 | Twenty months in the Department of the Gulf |  |
340
THE CELEBRATION.
(From the “Old Flag” of March 1st, 1864.)
[_]
“At about eleven o'clock, A. M., of the 22d of February, the buildings and squares about Fifth Avenue and 42d Street, were literally blue with the “Yanks” assembled preparatory to some remarks from Lieut. Col. T. B. Leake and an original POEM, from Lieut. Col. A. J. H. Duganne.
In the remarks made by Lt. Col. Leake was exhibited and communicated through the entire assembly a flow of pure patriotism that was virtually a powerful appeal to all to imitate the glorious example shown in the life of Gen. GEORGE WASHINGTON; to remain, in the hour of trial and darkness for our Good Cause, firm and true to the principles of our Government and to its administrators—placing faith in the moral power of the Union for final and complete success, till its restoration shall make the nation mightier than it ever was before. It was no elaborate and prepared Oration, yet lacked nothing in interest or delivery from the fact of its being extempore.
“At the conclusion of this address, Lt. Col. A. J. H. Duganne arose and delivered the following Poem:
Who bids me sing? What theme my soul dilates?—
A captive whispering to its captive mates!—
Can Glory's raptures thrill the fettered thralls
Whose flags are trophies now, on Treason's walls?
Can Valor's story nerve the shackled hands
Whose broken sword-blades rust in rebel sands—
Or lifted, murderous, threat with cruel strife
Our Nation's Union and our Freedom's life?
In vain my harp the charms of home would sing;
Quick-gathering tears from answering eyelids spring;
And all the heart's deep fountains, softly stirred,
O'erwhelm our manhood, at that one dear word:
Home! where the Wife sits, numbering, day by day,
The long, long hours that steal her hopes away;
With low-drawn sigh, and voiceless prayer, to wait
The step that COMES NOT to her lonely gate!
Home! where the children, prattling War's acclaim,
Through mimic trumpets lisp their father's name—
But, wondering, pause, to note, with childish fears,
The eyes that watch them dimmed with sudden tears,
And, trembling, ask, of lips that must be dumb,
Why Mother weeps?—why Father will not come?
Land, where the Morn with nectar'd kisses woos,
And where the soft Night weeps ambrosial dews!
O, queenly Southland! crowned and gemmed with flowers;
Thy silken dials, that mark the year's sweet hours;
Lilies, whose silvery moons no tempest mars,
Roses like suns, and violets like the stars!
Thy throne the summer, and thy realm the soul,
Whose charmed senses own thy soft control:
All-beauteous South! thy heart must share and claim
Our Father's kindred and our Hero's fame!
Thy myrtle blooms his radiant brows to twine—
His name, his heritage, his birthplace—thine!
We yield thee this, bright Mistress of the Sun!—
Thy bosoming flowers first cradled Washington!
A captive whispering to its captive mates!—
Can Glory's raptures thrill the fettered thralls
Whose flags are trophies now, on Treason's walls?
Can Valor's story nerve the shackled hands
Whose broken sword-blades rust in rebel sands—
Or lifted, murderous, threat with cruel strife
Our Nation's Union and our Freedom's life?
In vain my harp the charms of home would sing;
Quick-gathering tears from answering eyelids spring;
And all the heart's deep fountains, softly stirred,
O'erwhelm our manhood, at that one dear word:
Home! where the Wife sits, numbering, day by day,
The long, long hours that steal her hopes away;
With low-drawn sigh, and voiceless prayer, to wait
The step that COMES NOT to her lonely gate!
Home! where the children, prattling War's acclaim,
Through mimic trumpets lisp their father's name—
But, wondering, pause, to note, with childish fears,
The eyes that watch them dimmed with sudden tears,
And, trembling, ask, of lips that must be dumb,
Why Mother weeps?—why Father will not come?
341
And where the soft Night weeps ambrosial dews!
O, queenly Southland! crowned and gemmed with flowers;
Thy silken dials, that mark the year's sweet hours;
Lilies, whose silvery moons no tempest mars,
Roses like suns, and violets like the stars!
Thy throne the summer, and thy realm the soul,
Whose charmed senses own thy soft control:
All-beauteous South! thy heart must share and claim
Our Father's kindred and our Hero's fame!
Thy myrtle blooms his radiant brows to twine—
His name, his heritage, his birthplace—thine!
We yield thee this, bright Mistress of the Sun!—
Thy bosoming flowers first cradled Washington!
Virginia! from whose breast the milk outran,
That nursed with godlike strength the immortal man;
Whose sacred groves enshrine the hero's clay,
Where wondering pilgrims pause and patriots pray:
Virginia! underneath whose trampling heel
Sceptres lie crushed, and crownless tyrants kneel;
From thee, from thine, he drank his impulse brave;
For thee, for ALL, this broad, free land he gave!
From thy blue hills his soaring sense he caught:
They share his fame—but all the world his thought!
Thy gates the portals whence his soul outspeeds—
But all the earth a temple for his deeds!
Thy hero-chiefs the priesthood of his shrine,
That all mankind might learn his faith divine:
The faith that shatters thrones and sunders chains,
And floods with Freedom's tide the bondman's veins,
And shapes from freemen's souls the Almighty's fanes!
That nursed with godlike strength the immortal man;
Whose sacred groves enshrine the hero's clay,
Where wondering pilgrims pause and patriots pray:
Virginia! underneath whose trampling heel
Sceptres lie crushed, and crownless tyrants kneel;
From thee, from thine, he drank his impulse brave;
For thee, for ALL, this broad, free land he gave!
From thy blue hills his soaring sense he caught:
They share his fame—but all the world his thought!
Thy gates the portals whence his soul outspeeds—
But all the earth a temple for his deeds!
Thy hero-chiefs the priesthood of his shrine,
That all mankind might learn his faith divine:
The faith that shatters thrones and sunders chains,
And floods with Freedom's tide the bondman's veins,
And shapes from freemen's souls the Almighty's fanes!
O, proud Virginia! loftiest was thy trust—
His grand example, and his peaceful dust.
Thou wert our Mecca, thou our Delphic ground,
Where kneeling seers were awed by voice profound.
Thee clustering round, uptowered the shielding States,
And young Republics kept thy sunset gates!
From Northern mountains and from Southern leas,
From orient headlands and from westering seas,
Land of the North! where loud Niagara's roll
Voices to Heaven a free-born Nation's soul!
Land of the North! where wild Atlantic waves
Baptize for Freedom's faith the souls of slaves!
From all thy plains, on all thy breezes borne,
How swells the exulting song this sacred morn!
Where Manhood's shout and Childhood's lisping sweet
The dear-loved name of Washington repeat.
By tranquil Hudson's sunlit waves they kneel,
Where Washington first turned the invader's steel;
On Trenton's plain and Monmouth's field they pray,
Where Washington retrieved the eventful day;
And roll their hymns through Schuylkill's wintry gorge,
Where once arose HIS prayer—from Valley Forge!
His grand example, and his peaceful dust.
Thou wert our Mecca, thou our Delphic ground,
Where kneeling seers were awed by voice profound.
Thee clustering round, uptowered the shielding States,
And young Republics kept thy sunset gates!
From Northern mountains and from Southern leas,
From orient headlands and from westering seas,
342
Voices to Heaven a free-born Nation's soul!
Land of the North! where wild Atlantic waves
Baptize for Freedom's faith the souls of slaves!
From all thy plains, on all thy breezes borne,
How swells the exulting song this sacred morn!
Where Manhood's shout and Childhood's lisping sweet
The dear-loved name of Washington repeat.
By tranquil Hudson's sunlit waves they kneel,
Where Washington first turned the invader's steel;
On Trenton's plain and Monmouth's field they pray,
Where Washington retrieved the eventful day;
And roll their hymns through Schuylkill's wintry gorge,
Where once arose HIS prayer—from Valley Forge!
And thou, imperial West! whose sylvan tongue
Hymned unto God while Saturn yet was young;
From voiceful symphonies of waving woods,
And solemn calms of silent solitudes;
And low, soft melodies of breezes bland,
And rolling harmonies of rivers grand:
Thou Nurse of Empires! at whose fostering heart
All nations drink, and all have equal part;—
Enthroned on harvests—girt by garners wide—
Thy wealth our wonder, and thy power our pride!
Majestic West! thy millions kneel, this hour,
To praise the Eternal for their Freedom's dower:
By Mississippi's shores their anthem flows,
And where Missouri laps her mountain snows;
And where the Ohio, nursed by crystal rills,
Leaps to thine arms from Pennsylvanian hills;
There shalt thou kneel, O! mightiest West, and tell
Where Washington survived and Braddock fell—
When the young hero jarred, with mailed hand,
The mystic gates that sealed our sunset land!
Hymned unto God while Saturn yet was young;
From voiceful symphonies of waving woods,
And solemn calms of silent solitudes;
And low, soft melodies of breezes bland,
And rolling harmonies of rivers grand:
Thou Nurse of Empires! at whose fostering heart
All nations drink, and all have equal part;—
Enthroned on harvests—girt by garners wide—
Thy wealth our wonder, and thy power our pride!
Majestic West! thy millions kneel, this hour,
To praise the Eternal for their Freedom's dower:
By Mississippi's shores their anthem flows,
And where Missouri laps her mountain snows;
And where the Ohio, nursed by crystal rills,
Leaps to thine arms from Pennsylvanian hills;
There shalt thou kneel, O! mightiest West, and tell
Where Washington survived and Braddock fell—
When the young hero jarred, with mailed hand,
The mystic gates that sealed our sunset land!
Land of the South! whose glorious life distils
Balm from thy vales and odors from thy hills!
Thy brow all sunshine, and thy heart all fire,
Thy breath a vintage, and thy voice a lyre;
Land, where the air with wildering fragrance swoons,
And all the woodlands thrill with golden runes;
Each gladsome breeze new freights of blessings won,
For Old Virginia—Nurse of Washington!
Balm from thy vales and odors from thy hills!
Thy brow all sunshine, and thy heart all fire,
Thy breath a vintage, and thy voice a lyre;
Land, where the air with wildering fragrance swoons,
And all the woodlands thrill with golden runes;
343
For Old Virginia—Nurse of Washington!
And o'er thy hills it stoops, O, perjured land!
Through Vernon's shades, and by Potomac's strand;
And o'er thy vales it broods—that form of might,
Parting the Storm, and towering through the Night!
That awful Presence, moving from above;
Grief on its brow, but in its glances—Love!
From Heaven it comes—through Vernon's gloom descends,
And where my mournful Country kneels, it bends;
And softly murmurs—sheltering her head—
“What ails thee, Mother? Are thy children dead?”
She hears his voice, and wakes from swooning trance,
Her ebbing life-tides swayed beneath his glance.
That mailed breast, that soaring helm she sees,
And the strong hand that lifts her from her knees.
And now she speaks, whilst all my fluttering breath
Waits for her voice, but hears no word she saith;
For muttering winds upswell, and thunders roll,
And the wild tempest frights my listening soul:
I only hear—around Mount Vernon's dells—
The roar of cannon and the crash of shells;
I only hear—upon Virginia's air—
The drum's wild rattle and the trumpet's blare;
While charging armies shake the shuddering meads,
And the hills reel with mingling men and steeds,
And the wide land with mortal wound outbleeds!
I only hear the shout, the curse, the groan;
I only hear a low, sad, shivering moan,
Where sinks my Country's heart, where droops her head,
And the great Voice demands, in whisper dread,
“What ails thee, Mother? Are thy children dead?”
Through Vernon's shades, and by Potomac's strand;
And o'er thy vales it broods—that form of might,
Parting the Storm, and towering through the Night!
That awful Presence, moving from above;
Grief on its brow, but in its glances—Love!
From Heaven it comes—through Vernon's gloom descends,
And where my mournful Country kneels, it bends;
And softly murmurs—sheltering her head—
“What ails thee, Mother? Are thy children dead?”
She hears his voice, and wakes from swooning trance,
Her ebbing life-tides swayed beneath his glance.
That mailed breast, that soaring helm she sees,
And the strong hand that lifts her from her knees.
And now she speaks, whilst all my fluttering breath
Waits for her voice, but hears no word she saith;
For muttering winds upswell, and thunders roll,
And the wild tempest frights my listening soul:
I only hear—around Mount Vernon's dells—
The roar of cannon and the crash of shells;
I only hear—upon Virginia's air—
The drum's wild rattle and the trumpet's blare;
While charging armies shake the shuddering meads,
And the hills reel with mingling men and steeds,
And the wide land with mortal wound outbleeds!
I only hear the shout, the curse, the groan;
I only hear a low, sad, shivering moan,
Where sinks my Country's heart, where droops her head,
And the great Voice demands, in whisper dread,
“What ails thee, Mother? Are thy children dead?”
Dead? worse than dead! The child is worse than dead
Who scorns the fount where first his fondness fed!
O, worse than dead! whose heart, untouched with ruth,
That mother hates who watched his tenderest youth!
Dead! worse than dead! the impious and unblest,
Who tears the mantle from his mother's breast—
Who spurns the matron crown that mother wore,
And leaves her sorrowing for the sons she bore!
Dear Home! sweet Home! how many a warm heart beats—
How many a lip the loved one's name repeats—
Where Maine exults, on stormy Ocean's brim,
And Hampshire lifts to Heaven her mountain hymn;
Where Massachusetts sits, like matron free,
And fair Rhode Island slumbers at her knee;
Where dwells Connecticut, midst emerald vales,
And where Manhattan spreads her snowy sails,
And rolls her iron chariot-wheels, and shakes
Her golden garners o'er the Northern lakes!
Who scorns the fount where first his fondness fed!
O, worse than dead! whose heart, untouched with ruth,
That mother hates who watched his tenderest youth!
Dead! worse than dead! the impious and unblest,
Who tears the mantle from his mother's breast—
Who spurns the matron crown that mother wore,
And leaves her sorrowing for the sons she bore!
344
How many a lip the loved one's name repeats—
Where Maine exults, on stormy Ocean's brim,
And Hampshire lifts to Heaven her mountain hymn;
Where Massachusetts sits, like matron free,
And fair Rhode Island slumbers at her knee;
Where dwells Connecticut, midst emerald vales,
And where Manhattan spreads her snowy sails,
And rolls her iron chariot-wheels, and shakes
Her golden garners o'er the Northern lakes!
God bless our Homes! from East through boundless West—
The hallowed shrines of all the heart loves best;
From blue Ohio to Colorado's marge,
And over Iowa's prairies, green and large,
And where the winding Illinois outflows,
Or Indiana, with silvery harvest glows,
And fair Arkansas skirts the Indian land—
And where the Red Men's loyal wigwams stand—
There sleep our Homes, where tender hearts, like doves,
Brood o'er the memory of their absent loves!
The hallowed shrines of all the heart loves best;
From blue Ohio to Colorado's marge,
And over Iowa's prairies, green and large,
And where the winding Illinois outflows,
Or Indiana, with silvery harvest glows,
And fair Arkansas skirts the Indian land—
And where the Red Men's loyal wigwams stand—
There sleep our Homes, where tender hearts, like doves,
Brood o'er the memory of their absent loves!
Awake, my Harp! Thy song to Heaven aspires!
A Nation's memories climb thy sounding wires!
Awake, my Harp! and thrill with loftier sway:
A Nation's Father bends from Heaven this day;
From Heaven's high hills, where Freedom's angel waits,
Closest to God, within the eternal gates—
Where Freedom's martyrs, wing'd with crimson scars,
Gleam through the azure fields of endless stars!
From Heaven the Hero comes!—his awful mien
Troubled, yet calm, and sorrowing, but serene.
With trembling glance his kingly shade I mark
Break through the storm and cleave the midnight dark:
O'er ice browed Andes leans his sworded hand—
His rushing footfall spurns Pacific's strand:
His helmet gleams o'er Alleghanian snows—
His lifted shield o'er hushed Atlantic glows;
His breast I see, beneath celestial wings—
And there—O! there—my bleeding Country clings:
Clings as a mother to her first-born son—
Her Hero-Child—her god-like Washington!
And whence the gain? What heritage survives
O'er wasted treasures and o'er squandered lives?
Are Hatred's heirlooms, hurled from sire to son,
More dear than Loves, that linked all hearts as one?
Can sundered hearthstones gleam with ruddier blaze
Than the old fireside of our father's days?
Can alien halls the old, old Home replace,
Or alien births our kindred's graves efface?
In vain Rebellion strives! Would Balaam curse?
His trembling lips God's blessings still rehearse!
Would Korah rule? The earth drinks Korah's cries,
And plagues descend where Israel's rebels rise.
Sanballat's seed may drop from Judah's stem,
But Israel dwells where dwells Jerusalem!
Samaria's shrines may rise on rival sod,
But Mount Moriah is still the Mount of God!
A Nation's memories climb thy sounding wires!
Awake, my Harp! and thrill with loftier sway:
A Nation's Father bends from Heaven this day;
From Heaven's high hills, where Freedom's angel waits,
Closest to God, within the eternal gates—
Where Freedom's martyrs, wing'd with crimson scars,
Gleam through the azure fields of endless stars!
From Heaven the Hero comes!—his awful mien
Troubled, yet calm, and sorrowing, but serene.
With trembling glance his kingly shade I mark
Break through the storm and cleave the midnight dark:
O'er ice browed Andes leans his sworded hand—
His rushing footfall spurns Pacific's strand:
His helmet gleams o'er Alleghanian snows—
His lifted shield o'er hushed Atlantic glows;
His breast I see, beneath celestial wings—
And there—O! there—my bleeding Country clings:
Clings as a mother to her first-born son—
Her Hero-Child—her god-like Washington!
345
O'er wasted treasures and o'er squandered lives?
Are Hatred's heirlooms, hurled from sire to son,
More dear than Loves, that linked all hearts as one?
Can sundered hearthstones gleam with ruddier blaze
Than the old fireside of our father's days?
Can alien halls the old, old Home replace,
Or alien births our kindred's graves efface?
In vain Rebellion strives! Would Balaam curse?
His trembling lips God's blessings still rehearse!
Would Korah rule? The earth drinks Korah's cries,
And plagues descend where Israel's rebels rise.
Sanballat's seed may drop from Judah's stem,
But Israel dwells where dwells Jerusalem!
Samaria's shrines may rise on rival sod,
But Mount Moriah is still the Mount of God!
O, Washington! thou drewest our faith from Heaven!
By Heaven, through thee, our freedom's life was given;
Thy goal our Union, and our homes thy gift,
To thee, this day, our Nation's Soul we lift!
Thy God is ours!—on Him our hopes we cast:
We trust the Future, as we read the Past!
While Truth is steadfast, and while Time is just,
Thy path we tread, and in thy faith we trust!
Though man be weak, we know that God is strong,
And come what may, the Right shall rule the Wrong!
For ceaseless still, o'er traitors quick or dead,
Our Nation's feet their destined course must tread;
And where the Ark of Freedom heads our march,
God's Pillar leads, and Angel wings o'erarch!
By Heaven, through thee, our freedom's life was given;
Thy goal our Union, and our homes thy gift,
To thee, this day, our Nation's Soul we lift!
Thy God is ours!—on Him our hopes we cast:
We trust the Future, as we read the Past!
While Truth is steadfast, and while Time is just,
Thy path we tread, and in thy faith we trust!
Though man be weak, we know that God is strong,
And come what may, the Right shall rule the Wrong!
For ceaseless still, o'er traitors quick or dead,
Our Nation's feet their destined course must tread;
And where the Ark of Freedom heads our march,
God's Pillar leads, and Angel wings o'erarch!
| Twenty months in the Department of the Gulf | |