Fables in Song :: :: University of Virginia Library

A battery, posted in haste, at last,
On the brow of a hill in the foeman's flank,
Had decided the fate of the day. Fast, fast,
In many a broken and billowy rank
The bewilder'd rear of his battle fled.
But, rapid behind, like a rushing wind
That rattles with hail, to the lowland red
Down from the ridge of the smoky hill,
The cavalry clash'd in a clattering shower;
Crushing the harvest, and chasing still
All that was left of a nation's power.

And wide it swept over the wasted plain,
That rapture of ruin, red in the glare
Of burning barns; and the bolted rain
Sang thro' the blacken'd and sulphurous air,
As in storm it stream'd and subsided again;

Till all was still save the far-off blare
Of a ghostly bugle, echoing chill;
Whose echoes, heard by the yet unslain
O'er leagues of litter, from hill to hill
Proclaim'd that the hurly-burly was done:
A kingdom lost and a kingdom won!

PART I.

1.

In that hollow battery's earthen mound,
Gaily gather'd the guns around,
The officers, free at the fall of the day,
Were discussing with whom the achievement lay
Of so great a success. And said one of them, “Friends,
“Was there ever a captain so skill'd in war
As our gallant Prince? Bright Victory wends
With him, wherever his flag flies, far
From city to city; and lucky are we
Whose fortunes follow the guiding star
Of a hero, whose genius, all agree,
Is as great as his glorious actions are.”
Another, in answer, his shoulders shrugg'd,
And “Ay,” as his shaggy beard he tugg'd,
“So is every conqueror styled,” quoth he,
“Though owed to others his conquests be.
But the few to whom war's art is known
Know 'tis the General Staff alone

That organises and orders all;
To each arm of the service assigns that place
Where best the effect of its force may fall,
And the plan of the whole campaign doth trace.”
“'May be,” said a third, “that by these and those,
In a general way, is good service done.
No fruit can ripen, of course one knows,
Without the assistance of soil and sun.
But the question is—when your fruit is ripe,
How to pluck it.” (And here, his pipe
He lit, as he added) “That, you see,
“Can only be done by the Cavalry.”
“You forget,” said a fourth, an Engineer,
“The man who posted this battery here.
The foe had out-number'd us, ten to one,
And would, but for him, have o'erwhelm'd us too.”
“Posted the battery? Easily done!”
A sergeant mutter'd. “Forget not, you,
“Which of us was it, that pointed the gun.”

2.

'Neath the battery wall where these conversed,
A wounded gunner unheeded lay;
By a random shell, that had near him burst,
His feet were shatter'd and shorn away.
His lips were baked by a burning thirst,
On his limbs did the icy ague prey:

The yet smouldering brand in his frozen hand
He grasp'd; and follow'd, with eyes aflame,
The far-off blaze, that greeted his gaze
With the deadly effect of his life's last aim.
Not a word had he heard
Of the talk around him.
He died. And, with pride
In death dealt, death crown'd him.
Pain's parcht furrows placidly glided
Out of his weather-beaten face;
But a silent smile of triumph slided,
Under death's hovering hand, in their place;
And death, for a sign, congeal'd it there,
Stern, and fair.

3.

Now, of all the glory that gilt that day
Not a gleam yet glows in these after ages.
All that glitter'd hath faded away;
All, save the name of the Prince; in her pages
By History written, though seldom read.
All else is dead.

PART II.

1.

Clio, with clarion, palm, and book,
Pass on! Not thine are we.

Thy plainer sister's shepherd crook
We follow; seeking flowers forsook,
That breathe about the rural brook,
And win the wandering bee.

What History oft, in stately pride,
With haughty gesture spurns aside,
Wild Fable from the wayside field
Picks up, and lays to heart.
And truths, by her to us reveal'd,
Do we to you impart:

2.

How that bronze tube, round which erewhile
This discussion was carried so high,
Mock'd, as it listen'd, and said with a smile,
“Men boast, but the victor am I!”
“Thou?” growl'd the Cannon Ball—“thou! is it thou
Who didst level yon walls with the plain,
Mowing down men, as the harvesters mow
Hollow paths thro' the thick of the grain?
Braggart! 'tis I who alone can do this.
'Tis the brush of my brazen orb bursts wide
War's mason'd masses!”—Whereto, with a hiss,
“Silence, blockhead!” the Powder replied.
“On the arsenal floor had'st thou rested still,
Were it not for me, who thy wings provide.
And thou art but the deed: it is I am the will.”
But, as thus he mutter'd, with surly pride,

“Vagabond!” scornfully splutter'd the Match,
“Boast not thou in thy master's presence!
Ball, Cannon, and Powder,—inert batch
Of base stuff, stirr'd by my quickening essence,—
The Fire am I, and my slaves are ye.
He, whose vitals a vulture tore,
Well was he 'ware of the worth of me,
When from heaven he stole, in the days of yore,
The spark that in my Promethean wand
Yet glows with the heat of a god's invention.”

3.

“Attention!”
An officer cried, in command.

4.

For faint, and afar, with a dying spasm,
The bruised-out battle was breathing again.
And the gun was charged, from his gaping chasm,
To clear it away from the cumber'd plain
Where it crawl'd in pain.

5.

The gunner pointed the gun to the mark.
With an eager spark
The ardent match, death's nimble adept,
To the touch-hole leapt,

And. . . . went out in the dark.
Not a groan, not a flame, from the great gun came,
Not a belch of smoke: unejected slept
In his burthen'd gullet the sullen bullet:
The captains were cursing, the gunners were grumbling,
And, drop upon droplet, as down it came tumbling,
Merrily, mockingly laugh'd the light Shower:
“O fools! lo, I sprinkle a silvery twinkle
Of beads from my bosom, and where is your power?
Black dust of death, art thou melted quite
Into a harmless unsavoury sop?
What of your lightnings? where is their light?
Quencht in a quagmire, slain by a slop!
Your valorous thunders, voices of might?
Struck dumb by a dancing drop!”

6.

The dying Fire heard this,
And with a hiss
Spat out the scorn of his indignant hate,
“Demon of Impotence!
Boast not that thou art great,
Upon the poor pretence
Of greatness hinder'd and defeated by thee.
Force to annihilate
Force, hast thou: but the gods deny thee
Force to create.”

7.

“Stay, not so fast!”
Sighingly answer'd him the streaming Rain.
“Destroyer, what hast thou created? Cast
On thy brief work (death, devastation, pain)
One glare—thy last!
Show me thy greatness. Is it yonder plain
Where thou hast pass'd,
Leaving behind thee hideous heaps of slain
And ruin vast?
Lo, with my little drops, I bless again
And beautify the fields which thou didst blast!
Rend, wither, waste, and ruin, what thou wilt,
But call not Greatness what the gods call Guilt.
Blossoms and grass from blood in battle spilt,
And poppied corn, I bring.
'Mid mouldering Babels, to Oblivion built,
My violets spring.
Little by little, my small drops have strength
To deck with green delights the grateful earth:
Little by little, to large seas at length
Small springs give birth:
By little things the growing world grows great,
And of great doings rests but little done:
From little fibres in the loom of Fate
Time's robe is spun:
Small are the cymbals that, when clasht, proclaim
The march of Force: from shafts of tiny stature

Co-operant atoms build the crystal frame
Of mighty Nature.
By little ducts Thought's widening river runs
Thro' nerve and brain, yet fills the ages vast,
And even the secret of the central suns
Invades at last:
In little waves light leaps from star to star:
Small pencils paint the welkin's azure pall:
And small life's primal universes are,
Yet they are all.”