you speak

The word that shall sever the sacred tie?

And ye, who dwell by the golden Peak,

Has the subtle whisper glided by?

Has it crost the immemorial plains,

To coasts where the gray Pacific roars

And the Pilgrim blood in the people’s veins

Is pure as the wealth of their mountain ores?

Spirits of sons who, side by side,In a hundred battles fought and fell,Whom now no East and West divide,In the isles where the shades of heroes dwell;Say, has it reached your glorious rest,And ruffled the calm which crowns you there,—The shame that recreants have confest,The plot that floats in the troubled air?

Spirits of sons who, side by side,

In a hundred battles fought and fell,

Whom now no East and West divide,

In the isles where the shades of heroes dwell;

Say, has it reached your glorious rest,

And ruffled the calm which crowns you there,—

The shame that recreants have confest,

The plot that floats in the troubled air?

Sons of New England, here and there,Wherever men are still holding byThe honor our fathers left so fair!Say, do you hear the cowards’ cry?Crouching among her grand old crags,Lightly our mother heeds their noise,With her fond eyes fixed on distant flags;But you—do you hear it, Yankee boys?

Sons of New England, here and there,

Wherever men are still holding by

The honor our fathers left so fair!

Say, do you hear the cowards’ cry?

Crouching among her grand old crags,

Lightly our mother heeds their noise,

With her fond eyes fixed on distant flags;

But you—do you hear it, Yankee boys?

Washington, January 19, 1863.

“Forgive them, for they know not what they do!”He said, and so went shriven to his fate,—Unknowing went, that generous heart and true.Even while he spoke the slayer lay in wait,And when the morning opened Heaven’s gateThere passed the whitest soul a nation knew.Henceforth all thoughts of pardon are too late;They, in whose cause that arm its weapon drew,Have murdered Mercy. Now alone shall standBlind Justice, with the sword unsheathed she wore.Hark, from the eastern to the western strand,The swelling thunder of the people’s roar:What words they murmur,—Fetter not her hand!So let it smite, such deeds shall be no more!

“Forgive them, for they know not what they do!”

He said, and so went shriven to his fate,—

Unknowing went, that generous heart and true.

Even while he spoke the slayer lay in wait,

And when the morning opened Heaven’s gate

There passed the whitest soul a nation knew.

Henceforth all thoughts of pardon are too late;

They, in whose cause that arm its weapon drew,

Have murdered Mercy. Now alone shall stand

Blind Justice, with the sword unsheathed she wore.

Hark, from the eastern to the western strand,

The swelling thunder of the people’s roar:

What words they murmur,—Fetter not her hand!

So let it smite, such deeds shall be no more!

Zounds! how the price went flashing throughWall street, William, Broad street, New!All the specie in all the landHeld in one Ring by a giant hand—For millions more it was ready to pay,And throttle the Street on hangman’s-day.Up from the Gold Pit’s nether hell,While the innocent fountain rose and fell,Loud and higher the bidding rose,And the bulls, triumphant, faced their foes.It seemed as if Satan himself were in it:Lifting it—one per cent a minute—Through the bellowing broker, there amid,Who made the terrible, final bid!High over all, and ever higher,Was heard the voice of Israel Freyer,—A doleful knell in the storm-swept mart,—“Five millions more! and for any part“I’ll give One Hundred and Sixty!”Israel Freyer—the Government Jew—Good as the best—soaked through and throughWith credit gained in the year he soldOur Treasury’s precious hoard of gold;Now through his thankless mouth rings outThe leaguers’ last and cruellest shout!Pity the shorts? Not they, indeed,While a single rival’s left to bleed!Down come dealers in silks and hides,Crowding the Gold Room’s rounded sides,Jostling, trampling each other’s feet,Uttering groans in the outer street;Watching, with upturned faces pale,The scurrying index mark its tale;Hearing the bid of Israel Freyer,—That ominous voice, would it never tire?“Five millions more!—for any part,(If it breaks your firm, if it cracks your heart,)I’ll give One Hundred and Sixty!”One Hundred and Sixty! Can’t be true!What will the bears-at-forty do?How will the merchants pay their dues?How will the country stand the news?What’ll the banks—but listen! hold!In screwing upward the price of goldTo that dangerous, last, particular peg,They had killed their Goose with the Golden Egg!Just there the metal came pouring out,All ways at once, like a water-spout,Or a rushing, gushing, yellow flood,That drenched the bulls wherever they stood!Small need to open the Washington main,Their coffer-dams were burst with the strain!It came by runners, it came by wire,To answer the bid of Israel Freyer,It poured in millions from every side,And almost strangled him as he cried,—“I’ll give One Hundred and Sixty!”Like Vulcan after Jupiter’s kick,Or the aphoristical Rocket’s stick,Down, down, down, the premium fell,Faster than this rude rhyme can tell!Thirty per cent the index slid,Yet Freyer still kept making his bid,—“One Hundred and Sixty for any part!”—The sudden ruin had crazedhisheart,Shattered his senses, cracked his brain,And left him crying again and again,—Still making his bid at the market’s top(Like the Dutchman’s leg that never could stop,)“One Hundred and Sixty—Five Millions more!”Till they dragged him, howling, off the floor.The very last words that seller and buyerHeard from the mouth of Israel Freyer—A cry to remember long as they live—Were, “I’ll take Five Millions more! I’ll give,—I’ll give One Hundred and Sixty!”Suppose (to avoid the appearance of evil)There’s such a thing as a Personal Devil,It would seem that his Highness here got hold,For once, of a bellowing Bull in Gold!Whether bull or bear, it wouldn’t much matterShould Israel Freyer keep up his clatterOn earth or under it (as, they say,He is doomed) till the general Judgment Day,When the Clerk, as he cites him to answer for’t,Shall bid him keep silence in that Court!But it matters most, as it seems to me,That my countrymen, great and strong and free,So marvel at fellows who seem to win,That if even a Clown can only beginBy stealing a railroad, and use its purseFor cornering stocks and gold, or—worse—For buying a Judge and Legislature,And sinking still lower poor human nature,The gaping public, whatever befall,Will swallow him, tandem, harlots, and all!While our rich men drivel and stand amazedAt the dust and pother his gang have raised,And make us remember a nursery taleOf the four-and-twenty who feared one snail.What’s bred in the bone will breed, you know;Clowns and their trainers, high and low,Will cut such capers, long as they dare,While honest Poverty says its prayer.But tell me what prayer or fast can saveSome hoary candidate for the grave,The market’s wrinkled Giant Despair,Muttering, brooding, scheming there,—Founding a college or building a churchLest Heaven should leave him in the lurch!Better come out in the rival way,Issue your scrip in open day,And pour your wealth in the grimy fistOf some gross-mouthed, gambling pugilist;Leave toil and poverty where they lie,Pass thinkers, workers, artists, by,Your pot-house fag from his counters bringAnd make him into a Railway King!Between such Gentiles and such JewsLittle enough one finds to choose:Either the other will buy and use,Eat the meat and throw him the bone,And leave him to stand the brunt alone.—Let the tempest come, that’s gathering near,And give us a better atmosphere!

Zounds! how the price went flashing through

Wall street, William, Broad street, New!

All the specie in all the land

Held in one Ring by a giant hand—

For millions more it was ready to pay,

And throttle the Street on hangman’s-day.

Up from the Gold Pit’s nether hell,

While the innocent fountain rose and fell,

Loud and higher the bidding rose,

And the bulls, triumphant, faced their foes.

It seemed as if Satan himself were in it:

Lifting it—one per cent a minute—

Through the bellowing broker, there amid,

Who made the terrible, final bid!

High over all, and ever higher,

Was heard the voice of Israel Freyer,—

A doleful knell in the storm-swept mart,—

“Five millions more! and for any part

“I’ll give One Hundred and Sixty!”

Israel Freyer—the Government Jew—Good as the best—soaked through and throughWith credit gained in the year he soldOur Treasury’s precious hoard of gold;Now through his thankless mouth rings outThe leaguers’ last and cruellest shout!Pity the shorts? Not they, indeed,While a single rival’s left to bleed!Down come dealers in silks and hides,Crowding the Gold Room’s rounded sides,Jostling, trampling each other’s feet,Uttering groans in the outer street;Watching, with upturned faces pale,The scurrying index mark its tale;Hearing the bid of Israel Freyer,—That ominous voice, would it never tire?“Five millions more!—for any part,(If it breaks your firm, if it cracks your heart,)I’ll give One Hundred and Sixty!”

Israel Freyer—the Government Jew—

Good as the best—soaked through and through

With credit gained in the year he sold

Our Treasury’s precious hoard of gold;

Now through his thankless mouth rings out

The leaguers’ last and cruellest shout!

Pity the shorts? Not they, indeed,

While a single rival’s left to bleed!

Down come dealers in silks and hides,

Crowding the Gold Room’s rounded sides,

Jostling, trampling each other’s feet,

Uttering groans in the outer street;

Watching, with upturned faces pale,

The scurrying index mark its tale;

Hearing the bid of Israel Freyer,—

That ominous voice, would it never tire?

“Five millions more!—for any part,

(If it breaks your firm, if it cracks your heart,)

I’ll give One Hundred and Sixty!”

One Hundred and Sixty! Can’t be true!What will the bears-at-forty do?How will the merchants pay their dues?How will the country stand the news?What’ll the banks—but listen! hold!In screwing upward the price of goldTo that dangerous, last, particular peg,They had killed their Goose with the Golden Egg!Just there the metal came pouring out,All ways at once, like a water-spout,Or a rushing, gushing, yellow flood,That drenched the bulls wherever they stood!Small need to open the Washington main,Their coffer-dams were burst with the strain!It came by runners, it came by wire,To answer the bid of Israel Freyer,It poured in millions from every side,And almost strangled him as he cried,—“I’ll give One Hundred and Sixty!”

One Hundred and Sixty! Can’t be true!

What will the bears-at-forty do?

How will the merchants pay their dues?

How will the country stand the news?

What’ll the banks—but listen! hold!

In screwing upward the price of gold

To that dangerous, last, particular peg,

They had killed their Goose with the Golden Egg!

Just there the metal came pouring out,

All ways at once, like a water-spout,

Or a rushing, gushing, yellow flood,

That drenched the bulls wherever they stood!

Small need to open the Washington main,

Their coffer-dams were burst with the strain!

It came by runners, it came by wire,

To answer the bid of Israel Freyer,

It poured in millions from every side,

And almost strangled him as he cried,—

“I’ll give One Hundred and Sixty!”

Like Vulcan after Jupiter’s kick,Or the aphoristical Rocket’s stick,Down, down, down, the premium fell,Faster than this rude rhyme can tell!Thirty per cent the index slid,Yet Freyer still kept making his bid,—“One Hundred and Sixty for any part!”—The sudden ruin had crazedhisheart,Shattered his senses, cracked his brain,And left him crying again and again,—Still making his bid at the market’s top(Like the Dutchman’s leg that never could stop,)“One Hundred and Sixty—Five Millions more!”Till they dragged him, howling, off the floor.The very last words that seller and buyerHeard from the mouth of Israel Freyer—A cry to remember long as they live—Were, “I’ll take Five Millions more! I’ll give,—I’ll give One Hundred and Sixty!”

Like Vulcan after Jupiter’s kick,

Or the aphoristical Rocket’s stick,

Down, down, down, the premium fell,

Faster than this rude rhyme can tell!

Thirty per cent the index slid,

Yet Freyer still kept making his bid,—

“One Hundred and Sixty for any part!”

—The sudden ruin had crazedhisheart,

Shattered his senses, cracked his brain,

And left him crying again and again,—

Still making his bid at the market’s top

(Like the Dutchman’s leg that never could stop,)

“One Hundred and Sixty—Five Millions more!”

Till they dragged him, howling, off the floor.

The very last words that seller and buyer

Heard from the mouth of Israel Freyer—

A cry to remember long as they live—

Were, “I’ll take Five Millions more! I’ll give,—

I’ll give One Hundred and Sixty!”

Suppose (to avoid the appearance of evil)There’s such a thing as a Personal Devil,It would seem that his Highness here got hold,For once, of a bellowing Bull in Gold!Whether bull or bear, it wouldn’t much matterShould Israel Freyer keep up his clatterOn earth or under it (as, they say,He is doomed) till the general Judgment Day,When the Clerk, as he cites him to answer for’t,Shall bid him keep silence in that Court!But it matters most, as it seems to me,That my countrymen, great and strong and free,So marvel at fellows who seem to win,That if even a Clown can only beginBy stealing a railroad, and use its purseFor cornering stocks and gold, or—worse—For buying a Judge and Legislature,And sinking still lower poor human nature,The gaping public, whatever befall,Will swallow him, tandem, harlots, and all!While our rich men drivel and stand amazedAt the dust and pother his gang have raised,And make us remember a nursery taleOf the four-and-twenty who feared one snail.

Suppose (to avoid the appearance of evil)

There’s such a thing as a Personal Devil,

It would seem that his Highness here got hold,

For once, of a bellowing Bull in Gold!

Whether bull or bear, it wouldn’t much matter

Should Israel Freyer keep up his clatter

On earth or under it (as, they say,

He is doomed) till the general Judgment Day,

When the Clerk, as he cites him to answer for’t,

Shall bid him keep silence in that Court!

But it matters most, as it seems to me,

That my countrymen, great and strong and free,

So marvel at fellows who seem to win,

That if even a Clown can only begin

By stealing a railroad, and use its purse

For cornering stocks and gold, or—worse—

For buying a Judge and Legislature,

And sinking still lower poor human nature,

The gaping public, whatever befall,

Will swallow him, tandem, harlots, and all!

While our rich men drivel and stand amazed

At the dust and pother his gang have raised,

And make us remember a nursery tale

Of the four-and-twenty who feared one snail.

What’s bred in the bone will breed, you know;Clowns and their trainers, high and low,Will cut such capers, long as they dare,While honest Poverty says its prayer.But tell me what prayer or fast can saveSome hoary candidate for the grave,The market’s wrinkled Giant Despair,Muttering, brooding, scheming there,—Founding a college or building a churchLest Heaven should leave him in the lurch!Better come out in the rival way,Issue your scrip in open day,And pour your wealth in the grimy fistOf some gross-mouthed, gambling pugilist;Leave toil and poverty where they lie,Pass thinkers, workers, artists, by,Your pot-house fag from his counters bringAnd make him into a Railway King!Between such Gentiles and such JewsLittle enough one finds to choose:Either the other will buy and use,Eat the meat and throw him the bone,And leave him to stand the brunt alone.

What’s bred in the bone will breed, you know;

Clowns and their trainers, high and low,

Will cut such capers, long as they dare,

While honest Poverty says its prayer.

But tell me what prayer or fast can save

Some hoary candidate for the grave,

The market’s wrinkled Giant Despair,

Muttering, brooding, scheming there,—

Founding a college or building a church

Lest Heaven should leave him in the lurch!

Better come out in the rival way,

Issue your scrip in open day,

And pour your wealth in the grimy fist

Of some gross-mouthed, gambling pugilist;

Leave toil and poverty where they lie,

Pass thinkers, workers, artists, by,

Your pot-house fag from his counters bring

And make him into a Railway King!

Between such Gentiles and such Jews

Little enough one finds to choose:

Either the other will buy and use,

Eat the meat and throw him the bone,

And leave him to stand the brunt alone.

—Let the tempest come, that’s gathering near,And give us a better atmosphere!

—Let the tempest come, that’s gathering near,

And give us a better atmosphere!

Is it naught? Is it naughtThat the South-wind brings her wail to our shore,That the spoilers compass our desolate sister?Is it naught? Must we say to her, “Strive no more.”With the lips wherewith we loved her and kissed her?With the mocking lips wherewith we said,“Thou art the dearest and fairest to usOf all the daughters the sea hath bred,Of all green-girdled isles that woo us!”Is it naught?Must ye wait? Must ye wait.Till they ravage her gardens of orange and palm,Till her heart is dust, till her strength is water?Must ye see them trample her, and be calmAs priests when a virgin is led to slaughter?Shall they smite the marvel of all lands,—The nation’s longing, the Earth’s completeness,—On her red mouth dropping myrrh, her handsFilled with fruitage and spice and sweetness?Must ye wait?In the day, in the night,In the burning day, in the dolorous night,Her sun-browned cheeks are stained with weeping.Her watch-fires beacon the misty height:—Why are her friends and lovers sleeping?“Ye, at whose ear the flatterer bends,Who were my kindred before all others,—Hath he set your hearts afar, my friends?Hath he made ye alien, my brothers,Day and night?”Hear ye not? Hear ye notFrom the hollow sea the sound of her voice;The passionate, far-off tone, which sayeth:“Alas, my brothers! alas, what choice,—The lust that shameth, the sword that slayeth?They bind me! they rend my delicate locks;They shred the beautiful robes I won me!My round limbs bleed on the mountain rocks:Save me, ere they have quite undone me!”Hear ye not?Speak at last! Speak at last!In the might of your strength, in the strength of your right,Speak out at last to the treacherous spoiler!Say: “Will ye harry her in our sight?Ye shall not trample her down, nor soil her!Loose her bonds! let her rise in her loveliness,—Our virginal sister; or, if ye shame her,Dark Amnon shall rue for her sore distress,And her sure revenge shall be that of Tamar!”Speak at last!

Is it naught? Is it naught

That the South-wind brings her wail to our shore,

That the spoilers compass our desolate sister?

Is it naught? Must we say to her, “Strive no more.”

With the lips wherewith we loved her and kissed her?

With the mocking lips wherewith we said,

“Thou art the dearest and fairest to us

Of all the daughters the sea hath bred,

Of all green-girdled isles that woo us!”

Is it naught?

Must ye wait? Must ye wait.Till they ravage her gardens of orange and palm,Till her heart is dust, till her strength is water?Must ye see them trample her, and be calmAs priests when a virgin is led to slaughter?Shall they smite the marvel of all lands,—The nation’s longing, the Earth’s completeness,—On her red mouth dropping myrrh, her handsFilled with fruitage and spice and sweetness?Must ye wait?

Must ye wait? Must ye wait.

Till they ravage her gardens of orange and palm,

Till her heart is dust, till her strength is water?

Must ye see them trample her, and be calm

As priests when a virgin is led to slaughter?

Shall they smite the marvel of all lands,—

The nation’s longing, the Earth’s completeness,—

On her red mouth dropping myrrh, her hands

Filled with fruitage and spice and sweetness?

Must ye wait?

In the day, in the night,In the burning day, in the dolorous night,Her sun-browned cheeks are stained with weeping.Her watch-fires beacon the misty height:—Why are her friends and lovers sleeping?“Ye, at whose ear the flatterer bends,Who were my kindred before all others,—Hath he set your hearts afar, my friends?Hath he made ye alien, my brothers,Day and night?”

In the day, in the night,

In the burning day, in the dolorous night,

Her sun-browned cheeks are stained with weeping.

Her watch-fires beacon the misty height:—

Why are her friends and lovers sleeping?

“Ye, at whose ear the flatterer bends,

Who were my kindred before all others,—

Hath he set your hearts afar, my friends?

Hath he made ye alien, my brothers,

Day and night?”

Hear ye not? Hear ye notFrom the hollow sea the sound of her voice;The passionate, far-off tone, which sayeth:“Alas, my brothers! alas, what choice,—The lust that shameth, the sword that slayeth?They bind me! they rend my delicate locks;They shred the beautiful robes I won me!My round limbs bleed on the mountain rocks:Save me, ere they have quite undone me!”Hear ye not?

Hear ye not? Hear ye not

From the hollow sea the sound of her voice;

The passionate, far-off tone, which sayeth:

“Alas, my brothers! alas, what choice,—

The lust that shameth, the sword that slayeth?

They bind me! they rend my delicate locks;

They shred the beautiful robes I won me!

My round limbs bleed on the mountain rocks:

Save me, ere they have quite undone me!”

Hear ye not?

Speak at last! Speak at last!In the might of your strength, in the strength of your right,Speak out at last to the treacherous spoiler!Say: “Will ye harry her in our sight?Ye shall not trample her down, nor soil her!Loose her bonds! let her rise in her loveliness,—Our virginal sister; or, if ye shame her,Dark Amnon shall rue for her sore distress,And her sure revenge shall be that of Tamar!”Speak at last!

Speak at last! Speak at last!

In the might of your strength, in the strength of your right,

Speak out at last to the treacherous spoiler!

Say: “Will ye harry her in our sight?

Ye shall not trample her down, nor soil her!

Loose her bonds! let her rise in her loveliness,—

Our virginal sister; or, if ye shame her,

Dark Amnon shall rue for her sore distress,

And her sure revenge shall be that of Tamar!”

Speak at last!

1870.

Though Arkádi’s shattered pileHides her dead without a dirge,Lo! where still the mountain isleFronts the angry Moslem surges!Hers, in old, heroic days,Her unfettered heights afar’Twixt the Grecian Gulf to raise,And the torrid Libyan star.From her bulwarks to the NorthStretched the glad Ægæan Sea,Sending bards and warriors forthTo the triumphs of the free;Ill the fierce invader throve,When, from island or from main,Side by side the Grecians strove:Swift he sought his lair again!Though the Cretan eagle fell,And the ancient heights were won,Freedom’s light was guarded well,—Handed down from sire to son;Through the centuries of shame,Ah! it never wholly died,But was hid, a sacred flame,There on topmost Ida’s side.Shades of heroes Homer sung—Wearing once her hundred crowns—Rise with shadowy swords amongCandia’s smoking fields and towns;Not again their souls shall sleep,Nor the crescent wane in peace,Till from every island-keepShines the starry Cross of Greece.

Though Arkádi’s shattered pile

Hides her dead without a dirge,

Lo! where still the mountain isle

Fronts the angry Moslem surges!

Hers, in old, heroic days,

Her unfettered heights afar

’Twixt the Grecian Gulf to raise,

And the torrid Libyan star.

From her bulwarks to the NorthStretched the glad Ægæan Sea,Sending bards and warriors forthTo the triumphs of the free;Ill the fierce invader throve,When, from island or from main,Side by side the Grecians strove:Swift he sought his lair again!

From her bulwarks to the North

Stretched the glad Ægæan Sea,

Sending bards and warriors forth

To the triumphs of the free;

Ill the fierce invader throve,

When, from island or from main,

Side by side the Grecians strove:

Swift he sought his lair again!

Though the Cretan eagle fell,And the ancient heights were won,Freedom’s light was guarded well,—Handed down from sire to son;Through the centuries of shame,Ah! it never wholly died,But was hid, a sacred flame,There on topmost Ida’s side.

Though the Cretan eagle fell,

And the ancient heights were won,

Freedom’s light was guarded well,—

Handed down from sire to son;

Through the centuries of shame,

Ah! it never wholly died,

But was hid, a sacred flame,

There on topmost Ida’s side.

Shades of heroes Homer sung—Wearing once her hundred crowns—Rise with shadowy swords amongCandia’s smoking fields and towns;Not again their souls shall sleep,Nor the crescent wane in peace,Till from every island-keepShines the starry Cross of Greece.

Shades of heroes Homer sung—

Wearing once her hundred crowns—

Rise with shadowy swords among

Candia’s smoking fields and towns;

Not again their souls shall sleep,

Nor the crescent wane in peace,

Till from every island-keep

Shines the starry Cross of Greece.

Gone at last,That brave old hero of the Past!His spirit has a second birth,An unknown, grander life;—All of him that was earthLies mute and cold,Like a wrinkled sheath and oldThrown off forever from the shimmering bladeThat has good entrance madeUpon some distant, glorious strife.From another generation,A simpler age, to ours Old Ironsides came;The morn and noontide of the nationAlike he knew, nor yet outlived his fame,—O, not outlived his fame!The dauntless men whose service guards our shoreLengthen still their glory-rollWith his name to lead the scroll,As a flagship at her foreCarries the Union, with its azure and the stars,Symbol of times that are no moreAnd the old heroic wars.He was the oneWhom Death had spared aloneOf all the captains of that lusty age,Who sought the foeman where he lay,On sea or sheltering bay,Nor till the prize was theirs repressed their rage.They are gone,—all gone:They rest with glory and the undying Powers;Only their name and fame and what they saved are ours!It was fifty years ago,Upon the Gallic Sea,He bore the banner of the free,And fought the fight whereof our children know.The deathful, desperate fight!—Under the fair moon’s lightThe frigate squared, and yawed to left and right.Every broadside swept to death a score!Roundly played her guns and well, till their fiery ensigns fell,Neither foe replying more.All in silence, when the night-breeze cleared the air,Old Ironsides rested there,Locked in between the twain, and drenched with blood.Then homeward, like an eagle with her prey!O, it was a gallant fray,That fight in Biscay Bay!Fearless the Captain stood, in his youthful hardihood;He was the boldest of them all,Our brave old Admiral!And still our heroes bleed,Taught by that olden deed.Whether of iron or of oakThe ships we marshal at our country’s need,Still speak their cannon now as then they spoke;Still floats our unstruck banner from the mastAs in the stormy Past.Lay him in the ground:Let him rest where the ancient river rolls;Let him sleep beneath the shadow and the soundOf the bell whose proclamation, as it tolls,Is of Freedom and the gift our fathers gave.Lay him gently down:The clamor of the townWill not break the slumbers deep, the beautiful ripe sleepOf this lion of the wave,Will not trouble the old Admiral in his grave.Earth to earth his dust is laid.Methinks his stately shadeOn the shadow of a great ship leaves the shore;Over cloudless western seasSeeks the far Hesperides,The islands of the blest,Where no turbulent billows roar,—Where is rest.His ghost upon the shadowy quarter standsNearing the deathless lands.There all his martial mates, renewed and strong,Await his coming long.I see the happy Heroes riseWith gratulation in their eyes:“Welcome, old comrade,” Lawrence cries;“Ah, Stewart, tell us of the wars!Who win the glory and the scars?How floats the skyey flag,—how many stars?Still speak they of Decatur’s name,Of Bainbridge’s and Perry’s fame?Of me, who earliest came?Make ready, all:Room for the Admiral!Come, Stewart, tell us of the wars!”

Gone at last,

That brave old hero of the Past!

His spirit has a second birth,

An unknown, grander life;—

All of him that was earth

Lies mute and cold,

Like a wrinkled sheath and old

Thrown off forever from the shimmering blade

That has good entrance made

Upon some distant, glorious strife.

From another generation,A simpler age, to ours Old Ironsides came;The morn and noontide of the nationAlike he knew, nor yet outlived his fame,—O, not outlived his fame!The dauntless men whose service guards our shoreLengthen still their glory-rollWith his name to lead the scroll,As a flagship at her foreCarries the Union, with its azure and the stars,Symbol of times that are no moreAnd the old heroic wars.

From another generation,

A simpler age, to ours Old Ironsides came;

The morn and noontide of the nation

Alike he knew, nor yet outlived his fame,—

O, not outlived his fame!

The dauntless men whose service guards our shore

Lengthen still their glory-roll

With his name to lead the scroll,

As a flagship at her fore

Carries the Union, with its azure and the stars,

Symbol of times that are no more

And the old heroic wars.

He was the oneWhom Death had spared aloneOf all the captains of that lusty age,Who sought the foeman where he lay,On sea or sheltering bay,Nor till the prize was theirs repressed their rage.They are gone,—all gone:They rest with glory and the undying Powers;Only their name and fame and what they saved are ours!

He was the one

Whom Death had spared alone

Of all the captains of that lusty age,

Who sought the foeman where he lay,

On sea or sheltering bay,

Nor till the prize was theirs repressed their rage.

They are gone,—all gone:

They rest with glory and the undying Powers;

Only their name and fame and what they saved are ours!

It was fifty years ago,Upon the Gallic Sea,He bore the banner of the free,And fought the fight whereof our children know.The deathful, desperate fight!—Under the fair moon’s lightThe frigate squared, and yawed to left and right.Every broadside swept to death a score!Roundly played her guns and well, till their fiery ensigns fell,Neither foe replying more.

It was fifty years ago,

Upon the Gallic Sea,

He bore the banner of the free,

And fought the fight whereof our children know.

The deathful, desperate fight!—

Under the fair moon’s light

The frigate squared, and yawed to left and right.

Every broadside swept to death a score!

Roundly played her guns and well, till their fiery ensigns fell,

Neither foe replying more.

All in silence, when the night-breeze cleared the air,Old Ironsides rested there,Locked in between the twain, and drenched with blood.Then homeward, like an eagle with her prey!O, it was a gallant fray,That fight in Biscay Bay!Fearless the Captain stood, in his youthful hardihood;He was the boldest of them all,Our brave old Admiral!

All in silence, when the night-breeze cleared the air,

Old Ironsides rested there,

Locked in between the twain, and drenched with blood.

Then homeward, like an eagle with her prey!

O, it was a gallant fray,

That fight in Biscay Bay!

Fearless the Captain stood, in his youthful hardihood;

He was the boldest of them all,

Our brave old Admiral!

And still our heroes bleed,Taught by that olden deed.Whether of iron or of oakThe ships we marshal at our country’s need,Still speak their cannon now as then they spoke;Still floats our unstruck banner from the mastAs in the stormy Past.

And still our heroes bleed,

Taught by that olden deed.

Whether of iron or of oak

The ships we marshal at our country’s need,

Still speak their cannon now as then they spoke;

Still floats our unstruck banner from the mast

As in the stormy Past.

Lay him in the ground:Let him rest where the ancient river rolls;Let him sleep beneath the shadow and the soundOf the bell whose proclamation, as it tolls,Is of Freedom and the gift our fathers gave.Lay him gently down:The clamor of the townWill not break the slumbers deep, the beautiful ripe sleepOf this lion of the wave,Will not trouble the old Admiral in his grave.

Lay him in the ground:

Let him rest where the ancient river rolls;

Let him sleep beneath the shadow and the sound

Of the bell whose proclamation, as it tolls,

Is of Freedom and the gift our fathers gave.

Lay him gently down:

The clamor of the town

Will not break the slumbers deep, the beautiful ripe sleep

Of this lion of the wave,

Will not trouble the old Admiral in his grave.

Earth to earth his dust is laid.Methinks his stately shadeOn the shadow of a great ship leaves the shore;Over cloudless western seas

Earth to earth his dust is laid.

Methinks his stately shade

On the shadow of a great ship leaves the shore;

Over cloudless western seas

Seeks the far Hesperides,The islands of the blest,Where no turbulent billows roar,—Where is rest.His ghost upon the shadowy quarter standsNearing the deathless lands.There all his martial mates, renewed and strong,Await his coming long.I see the happy Heroes riseWith gratulation in their eyes:“Welcome, old comrade,” Lawrence cries;“Ah, Stewart, tell us of the wars!Who win the glory and the scars?How floats the skyey flag,—how many stars?Still speak they of Decatur’s name,Of Bainbridge’s and Perry’s fame?Of me, who earliest came?Make ready, all:Room for the Admiral!Come, Stewart, tell us of the wars!”

Seeks the far Hesperides,

The islands of the blest,

Where no turbulent billows roar,—

Where is rest.

His ghost upon the shadowy quarter stands

Nearing the deathless lands.

There all his martial mates, renewed and strong,

Await his coming long.

I see the happy Heroes rise

With gratulation in their eyes:

“Welcome, old comrade,” Lawrence cries;

“Ah, Stewart, tell us of the wars!

Who win the glory and the scars?

How floats the skyey flag,—how many stars?

Still speak they of Decatur’s name,

Of Bainbridge’s and Perry’s fame?

Of me, who earliest came?

Make ready, all:

Room for the Admiral!

Come, Stewart, tell us of the wars!”

Wave, wave your glorious battle-flags, brave soldiers of the North,And from the field your arms have won to-day go proudly forth!For now, O comrades dear and leal,—from whom no ills could part,Through the long years of hopes and fears, the nation’s constant heart,—Men who have driven so oft the foe, so oft have striven in vain,Yet ever in the perilous hour have crossed his path again,—At last we have our hearts’ desire, from them we met have wrungA victory that round the world shall long be told and sung!It was the memory of the past that bore us through the fray,That gave the grand old Army strength to conquer on this day!O now forget how dark and red Virginia’s rivers flow,The Rappahannock’s tangled wilds, the glory and the woe;The fever-hung encampments, where our dying knew full soreHow sweet the north-wind to the cheek it soon shall cool no more;The fields we fought, and gained, and lost; the lowland sun and rainThat wasted us, that bleached the bones of our unburied slain!There was no lack of foes to meet, of deaths to die no lack,And all the hawks of heaven learned to follow on our track;But henceforth, hovering southward, their flight shall mark afarThe paths of yon retreating hosts that shun the northern star.At night, before the closing fray, when all the front was still,We lay in bivouac along the cannon-crested hill.Ours was the dauntless Second Corps; and many a soldier knewHow sped the fight, and sternly thought of what was yet to do.Guarding the centre there, we lay, and talked with bated breathOf Buford’s stand beyond the town, of gallant Reynold’s death,Of cruel retreats through pent-up streets by murderous volleys swept,—How well the Stone, the Iron, Brigades their bloody outposts kept:’Twas for the Union, for the Flag, they perished, heroes all,And we swore to conquer in the end, or even like them to fall.And passed from mouth to mouth the tale of that grim day just done,The fight by Round Top’s craggy spur,—of all the deadliest one;It saved the left: but on the right they pressed us back too well,And like a field in Spring the ground was ploughed with shot and shell.There was the ancient graveyard, its hummocks crushed and red,And there, between them, side by side, the wounded and the dead:The mangled corpses fallen above,—the peaceful dead below,Laid in their graves, to slumber here, a score of years ago;It seemed their waking, wandering shades were asking of our slain,What brought such hideous tumult now where they so still had lain!Bright rose the sun of Gettysburg that morrow morning-tide,And call of trump and roll of drum from height to height replied.Hark! from the east already goes up the rattling din;The Twelfth Corps, winning back their ground, right well the day begin!They whirl fierce Ewell from their front! Now we of the Second pray,As right and left the brunt have borne, the centre might to-day.But all was still from hill to hill for many a breathless hour,While for the coming battle-shock Lee gathered in his power;And back and forth our leaders rode, who knew not rest or fear,And along the lines, where’er they came, went up the ringing cheer.’Twas past the hour of nooning; the Summer skies were blue;Behind the covering timber the foe was hid from view;So fair and sweet with waving wheat the pleasant valley lay,It brought to mind our Northern homes and meadows far away;When the whole western ridge at once was fringed with fire and smoke;Against our lines from sevenscore guns the dreadful tempest broke!Then loud our batteries answer, and far along the crest,And to and fro the roaring bolts are driven east and west;Heavy and dark around us glooms the stifling sulphur-cloud,And the cries of mangled men and horse go up beneath its shroud.The guns are still: the end is nigh: we grasp our arms anew;O now let every heart be stanch and every aim be true!For look! from yonder wood that skirts the valley’s further marge,The flower of all the Southern host move to the final charge.By Heaven! it is a fearful sight to see their double rankCome with a hundred battle-flags,—a mile from flank to flank!Tramping the grain to earth, they come, ten thousand men abreast;Their standards wave,—their hearts are brave,—they hasten not, nor rest,But close the gaps our cannon make, and onward press, and nigher,And, yelling at our very front, again pour in their fire!Now burst our sheeted lightnings forth, now all our wrath has vent!They die, they wither; through and through their wavering lines are rent.But these are gallant, desperate men, of our own race and land,Who charge anew, and welcome death, and fight us hand to hand:Vain, vain! give way, as well ye may—the crimson die is cast!Their bravest leaders bite the dust, their strength is failing fast;They yield, they turn, they fly the field: we smite them as they run;Their arms, their colors are our spoil; the furious fight is done!Across the plain we follow far and backward push the fray:Cheer! cheer! the grand old Army at last has won the day!Hurrah! the day has won the cause! No gray-clad host henceforthShall come with fire and sword to tread the highways of the North!’Twas such a flood as when ye see, along the Atlantic shore,The great Spring-tide roll grandly in with swelling surge and roar:It seems no wall can stay its leap or balk its wild desireBeyond the bound that Heaven hath fixed to higher mount, and higher;But now, when whitest lifts its crest, most loud its billows call,Touched by the Power that led them on, they fall, and fall, and fall.Even thus, unstayed upon his course, to Gettysburg the foeHis legions led, and fought, and fled, and might no further go.Full many a dark-eyed Southern girl shall weep her lover dead;But with a price the fight was ours,—we too have tears to shed!The bells that peal our triumph forth anon shall toll the brave,Above whose heads the cross must stand, the hillside grasses wave!Alas! alas! the trampled grass shall thrive another year,The blossoms on the apple-boughs with each new Spring appear,But when our patriot-soldiers fall, Earth gives them up to God;Though their souls rise in clearer skies, their forms are as the sod;Only their names and deeds are ours,—but, for a century yet,The dead who fell at Gettysburg the land shall not forget.God send us peace! and where for aye the loved and lost reclineLet fall, O South, your leaves of palm,—O North, your sprigs of pine!But when, with every ripened year, we keep the harvest-home,And to the clear Thanksgiving-feast our sons and daughters come,—When children’s children throng the board in the old homestead spread,And the bent soldier of these wars is seated at the head,Long, long the lads shall listen to hear the gray-beard tellOf those who fought at Gettysburg and stood their ground so well:“’Twas for the Union and the Flag,” the veteran shall say,“Our grand old Army held the ridge, and won that glorious day!”

Wave, wave your glorious battle-flags, brave soldiers of the North,

And from the field your arms have won to-day go proudly forth!

For now, O comrades dear and leal,—from whom no ills could part,

Through the long years of hopes and fears, the nation’s constant heart,—

Men who have driven so oft the foe, so oft have striven in vain,

Yet ever in the perilous hour have crossed his path again,—

At last we have our hearts’ desire, from them we met have wrung

A victory that round the world shall long be told and sung!

It was the memory of the past that bore us through the fray,

That gave the grand old Army strength to conquer on this day!

O now forget how dark and red Virginia’s rivers flow,The Rappahannock’s tangled wilds, the glory and the woe;The fever-hung encampments, where our dying knew full soreHow sweet the north-wind to the cheek it soon shall cool no more;The fields we fought, and gained, and lost; the lowland sun and rainThat wasted us, that bleached the bones of our unburied slain!There was no lack of foes to meet, of deaths to die no lack,And all the hawks of heaven learned to follow on our track;But henceforth, hovering southward, their flight shall mark afarThe paths of yon retreating hosts that shun the northern star.

O now forget how dark and red Virginia’s rivers flow,

The Rappahannock’s tangled wilds, the glory and the woe;

The fever-hung encampments, where our dying knew full sore

How sweet the north-wind to the cheek it soon shall cool no more;

The fields we fought, and gained, and lost; the lowland sun and rain

That wasted us, that bleached the bones of our unburied slain!

There was no lack of foes to meet, of deaths to die no lack,

And all the hawks of heaven learned to follow on our track;

But henceforth, hovering southward, their flight shall mark afar

The paths of yon retreating hosts that shun the northern star.

At night, before the closing fray, when all the front was still,We lay in bivouac along the cannon-crested hill.Ours was the dauntless Second Corps; and many a soldier knewHow sped the fight, and sternly thought of what was yet to do.Guarding the centre there, we lay, and talked with bated breathOf Buford’s stand beyond the town, of gallant Reynold’s death,Of cruel retreats through pent-up streets by murderous volleys swept,—How well the Stone, the Iron, Brigades their bloody outposts kept:’Twas for the Union, for the Flag, they perished, heroes all,And we swore to conquer in the end, or even like them to fall.

At night, before the closing fray, when all the front was still,

We lay in bivouac along the cannon-crested hill.

Ours was the dauntless Second Corps; and many a soldier knew

How sped the fight, and sternly thought of what was yet to do.

Guarding the centre there, we lay, and talked with bated breath

Of Buford’s stand beyond the town, of gallant Reynold’s death,

Of cruel retreats through pent-up streets by murderous volleys swept,—

How well the Stone, the Iron, Brigades their bloody outposts kept:

’Twas for the Union, for the Flag, they perished, heroes all,

And we swore to conquer in the end, or even like them to fall.

And passed from mouth to mouth the tale of that grim day just done,The fight by Round Top’s craggy spur,—of all the deadliest one;It saved the left: but on the right they pressed us back too well,And like a field in Spring the ground was ploughed with shot and shell.There was the ancient graveyard, its hummocks crushed and red,And there, between them, side by side, the wounded and the dead:The mangled corpses fallen above,—the peaceful dead below,Laid in their graves, to slumber here, a score of years ago;It seemed their waking, wandering shades were asking of our slain,What brought such hideous tumult now where they so still had lain!

And passed from mouth to mouth the tale of that grim day just done,

The fight by Round Top’s craggy spur,—of all the deadliest one;

It saved the left: but on the right they pressed us back too well,

And like a field in Spring the ground was ploughed with shot and shell.

There was the ancient graveyard, its hummocks crushed and red,

And there, between them, side by side, the wounded and the dead:

The mangled corpses fallen above,—the peaceful dead below,

Laid in their graves, to slumber here, a score of years ago;

It seemed their waking, wandering shades were asking of our slain,

What brought such hideous tumult now where they so still had lain!

Bright rose the sun of Gettysburg that morrow morning-tide,And call of trump and roll of drum from height to height replied.Hark! from the east already goes up the rattling din;The Twelfth Corps, winning back their ground, right well the day begin!They whirl fierce Ewell from their front! Now we of the Second pray,As right and left the brunt have borne, the centre might to-day.But all was still from hill to hill for many a breathless hour,While for the coming battle-shock Lee gathered in his power;And back and forth our leaders rode, who knew not rest or fear,And along the lines, where’er they came, went up the ringing cheer.

Bright rose the sun of Gettysburg that morrow morning-tide,

And call of trump and roll of drum from height to height replied.

Hark! from the east already goes up the rattling din;

The Twelfth Corps, winning back their ground, right well the day begin!

They whirl fierce Ewell from their front! Now we of the Second pray,

As right and left the brunt have borne, the centre might to-day.

But all was still from hill to hill for many a breathless hour,

While for the coming battle-shock Lee gathered in his power;

And back and forth our leaders rode, who knew not rest or fear,

And along the lines, where’er they came, went up the ringing cheer.

’Twas past the hour of nooning; the Summer skies were blue;Behind the covering timber the foe was hid from view;So fair and sweet with waving wheat the pleasant valley lay,It brought to mind our Northern homes and meadows far away;When the whole western ridge at once was fringed with fire and smoke;Against our lines from sevenscore guns the dreadful tempest broke!Then loud our batteries answer, and far along the crest,And to and fro the roaring bolts are driven east and west;Heavy and dark around us glooms the stifling sulphur-cloud,And the cries of mangled men and horse go up beneath its shroud.

’Twas past the hour of nooning; the Summer skies were blue;

Behind the covering timber the foe was hid from view;

So fair and sweet with waving wheat the pleasant valley lay,

It brought to mind our Northern homes and meadows far away;

When the whole western ridge at once was fringed with fire and smoke;

Against our lines from sevenscore guns the dreadful tempest broke!

Then loud our batteries answer, and far along the crest,

And to and fro the roaring bolts are driven east and west;

Heavy and dark around us glooms the stifling sulphur-cloud,

And the cries of mangled men and horse go up beneath its shroud.

The guns are still: the end is nigh: we grasp our arms anew;O now let every heart be stanch and every aim be true!For look! from yonder wood that skirts the valley’s further marge,The flower of all the Southern host move to the final charge.By Heaven! it is a fearful sight to see their double rankCome with a hundred battle-flags,—a mile from flank to flank!Tramping the grain to earth, they come, ten thousand men abreast;Their standards wave,—their hearts are brave,—they hasten not, nor rest,But close the gaps our cannon make, and onward press, and nigher,And, yelling at our very front, again pour in their fire!

The guns are still: the end is nigh: we grasp our arms anew;

O now let every heart be stanch and every aim be true!

For look! from yonder wood that skirts the valley’s further marge,

The flower of all the Southern host move to the final charge.

By Heaven! it is a fearful sight to see their double rank

Come with a hundred battle-flags,—a mile from flank to flank!

Tramping the grain to earth, they come, ten thousand men abreast;

Their standards wave,—their hearts are brave,—they hasten not, nor rest,

But close the gaps our cannon make, and onward press, and nigher,

And, yelling at our very front, again pour in their fire!

Now burst our sheeted lightnings forth, now all our wrath has vent!They die, they wither; through and through their wavering lines are rent.But these are gallant, desperate men, of our own race and land,Who charge anew, and welcome death, and fight us hand to hand:Vain, vain! give way, as well ye may—the crimson die is cast!Their bravest leaders bite the dust, their strength is failing fast;They yield, they turn, they fly the field: we smite them as they run;Their arms, their colors are our spoil; the furious fight is done!Across the plain we follow far and backward push the fray:Cheer! cheer! the grand old Army at last has won the day!

Now burst our sheeted lightnings forth, now all our wrath has vent!

They die, they wither; through and through their wavering lines are rent.

But these are gallant, desperate men, of our own race and land,

Who charge anew, and welcome death, and fight us hand to hand:

Vain, vain! give way, as well ye may—the crimson die is cast!

Their bravest leaders bite the dust, their strength is failing fast;

They yield, they turn, they fly the field: we smite them as they run;

Their arms, their colors are our spoil; the furious fight is done!

Across the plain we follow far and backward push the fray:

Cheer! cheer! the grand old Army at last has won the day!

Hurrah! the day has won the cause! No gray-clad host henceforthShall come with fire and sword to tread the highways of the North!’Twas such a flood as when ye see, along the Atlantic shore,The great Spring-tide roll grandly in with swelling surge and roar:It seems no wall can stay its leap or balk its wild desireBeyond the bound that Heaven hath fixed to higher mount, and higher;But now, when whitest lifts its crest, most loud its billows call,Touched by the Power that led them on, they fall, and fall, and fall.Even thus, unstayed upon his course, to Gettysburg the foeHis legions led, and fought, and fled, and might no further go.

Hurrah! the day has won the cause! No gray-clad host henceforth

Shall come with fire and sword to tread the highways of the North!

’Twas such a flood as when ye see, along the Atlantic shore,

The great Spring-tide roll grandly in with swelling surge and roar:

It seems no wall can stay its leap or balk its wild desire

Beyond the bound that Heaven hath fixed to higher mount, and higher;

But now, when whitest lifts its crest, most loud its billows call,

Touched by the Power that led them on, they fall, and fall, and fall.

Even thus, unstayed upon his course, to Gettysburg the foe

His legions led, and fought, and fled, and might no further go.

Full many a dark-eyed Southern girl shall weep her lover dead;But with a price the fight was ours,—we too have tears to shed!The bells that peal our triumph forth anon shall toll the brave,Above whose heads the cross must stand, the hillside grasses wave!Alas! alas! the trampled grass shall thrive another year,The blossoms on the apple-boughs with each new Spring appear,But when our patriot-soldiers fall, Earth gives them up to God;Though their souls rise in clearer skies, their forms are as the sod;Only their names and deeds are ours,—but, for a century yet,The dead who fell at Gettysburg the land shall not forget.

Full many a dark-eyed Southern girl shall weep her lover dead;

But with a price the fight was ours,—we too have tears to shed!

The bells that peal our triumph forth anon shall toll the brave,

Above whose heads the cross must stand, the hillside grasses wave!

Alas! alas! the trampled grass shall thrive another year,

The blossoms on the apple-boughs with each new Spring appear,

But when our patriot-soldiers fall, Earth gives them up to God;

Though their souls rise in clearer skies, their forms are as the sod;

Only their names and deeds are ours,—but, for a century yet,

The dead who fell at Gettysburg the land shall not forget.

God send us peace! and where for aye the loved and lost reclineLet fall, O South, your leaves of palm,—O North, your sprigs of pine!But when, with every ripened year, we keep the harvest-home,And to the clear Thanksgiving-feast our sons and daughters come,—When children’s children throng the board in the old homestead spread,And the bent soldier of these wars is seated at the head,Long, long the lads shall listen to hear the gray-beard tellOf those who fought at Gettysburg and stood their ground so well:“’Twas for the Union and the Flag,” the veteran shall say,“Our grand old Army held the ridge, and won that glorious day!”

God send us peace! and where for aye the loved and lost recline

Let fall, O South, your leaves of palm,—O North, your sprigs of pine!

But when, with every ripened year, we keep the harvest-home,

And to the clear Thanksgiving-feast our sons and daughters come,—

When children’s children throng the board in the old homestead spread,

And the bent soldier of these wars is seated at the head,

Long, long the lads shall listen to hear the gray-beard tell

Of those who fought at Gettysburg and stood their ground so well:

“’Twas for the Union and the Flag,” the veteran shall say,

“Our grand old Army held the ridge, and won that glorious day!”

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