The Writings of Bret Harte standard library edition |
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THE COPPERHEAD CONVENTION |
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 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
THE COPPERHEAD CONVENTION
SACRAMENTO, JULY 8, 1863
There were footprints of blood on the soil of the Free;
There were foes in the land where no foeman should be;
There were fields devastated and homesteads in flame;
And each loyal cheek caught the hue of its shame;
War's roses sprang red where each rebel heel set—
When, lo! a convention of Democrats met!
There were foes in the land where no foeman should be;
There were fields devastated and homesteads in flame;
And each loyal cheek caught the hue of its shame;
War's roses sprang red where each rebel heel set—
When, lo! a convention of Democrats met!
And how did they sing the brave song of their clan—
“Of rights that were equal—of freedom for man?”
What epithets burned through their pitiless scorn
Of “governing classes that masters are born?”
What epithets! Listen, ye gods, to yon mouth
That writhes, as it whispers, “the glorious South!”
“Of rights that were equal—of freedom for man?”
What epithets burned through their pitiless scorn
Of “governing classes that masters are born?”
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That writhes, as it whispers, “the glorious South!”
But came they in peace—those meek lovers of Right,
With pistols and bowie-knives tucked out of sight,
With real jars of oil for the sore Commonweal
That no Ali-Baba assassins conceal—
Was it Peace—or war—whose fond mercies are such
As pluck the weak straw from a drowning man's clutch?
With pistols and bowie-knives tucked out of sight,
With real jars of oil for the sore Commonweal
That no Ali-Baba assassins conceal—
Was it Peace—or war—whose fond mercies are such
As pluck the weak straw from a drowning man's clutch?
We know not their motives. The quick ebbing tide
That stranded their chieftain left them at his side;
As the wave that retreats from the Seventy-four
Leaves the cockle-shells groping their way on the shore—
So their knell was the boom of the welcoming gun
That thundered the tidings that Vicksburg was won!
That stranded their chieftain left them at his side;
As the wave that retreats from the Seventy-four
Leaves the cockle-shells groping their way on the shore—
So their knell was the boom of the welcoming gun
That thundered the tidings that Vicksburg was won!
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |