My rifle, pouch, and knife!My steed! And then we part!One loving kiss, dear wife,One press of heart to heart!Cling to me yet awhile,But stay the sob, the tear!Smile--only try to smile--And I go without a fear.
Our little cradled boy,He sleeps--and in his sleep,Smiles, with an angel joy,Which tells thee not to weep.I'll kneel beside, and kiss--He will not wake the while,Thus dreaming of the bliss,That bids thee, too, to smile.
Think not, dear wife, I go,With a light thought at my heart'Tis a pang akin to woe,That fills me as we part;But when the wolf was heardTo howl around our lot,Thou know'st, dear mother-bird,I slew him on the spot!
Aye, panther, wolf, and bear,Have perish'd 'neath my knife;Why tremble, then, with fear,When now I go, my wife?Shall I not keep the peace,That made our cottage dear;And 'till these wolf-curs ceaseShall I be housing here?
One loving kiss, dear wife,One press of heart to heart;Then for the deadliest strife,For freedom I depart!I were of little worth,Were these Yankee wolves left freeTo ravage 'round our hearth,And bring one grief to thee!
God's blessing on thee, wife,God's blessing on the young:Pray for me through the strife,And teach our infant's tongue.Whatever haps in fight,I shall be true to thee--To the home of our delight--To my people of the free.
Eva sits on the ottoman there,Sits by a Psyche carved in stone,With just such a face, and just such an air,As Esther upon her throne.
She's sifting lint for the brave who bleed,And I watch her fingers float and flowOver the linen, as, thread by thread,It flakes to her lap like snow.
A bracelet clinks on her delicate wrist,Wrought, as Cellini's were at Rome,Out of the tears of the amethyst,And the wan Vesuvian foam.
And full on the bauble-crest alway--A cameo image keen and fine--Glares thy impetuous knife, Corday,And the lava-locks are thine!
I thought of the war-wolves on our trail,Their gaunt fangs sluiced with gouts of blood;Till the Past, in a dead, mesmeric veil,Drooped with a wizard flood
Till the surly blaze through the iron barsShot to the hearth with a pang and cry--And a lank howl plunged from the Champ de MarsTo the Column of July--
Till Corday sprang from the gem, I swear,And the dove-eyed damsel I knew had flown--For Eva was not on the ottoman there,By the Psyche carved in stone.
She grew like a Pythoness flushed with fate,With the incantation in her gaze,A lip of scorn--an arm of hate--And a dirge of the "Marseillaise!"
Eva, the vision was not wild,When wreaked on the tyrants of the land--For you were transfigured to Nemesis, child,With the dagger in your hand!
First in the fight, and first in the armsOf the white-winged angels of glory,With the heart of the South at the feet of God,And his wounds to tell the story:
And the blood that flowed from his hero heart,On the spot where he nobly perished,Was drunk by the earth as a sacramentIn the holy cause he cherished.
In Heaven a home with the brave and blessed,And, for his soul's sustaining,The apocalyptic eyes of Christ--And nothing on earth remaining,
But a handful of dust in the land of his choice,A name in song and story,And Fame to shout with her brazen voice,"Died on the Field of Glory!"
Let the trumpet shout once more,Beauregard!Let the battle-thunders roar,Beauregard!And again by yonder sea,Let the swords of all the freeLeap forth to fight with thee,Beauregard!
Old Sumter loves thy name,Beauregard!Grim Moultrie guards thy fame,Beauregard!Oh! first in Freedom's fight!Oh! steadfast in the right!Oh! brave and Christian Knight!Beauregard!
St. Michael with his host,Beauregard!Encamps by yonder coast,Beauregard!And the Demon's might shall quail,And the Dragon's terrors fail,Were he trebly clad in mail,Beauregard!
Not a leaf shall fall away,Beauregard!From the laurel won to-day,Beauregard!While the ocean breezes blow,While the billows lapse and flowO'er the Northman's bones below,Beauregard!
Let the trumpet shout once more,Beauregard!Let the battle-thunders roar,Beauregard!From the centre to the shore,From the sea to the land's coreThrills the echo, evermore,Beauregard!
1719. Colonial Revolution.1763. Colonial History--Progress,1776. American Revolution.1812-15. Second War with Great Britain1830-32. Nullification for State Rights.1835-40. Florida War.1847. Mexican War--Palmetto Regiment.1860-61. Secession, and Third War for Independence.
My brave old Country! I have watched thee longStill ever first to rise against the wrong;To check the usurper in his giant stride,And brave his terrors and abase his pride;Foresee the insidious danger ere it rise,And warn the heedless and inform the wise;Scorning the lure, the bribe, the selfish game,Which, through the office, still becomes the shame;Thou stood'st aloof--superior to the fateThat would have wrecked thy freedom as a State.In vain the despot's threat, his cunning lure;Too proud thy spirit, and thy heart too pure;Thou hadst no quest but freedom, and to beIn conscience well-assured, and people free.The statesman's lore was thine, the patriot's aim,These kept thee virtuous, and preserved thy fame;The wisdom still for council, the brave voice,That thrills a people till they all rejoice.These were thy birthrights; and two centuries pass'd,As, at the first, still find thee at the last;Supreme in council, resolute in will,Pure in thy purpose--independent still!
The great good counsels, the examples brave,Won from the past, not buried in its grave,Still warm your soul with courage--still imparWisdom to virtue, valor to the heart!Still first to check th' encroachment--to declare"Thus far! no further, shall the assailant dare;"Thou keep'st thy ermine white, thy State secure,Thy fortunes prosperous, and thy freedom sure;No glozing art deceives thee to thy bane;The tempter and the usurper strive in vain!Thy spear's first touch unfolds the fiendish form,And first, with fearless breast, thou meet'st the storm;Though hosts assail thee, thou thyself a host,Prepar'st to meet the invader on the coast:Thy generous sons contending which shall beFirst in the phalanx, gathering by the sea;No dastard fear appals them, as they teachHow best to hurl the bolt, or man the breach!
Great Soul in little frame!--the hope of manExults, when such as thou art in the van!Unshaken, unbeguiled, unslaved, unbought,Thy fame shall brighten with each battle fought;True to the examples of the past, thou'lt be,For the long future, best security.
Charleston Mercury.
Gossypium.
The despot treads thy sacred sands,Thy pines give shelter to his bands,Thy sons stand by with idle hands,Carolina!He breathes at ease thy airs of balm,He scorns the lances of thy palm;Oh I who shall break thy craven calm,Carolina!Thy ancient fame is growing dim,A spot is on thy garment's rim;Give to the winds thy battle hymn,Carolina!
Call on thy children of the hill,Wake swamp and river, coast and rill,Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill,Carolina!Cite wealth and science, trade and art,Touch with thy fire the cautious mart,And pour thee through the people's heart,Carolina!Till even the coward spurns his fears,And all thy fields, and fens, and meres,Shall bristle like thy palm, with spears,Carolina!
Hold up the glories of thy dead;Say how thy elder children bled,Arid point to Eutaw's battle-bed,Carolina!Tell how the patriot's soul was tried,And what his dauntless breast defied;How Rutledge ruled, and Laurens died,Carolina!Cry! till thy summons, heard at last,Shall fall, like Marion's bugle-blast,Re-echoed from the haunted past,Carolina!
I hear a murmur, as of wavesThat grope their way through sunless caves,Like bodies struggling in their graves,Carolina!And now it deepens; slow and grandIt swells, as rolling to the landAn ocean broke upon the strand,Carolina!Shout! let it reach the startled Huns!And roar with all thy festal guns!It is the answer of thy sons,Carolina!
They will not wait to hear thee call;From Sachem's head to Sumter's wallResounds the voice of hut and hall,Carolina!No! thou hast not a stain, they say,Or none save what the battle-dayShall wash in seas of blood away,Carolina!Thy skirts, indeed, the foe may part,Thy robe be pierced with sword and dart,They shall not touch thy noble heart,Carolina!
Ere thou shalt own the tyrant's thrall,Ten times ten thousand men must fall;Thy corpse may hearken to his call,Carolina!When by thy bier, in mournful throngs,The women chant thy mortal wrongs,'Twill be their own funereal songs,Carolina!From thy dead breast, by ruffians trod,No helpless child shall look to God;All shall be safe beneath thy sod,Carolina!
Girt with such wills to do and bear,Assured in right, and mailed in prayer,Thou wilt not bow thee to despair,Carolina!Throw thy bold banner to the breeze!Front with thy ranks the threatening seas,Like thine own proud armorial trees,Carolina!Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns,And roar the challenge from thy guns;Then leave the future to thy sons,Carolina!
"Animis, Opibusque Parati."
My Mother-land! thou wert the first to flingThy virgin flag of freedom to the breeze,The first to humble, in thy neighboring seas,The imperious despot's power;But long before that hour,While yet, in false and vain imagining,Thy sister nations would not own their foe,And turned to jest thy warnings, though the low,Deep, awful mutterings, that precede the throeOf earthquakes, burdened all the ominous air;While yet they paused in scorn,Of fatal madness born,--Thou, oh, my Mother! like a priestess bless'dWith wondrous vision of the things to come,Thou couldst not calmly restSecure and dumb--But from thy borders, with the sounds of drumAnd trumpet, came the thrilling note, "PREPARE!""Prepare for what?" thy careless sisters said;"We see no threatening tempest overhead,Only a few pale clouds, the west wind's breathWill sweep away, or melt in watery death."
"Prepare!" the time grows ripe to meet our doom!Alas! it was not till the thunder-boomOf shell and cannon shocked the vernal day,Which shone o'er Charleston Bay--When the tamed "Stars and Stripes" before us bowed--That startled, roused, the last scale fallen awayFrom, blinded eyes, our SOUTH, erect and proud,Fronted the issue, and, though lulled too long,Felt her great spirit nerved, her patriot valor strong.
But darker days have found us--'gainst the hordeOf robber Northmen, who, with torch and sword,Approach to desecrateThe sacred hearthstone and the Temple-gate--Who would defile our fathers' graves, and castTheir ashes to the blast--Yea! who declare, "we will annihilateThe very bound-lines of your sovereign State"--Against this ravening floodOf foul invaders, drunk with lust and blood,Oh! we,Strong in the strength of God-supported might,Go forth to give our foe no paltry fight,Nor basely yieldTo venal legions a scarce blood-dewed field--But witness, Heaven! if such the need should be,To make our fated land one vast Thermopylæ!
Death! What of Death?--Can he who once drew honorable breathIn liberty's pure sphere,Foster a sensual fear,When death and slavery meet him face to face,Saying: "Choose thou between us; here, the graceWhich follows patriot martyrdom, and there,Black degradation, haunted by despair."
Death! What of Death?--The vilest reptiles, brutes or men, who crawlAcross their portion of this earthly ball,Share life and motion with us; would we striveLike such to creep alive,Polluted, loathsome, only that with sinWe still might keep our mortal breathings in?
The very thought brings blushes to the cheek!I hear all 'round about me murmurs run,Hot murmurs, but soon merging into ONESoul-stirring utterance--hark! the people speak:
"Our course is righteous, and our aims are just!Behold, we seekNot merely to preserve for noble wivesThe virtuous pride of unpolluted lives,To shield our daughters from the ruffian's hand,And leave our sons their heirloom of command,In generous perpetuity of trust;Not only to defend those ancient laws,Which Saxon sturdiness and Norman fireWelded forevermore with freedom's cause,And handed scathless down from sire to sire--Nor yet, our grand religion, and our Christ,Undecked by upstart creeds and vulgar charms,(Though these had sure sufficedTo urge the feeblest Sybarite to arms)--But more than all, because embracing all,Insuring all, SELF-GOVERNMENT, the boonOur patriot statesmen strove to win and keep,From prescient Pinckney and the wise CalhounTo him, that gallant Knight,The youngest champion in the Senate hall,Who, led and guarded by a luminous fate,His armor, Courage, and his war-horse, Right,Dared through the lists of eloquence to sweepAgainst the proud Bois Guilbert of debate![1]
"There's not a tone from out the teeming past,Uplifted once in such a cause as ours,Which does not smite our soulsIn long reverberating thunder-rolls,From the far mountain-steeps of ancient story.Above the shouting, furious Persian mass,Millions arrayed in pomp of Orient powers,Rings the wild war-cry of LeonidasPent in his rugged fortress of the rock;And o'er the murmurous seas,Compact of hero-faith and patriot bliss,(For conquest crowns the Athenian's hope at last),Gome the clear accents of Miltiades,Mingled with cheers that drown the battle-shockBeside the wave-washed strand of Salamis.
"Where'er on earth the self-devoted heartHath been by worthy deeds exalted thus,We look for proud exemplars; yet for usIt is enough to knowOur fathers left us freemen; let us showThe will to hold our lofty heritage,The patient strength to act our fathers' part--Brothers on history's page,We wait to write our autographs in gore,To cast the morning brightness of our gloryBeyond our day and hope,The narrow limit ofoneage's scope,On Time's remotest shore!
"Yea! though our children's bloodKain 'round us in a crimson-swelling flood,Why pause or falter?--that red tide shall bearThe Ark that holds our shrined liberty,Nearer, and yet more nearSome height of promise o'er the ensanguined sea.
"At last, the conflict done,The fadeless meed of final victory won--Behold! emerging from the rifted darkAthwart a shining summit high in heaven,That delegated Ark!No more to be by vengeful tempests driven,But poised upon the sacred mount, whereatThe congregated nations gladly gaze,Struck by the quiet splendor of the raysThat circle Freedom's blood-bought Ararat!"
Thus spake the people's wisdom; unto meIts voice hath come, a passionate augury!Methinks the very aspect of the worldChanged to the mystic music of its hope.For, lo! about the deepening heavenly copeThe stormy cloudland banners all are furled,And softly borne aboveAre brooding pinions of invisible love,Distilling balm of rest and tender thoughtFrom fairy realms, by fairy witchery wroughtO'er the hushed ocean steal celestial gleamsDivine as light that haunts a poet's dreams;And universal nature, wheresoeverMy vision strays--o'er sky, and sea, and river--Sleeps, like a happy child,In slumber undefiled,A premonition of sublimer days,When war and warlike laysAt length shall cease,Before a grand Apocalypse of Peace,Vouchsafed in mercy to all human kind--A prelude and a prophecy combined!
[1]Everybody must remember the famous tournament scene in "Ivanhoe." Of course the author, in drawing a comparison between that chivalric battle and the contest upon "Foote's Resolutions" in the great Senatorial debate of 1832, would be understood asnotpushing the comparison further than thefirstshock of arms between Bois Guilbert and his youthful opponent, which Scott tells us was the most spirited encounter of the day. Both the knights' lances were fairly broken, and they parted, with no decisive advantage on either side.
Once more to the breach for the land of the West!And a leader we give of our bravest and best,Of his State and his army the pride;Hope shines like the plume of Navarre on his crest,And gleams in the glaive at his side.
For his courage is keen, and his honor is brightAs the trusty Toledo[1] he wears to the fight,Newly wrought in the forges of Spain;And this weapon, like all he has brandished for right,Will never be dimmed by a stain.
He leaves the loved, soil of Virginia behind,Where the dust of his fathers is fitly enshrined,Where lie the fresh fields of his fame;Where the murmurous pines, as they sway in the wind,Seem ever to whisper his name.
The Johnstons have always borne wings on their spurs,And their motto a noble distinction confers--"Ever ready!" for friend or for foe--With a patriot's fervor the sentiment stirsThe large, manly heart of our JOE.
We read that a former bold chief of the clan,Fell, bravely defending the West, in the van,On Shiloh's illustrious day;And with reason we reckon our Johnston's the manThe dark, bloody debt to repay.
There is much to be done; if not glory to seek,There's a just and terrible vengeance to wreakFor crimes of a terrible dye;While the plaint of the helpless, the wail of the weak,In a chorus rise up to the sky.
For the Wolf of the North we once drove to his den,That quailed with affright 'neath the stern glance of men,With his pack has returned to the spoil;Then come from the mountain, the hamlet, the glen,And drive him again from your soil.
Brave-born Tennesseeans, so loyal, so true,Who have hunted the beast in your highlands, of youOur leader had never a doubt;You will troop by the thousand the chase to renew,The day that his bugles ring out.
But ye "Hunters," so famed, "of Kentucky" of yore,Where now are the rifles that kept from your doorThe wolf and the robber as well?Of a truth, you have never been laggard beforeTo deal with a savage so fell.
Has the love you once bore to your country grown cold?Has the fire on the altar died out? do you holdYour lives than your freedom more dear?Can you shamefully barter your birthright for gold,Or basely take counsel of fear?
We will not believe it; Kentucky, the landOf a Clay, will not tamely submit to the brandThat disgraces the dastard, the slave:The hour of redemption draws nigh, is at hand,Her own sons her own honor shall save!
Mighty men of Missouri, come forth to the call,When the rush of your rivers, when tempests appal,And the torrents their sources unseal;And this be the watchword of one and of all--"Remember the butcher, McNeil!"
Then once more to the breach for the land of the West;Strike home for your hearths--for the lips you love best;Follow on where your leader you see;One flash of his sword, when the foe is hard pressed,And the land of the West shall be free!
[Footnote 1: General Johnston carries with him a beautiful blade, recently presented to him, bearing the mark of the Royal Manufactory of Toledo, 1862.]
We hail your "stripes" and lessened "stars,"As one may hail a neighbor;Now forward move! no fear of jars,With nothing but free labor;And we will mind our slaves and farm,And never wish you any harm,But greet you--over the river.
The self-same language do we speak,The same dear words we utter;Then let's not make each other weak,Nor 'gainst each other mutter;But let each go his separate way,And each will doff his hat, and say:"I greet you--over the river!"
Our flags, almost the same, unfurl,And nod across the border;Ohio's waves between them curl--Our stripe's a little broader;May yours float out on every breeze,And,in our wake, traverse all seas--We greet you--over the river!
We part, as friends of years should part,With pleasant words and wishes,And no desire is in our heartFor Lincoln's loaves and fishes;"Farewell," we wave you from afar,We like you best--just where you are--And greet you--over the river!
Born in a day, full-grown, our Nation stood,The pearly light of heaven was on her face;Life's early joy was coursing in her blood;A thing she was of beauty and of grace.
She stood, a stranger on the great broad earth,No voice of sympathy was heard to greetThe glory-beaming morning of her birth,Or hail the coming of the unsoiled feet.
She stood, derided by her passing foes;Her heart beat calmly 'neath their look of scorn;Their rage in blackening billows round her rose--Her brow, meanwhile, as radiant as the morn.
Their poisonous coils about her limbs are cast,She shakes them off in pure and holy ire,As quietly as Paul, in ages past,Shook off the serpent in the crackling fire.
She bends not to her foes, nor to the world,She bears a heart for glory, or for gloom;But with her starry cross, her flag unfurled,She kneels amid the sweet magnolia bloom.
She kneels to Thee, O God, she claims her birth,She lifts to Thee her young and trusting eye,She asks of Thee her place upon the earth--For it is Thine to give or to deny.
Oh, letThineeye but recognize her right!Oh, letThyvoice but justify her claim!Like grasshoppers are nations in Thy sight,And all their power is but an empty name,
Then listen, Father, listen to her prayer!Her robes are dripping with her children's blood;Her foes around "like bulls of Bashan stare,"They fain would sweep her off, "as with a flood."
The anguish wraps her close around, like death,Her children lie in heaps about her slain;Before the world she bravely holds her breath,Nor gives one utterance to a note of pain.
But 'tis not like Thee to forget the oppressed,Thou feel'st within her heart the stifled moan--Thou Christ! Thou Lamb of God! oh, give her rest!For Thou hast called her!--is she not Thine own?
The cell is lonely, and the nightHas filled it with a darker gloom;The little rays of friendly light,Which through each crack and chink found roomTo press in with their noiseless feet,All merciful and fleet,And bring, like Noah's trembling dove,God's silent messages of love--These, too, are gone,Shut out, and gone,And that great heart is left alone.
Alone, with darkness and with woe,Around him Freedom's temple lies,Its arches crushed, its columns low,The night-wind through its ruin sighs;Rash, cruel hands that temple razed,Then stood the world amazed!And now those hands--ah, ruthless deeds!Their captive pierce--his brave heart bleeds;And yet no groanIs heard, no groan!He suffers silently, alone.
For all his bright and happy home,He has that cell, so drear and dark,The narrow walls, for heaven's blue dome,The clank of chains, for song of lark;And for the grateful voice of friends--That voice which ever lendsIts charm where human hearts are found--He hears the key's dull, grating sound;No heart is near,No kind heart near,No sigh of sympathy, no tear!
Oh, dream not thus, thou true and good!Unnumbered hearts on thee await,By thee invisibly have stood,Have crowded through thy prison-gate;Nor dungeon bolts, nor dungeon bars,Nor floating "stripes and stars,"Nor glittering gun or bayonet,Can ever cause us to forgetOur faith to thee,Our love to thee,Thou glorious soul! thou strong!thou free!
"Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot,Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette;Ring me a ball on 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."
"Oh, captain! I staggered, and sank in my track,When I gazed on the face of the 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 dragoon.Was her husband. Hush, soldier!--'twas heaven's deerWe must bury him there, by the light of the moon.
"But hark! the far bugles their warning unite;War is a virtue, and weakness a sin;There's a lurking and lopping around us to-night:Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!"
[The claim to the authorship of this poem, which Fontaine alleges, has been disputed in behalf of a lady of New York, but she herself continues silent on the subject.]
"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!"Except here and there 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 thenWill not count in the news of a battle;Not an officer lost! only one of the menMoaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.
All quiet along the Potomac to-night!Where soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;And their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,And the light of their camp-fires are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh, as a gentle night-windThrough the forest leaves slowly is creeping;While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes,Keep guard o'er the army while sleeping.
There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread,As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,And thinks of the two on 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,And their mother--"may heaven defend her!"
The moon seems to shine forth as brightly as then--That night, when the love, yet unspoken,Leaped up to his lips, and 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 his breast,As if to keep down the heart's swelling.
He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,And his footstep is lagging and weary;Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,Towards 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-by!"And his life-blood is ebbing and splashing.
"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,And the picket's off duty forever!
A FAIRY ring
Drawn in the crimson of a battle-plain--From whose weird circle every loathsome thingAnd sight and sound of painAre banished, while about it in the air,And from the ground, and from the low-hung skies,Throng, in a vision fairAs ever lit a prophet's dying eyes,Gleams of that unseen worldThat lies about us, rainbow-tinted shapesWith starry wings unfurled,Poised for a moment on such airy capesAs pierce the golden foamOf sunset's silent main--Would image what in this enchanted dome,Amid the night of war and deathIn which the armed city draws its breath,We have built up!For though no wizard wand or magic cupThe spell hath wrought,Within this charmed fane we ope the gatesOf that divinest fairy-landWhere, under loftier fatesThan rule the vulgar earth on which we stand,Move the bright creatures of the realm of thought.
Shut for one happy evening from the floodThat roars around us, here you may behold--As if a desert wayCould blossom and unfoldA garden fresh with May--Substantialized in breathing flesh and blood,Souls that upon the poet's pageHave lived from age to age,And yet have never donned this mortal clay.A golden strandShall sometimes spread before you like the isleWhere fair Miranda's smileMet the sweet stranger whom the father's artHad led unto her heart,Which, like a bud that waited for the light,Burst into bloom at sight!Love shall grow softer in each maiden's eyesAs Juliet leans her cheek upon her hand,And prattles to the night.Anon, a reverend formWith tattered robe and forehead bare,That challenge all the torments of the air,Goes by!And the pent feelings choke in one long sigh,While, as the mimic thunder rolls, you hearThe noble wreck of LearReproach like things of life the ancient skies,And commune with the storm!Lo! next a dim and silent chamber, whereWrapt in glad dreams, in which, perchance, the MoorTells his strange story o'er,The gentle Desdemona chastely lies,Unconscious of the loving murderer nigh.Then through a hush like deathStalks Denmark's mailed ghost!And Hamlet enters with that thoughtful breathWhich is the trumpet to a countless hostOf reasons, but which wakes no deed from sleep;For while it calls to strife,He pauses on the very brink of factTo toy as with the shadow of an act,And utter those wise saws that cut so deepInto the core of life!
Nor shall be wanting many a sceneWhere forms of more familiar mien,Moving through lowlier pathways, shall presentThe world of every day,Such as it whirls along the busy quay,Or sits beneath a rustic orchard wall,Or floats about a fashion-freighted hall,Or toils in attics dark the night away.Love, hate, grief, joy, gain, glory, shame, shall meet,As in the round wherein our lives are pent;Chance for a while shall seem to reign,While goodness roves like guilt about the street,And guilt looks innocent.
But all at last shall vindicate the right.Crime shall be meted with its proper pain,Motes shall be taken from the doubter's sight,And fortune's general justice rendered plain.Of honest laughter there shall be no dearth,Wit shall shake hands with humor grave and sweet,Our wisdom shall not be too wise for mirth,Nor kindred follies want a fool to greet.As sometimes from the meanest spot of earthA sudden beauty unexpected starts,So you shall find some germs of hidden worthWithin the vilest hearts;And now and then, when in those moods that turnTo the cold Muse that whips a fault with sneers,You shall, perchance, be strangely touched to learnYou've struck a spring of tears!
But while we lead you thus from change to change,Shall we not find within our ample rangeSome type to elevate a people's heart--Some haro who shall teach a hero's partIn this distracted time?Rise from thy sleep of ages, noble Tell!And, with the Alpine thunders of thy voice,As if across the billows unenthralled,Thy Alps unto the Alleghanies called,Bid liberty rejoice!Proclaim upon this trans-Atlantic strandThe deeds which, more than their own awful mien,Make every crag of Switzerland sublime!And say to those whose feeble souls would leanNot on themselves, but on some outstretched hand,That once a single mind sufficed to quellThe malice of a tyrant; let them knowThat each may crowd in every well-aimed blow,Not the poor strength alone of arm and brand,But the whole spirit of a mighty land!
Bid liberty rejoice! Aye, though its dayBe far or near, these clouds shall yet be redWith the large promise of the coming ray.Meanwhile, with that calm courage which can smileAmid the terrors of the wildest fray,Let us among the charms of art awhileFleet the deep gloom away;Nor yet forget that on each hand and headRest the dear rights for which we fight and pray.
"For they gat not the land in possession by their own sword; neither was it their own arm that helped them; but Thy right hand, and Thine arm, and the light of Thy countenance, because Thou hadst a favor unto them."--Psalm, xliv. 3, 4.
Now blessed be the Lord of Hosts through all our Southern land,And blessed be His holy name, in whose great might we stand;For He who loves the voice of prayer hath heard His people's cry,And with His own almighty arm hath won the victory!Oh, tell it out through hearth and home, from blue Potomac's waveTo those far waters of the West which hide De Soto's grave.
Now let there be through all the land one grand triumphant cry,Wherever beats a Southern heart, or glows a Southern sky;For He who ruleth every fight hath been with us to-day,And the great God of battles hath led the glorious fray;Oh, then unto His holy name ring out the joyful song,The race hath not been to the swift, the battle to the strong.
From royal Hudson's cliff-crowned banks, from proud Ohio's flood,From that dark rock in Plymouth's bay where erst the pilgrims stood,From East and North, from far and near, went forth the gathering cry,And the countless hordes came swarming on with fierce and lustful eye.In the great name of Liberty each thirsty sword is drawn;In the great name of Liberty each tyrant presseth on.
Alas, alas! her sacred name is all dishonored now,And blood-stained hands are tearing off each laurel from her brow;But ever yet rings out the cry, in loud and mocking tone,Still in her holy shrine they strive to rear a despot's throne;And pressing on with eager tread, they sweep across the land,To burn and havoc and destroy--a fierce and ruthless band.
I looked on fair Potomac's shore, and at my feet the whileThe sparkling waves leaped gayly up to meet glad summer's smile;And pennons gay were floating there, and banners fair to see,A mighty host arrayed, I ween, in war's proud panoply;And as I gazed a cry arose, a low, deep-swelling hum,And loud and stern along the line broke in the sullen drum.
Onward, o'er fair Virginia's fields, through ranks of nodding grain,With shout and song they sweep along, a gay and gallant train.Oh, ne'er, I ween, had those broad plains beheld a fairer sight,And clear and glad those skies of June shed forth their glorious light.Onwards, yea, ever onwards, that mighty host hath passed,And "On to Richmond!" is the cry which echoes on the blast.
I looked again, the rising sun shines down upon the moors,And 'neath his beams rise ramparts high and frowning embrasures,And on each proud abattis yawn, with menace stern and dread,Grim-visaged messengers of death: the watchful sentry's treadIn measured cadence slowly falls; all Nature seems at ease,And over all the Stars and Stripes are floating in the breeze.
But far away another line is stretching dark and long,Another flag is floating free where armed legions throng;Another war-cry's on the air, as wakes the martial drum,And onward still, in serried ranks, the Southern soldiers come,And up to that abattis high the charging' columns tread,And bold and free the Stars and Bars are waving at their head.
They are on it! they are o'er it! who can stay that living flood?Lo, ever swelling, rolleth on the weltering tide of blood.Yet another and another is full boldly stormed and won,And forward to the spoiler's camp the column presseth on.Hurrah! hurrah! the field is won! we'e met them man to man,And ever still the Stars and Bars are riding in the van.
They are flying! they are flying! and close upon their trackComes our glorious "Stonewall" Jackson, with ten thousand at his back;And Longstreet, too, and gallant Hill, and Rhodes, and brave Huger,[1]And he whose name is worth a host, our bold, devoted Lee;And back to where the lordly James his scornful billow rolls,The recreant foe is fleeing fast--those men of dastard souls.
They are flying! they are flying! horse and foot, and bold dragoon,In one refluent mass are mingled, 'neath the slowly waning moon;And louder still the cry is heard, as borne upon the blast,The shouts of the pursuing host are rising full and fast:"On, on unto the river, 'tis our only chance for life!We needs must reach the gunboats, or we perish in the strife!"
'Tis done! the gory field is ours; we've conquered in the fight!And yet once more our tongues can tell the triumph of the right;And humbled is the haughty foe, who our destruction sought,For God's right hand and holy arm have great deliverance wrought.Oh, then, unto His holy name ring out the joyful song--The race has not been to the swift, the battle to the strong.
[1] PronouncedEujee