Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

Night and darkness over all!
Nature sleeps beneath a pall;
Not a ray from moon or stars
Glimmers through the cloudy bars;
Huge and black the mountains stand
Frowning upon either hand,
And the river, dark and deep,
Gropes its way from steep to steep.
Yonder tree, whose young leaves played
In the sunshine and the shade,
Stretches out its arms like one
Sudden blindness hath undone.
Pale and dim the rose-queen lies
Robbed of all her gorgeous dyes,
And the lily bendeth low,
Mourner in a garb of woe.
Never a shadow comes or goes,
Never a gleam its glory throws
Over cottage or over hall—
Darkness broodeth over all!

II.

Lo! the glorious morning breaks!
Nature from her sleep awakes,
And, in purple pomp, the day
Bids the darkness flee away.
Crowned with light the mountains stand
Royally on either hand,
And the laughing waters run
In glad haste to meet the sun.
Stately trees, exultant, raise
Their proud heads in grateful praise;
Flowers, dew-laden, everywhere
Pour rich incense on the air,
And the ascending vapors rise
Like the smoke of sacrifice.
Birds are trilling, bees are humming,
Swift to greet the new day coming,
And earth’s myriad voices sing
Hymns of grateful welcoming.
Bursting from night’s heavy thrall,
Heaven’s own light is over all!

AGNES

Agnes! Agnes! is it thus
Thou, at last, dost come to us?
From the land of balm and bloom,
Blandest airs and sweet perfume,
Where the jasmine’s golden stars
Glimmer soft through emerald bars,
And the fragrant orange flowers
Fall to earth in silver showers,
Agnes! Agnes!
With thy pale hands on thy breast,
Comest thou here to take thy rest?

Agnes! Agnes! o’er thy grave
Loud the winter winds will rave,
And the snow fall fast around,
Heaping high thy burial mound;
Yet, within its soft embrace,
Thy dear form and earnest face,
Wrapt away from burning pain,
Ne’er shall know one pang again.
Agnes! Agnes!
Nevermore shall anguish vex thee,
Nevermore shall care perplex thee.

Agnes! Agnes! wait, ah! wait
Just one moment at the gate,
Ere your pure feet enter in
Where is neither pain nor sin.
Thou art blest, but how shall we
Bear the pang of losing thee?
List! _we love thee!_ By that word
Once thy heart of hearts was stirred.
Agnes! Agnes!
By that love we bid thee wait
Just one moment at the gate!

Agnes! Agnes! No! Pass on
To the heaven that thou hast won!
By thy life of brave endeavor,
Up the heights aspiring ever,
Whence thy voice, like clarion clear,
Rang out words of lofty cheer;
By thy laboring not in vain,
By thy martyrdom of pain,
Our Saint Agnes—
From our yearning sight pass on
To the rest that thou hast won!

“INTO THY HANDS”

Into thy hands, O Father! Now at last,
Weary with struggling and with long unrest,
Vext by remembrances of conflicts past
And by a host of present cares opprest,

I come to thee and cry, Thy will be done!
Take thou the burden I have borne too long.
Into thy hands, O mighty, loving One,
My weakness gives its all, for thou art strong!

For life—for death. I cannot see the way;
I blindly wander on to meet the night;
The path grows steeper, and the dying day
Soon with its shadows will shut out the light.

Hold thou my hand, O Father! I am tired
As a young child that wearies of the road;
And the far heights toward which I once aspired
Have lost the glory with which erst they glowed.

Take thou my life, and mold it to thy will;
Into thy hands commit I all my way;
Fain would I lift each cup that thou dost fill,
Nor from its brim my pale lips ever stay.

Take thou my life. I lay it at thy feet;
And in my death my sure support be thou;
So shall I sink to slumber calm and sweet,
And wake at morn before thy face to bow!

IDLE WORDS

I.

Once I said,
Seeing two soft, starry eyes
Darkly bright as midnight skies,—
Eyes prophetic of the power
Sure to be thy woman’s dower,
When the years should crown thee queen
Of the realm as yet unseen,—
“Some time, sweet, those eyes shall make
Lovers mad for their sweet sake!”

II.

Once I said,
Seeing tresses, golden-brown,
In a bright shower falling down
Over neck and bosom white
As an angel’s clad in light—
Odorous tresses drooping low
O’er a forehead pure as snow,—
“Some time, sweet, in thy soft hair
Love shall set a shining snare!”

III.

Once I said,
Seeing lips whose crimson hue
Mocked the roses wet with dew,—
Warm, sweet lips, whose breath was balm,—
Pure, proud lips, serenely calm,—
Tender lips, whose smiling grace
Lit with splendor all the face,—
“Sweet, for kiss of thine some day
Men will barter souls away!”

IV.

Idly said!
God hath taken care of all
Joy or pain that might befall!
Lover’s lip shall never thrill
At thy kisses, soft and still;
Lover’s heart shall never break
In sore anguish for thy sake;
Lover’s soul for thee shall know
Nor love’s rapture, nor its woe;—
All is said!

THE SPARROW TO THE SKYLARK

O skylark, soaring, soaring,
Ere day is well begun,
Thy full, glad song outpouring
To greet the rising sun,—
So high, so high in heaven
Thy swift wing cleaves the blue,
We sparrows in the hedges
Can scarcely follow you!

O strong, unwearied singer!
By summer winds caressed,
Among the white clouds floating
With sunshine on thy breast,
We hear thy clear notes dropping
In showers of golden rain,
A glad, triumphant music
That hath no thought of pain!

We twitter in the hedges;
We chirp our little songs,
Whose low, monotonous murmur
To homeliest life belongs;
We perch in lowly places,
We hop from bough to bough,
While in the wide sky-spaces,
On strong wing soarest thou!

Yet we—we share the rapture
And glory of thy flight—
Thou’rt still a bird, O skylark,—
Thou spirit glad and bright!
And ah! no sparrow knoweth
But its low note may be
Part of earth’s joy and gladness
That finds full voice in thee!

THE BELL OF ST. PAUL’S

“The great bell of St. Paul’s, which only sounds when the King is dead.”

Toll, toll, thou solemn bell!
A royal head lies low,
And mourners through the palace halls
Slowly and sadly go.
Lift up thine awful voice,
Thou, silent for so long!
Say that a monarch’s soul has passed
To join the shadowy throng.

Toll yet again, thou bell!
Mutely thine iron tongue,
Prisoned within yon lofty tower,
For many a year has hung.
But now its mournful peal
Startles a nation’s ear,
And swells from listening shore to shore,
That the whole world may hear.

A whisper from the past
Blends with each solemn tone
That from those brazen lips of thine
Upon the air is thrown.
Never had trumpet’s peal,
On clarion sounding shrill,
Such power as that deep undertone
The listener’s heart to thrill.

Come, tell us tales, thou bell,
Of those of old renown,
Those sturdy warrior kings who fought
For sceptre and for crown.
Tell of the lion-hearts
Whose pulses moved the world;
Whose banners flew so swift and far,
O’er land and sea unfurled!

From out the buried years,
From many a vaulted tomb,
Whence neither pomp nor power could chase
The dim, sepulchral gloom,
Lo, now, a pale, proud line,
They glide before our eyes!—
Art thou a wizard, mighty bell,
To bid the dead arise?

But toll, toll on, thou bell!
Toll for the royal dead;
Toll—for the hand now sceptreless;
Toll—for the crownless head;
Toll—for the human heart
With all its loves and woes;
Toll—for the soul that passes now
Unto its long repose!

DECEMBER 26, 1910
A BALLAD OF MAJOR ANDERSON

Come, children, leave your playing this dark and stormy night,
Shut fast the rattling window-blinds, and make the fire burn bright;
And hear an old man’s story, while loud the fierce winds blow,
Of gallant Major Anderson and fifty years ago.

I was a young man then, boys, but twenty-nine years old,
And all my comrades knew me for a soldier brave and bold;
My eye was bright, my step was firm, I measured six feet two,
And I knew not what it was to shirk when there was work to do.

We were stationed at Fort Moultrie, in Charleston harbor, then,
A brave band, though a small one, of scarcely seventy men;
And day and night we waited for the coming of the foe,
With noble Major Anderson, just fifty years ago.

Were they French or English, ask you? Oh, neither, neither, child!
We were at peace with other lands, and all the nations smiled
On the stars and stripes, wherever they floated far and free,
And all the foes we had to meet we found this side the sea.

But even between brothers bitter feuds will sometimes rise,
And ’twas the cloud of civil war that darkened in the skies;
I have not time to tell you how the quarrel first began,
Or how it grew, till o’er our land the strife like wildfire ran.

I will not use hard words, my boys, for I am old and gray,
And I’ve learned it is an easy thing for the best to go astray;
Some wrong there was on either part, I do not doubt at all;
There are two sides to a quarrel—be it great or be it small!

You scarce believe me, children. Grief and doubt are in your eyes,
Fixed steadily upon me in wonder and surprise;
Don’t forget to thank our Father, when to-night you kneel to pray,
That an undivided people rule America to-day.

We were stationed at Fort Moultrie—but about a mile away,
The battlements of Sumter stood proudly in the bay;
’Twas by far the best position, as he could not help but know,
Our gallant Major Anderson, just fifty years ago.

Yes, ’twas just after Christmas, fifty years ago to-night;
The sky was calm and cloudless, the moon was large and bright;
At six o’clock the drum beat to call us to parade,
And not a man suspected the plan that had been laid.

But the first thing a soldier learns is that he must obey,
And that when an order’s given he has not a word to say;
So when told to man the boats, not a question did we ask,
But silently, yet eagerly, began our hurried task.

We did a deal of work that night, though our numbers were but few;
We had all our stores to carry, and our ammunition too;
And the guard-ship—’twas the Nina—set to watch us in the bay,
Never dreamed what we were doing, though ’twas almost light as day.

We spiked the guns we left behind, and cut the flag-staff down,—
From its top should float no colors if it might not hold our own,—
Then we sailed away for Sumter as fast as we could go,
With our good Major Anderson, just fifty years ago.

I never can forget, my boys, how the next day, at noon,
The drums beat and the band played a stirring martial tune,
And silently we gathered round the flag-staff, strong and high,
Forever pointing upward to God’s temple in the sky.

Our noble Major Anderson was good as he was brave,
And he knew without His blessing no banner long could wave;
So he knelt, with head uncovered, while the chaplain read a prayer,
And as the last amen was said, the flag rose high in air.

Then our loud huzzas rang out, far and widely o’er the sea!
We shouted for the stars and stripes, the standard of the free!
Every eye was fixed upon it, every heart beat warm and fast,
As with eager lips we promised to defend it to the last!

’Twas a sight to be remembered, boys—the chaplain with his book,
Our leader humbly kneeling, with his calm, undaunted look;
And the officers and men, crushing tears they would not shed,—
And the blue sea all around us, and the blue sky overhead!

Now, go to bed, my children, the old man’s story’s told,—
Stir up the fire before you go, ’tis bitter, bitter cold;
And I’ll tell you more to-morrow night, when loud the fierce winds
blow,
Of gallant Major Anderson and fifty years ago.

FROM BATON ROUGE

From the fierce conflict and the deadly fray
A patriot hero comes to us this day.

Greet him with music and with loud acclaim,
And let our hills re-echo with his name.

Bring rarest flowers their rich perfume to shed,
Like sweetest incense, round the warrior’s head.

Let heart and voice cry “welcome,” and a shout,
Upon the summer air, ring gayly out,

To hail the hero, who from fierce affray
And deadly conflict comes to us this day.

Alas! alas! for smiles ye give but tears,
And wordless sorrow on each face appears.

And for glad music, jubilant and clear,
The tolling bell, the muffled drum, we hear.

Woe to _us_, soldier, loyal, tried, and brave,
That we have naught to give thee but a grave.

Woe that the wreath that should have decked thy brow,
Can but be laid upon thy coffin now.

Woe that thou canst not hear us when we say,—
“Hail to thee, brother, welcome home to-day!”

O God, we lift our waiting eyes to Thee,
And sadly cry, how long must these things be?

How long must noble blood be poured like rain,
Flooding our land from mountain unto main?

How long from desolated hearths must rise
The smoke of life’s most costly sacrifice?

Our brothers languish upon beds of pain,—
Father, O Father, have they bled in vain?

Is it for naught that they have drunken up
The very dregs of this most bitter cup?

How long? how long? O God! our cause is just,
And in Thee only do we put our trust.

As Thou didst guide the Israelites of old
Through the Red Sea, and through the desert wold,

Lead Thou our leaders, and our land shall be
For evermore, the land where all are free!

* * * * *

Hail and farewell,—we whisper in one breath,
As thus we meet thee, hand in hand with death!

God give thy ashes undisturbed repose
Where drum-beat wakens neither friend nor foes;

God take thy spirit to eternal rest,
And, for Christ’s sake, enroll thee with the blest!

IN THE WILDERNESS
MAY 6, 1864

How beautiful was earth that day!
The far blue sky had not a cloud;
The river rippled on its way,
Singing sweet songs aloud.

The delicate beauty of the spring
Pervaded all the murmuring air;
It touched with grace the meanest thing
And made it very fair.

The blithe birds darted to and fro,
The bees were humming round the hive,
So happy in that radiant glow!
So glad to be alive!

And I? My heart was calmly blest.
I knew afar the war-cloud rolled
Lurid and dark, in fierce unrest,
Laden with woes untold.

But on that day my fears were stilled;
The very air I breathed was joy;
The rest and peace my soul that filled
Had nothing of alloy.

I took the flower he loved the best,
The arbutus,—fairest child of May,—
And with its perfume half oppressed,
Twined many a lovely spray

About his picture on the wall;
His eyes were on me all the while,
And when I had arranged them all
I thought he seemed to smile.

O Christ, be pitiful! That hour
Saw him fall bleeding on the sod;
And while I toyed with leaf and flower
His soul went up to God!

For him one pang—and then a crown;
For him the laurels heroes wear;
For him a name whose long renown
Ages shall onward bear.

For me the cross without the crown;
For me the drear and lonely life;
O God! My sun, not his, went down
On that red field of strife.

CHARLEY OF MALVERN HILL

A war-worn soldier, bronzed and seamed
By weary march and battle stroke;
’Twas thus, while leaning on his crutch,
The wounded veteran spoke,—

“The blue-eyed boy of Malvern Hill!
A hero every inch was he,
Though scarcely larger than the child
You hold, sir, on your knee.

Some mother’s darling! On that field
He seemed so strangely out of place,
With his pure brow, his shining hair,
His sweet, unconscious grace.

But not a bearded warrior there
Watched with a more undaunted eye
The blackness of the battle-cloud,
As the fierce storm rose high.

That morn—ah! what a morn was that!—
We thought to send him to the rear;
We loved the lad—and love, you know,
Is near akin to fear.

We knew that many a gallant soul
Must pass away in one long sigh,
Ere nightfall. On that bloody field,
’Twas not for boys to die.

But he—could you have seen him then,
As, with his blue eyes full of fire,
He poured forth tears and pleadings, half
Of shame and half of ire!

‘Oh! do not bid me go!’ he cried;
‘I love yon flag as well as you!
I did not join your ranks to run
When there is work to do!

I did not come to beat my drum
Only upon some gala day.’
The colonel shook his head, but said,
‘Well, Charley, you may stay.’

Ah! then his tears were quickly dried,
A few glad words he strove to say;
But there was little time to talk,
And hardly time to pray.

For bitter, bitter was the strife
That raged that day on Malvern Hill;
Blue coats and gray in great heaps lay,
Ere that wild storm grew still.

At length we charged. My very heart
Sank down within me, cold and dumb,
When to the front, and far ahead,
Rushed Charley with his drum!

Above the cannon’s thundering boom,
The din and shriek of shot and shell,
We heard its clear peal rolling out
Right gallantly and well.

A moment’s awful waiting! Then
There came a sullen, angry roar,—
O God! An empty void remained
Where Charley stood before.

What did we then? With souls on fire
We swept upon the advancing foe,
And bade good angels guard the dust
O‘er which no tears might flow!”

SUPPLICAMUS
1864

O laggard Sun! make haste to wake
From her long trance the slumbering earth;
Make haste this icy spell to break,
That she may give new glories birth!

O April rain! so soft, so warm,
Bounteous in blessing, rich in gifts,
Drop tenderly upon her form,
And bathe the forehead she uplifts.

O springing grass! make haste to run
With swift feet o’er the meadows bare;
O’er hill and dale, through forest dun,
And where the wandering brooklets are!

O sweet wild flowers! the darksome mould
Hasten with subtle strength to rift;
Serene in beauty, meek yet bold,
Your fair brows to the sunlight lift!

O haste ye all! for far away
In lonely beds our heroes sleep,
O’er which no wife may ever pray,
Nor child nor mother ever weep.

No quaintly carved memorial stone
May tell us that their ashes lie
Where southern pines make solemn moan,
And wailing winds give sad reply.

But deep in dreary, lonesome shades,
On many a barren, sandy plain,
By rocky pass, in tangled glades,
And by the rolling, restless main;

By rushing stream, by silent lake,
Uncoffined in their lowly graves,
Until the earth’s last morn shall break,
Must sleep our unforgotten braves!

O sun! O rain! O gentle dew!
O fresh young grass, and opening flowers!
With yearning hearts we leave to you
The holy task that should be ours!

Light up the darkling forest’s gloom;
Cover the bare, unsightly clay
With tenderest verdure, with the bloom,
The beauty and perfume of May!

O sweet blue violets! softly creep
Beside the slumbering warrior’s bed;
O roses! let your red hearts leap
For joy your rarest sweets to shed;

O humble mosses! such as make
New England’s woods and pastures fair,
Over each mound, for Love’s sweet sake,
Spread your soft folds with tender care.

Dear Nature, to your loving breast
Clasp our dead heroes! In your arms
Sweet be their sleep, serene their rest,
Unmoved by Battle’s loud alarms!

THE LAST OF SIX

Come in; you are welcome, neighbor; all day I’ve been alone,
And heard the wailing, wintry wind sweep by with bitter moan;
And to-night beside my lonely fire, I mutely wonder why
I, who once wept as others weep, sit here with tearless eye.

To-day this letter came to me. At first I could not brook
Upon the unfamiliar lines by strangers penned, to look;
The dread of evil tidings shook my soul with wild alarm—
But Harry’s in the hospital, and has only lost an arm.

He is the last—the last of six brave boys as e’er were seen!
How short, to memory’s vision, seem the years that lie between
This hour and those most blessed ones, when round this hearth’s
bright blaze
They charmed their mother’s heart and eye with all their pretty
ways!

My William was the eldest son, and he was first to go.
It did not at all surprise me, for I knew it would be so,
From that fearful April Sunday when the news from Sumter came,
And his lips grew white as ashes, while his eyes were all aflame.

He sprang to join the three months’ men. I could not say him nay,
Though my heart stood still within me when I saw him march away;
At the corner of the street he smiled, and waved the flag he bore;
I never saw him smile again—he was slain at Baltimore.

They sent his body back to me, and as we stood around
His grave, beside his father’s, in yonder burial-ground,
John laid his hand upon my arm and whispered, “Mother dear,
I have Willy’s work and mine to do. I cannot loiter here.”

I turned and looked at Paul, for he and John were twins, you know,
Born on a happy Christmas, four-and-twenty years ago;
I looked upon them both, while my tears fell down like rain,
For I knew what one had spoken, had been spoken by the twain.

In a month or more they left me—the merry, handsome boys,
Who had kept the old house ringing with their laughter, fun, and
noise.
Then James came home to mind the farm; my younger sons were still
Mere children, at their lessons in the school-house on the hill.

O days of weary waiting! O days of doubt and dread!
I feared to read the papers, or to see the lists of dead;
But when full many a battle-storm had left them both unharmed,
I taught my foolish heart to think the double lives were charmed.

Their colonel since has told me that no braver boys than they
Ever rallied round the colors, in the thickest of the fray;
Upon the wall behind you their swords are hanging still—
For John was killed at Fair Oaks, and Paul at Malvern Hill.

Then came the dark days, darker than any known before;
There was another call for men—“three hundred thousand more;”
I saw the cloud on Jamie’s brow grow deeper day by day;
I shrank before the impending blow, and scarce had strength to pray.

And yet at last I bade him go, while on my cheek and brow
His loving tears and kisses fell; I feel them even now,
Though the eyes that shed the tears, and the lips so warm on mine
Are hidden under southern sands, beneath a blasted pine!

He did not die in battle-smoke, but for a weary year
He languished in close prison walls, a prey to hope and fear;
I dare not trust myself to think of the fruitless pangs he bore,
My brain grows wild when in my dreams I count his sufferings o’er.

Only two left! I thought the worst was surely over then;
But lo! at once my school-boy sons sprang up before me—men!
They heard their brothers’ martyr blood call from the hallowed
ground;
A loud, imperious summons that all other voices drowned.

I did not say a single word. My very heart seemed dead.
What could I do but take the cup, and bow my weary head
To drink the bitter draught again? I dared not hold them back;
I would as soon have tried to check the whirlwind on its track.

You know the rest. At Cedar Creek my Frederick bravely fell;
They say his young arm did its work right nobly and right well;
His comrades breathe the hero’s name with mingled love and pride;
I miss the gentle blue-eyed boy, who frolicked at my side.

For me, I ne’er shall weep again. I think my heart is dead;
I, who could weep for lighter griefs, have now no tears to shed.
But read this letter, neighbor. There is nothing to alarm,
For Harry’s in the hospital, and has only lost an arm!

THE DRUMMER BOY’S BURIAL

All day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept;
All night long the stars in heaven o’er the slain sad vigils kept.

Oh, the ghastly, upturned faces, gleaming whitely through the night!
Oh, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim, sepulchral light!

One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke;
But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke.

Slowly passed the golden hours of the long bright summer day,
And upon the field of carnage still the dead unburied lay;

Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, unceasing
prayer,
For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and air.

Once again the night dropped round them—night so holy and so calm
That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or
psalm.

On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest,
Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast.

Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if in sleep;
Even his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber, calm and deep.

For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to the face,
And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of grace

To the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless repose,
Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying foes.

And the broken drum beside him all his life’s short story told;
How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o’er him rolled.

Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars,
While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars.

Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low—
Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet’s murmuring
flow?

Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look round
As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground,

Came two little maidens—sisters—with a light and hasty tread,
And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread.

And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they
stood
Where the Drummer-Boy was lying in that partial solitude.

They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe’s scanty
store,
And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore.

Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears,
For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears.

And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shame
Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lambent flame.

For their saintly hearts yearned o’er it in that hour of sorest
need,
And they felt that Death was holy and it sanctified the deed.

But they smiled and kissed each other when their new, strange task
was o’er,
And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments wore.

Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out,
And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about.

But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done,
And in crimson pomp the morning again heralded the sun.

And then those little maidens—they were children of our foes—
Laid the body of our Drummer-Boy to undisturbed repose.

1865

O darkest Year! O brightest Year!
O changeful Year of joy and woe,
To-day we stand beside thy bier,
Still loth to let thee go!

We look upon thy brow, and say,
“How old he is,—how old and worn!”
Has but a twelvemonth passed away
Since thou wert newly born?

So long it seems since on the air
The joy-bells rang to hail thy birth—
And pale lips strove to call thee fair,
And sing the songs of mirth!

For dark the heavens that o’er thee hung;
By stormy winds thy couch was rocked;
Thy cradle-hymn the Furies sung,
While sneering Demons mocked!

We held our very breath for dread;
Shadowed by clouds, that, like a pall,
Darkened the blue sky overhead,
And night hung over all.

But thou wert better than our fears,
And bade our land’s long anguish cease;
And gave us, O thou Year of years,
The costly pearl of Peace!

So dearly bought! By precious blood
Of patriot heroes—sire and son—
And that of him, the pure and good,
Our wearied, martyred One;

Who bore for us the heavy load—
The cross our hands upon him laid;
Who trod for us the toilsome road
Meekly, yet undismayed!

And for that gift—although thy graves
Lie thick beneath December’s snow,
Though every hamlet mourns its braves,
And bears its weight of woe—

We bless thee! Yet, O bounteous year,
For more than Peace we thank thee now,
As bending o’er thine honored bier,
We crown thy pallid brow!

We bless thee, though we scarcely dare
Give to our new-born joy a tongue;
O mighty Year, upon the air
Thy voice triumphant rung,

Even in death! and at the sound,
From myriad limbs the fetters fell
Into the dim and vast profound,
While tolled thy passing bell!

Farewell, farewell, thou storied Year!
Thou wondrous Year of joy and gloom!
With grateful hearts we crown thee, ere
We lay thee in thy tomb!

OUR FLAGS AT THE CAPITOL

Remove them not! Above our fallen braves
Nature not yet her perfect work hath wrought;
Scarce has the turf grown green upon their graves,
The martyr graves for whose embrace they fought.

The wounds of our long conflict are not healed;
Our land’s fair face is seamed with many a scar;
And woeful sights, on many a battle-field,
Show ghastly grim beneath the evening star.

Still does the sad Earth tremble with affright,
Lest she the tread of armèd hosts should feel
Once more upon her bosom. Still the Night
Hears, in wild dreams, the cannon’s thundering peal.

Still do the black-robed mothers come and go;
Still do lone wives by dreary hearth-stones weep;
Still does a Nation, in her pride and woe,
For her dead sons a mournful vigil keep.

Ah, then, awhile delay! Remove ye not
These drooping banners from their place on high;
They make of each proud hall a hallowed spot,
Where Truth must dwell and Freedom cannot die.

Now slowly waving in this tranquil air,
What wondrous eloquence is in their speech!
No prophet “silver tongued,” no poet rare,
Even in dreams may hope such heights to reach.

They tell of Life that calmly looked on Death—
Of peerless valor and of trust sublime—
Of costly sacrifice, of holiest faith,
Of lofty hopes that ended not with Time.

Oh! each worn fold is hallowed! set apart
To minister unto us in our needs—
To bear henceforth to many a fainting heart,
The cordial wine of noble thoughts and deeds.

Then leave them yet awhile where, day by day,
The lessons that they teach, your souls may learn;
So shall ye work for righteousness alway,
And for its faithful service ever yearn.

Now may God bless our land for evermore!
And from all strife and turmoil grant surcease;
While from the mountains to the farthest shore
Accordant voices softly whisper—Peace!

MY MOCKING-BIRD

Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! swinging high
Aloft in your gilded cage,
The clouds are hurrying over the sky,
The wild winds fiercely rage.
But soft and warm is the air you breathe
Up there with the tremulous ivy wreath,
And never an icy blast can chill
The perfumed silence sweet and still.

Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! from your throat
Breaks forth no flood of song,
Nor even one perfect golden note,
Triumphant, glad, and strong!
But now and then a pitiful wail,
Like the plaintive sigh of the dying gale,
Comes from that arching breast of thine
Swinging up there with the ivy-vine.

Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! well I know
Your heart is far away,
Where the golden stars of the jasmine glow,
And the roses bloom alway!
For your cradle-nest was softly made
In the depth of a blossoming myrtle’s shade;
And you heard the chant of the southern seas
Borne inland by the favoring breeze.

But, ah, my beautiful mocking-bird!
Should I bear you back again,
Never would song of yours be heard
Echoing through the glen.
For once, ah! once at the dawn of day,
You waked to the roar of the deadly fray,
When the terrible clash of armèd foes
Startled the vale from its dim repose.

At first you sat on a swaying bough,
Mocking the bugle’s blare,
Fearless and free in the fervid glow
Of the heated, sulphurous air.
Your voice rang out like a trumpet’s note,
With a martial ring in its upward float,
And stern men smiled, for you seemed to be
Cheering them on to victory!

But at length, as the awful day wore on,
You flew to a tree-top high,
And sat like a spectre grim and wan,
Outlined against the sky;
Sat silently watching the fiery fray
Till, heaps upon heaps, the Blue and Gray
Lay together, a silent band,
Whose souls had passed to the shadowy land.

Ah, my mocking-bird! swinging there
Under the ivy-vine,
You still remember the bugle’s blare,
And the blood poured forth like wine.
The soul of song in your gentle breast
Died in that hour of fierce unrest,
When like a spectre grim and wan,
You watched to see how the strife went on.

COMING HOME

When the winter winds were loud,
And Earth wore a snowy shroud,
Oft our darling wrote to us,
And the words ran ever thus—
“I am coming in the spring!
With the mayflower’s blossoming,
With the young leaves on the tree,
O my dear ones, look for me!”

And she came. One dreary day,
When the skies were dull and gray,
Softly through the open door
Our belovèd came once more.
Came with folded hands that lay
Very quietly alway—
Came with heavy-lidded eyes,
Lifted not in glad surprise.

Not a single word she spoke;
Laugh nor sigh her silence broke
As across the quiet room,
Darkening in the twilight gloom,
On she passed in stillest guise,
Calm as saint in Paradise,
To the spot where—woe betide!—
Four years since she stood a bride.

Then, you think, we sprang to greet her—
Sprang with outstretched hands, to meet her;
Clasped her in our arms once more,
As in happy days of yore;
Poured warm kisses on her cheek,
Passive lips and forehead meek,
Till the barrier melted down
That had thus between us grown.

Ah no!—Darling, did you know
When we bent above you so?
When our tears fell down like rain,
And our hearts were wild with pain?
Did you pity us that day,
Even as holy angels may
Pity mortals here below,
While they wonder at their woe?

Who can tell us? Word nor sign
Came from those pale lips of thine;
Loving hearts and yearning breast
Lay in coldest, calmest rest.
Is thy Heaven so very fair
That thou dost forget us there?
Speak, belovèd! Woe is me
That in vain I call on thee!

WAKENING EARLY

In loving jest you wrote—“Ah, me!
My babe’s blue eyes are fair to see;
And sweet his cooing love-notes be
That waken me too early!”

Oh! would to God, beloved, to-day
That merry shout or gleeful play
Might drive your heavy sleep away,
And bid you waken early.

But vain are all our prayers and cries;
From your low bed you will not rise;
No kisses falling on your eyes,
Can waken you right early.

Bright are the skies above your bed,
And through the elm-boughs overhead
Are golden sunbeams softly shed,
That wake you late nor early.

Beside you through these summer days
The murmuring fountain, as it plays,
Fills the soft air with diamond sprays,
But does not wake you early!

We bring the flowers you loved so well,
The pure white rose and lily bell;
Their sweets break not this fearful spell;
They do not wake you early!

We sing your songs; we pause to hear
Your bird-like voice rise full and clear;
Ah! dull and heavy is your ear;
We cannot wake you early.

You will not wake? Then may your sleep,
If it be long, be calm and deep;
Thank God, the eyes forget to weep
That do not waken early!

BLEST
Dec. 1865

Sinking to thine eternal rest,
O dying Year! I call thee blest;
Blest as no coming year may be
This side of vast Eternity!

Thy cheek is pale, thy brow is worn;
Thine arms are weary, that have borne
The heaviest burdens ever laid
On any, since the world was made.

But thou didst know her whom to-day
My fond heart mourns, and must alway;
She loved thee, claimed thee, called thee dear,
Hailing with joy the glad New Year!

Thou didst behold her, fair and good,
The perfect flower of womanhood;
Simple and pure in thought and deed,
Yet strong in every hour of need.

Ah! other years shall come and go,
Bidding the sweet June roses blow;
But never on their yearning eyes
Shall her fair presence once arise!

The Spring shall miss her, and the long,
Bright Summer days hear not her song;
And hoary Winter, draped in snow,
Finding her not, shall haste to go!

Therefore, Old Year, I call thee blest,
Thus sinking to eternal rest;
Blest as no other Year may be
This side of vast Eternity!

HELEN

Dear Helen, if thine earnest eyes,
So deeply blue, so darkly bright,
Look downward from the azure skies
That hide thee from my yearning sight:

Think not, because my days go on
Just as they did when thou wert here,
Sometimes in shade, sometimes in sun,
From month to month, from year to year,

That I forget thee! Fresh and green
Over each grave the grass must grow
In God’s good time, and, all unseen,
The violets take deep root below.

But yet the grave itself remains
Beneath the verdure and the bloom;
And all kind Nature’s loving pains
Can but conceal the enduring tomb.

I work, I read, I sing, I smile,
I train my vines and tend my flowers;
But under thoughts of thee, the while,
Haunt me through all the passing hours.

And still my heart cries out for thee,
As it must cry till life is past,
And in some land beyond the sea
I meet thy clasping hand at last!

“PRO PATRIA”

THE DEAD CENTURY

I.

Lo! we come
Bearing the Century, cold and dumb!
Folded above the mighty breast
Lie the hands that have earned their rest;
Hushed are the grandly speaking lips;
Closed are the eyes in drear eclipse;
And the sculptured limbs are deathly still,
Responding not to the eager will,
As we come
Bearing the Century, cold and dumb!

II.

Lo! we wait
Knocking here at the sepulchre’s gate!
Souls of the ages passed away,
A mightier joins your ranks to-day;
Open your doors and give him room,
Buried Centuries, in your tomb!
For calmly under this heavy pall
Sleepeth the kingliest of ye all,
While we wait
At the sepulchre’s awful gate!

III.

Yet—pause here,
Bending low o’er the narrow bier!
Pause ye awhile and let your thought
Compass the work that he hath wrought;
Look on his brow so scarred and worn;
Think of the weight his hands have borne;
Think of the fetters he hath broken,
Of the mighty words _his_ lips have spoken
Who lies here
Dead and cold on a narrow bier!

IV.

Ere he goes
Silent and calm to his grand repose—
While the Centuries in their tomb
Crowd together to give him room,
Let us think of the wondrous deeds
Answering still to the world’s great needs,
Answering still to the world’s wild prayer,
He hath been first to do and dare!
Ah! he goes
Crowned with bays to his last repose.

V.

When the earth
Sang for joy to hail his birth,
Over the hill-tops, faint and far,
Glimmered the light of Freedom’s star.
Only a poor, pale torch it seemed—
Dimly from out the clouds it gleamed—
Oft to the watcher’s eye ’twas lost
Like a flame by fierce winds rudely tossed.
Scarce could Earth
Catch one ray when she hailed his birth!

VI.

But erelong
His young voice, like a clarion strong,
Rang through the wilderness far and free,
Prophet and herald of good to be!
Then with a shout the stalwart men
Answered proudly from mount and glen,
Till in the brave, new, western world
Freedom’s banners were wide unfurled!
And ere long
The Century’s voice, like a clarion strong,

VII.

Cried, “O Earth,
Pæans sing for a Nation’s birth!
Shout hosannas, ye golden stars,
Peering through yonder cloudy bars!
Burn, O Sun, with a clearer beam!
Shine, O Moon, with a softer gleam!
Join, ye winds, in the choral strain!
Swell, rolling seas, the glad refrain,
While the Earth
Pæans sings for a Nation’s birth!”

VIII.

Ah! he saw—
This young prophet, with solemn awe—
How, after weary pain and sin,
Strivings without and foes within,
Fruitless prayings and long suspense,
And toil that bore no recompense—
After peril and blood and tears,
Honor and Peace should crown the years!
This he saw
While his heart thrilled with solemn awe.

IX.

His clear eyes,
Gazing forward in glad surprise,
Saw how our land at last should be
Truly the home of the brave and free!
Saw from the old world’s crowded streets,
Pestilent cities, and close retreats,
Forms gaunt and pallid with famine sore
Flee in hot haste to our happy shore,
Their sad eyes
Widening ever in new surprise.

X.

From all lands
Thronging they come in eager bands;
Each with the tongue his mother spoke;
Each with the songs her voice awoke;
Each with his dominant hopes and needs,
Alien habits and varying creeds.
Bringing strange fictions and fancies they came,
Calling old truths by a different name,
When the lands
Sent their sons hither in thronging bands.

XI.

But the Seer—
This dead Century lying here—
Rising out of this chaos, saw
Peace and Order and Love and Law!
Saw by what subtle alchemy
Basest of metals at length should be
Transmuted into the shining gold,
Meet for a king to have and hold.
Ah! great Seer!
This pale Century lying here!

XII.

So he taught
Honest freedom of speech and thought;
Taught that Truth is the grandest thing
Painter can paint, or poet sing;
Taught that under the meanest guise
It marches to deeds of high emprise;
Treading the paths the prophets trod
Up to the very mount of God!
Truth, he taught,
Claims full freedom of speech and thought.

XIII.

Bearing long
Heavy burdens of hate and wrong,
Still has the arm of the Century been
Waging war against crime and sin.
Still has he plead humanity’s cause;
Still has he prayed for equal laws;
Still has he taught that the human race
Is one in despite of hue or place,
Even though long
It has wrestled with hate and wrong.

XIV.

And at length—
A giant arising in his strength—
The fetters of serf and slave he broke,
Smiting them off by a single stroke!
Over the Muscovite’s waste of snows,
Up from the fields where the cotton grows,
Clearly the shout of deliverance rang,
When chattel and serf to manhood sprang,
As at length
The giant rose up in resistless strength.

XV.

Far apart—
Each alone like a lonely heart—
Sat the Nations, until his hand
Wove about them a wondrous band;
Wrought about them a mighty chain
Binding the mountains to the main!
Distance and time rose dark between
Islands and continents still unseen,
While apart
None felt the throb of another’s heart.

XVI.

But to-day
Time and space hath he swept away!
Side by side do the Nations sit
By ties of brotherhood closer knit;
Whispers float o’er the rolling deep;
Voices echo from steep to steep;
Nations speak, and the quick replies
Fill the earth and the vaulted skies;
For to-day
Time and distance are swept away.

XVII.

If strange thrills
Quicken Rome on her seven hills;
If afar on her sultry throne
India wails and makes her moan;
If the eagles of haughty France
Fall as the Prussian hosts advance,
All the continents, all the lands,
Feel the shock through their claspèd hands.
And quick thrills
Stir the remotest vales and hills.

XVIII.

Yet these eyes,
Dark on whose lids Death’s shadow lies,
Let their far-reaching vision rest
Not alone on the mountain’s crest;
Nor did these feet with stately tread
Follow alone where the Nations led;
Nor these pale hands, so weary-worn,
Minister but where States were born!—
These clear eyes,
Soft on whose lips Death’s slumber lies,

XIX.

Turned their gaze,
Earnest and pitiful, on the ways
Where the poor, burdened sons of toil
Earned their bread amid dust and moil.
Saw the dim attics where, day by day,
Women were stitching their lives away,
Bending low o’er the slender steel
Till heart and brain began to reel,
And their days
Stretched on and on in a dreary maze.

XX.

Then he spoke;
Lo! at once into being woke
Muscles of iron, arms of steel,
Nerves that never a thrill could feel!
Wheels and pulleys and whirling bands
Did the work of the weary hands,
And tireless feet moved to and fro
Where the aching limbs were wont to go,
When he spoke
And all his sprites into being woke.

XXI.

Do you say
He was no saint who has passed away?
Saint or sinner, he did brave deeds
Answering still to humanity’s needs!
Songs he hath sung that shall live for aye;
Words he hath uttered that ne’er shall die;
Richer the world than when the earth
Sang for joy to hail his birth,
Even though you say
He was no saint whom we sing to-day.

XXII.

Lo! we wait
Knocking here at the sepulchre’s gate!
Souls of the Ages passed away,
A mightier joins your ranks to-day;
Open your doors, ye royal dead,
And welcome give to this crownèd head!
For calmly under this sable pall
Sleepeth the kingliest of ye all,
While we wait
At the sepulchre’s awful gate!

XXIII.

Give him room
Proudly, Centuries! in your tomb.
Now that his weary work is done,
Honor and rest he well hath won.
Let him who is first among you pay
Homage to him who comes this day,
Bidding him pass to his destined place,
Noblest of all his noble race!
Make ye room
For the kingly dead in the silent tomb!

THE RIVER OTTER
A FRAGMENT

A hundred times the Summer’s fragrant blooms
Have laden all the air with sweet perfumes;
A hundred times, along the mountain-side,
Autumn has flung his crimson banners wide;
A hundred times has kindly Winter spread
His snowy mantle o’er the violet’s bed;
A hundred times has Earth rejoiced to hear
The Spring’s light footsteps in the forest sere,
Since on yon grassy knoll the quick, sharp stroke
Of the young woodman’s axe the silence broke.
Not then did these encircling hills look down
On quaint old farmhouse, or on steepled town.
No church-spires pointed to the arching skies;
No wandering lovers saw the moon arise;
No childish laughter mingled with the song
Of the fair Otter, as it flowed along
As brightly then as now. Ah! little recked
The joyous river, when the sunshine flecked
Its dancing waters, that no human eye
Gave it glad welcome as it frolicked by!
The long, uncounted years had come and flown,
And it had still swept on, unseen, unknown,
Biding its time. No minstrel sang its praise,
No poet named it in immortal lays.
It played no part in legendary lore,
And young Romance knew not its winding shore.
But in her own loveliness Nature is glad,
And little she cares for man’s smile or his frown;
In the robes of her royalty still she is clad,
Though his eye may behold not her sceptre or crown!
And over our beautiful Otter the trees
Swayed lightly as now in the frolicsome breeze;
And the tremulous violet lifted an eye
As blue as its own to the laughing blue sky.
The harebell trembled on its stem
Down where the rushing waters gleam,
A sapphire on the broidered hem
Of some fair Naiad of the stream.
The buttercups, bright-eyed and bold,
Held up their chalices of gold
To catch the sunshine and the dew,
Gayly as those that bloom for you.
And deep within the forest shade,
Where broadest noon mere twilight made,
Ten thousand small, sweet censers swung,
And tiny bells by zephyrs rung,
Made tinkling music till the day
In solemn splendor died away.
The woods were full of praise and prayer,
Although no human tongue was there;
For every pine and hemlock sung
The grand cathedral aisles among,
And every flower that gemmed the sod
Looked up and whispered, “Thou art God.”
The birds sung as they sing to-day,
A song of love and joy alway.
The brown thrush from its golden throat
Poured out its long, melodious note;
The pigeons cooed; the veery threw
Its mellow thrill from spray to spray;
The wild night-hawk its trumpet blew,
And the owl cried, “Tu whit, tu whoo,”
From set of sun to break of day.
The partridge reared her fearless brood
Safe in the darkling solitude,
And the bald eagle built its nest
High on the tall cliff’s craggy crest.
And often, when the still moonlight
Made all the lonely valley bright,
Down from the hills its thirst to slake,
The deer trod softly through the brake;
While far away the spotted fawn
Waited the coming of the dawn,
And trembled when the panther’s scream
Startled it from a troubled dream.
The black bear roamed the forest wide;
The fierce wolf tracked the mountain-side;
The wild-cat’s silent, stealthy tread
Was, even there, a fear and dread;
The red fox barked—a strange, weird sound,
That woke the slumbering echoes round;
And the burrowing mink and otter hid
In their holes the tangled roots amid.
Lords of their limitless domain,
Of hill and dale, of mount and plain,
The wild things dreamed not of the hour
When they should own their Master’s power!

PAST AND PRESENT
(DRIFTWOOD)