 | War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. |  |
JOHN R. THOMPSON.
Was born in Richmond, Virginia, in 1823. Was at school
in Connecticut for some time, and graduated from the University
of Virginia. He practiced law, and for fifteen years was
editor of the Southern Literary Messenger, at Richmond. He
was the author of a number of fine lyrics and poems. After the
war he was literary editor of the New York Evening Post. He
died in 1873.
ASHBY.
Weep, ye skies of June!
With a radiance pure and tender,
Shine, O saddened moon!
"Dead upon the field of glory,"
Hero fit for song and story,
Lies our bold dragoon.
Braver, knightlier foe,
Never fought with Moor or Paynim—
Rode at Templestowe;
With a mien how high and joyous
'Gainst the hordes that would destroy us,
Went he forth we know.
Gleam around his crest;
Fought his fight, fulfilled his labor,
Stilled his manly breast.
All unheard sweet Nature's cadence,
Trump of fame, and voice of maidens,
Now he takes his rest.
Gently wrap his clay;
Linger lovingly around him,
Light of dying day;
Softly fall the summer showers,
Birds and bees among the flowers
Make the gloom seem gay.
When his sword is rust,
And his deeds in classic pages,
Mindful of her trust,
Shall Virginia, bending lowly,
Still a ceaseless vigil holy
Keep above his dust!
THE BATTLE RAINBOW.
(On the evening before the beginning of the "Seven Days Battle"
near Richmond.)
Of the sunset gave token the tempest had ceased;
And the lightning yet fitfully gleamed for a while
On the cloud that sank sullen and dark in the east.
Of the morrow—lay hopeful, and watching, and still;
Where their tents all the region had sprinkled with white
From river to river, o'er meadow and hill.
Blazed and burst from the vapors that muffled the sun,
Their "counterfeit clamors" gave forth no reply,
And slept, till the battle, the charge in each gun.
Broke in beauty the rainbow our host to enfold!
The center o'erspread by its arch, and each wing
Suffused with its azure and crimson and gold.
Of peace after tumult, repose after pain;
How sweet and how glowing with promise the sign,
To eyes that should never behold it again!
And its thunder-peals filled all the tremulous air;
O'er slippery entrenchment and reddened redoubt,
Rang the wild cheer of triumph, the cry of despair.
Of mute supplication, and yearning, and dread;
When day unto day gave the record of fame,
And night unto night gave the list of its dead.
His standard in rags and his legions a wreck—
But alas! the stark faces and colorless lips
Of our loved ones, gave triumph's rejoicing a check.
Had the Lord set in mercy His bow in the cloud;
Not yet had the Comforter whispered of peace,
To the hearts that around us lay bleeding and bowed;
With its brilliant profusion of colors, that spanned
The sky on that exquisite eve, was the mark
Of the Infinite Love overarching the land;
Through the tear-drops that moisten each martyr's proud pall,
On the gloom of the past the bright bow shall display
Of Freedom, Peace, Victory, bent over all.
THE BURIAL OF LATANÉ.
Captain Latané, one of General J. E. B. Stuart's gallant officers,
was killed in a brilliant charge upon the enemy, who were
routed, after a hand-to-hand conflict. The following extract
from a private letter written at the time, will explain the
circumstances on which the poem is founded:
"Lieutenant Latané carried the body of his dead brother to
Mrs. Brockenbrough's plantation an hour or two after his death.
On this sad and lonely errand he met a party of Yankees, who
followed him to Mrs. Brockenbrough's gate, and stopping there,
told him that as soon as he had placed his brother's body in
friendly hands he must surrender himself prisoner. Mrs.
Brockenbrough sent for an Episcopal clergyman to perform the
funeral ceremonies, but the enemy would not permit him to pass.
Then, with a few other ladies, a fair-haired little girl, her apron
filled with white flowers, and a few faithful slaves, who stood
reverently near, a pious Virginia matron read the solemn and
beautiful burial-service over the cold, still form of one of the
noblest gentlemen and most intrepid officers in the Confederate
Army. She watched the sods heaped upon the coffin-lid, then
sinking on her knees, in sight and hearing of the foe, she
committed his soul's welfare, and the stricken hearts he had
left behind him, to the mercy of the All-Father."
And through the foes that compassed us around,
Our little band rode proudly on its way,
Leaving one gallant comrade, glory-crowned,
Unburied on the field he died to gain,
Single of all the host amid the hostile slain.
Hope's halo like a helmet round his hair,
The next beheld him dabbled in his blood,
Prostrate in death, and yet in death how fair!
E'en thus he passed through the red gates of strife,
From earthly crowns and palms to an immortal life.
And gave it unto strangers' hands, that closed
The calm blue eyes, on earth forever sealed,
And tenderly the slender limbs composed;
Strangers, yet sisters, who with Mary's love,
Sat by the open tomb and, weeping, looked above.
Pale roses, not more stainless than his soul,
Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere,
That blossomed with good actions, brief but whole.
The aged matron and the faithful slave
Approached, with reverent feet, the hero's lowly grave.
Above the rebel—thus declared the foe,
That blanched before him in the deadly fight;
But woman's voice, in accents soft and low,
Trembling with pity, touched with pathos, read
Over his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead.
Softly the promise floated on the air,
And the sweet breathings of the sunset hour
Came back responsive to the mourner's prayer;
Gently they laid him underneath the sod,
And left him with his fame, his country, and his God.
So young, so brave, so beautiful; he died
As he had wished to die—the past is sure,
Whatever yet of sorrow may betide
Those who still linger by the stormy shore,
Change cannot touch him now, or fortune harm him more,
"Victrix et Vidua," the conflict done—
Shall raise her mailed hand to wipe the tear
That starts as she recalls each martyred son,
No prouder memory her breast shall sway
Than thine, our early lost, lamented Latane.
| War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. | |