Baked meats of the funeral a collection of essays, poems, speeches, histories, and banquets |
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GETTYSBURG, JULY 4, 1865. |
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 | Baked meats of the funeral |  |
GETTYSBURG, JULY 4, 1865.
THOUGHTS OF THE PLACE AND TIME.
A Poem delivered by the writer on the occasion of dedicating
a Monument to the three thousand five hundred Union Dead
of that battle.
As men beneath some pang of griefOr sudden joy will dumbly stand,
Finding no words to give relief—
Clear, passion-warm, complete, and brief,
To thoughts with which their souls expand;
So here to-day—these trophies nigh—
No fitting words the lips can reach;
These circling hills, the graves, the sky—
The silent poem of the eye
Surpasses all the art of speech!
To-day, a Nation meets to build
A Nation's trophy to the dead,
Who, living, formed her sword and shield—
The arms she sadly learned to wield
When other hope of peace had fled.
And not alone for these who lie
In honored graves before us blent,
Shall our winged column, proud and high,
Soar upward to the blessing sky,
But be for all a monument
253
An emblem of our grief, as well
For others as for these, we raise;
For these beneath our feet who dwell,
And all who in the good cause fell
On other fields, in other frays.
To all the self-same love we bear
Which here for marbled memory strives;
No soldier for a wreath would care
Which all true comrades might not share—
Brothers in death as in their lives.
On Southern hillsides, parched and brown,
In tangled swamp, on verdant ridge,
Where pines and broadening oaks look down,
And jasmine weaves her yellow crown,
And trumpet-creepers clothe the hedge
Along the shores of endless sand,
Beneath the palms of Southern plains,
Sleep everywhere, hand locked in hand,
The brothers of the gallant band
Who here poured life through throbbing veins.
Around the closing eyes of all
The same red glories glared and flew—
The hurrying flags, the bugle call,
The whistle of the angry ball,
The elbow-touch of comrades true!
The skirmish-fire—a spattering spray;
The rolling growl of fire by file,
The thickening fury of the fray
When opening batteries get in play,
And the lines form o'er many a mile.
For others as for these, we raise;
For these beneath our feet who dwell,
And all who in the good cause fell
On other fields, in other frays.
To all the self-same love we bear
Which here for marbled memory strives;
No soldier for a wreath would care
Which all true comrades might not share—
Brothers in death as in their lives.
On Southern hillsides, parched and brown,
In tangled swamp, on verdant ridge,
Where pines and broadening oaks look down,
And jasmine weaves her yellow crown,
And trumpet-creepers clothe the hedge
Along the shores of endless sand,
Beneath the palms of Southern plains,
Sleep everywhere, hand locked in hand,
The brothers of the gallant band
Who here poured life through throbbing veins.
Around the closing eyes of all
The same red glories glared and flew—
The hurrying flags, the bugle call,
The whistle of the angry ball,
The elbow-touch of comrades true!
The skirmish-fire—a spattering spray;
The rolling growl of fire by file,
The thickening fury of the fray
When opening batteries get in play,
And the lines form o'er many a mile.
254
The foeman's yell, our answering cheer,
Red flashes through the gathering smoke,
Blithe cries from comrades tried and dear,
Swift orders, resonant and clear,
The shell-scream and the sabre-stroke;
The rolling fire from left to right,
From right to left, we hear it swell;
The varying charges, swift and bright,
The thickening tumults of the fight
And bursting thunders of the shell.
Now deadlier, denser grows the strife,
And here we yield, and there we gain;
The air with hurtling missiles rife,
Volley for volley—life for life—
No time to heed the cries of pain!
Panting as up the hills we charge,
Or down them as we broken roll,
Life never felt so high, so large,
And never o'er so wide a marge
In triumph swept the kindling soul!
New raptures waken in the breast
Amid this hell of scene and sound:
The barking batteries never rest,
And broken foot, by horsemen pressed,
Still stubbornly contest their ground;
Fresh waves of battle, rolling in
To take the place of shattered waves;
Torn lines that grow more bent and thin,
A blinding cloud, a maddening din—
'Twas thus were filled these very graves!
Red flashes through the gathering smoke,
Blithe cries from comrades tried and dear,
Swift orders, resonant and clear,
The shell-scream and the sabre-stroke;
The rolling fire from left to right,
From right to left, we hear it swell;
The varying charges, swift and bright,
The thickening tumults of the fight
And bursting thunders of the shell.
Now deadlier, denser grows the strife,
And here we yield, and there we gain;
The air with hurtling missiles rife,
Volley for volley—life for life—
No time to heed the cries of pain!
Panting as up the hills we charge,
Or down them as we broken roll,
Life never felt so high, so large,
And never o'er so wide a marge
In triumph swept the kindling soul!
New raptures waken in the breast
Amid this hell of scene and sound:
The barking batteries never rest,
And broken foot, by horsemen pressed,
Still stubbornly contest their ground;
Fresh waves of battle, rolling in
To take the place of shattered waves;
Torn lines that grow more bent and thin,
A blinding cloud, a maddening din—
'Twas thus were filled these very graves!
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Night falls at length with pitying veil,
A moonlit silence deep and fresh;
These upturned faces, stained and pale,
Vainly the chill night dews assail,
For colder than the dews their flesh!
And flickering far through brush and wood
Go searching-parties, torch in hand—
“Seize, if you can, some rest and food,
At dawn the fight will be renewed,
Sleep on your arms!” the hushed command.
They talk in whispers as they lie
In line—these rough and weary men;
“Dead or but wounded?” then a sigh;
“No coffee either!” “Guess we'll try
To get those two guns back again.”
“We've five flags to their one! oho!”
“That bridge—'twas hot there as we passed!”
“The colonel dead! It can't be so;
Wounded and badly—that I know;
But he kept saddle to the last.”
“Be sure to send it if I fall—”
“Any tobacco? Bill, have you?”
“A brown-haired, blue-eyed, laughing doll—”
“Good-night, boys, and God keep you all!”
“What! sound asleep? Guess I'll sleep too.”
“Aye! just about this hour they pray
For Dad—.” “Stop talking! pass the word!”
And soon as quiet as the clay
Which thousands will but be next day
The long-drawn sighs of sleep are heard.
A moonlit silence deep and fresh;
These upturned faces, stained and pale,
Vainly the chill night dews assail,
For colder than the dews their flesh!
And flickering far through brush and wood
Go searching-parties, torch in hand—
“Seize, if you can, some rest and food,
At dawn the fight will be renewed,
Sleep on your arms!” the hushed command.
They talk in whispers as they lie
In line—these rough and weary men;
“Dead or but wounded?” then a sigh;
“No coffee either!” “Guess we'll try
To get those two guns back again.”
“We've five flags to their one! oho!”
“That bridge—'twas hot there as we passed!”
“The colonel dead! It can't be so;
Wounded and badly—that I know;
But he kept saddle to the last.”
“Be sure to send it if I fall—”
“Any tobacco? Bill, have you?”
“A brown-haired, blue-eyed, laughing doll—”
“Good-night, boys, and God keep you all!”
“What! sound asleep? Guess I'll sleep too.”
“Aye! just about this hour they pray
For Dad—.” “Stop talking! pass the word!”
And soon as quiet as the clay
Which thousands will but be next day
The long-drawn sighs of sleep are heard.
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Oh, men! to whom this sketch, though rude,
Calls back old scenes of pain and pride:
Oh, widow! hugging close your brood,
Oh, wife! with happiness renewed,
Since he again is at your side;
This trophy that to-day we raise
Should be a monument for all,
And on its base no niggard phrase
Confine a generous Nation's praise
To those who here have chanced to fall.
But let us all to-day combine
Still other monuments to raise;
Here for the Dead we build a shrine;
And now to those who, crippled, pine,
Let us give hope of happier days!
Let homes for our maimed wrecks of war
Through all the land with speed arise;
Tongues cry from every gaping scar,
“Let not our brother's tomb debar
The wounded living from your eyes.”
A noble day, a deed as good,
A noble scene in which 'tis done,
The Birthday of our Nationhood;
And here again the Nation stood
On this same day—its life rewon!
A bloom of banners in the air,
A double calm of sky and soul;
Triumphal chant and bugle blare,
And green fields, spreading bright and fair,
As heavenward our Hosannas roll.
Calls back old scenes of pain and pride:
Oh, widow! hugging close your brood,
Oh, wife! with happiness renewed,
Since he again is at your side;
This trophy that to-day we raise
Should be a monument for all,
And on its base no niggard phrase
Confine a generous Nation's praise
To those who here have chanced to fall.
But let us all to-day combine
Still other monuments to raise;
Here for the Dead we build a shrine;
And now to those who, crippled, pine,
Let us give hope of happier days!
Let homes for our maimed wrecks of war
Through all the land with speed arise;
Tongues cry from every gaping scar,
“Let not our brother's tomb debar
The wounded living from your eyes.”
A noble day, a deed as good,
A noble scene in which 'tis done,
The Birthday of our Nationhood;
And here again the Nation stood
On this same day—its life rewon!
A bloom of banners in the air,
A double calm of sky and soul;
Triumphal chant and bugle blare,
And green fields, spreading bright and fair,
As heavenward our Hosannas roll.
257
Hosannas for a land redeemed,
The bayonet sheathed, the cannon dumb;
Passed, as some horror we have dreamed,
The fiery meteors that here streamed,
Threatening within our homes to come!
Again our banner floats abroad,
Gone the one stain that on it fell—
And, bettered by His chastening rod,
With streaming eyes uplift to God
We say—“He doeth all things well.”
The bayonet sheathed, the cannon dumb;
Passed, as some horror we have dreamed,
The fiery meteors that here streamed,
Threatening within our homes to come!
Again our banner floats abroad,
Gone the one stain that on it fell—
And, bettered by His chastening rod,
With streaming eyes uplift to God
We say—“He doeth all things well.”
| Baked meats of the funeral | |