2. PART II.
[Place—The same Prison. Persons—Confederate
Prisoner, together with McNeil and the
Jailer.]
The hours sink slow to sunset! Suddenly
Rose a deep, gathering hum;
And o'er the measured stride of soldiery
Rolled out the muffled drum!
The prisoner started! crushed a stifling sigh,
Then rose erect and proud!
Scorn's lightning quivering in his stormy eye,
'Neath the brow's thunder-cloud!
And girding round his limbs and stalwart breast
Each iron chain and ring,
He stood sublime, imperial, self-possessed—
And haughty as a king!
The “dead march” wails without the prison gate
Up the calm evening sky;
And ruffian jestings, born of ruffian hate,
Make loud, unmeet reply!
The hired bravoes, whose pitiless features pale
In front of armed men,
But whose magnanimous courage will not quail
Where none can strike again!
The “dead march” wails without the prison wall,
Up the calm evening sky:
And timed to the dread dirge's rise and fall,
Move the fierce murderers by!
They passed; and wondering at his doom deferred,
The captive's lofty fire
Sank in his heart, by torturing memories stirred
Of husband, and of sire!
But hark! the clash of bolt and opening door!
The tramp of hostile heel!
When lo! upon the darkening prison floor,
Glared the false hound—McNeil.
And next him, like a bandog scenting blood,
Roused from his drunken ease,
The grimy, low-browed jailer glowering stood,
Clanking his iron keys.
“Quick! jailer! strike yon rebel's fetters off,
And let the old fool see
What ransom [with a low and bitter scoff].
What ransom sets him free.”
As the night traveller in a land of foes
The warning instinct feels,
That through the treacherous dimness and repose
A shrouded horror steals.
So, at these veilèd words, the captive's soul
Shook with a solemn dread,
And ghostly voices, prophesying dole,
Moaned faintly overhead.
His limbs are freed! his swarthy, scowling guide
Leads through the silent town,
Where from dim casements, black with wrathful pride,
Stern eyes gleam darkly down.
They halted where the woodland showered around
Dank leaflets on the sod,
And all the air seemed vocal with the sound
Of wild appeals to God.
Heaped, as if common carrion, in the gloom,
Nine mangled corpses lay—
All speechless now—but with what tongues of doom
Reserved for judgment day.
And near them, but apart, one youthful form
Pressed a fair upland slope,
O'er whose white brow a sunbeam flickering warm,
Played like a heavenly hope.
There, with the same grand look which yester-night
That face at parting wore,
The self-made martyr in the sunset light
Slept on his couch of gore.
The sunset waned; the wakening forest waved,
Struck by the north wind's moan,
While he, whose life this matchless death has saved
Knelt by the corse—alone.
