The Writings of Bret Harte :: :: University of Virginia Library

But I thought, as through intricate loop and braid
Those fingers so willfully flashed and played,
Not alone did they catch in their weaving play
A woolen thread nor a filament gray,
But some subtler fancies—as maidens best know
Were knit in that stocking from heel to toe.

Those sweet, tangled fancies, that women so long
Have cherished in sorrow, oppression, and wrong;
Those poetic impulses, waiting the warm
Grasp of Faith but to shapen and give them a form.
Thus Valor and Trust, from a chaos so full,
Here mixed with the gathering meshes of wool,
To be marshaled more firm, as with resolute chin
And half-pouting lip she knit them all in,
Till the flash of the needle's leaping light
Gleamed like those lances, when knight to knight,
In the olden joust of Chivalry's might
(Thought I), did battle for Love and Right.

So she sate, with a drooping head,
Knitting,—but not with a single thread,—
Till under the long lash something grew
Misty and faint as the mountain's blue,
Then dropped—
Like a flash it was gone
Caught and absorbed in the woven yarn,

346

A tear,—just to show that the stocking was done,—
And Pity had finished what Trust had begun.

THE CONSERVATIVE BRIDGE OF SIGHS

(After Hood)

Treat her with strategy,
Touch her with care,
Nor with rash energy
Harm one so fair!

Respect her sentiments,
So truly eloquent,
While still consistently
Drips from her clothing
Loyal blood—Look at it,
Loving not loathing.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny;
Rash and undutiful,
Past all dishonor,
Blight has left on her
Only the beautiful.

Still for these slips of hers,
One of Abe's family
Wipe those pale lips of hers,
Spitting so clammily;
Bring back her chattels,
Her fond valued chattels,
Where'er they may roam;
Hand-cuff 'em, chain 'em, and
Send 'em back home.

347

Seek not to damage
Her own institution;
Tenderly put back
The old Constitution.

Where the lights quiver,
So far down the river,
For many a night,
In ditches and trenches—
McClellan's defenses—
The conflict commences,
But never a fight!

Best they should tarry where
Dreadful malaria
Racks them with pain;
But let no contraband
Lend them a helping hand,
If you 've a care for
The Union again.

Perishing gloomily;
Spurred by old womanly,
Feeble loquacity,
Weak incapacity,
Gone to its rest.
Still pertinacity
Says it is best.

Should the North rigidly
Stiffen too frigidly,
Decently—kindly—
Smooth and compose them,
And their eyes close them,
Staring so blindly,

348

Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As that glance of daring,
The soldier despairing,
Fixed on Futurity.

Thus with such strategy
Still the South spare,
Nor with rash energy
Harm one so fair.

Owning the weakness
Of her institution,
And saving her under
The old Constitution.

BANKS AND THE SLAVE GIRL

[_]

[General N. P. Banks, Major-General of Volunteers, Union Army, commanded at the battle of Cedar Mountain, August 9, 1862.]

Through shot and shell, one summer's day,
We stood the battle's rack,
With gaping files and shattered ranks
Our men were falling back;
When through our lines, a little child
Ran down the bloody track.

To know if she were bond or free
We had no time to spare,
Or scan with microscopic eye
The texture of her hair;
For lo, begrimed with battle smoke,
Our men looked scarce as fair.

349

Her name, her home, her master's claim,
We could not then decide,
Until our Iron Chief rode up
Ere we could cheer or chide,
And pointing to a howitzer,
He grimly bade her “ride.”

First glancing down that ghastly lane,
Where dead and dying lay,
Then back at us, and like a flash,
We saw his glances say:
“The child is free. Their batteries
Have opened her the way!”

Perhaps they had—I said before
We could not then decide;
For we were sorely pressed that day,
And driven back beside,
And mayhap in our chieftain's act,
Some moral then we spied.

THE BATTLE AUTUMN

The last high wain of toppling sheaves
Goes by—the farm gate swings to rest;
The yellow harvest, and the leaves
The red Fruit-Bearers' lips have pressed,
Lie trophies piled on Nature's breast!

But when the clouds hang dark and low,
And bird and bee no longer roam—
And long before the pitying snow
To bury the dead leaves shall come—
We'll call another Harvest Home!

350

We'll call that Harvest, last and best,
The Warrior-Reaper, reaps by chance,
The broken hope—the shattered crest—
The nerveless hand—the quenchèd glance
That heap the creeping ambulance!

Swing wide your gates—the car rolls on:
O Reaper, are your spoils like these?
Ah, no! when dragon's teeth are sown,
The incense breath of patriot fields
O'ertops the languid scents of Peace!

Then still keep keen your hooks and scythe,
Ye wielders of the peaceful flail,
Tho' wintry storms the tree-tops writhe,
And scattered leaves ride on the gale,
Let not the battle harvest fail.

SEMMES!

[_]

[Captain Raphael Semmes, the noted commander of the Confederate privateer Alabama, on the 7th of December, 1862, captured the steamer Ariel carrying passengers for San Francisco. He allowed the vessel and passengers to proceed unharmed, but compelled the captain to sign a bond to pay two hundred and sixty thousand dollars thirty days after the independence of the Confederate Government. On December 27, the passengers of the Ariel held a meeting in San Francisco and passed a vote of thanks for Semme's gentlemanly conduct while in possession of the vessel.]

Confederation
Of Free spoliation
With Exaltation,
I sing of thee!
And of thy later,
Sweet Peculator,
And Depredator
Of every sea.

351

When all abuse thee
And dare confuse thee,
I'll still excuse thee,
Though law condemns
Thy occupation,
This plain narration
Bears attestation
Of thee, O Semmes!

What legendary,
Incendiary
Accounts that vary
Of thee were told;
What strange tradition
Of man's condition,
Through inanition
Shut in thy hold.

Thy motions elfish,
Thy conduct selfish,
Like that strange shell-fish
who clouds with ink;
Yes, like the Cuttle,
I hide thy subtle
Attempts to scuttle
Our ships and sink.

Thy frequent dashes,
Thy waxed mustaches,
Their glory flashes
From pole to pole!
The British Nation,
At every station,
Sends invitation
For thee to coal.

352

With deprecation
And agitation,
And consternation,
Lest blood be spilt,
I view thy meeting,
—No courteous greeting—
Perchance a beating
From Vanderbilt!

Thy kind attention
I duly mention,
Though comprehension
Doth strangely show
That high-toned breeding
Tho' strange exceeding,
We find proceeding
From men termed “Low.

Then let us praise thee,
And still upraise thee,
Until we place thee
Beyond all harm,
In exaltation—
A-e-rostation
And high saltation,
From some yardarm.

A CAVALRY SONG

O, potent in patriot fields,
Is the union of swiftness and force;
In the uplifted steel,
And the prick of the heel,
And the long swinging tramp of the horse.

353

O, the Infantry make a brave show,
With the squares that no foeman dare cross;
But their long files go down,
When the rattling hoofs drown
Their roulade with the tramp of the horse.

O, the Cannoneer's lintstocks are bright,
And the throats of their engines are hoarse;
But their thunder is dumb
When the Cavalry come,
With the lightnings that leap from the horse.

Then, up in the stirrup and ride!
No obstacles checking our course,
Till the continent's length
Is filled with the strength
Of the charging of Liberty's horse!

THE WRATH OF McDAWDLE

A CONSERVATIVE LEGEND

[_]

[General George B. McClellan, in 1862, was severely criticized for his tardiness and hesitation. It was claimed that he was over-cautious, that he spent too much time in preparation, and thus gave the enemy the advantage and an opportunity to escape.]

McDawdle brooked no spoiler's wrong,
Famous in border raid and song,

But hearing the tale of outrage told,
His heart waxed hot and his eye grew cold,

And said, “Now, by my ancestral hall,
This day shall McDawdle's vengeance fall!”

354

So he bade them bring him his barbèd steed,
And rode from his castle gate with speed.

The high portcullis he paused beside,
And said, “With me shall a Squire ride

“With a fresher lance, lest this should bend
To some traitor's breast—which saints forfend!”

So his Squire beside him armed did go,
With an extra lance at his saddle-bow.

But when the heavy drawbridge dropped,
McDawdle tightened his rein and stopped,

And said, “Those spared in the fight, I wist,
With gyves should be manacled each wrist.”

So they brought him gyves and again he sped
While his henchmen held their breath with dread.

But when he had passed the castle moat,
He checked his steed, and his brow he smote,

And said: “By'r Lady, methinks 'twere well
That with me should ride a priest and bell

“To shrive the souls of the men I slay,
And mine own, should I fall in this deadly fray.”

So they brought him a priest with a bell and book,
And again the earth with his gallop shook.

When he reached the spot where the caitiffs lay,
Lo, the coward knaves had stolen away,

355

Taking the spoil of his goodly land,
Dreading the might of his strong right hand.

'T were well for the caitiff knaves that they
Had wisely gone from McDawdle's way,

Lest he fall upon them with certain death;
And psalms went up from each caitiff's breath.

And psalms went up from McDawdle's hall,
When they saw him ride to the outer wall.

And the bard made a song of McDawdle's wrath,
And this is the song which that minstrel hath:

“Ye bold intent doth ye deed surpasse
Of ye braggart childe with ee of glasse.”

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!

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?”

356

What epithets! Listen, ye gods, to yon mouth
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?

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!

SCHALK!

[_]

[Emil Schalk, a resident of the United States, was born at Mayence, Germany, 1834, and educated at Paris. He wrote Summary of the Art of War, 1862, Campaigns of 1862, 1863, etc.]

What do our successes balk!
“Want of simple rules,” says Schalk,
“Daily I am shocked to see
Utter lack of strategy;
While the skill that art combines
(Shown in my interior lines)
And success that ever dwells
In all perfect parallels,
Prove to me, beyond a doubt,
That you 're twisted right about,
And through ignorance of art,
Yours is the defensive part;

357

Or, to make my sense complete,
In advancing, you retreat.
Don't you see—it 's plain as day—
That thus far you 've run away,
And your siege of New Orleans
Simply was defensive means,
While your Washington, my friend,
You must conquer to defend—
Thus your whole campaign is naught
When not logically fought!”

Right and Might at times prevail,
Lines and figures never fail!
So if you'd your battles win—
And would properly begin—
Choose your scientific man,
Fight the European plan,
And to stop all further talk,
Win 'em by the longest Schalk.

THE YREKA SERPENT

A RHYTHMICAL DIALOGUE

[_]

[Yreka, July 15, 1863. Two men in coming out of their drift on Cottonwood Creek, some twenty miles from here, a few days ago, saw on the mountain-side a snake, which they say was twenty-four feet long, and as large around as a man's body. They went toward it, when it ran up the mountain. A party is now out looking for the snake.—Telegram in city papers.]

STRANGER

O excavator of the soil, O miner bold and free!
Where is the snake—the fearful snake—that late appeared to thee?
Was it a bona-fide snake, or only some untruth
Exploding like that firework so popular with youth?

358

Was it a real Ophidian, or was it simply nil,
Of mania a potu born—Serpent of the Still?
Was it an Anaconda huge, or Boa of mighty strength,
Or was it but an Adder—in the details of its length?

Was it a Python—such an one as Pliny says for lunch
Would take a Roman Phalanx down, as we take Roman punch?
Or was it that more modern kind that Holmes' page displays,
Whose rattle was the favored toy of “Elsie's” baby days?

What manner of a snake was it? Speak, O mysterious man!
Proclaim the species of the snake that past thy tunnel ran—
Its length, its breadth, and whence it came, and whither did it flee;
And if extant on Tellus yet, oh, tell us where it be!

MINER

O stranger in the glossy hat, and eke in store-clothes drest!
Thy words a tunnel deep have picked within this flinty breast;
I may not rightly call those names thou dost so deftly term,
But this I know—I never yet beheld so gross a worm!

My tale begins upon a day I never can forget,
The very time those Democrats in Sacramento met—
A July day—the heated pines their fragrant sap distilled,
When tidings of a victory the hills and valleys thrilled.

The mountains laughed to split their sides, the tunnels cracked their jaws;
The fir trees rattled down their cones in salvos of applause;

359

The blue-jay screamed till he was black—when lo! as if in pain,
A hideous serpent writhed this way from Sacramento's plain.

His tail was pointed to the South, his head toward the North,
As from the Sacramento's bank he wriggled slowly forth;
But when upon the right and left the cheers began to break,
And wider, wider spread the news—still faster flew the snake!

He reached the mountains—like a dream he passed before my eyes.
O stranger! then it was I knew the secret of his size,
It was no single snake I saw; but by yon blessed sun!
These eyes beheld two serpents joined and blended into one.

Two heads this fearful reptile had; one pointed to the South;
The other pointed to the North, a hissing tongue and mouth;
But that which pointed to the South was like a turtledove,
And dropped from time to time a text of universal love.

Its Northern head three sides displayed, and on the first of these
I read the legend “Slavery,” and on the second “Peace,”
And on the third—oh, fearful sight!—these eyes did plainly see,
Deep sunken on its copper front, the capitals “J. D.”

The snake is gone—the tale is told—I view in thy affright,

360

O stranger with the troubled brow! thou readst the tale aright;
This serpent of protracted length—this awful snake of dread—
Was of the same convention born—the Fusion Copperhead.

A FABLE FOR THE TIMES

I lay on my back in the scented grass,
Drowned in the odors that swept the plain,
Watching the reaper's sickle pass
Like summer lightning amidst the grain;

And I said, “'T is certain that Peace is sweet,
And War is cruel and useless toil—
And better the reaper of honest wheat
Than the soldier laden with sanguine spoil.”

But lo, as I spake, in the upper sky,
I heard the tumult of mimic war,
And a troop of swallows came whistling by,
In chase of a hawk that flew before—

Till with baffled wing and beaten crest,
That gray guerrilla of raid and wrong,
Flew off—and back to each ransomed nest,
The heroes came in exultant song.

But one, as he neared me, dropped his wing
With a weak, uncertain, tremulous beat,
As round and round in a narrowing ring,
His circuit he 'd double and then repeat—

361

Till at length he dropped, like lead, in the brake,
And I sprang to my feet, but found, alas,
He was charmed by a meditative snake
That lay near me in the scented grass.

THOMAS CARLYLE AND PETER OF THE NORTH

[_]

The English author, Thomas Carlyle, must have his say upon the civil war in this country. It is very brief, and appears in the August number of Macmillan's Magazine. Here it is:—

“ILIA AMERICANA IN NUCE”
Peter of the North
(to Paul of the South).

—“Paul, you unaccountable scoundrel, I find you hire your servants for life, not by the month or year, as I do! You are going straight to hell, you—!”

Paul.

—“Good words, Peter! The risk is my own; I am willing to take the risk. Hire your servants by the month or day, and get straight to Heaven, leave me to my own method.”

Peter.

—“No, I won't. I will beat your brains out first! (And is trying dreadfully ever since, but cannot yet manage it.”)

T. C. May, 1863.

“PETER OF THE NORTH” TO THOMAS CARLYLE

It's true that I hire my servant per day,
Per month, or per year—as he chooses;
While “Paul of the South” takes his bondman for life,
Without asking if he refuses,
T. C.,
Without asking if he refuses!

362

But if you are judge of the merits alone,
We surely have right to inquire
The date of your service with “Paul of the South,”
And what is the length of your hire,
T. C.,
And what is the length of your hire!

F. B. H.

CALIFORNIA TO THE SANITARY COMMISSION

WITH A DRAFT FOR “FIFTY THOUSAND,” DECEMBER, 1863

Throughout the long summer our hearts shrank in doubt,
As sterile and parched as our plains with the drought,
Till your voice on the wings of the winter's first rain
Awoke heart and meadow to bounty again.

'T is yours in its freshness—the first gift that springs
From the soil overarched by these merciful wings,
As pure and less cold than the snowflake that flies
Over fields that are crimson with War's autumn dyes.

We speak not of Glory, we talk not of Fame,
We gauge not our bounty to honor or blame;
You ride with the battery wrapped in the dun;
We creep with the ambulance steadily on.

Yet stay but a moment. Our faith is the same,
Though warmed in the sunshine, or tried in the flame;
Would you say that we shrink, while your courage endures—
That we offer our draft as an exchange for yours?

No, perish the thought! whether sunshine or storm,
Though the matrix is broken that moulded our form;

363

When our mills shall run dry, in the stamps that remain,
That Strength which bred Mercy shall conquer again!

SONG OF THE “CAMANCHE”

O stranger, o'er this sunken wreck
Behold no risen glory;
No fragments of a battle-deck
Invite the poet's story;
Fame cannot write my name above
With Freedom's fearless fighters;
For why? this little lay of mine
Belongs to Underwriters.

You tell me that by Sumter's walls
The monitors are swinging,
And harmless from their armor falls
The thunderbolts yet ringing;
Yet, peaceful here in mud I lie
Like any sailor drunken,
Dead as a coffin-nail, or as
—My rivet-heads-die-sunken!

You say the pirate's stealthy prow
This way is slowly turning,
From tropic seas, where even now
Some luckless prize is burning.

364

Above them gleams the Southern Cross
And constellations blinking,
While I beneath a Northern sky
With Aquila am sinking.

O, had I dropped in some deep well
Of ocean vast and mighty,
Old Neptune might have tolled my bell
Along with Amphitrite;
Or mermaids from their coral stores
Have decked my turret gayly,
Instead of filth your city pours
From sewers round me daily.

Then, stranger, rather let me hide
Where river ooze still smothers,
If locked in my disgrace abide
Some meaner faults of others!
Thou hast a paper—tell me quick
The worst—though nothing worse is;
I'm libeled—in the Circuit Court,
Thank God!—and not in verses.

A LAY OF THE LAUNCH

(After Tennyson)

My heart is wasted with my woe,
Camanche;
In vain I strove to see the show,
Camanche;

365

Divorced from shore—from libels free—
I came to view thy charms per se;
It was no maiden plunge to thee,
Camanche.

I did not see thee launched at all,
Camanche;
The crowd was large—the gate was small,
Camanche.
I stood without and cursed my fate,
The time, the tide that would not wait,
With others who had come too late,
Camanche.

Why did they send thee off so soon,
Camanche?
They should have waited until noon,
Camanche.
O cruel fate, that from my gaze
Hid wedges, props, and broken stays,
And made thy ways as “secret ways,”
Camanche.

I was thine own invited guest,
Camanche;
I missed the feast, with all the rest,
Camanche.
I missed the cold tongue, and the flow
Of eloquence and Veuve Clicquot;
I missed my watch and chain, also,
Camanche.

For when I strove to reach thy deck,
Camanche;

366

A hand was passed around my neck,
Camanche;
A false, false hand my beaver pressed
Upon mine eyes, and from my vest
Unhooked my chain—why tell the rest?
Camanche.

My coat was torn—the best I had,
Camanche;
I wished I, too, were ironclad,
Camanche.
They tore my coat and vest of silk,
They groaned and cried, “a bilk, a bilk!”
Rude boys and others of that ilk,
Camanche.

Thy yard was full of stumbling blocks,
Camanche;
That told a sudden fall in stocks,
Camanche.
I stood where late thy keel had slid—
I did not heed as I was bid,
Hence what thy keel had done, I did,
Camanche.

It was a bitter, frightful fall,
Camanche;
I slid some thirty feet in all,
Camanche.
Some thirty feet upon my back
I slipped along the slimy track;
They cried, “Another launch—alack!”
Camanche.

367

My heart was wasted with my woe,
Camanche;
I thought that I would homeward go,
Camanche.
In vain I hailed a crowded car;
They answered not my signs afar;
O day, cursed by my evil star,
Camanche.

THE FLAG-STAFF ON SHACKLEFORD ISLAND

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR

[_]

[The following incident was related in a recent lecture by the Rev. A. L. Stone, Pastor, Park Street Church, Boston: “In the early part of the war there stood on Shackleford Island, North Carolina, a high flag-staff from which floated the national banner. Of course, the secessionists soon tore this down. But there still surmounted the staff the national eagle. This was too loyal for the traitors, and after a time they succeeded in getting it down or breaking it off. Their work was hardly finished, when lo! the air quivered with the rush of lordly wings, and a majestic eagle swept down and lighted on the staff. In a few minutes the marksmen sent bullet after bullet at the royal mark. In vain. His piercing eye looked at them defiant; he rose, circled round a few feet, and settled again on his perch.”]

Piercing the blue of a southern sky,
On Shackleford Island a flagstaff rose,
And a flag that flew,
Loyal and true,
Over the heads of disloyal foes.

Fluttered the flag in the breezy air;
Sullen they gazed, but did not speak,
Till the flap of each fold,
Like a buffet bold,
Crimsoned with shame each traitor's cheek.

368

“Down with the Abolition rag!”
Was the cry their hatred found at last;
And they tore it down
And over the town
Trailed the flag they had stripped from the mast.

“Down with the Eagle—the Yankee bird;
False in one thing, false in the whole”;
So they battered down
The flag-staff's crown—
The Eagle crest of the liberty pole.

Lo! as it dropped, from the upper air
Came the rush of wings, and around the base
Of the flag-staff played
A circling shade,
And the real bird swooped to the emblem's place.

Vainly, below from the angry mob
The curse and the rifle shot went up.
Not a feather stirred
Of the royal bird
In his lonely perch on the flag-staff top.

Since that day, on Shackleford Isle,
Clothed in beauty the staff is set;
Since that day
The bird alway
Guards the spot that is sacred yet.

So, when the Nation's symbols lie
Broken, we look through our despair
To the sky that brings
The rush of wings
And the Truth that dwells in the upper air.

369

OF ONE WHO FELL IN BATTLE

(H. A. G., JUNE 3, 1864)

By smoke-encumbered field and tangled lane,
Down roads whose dust was laid with scarlet dew,
Past guns dismounted, ragged heaps of slain,
Dark moving files, and bright blades glancing through,
All day the waves of battle swept the plain
Up to the ramparts, where they broke and cast
Thy young life quivering down, like foam before the blast.

Then sank the tumult. Like an angel's wing,
Soft fingers swept thy pulses. The west wind
Whispered fond voices, mingling with the ring
Of Sabbath bells of Peace—such peace as brave men find,
And only look for till the months shall bring
Surcease of Wrong, and fail from out the land
Bondage and shame, and Freedom's altars stand.

THE HERO OF SUGAR PINE

“Oh, tell me, Sergeant of Battery B,
Oh, hero of Sugar Pine!
Some glorious deed of the battle-field,
Some wonderful feat of thine.

“Some skillful move, when the fearful game
Of battle and life was played
On yon grimy field, whose broken squares
In scarlet and black are laid.”

370

“Ah, stranger, here at my gun all day,
I fought till my final round
Was spent, and I had but powder left,
And never a shot to be found;

“So I trained my gun on a rebel piece:
So true was my range and aim,
A shot from his cannon entered mine
And finished the load of the same!”

“Enough! Oh, Sergeant of Battery B,
Oh, hero of Sugar Pine!
Alas! I fear that thy cannon's throat
Can swallow much more than mine!”

ST. VALENTINE IN CAMP

We had borne the wintry sieges in our swamp-encircled camp,
When a step surprised the sentry in his measured tread and tramp,

And across the broad abatis swarmed the skirmishes of spring,
And the ivy's scaling ladders on the scarp hung quivering;

Till the bold invader's colors shook on every rocky wall,
And the buds with wedding carols drowned the bugle's warning call.

Then a sudden vision thrilled me, and I seemed to stand again
With my hand upon the ploughshare on the far New England plain.

371

Blithely sang the lark above me, and among the gathered kine
Sang the milkmaid in the farmyard, sang the song of Valentine;

Or across the distant meadow, as of old she seemed to glide—
She whose troth with mine was plighted when we wandered side by side.

Where the wanton winds of summer stirred the maple's leafy crown,
Or the gusty breath of Autumn shook the rugged walnuts down.

But between me and my vision rise the graves upon the hill
Where my comrades lie together, and the winds are hushed and still.

They to whom the lark's blithe carol, and the songs of love are dead;
Vain to them the white encampment of the crocus o'er their head;

And my cheek is flushed with crimson—better that a stranger's hand
Guide the coulter in the furrow, if mine own shall wield the brand!

What to me the rattling walnuts in Love's consecrated shade,
Who have heard the bullets dropping in the dusky ambuscade?

372

What to me if greenly flourish newer life within the wood,
If the baby leaves are nourished in the dew of brothers' blood?

Blithely lift your tuneful voices, blithely sing and merrily
Chant your marriage morning pæans, O ye birds, but not for me!

Till the Nation's dreary winter shall have passed, and time shall bring
Through the Autumn's smoke of battle glimpses of the Nation's Spring;

Till a people's benediction mingle with the songs above,
That shall hail the glad espousals of a long estrangèd love;

Then a symbol of that Union shall my darling fitly wear,
Hickory leaves and orange blossoms wreathed together in her hair.

SCHEMMELFENNIG

[_]

[General Alexander Schemmelfennig commanded the forces that first entered Charleston upon its evacuation by the Confederates in 1865.]

Brave Teuton, though thy awful name
Is one no common rhyme can mimic,
Though in despair the trump of Fame
Evades thy painful patronymic—
Though orators forego thy praise,
And timid bards by tongue or pen ig-
Nore thee—thus alone I raise
Thy name in song, my Schemmelfennig!

What though no hecatombs may swell
With mangled forms thy path victorious;

373

Though Charleston to thee bloodless fell,
Wert thou less valiant or less glorious?
Thou took'st tobacco—cotton—grain—
And slaves—they say a hundred and ten nig-
Gers were captives in thy train
And swelled thy pomp, my Schemmelfennig!

Let Asboth mourn his name unsung,
And Schurz his still unwritten story;
Let Blenker grieve the silent tongue,
And Zagonyi forego his glory;
Ye are but paltry farthing lamps,
Your lights the fickle marsh or fen ig-
Nus fatuus of Southern swamps,
Beside the sun of Schemmelfennig!

THE VENDUE OF JEFFERSON DAVIS

THE CAUSE

Of all the tyrants whose actions swell
The pages of history, and tell
How well they fought, and how brave they fell
In battle assault or siege, pell-mell,
Or blew up their foes and themselves as well,
By way of a general ridding,
Commend us to Jefferson D. who spread
On the “outer wall” a flag of red,
And called to an auction sale instead
The wretches who did his bidding.

And yet, so fickle's the human mind,
In fact or fiction you'll always find

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The popular taste is most inclined
To the traitor that 's most consistent,
And the standard drama declares the fact
That he ought to die with his weapon hack't,
Or fall on his sword in the final act,
As Brutus once did in his tent.

Laugh at the principle if you will,
One feels a kind of indefinite thrill
For the hunted pirate who cowers still
O'er his magazine with an iron will
And a pistol cocked and loaded,
And knows that capture will bring the flash,
The swift upheaval, and awful crash,
The blinding smoke, and the sullen splash,
But never dreamed of selling for cash,
As certain people we know did;
Alas! that the theory and the rash
Example are both exploded.

No doubt that Samson essayed to crown
In some such manner his life's renown
In that final act which they say brought down
The house on his last appearance;
Or, if further illustrations you lack,
I 've been keeping the scorpion figure back,
Who, girdled with fire, is never slack
In effecting his mortal clearance.

But there are skeptical folk who doubt
If Jefferson Davis really sold out,
On the eve of his final defeat and rout,
Such trifles as pots and kettles;
Or ever his proud soul stooped so low,
While girding his loins for a final blow,

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To lend himself to a Yankee show,
Whose very detail belittles,
And call the tale a canard—as near
What really is genuine and sincere
As the duck of Vaucauson might appear
To the one that digests its victuals.

But ah! the poet, whose prophet eyes
Can look through the battle-clouds that rise,
Sees not the traders who sacrifice
Such homely trifles as housewives prize,
But a symbol of something greater—
The selling out of a mansion built
On the soil where a Nation's blood is spilt,
With Fate for an auctioneer, and Guilt
Close by, an amazed spectator.

To such there comes a terrible awe,
To think that the people who gathered saw
The mighty arm of some Northern Thor
Uplifting the auction hammer,
And knocking down with each terrible blow
Some things that the catalogue did n't show,
In words that the reader will find below
Mixed up with the vendor's clamor:

THE SALE

“Going, gentlemen!—going, gone!
The entire furniture, slightly worn,
And the family portraits these walls adorn,
Well worthy of any man's—hanging;
And some English carpets as good as new,
A little down-trodden, but then they'll do

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If you let Grant shake 'em and put 'em through
The usual beating and banging!

“Who bids for a genealogical tree—
A beautiful piece of embroidery,
A very first family's pedigree?
What a chance for our youthful scions!
Who bids? As the article 's useless now
I'll take—‘five dollars!’—too bad, I vow!
Well, put it in greenbacks! What name? eh, how?
Ah, beg your pardon!—‘Lord Lyons!’

“A family Bible I offer next,
Which opens itself at a certain text
About Onesimus that once vext
The church as a casus belli;
And all those passages stricken out
Which provoke research in this age of doubt:
How much?—Ah, thank you?—'t is yours, my stout
Old Cardinal—Antonelli!

“Now here 's an article one might skip,
But the lot goes together—a driver's whip,
And, barring some stains on the thong and tip,
It 's still in complete preservation:
Who bids? where 's the man who 's afraid to speak loud?
What, you, little white-coat, just back in the crowd,
With the yellow mustachios and bearing so proud!
Going, gone!—to the Austrian Legation!

“Going, gentlemen—going, gone!
The household gods of a man forlorn,
For the benefit of the wives that mourn,
And of children's children, yet unborn,
And of bonds that none shall sever;

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The house, and all that the house contains,
The wandering ghosts and their vengeful manes,
The naked walls and their blots and stains,
And even the title that now obtains
With an U. S. Grant forever!”

IN MEMORIAM

JEFFERSON DAVIS

Repudiator, Speculator, Dictator;
Who enjoyed the distinction of being the first
And last
President of the Southern Confederacy.
A Christian and Chivalrous Gentleman,
He starved Union Captives in his Prisons,
And sanctioned the Massacre of Fort Pillow.
But his manners were courtly and elegant,
And his State papers models of excellence.
He was remarkable for his executive wisdom:
To provide material for his forces,
He ordered corn to be planted instead of cotton,
Which enabled Sherman to march through Georgia.
He perpetuated a Slave Empire,
Whose bondsmen were guides to the Union Armies.
Consistent in his inconsistencies,
He connived at the assassination of the only man
Who could have saved him from the gallows.
The incarnation of dignity and heroism,
He was taken disguised in his wife's petticoats,
Claiming exemption from capture
On the grounds of his femininity.
As such, friends, respect his weakness,
And that of the few who still admire him.

378

THE LAMENT OF THE BALLAD-WRITER

Air: “Just Before the Battle, Mother”

Now the battle's over, Mother,
And your tears no longer start,
Really, it is my opinion
You and I had better part.
Farewell, Mother, if forever,
Your affection I resign,
Gone the days when just your blessing
Brought me fifty cents a line.

Farewell, O Maternal Fiction!
Thou whose far-parental sigh
Home has brought the youthful soldier,
Time and time again to die.
Farewell, Mother, you may never
In the future, peaceful years,
Bring a sob from private boxes—
Steep a dress-circle in tears.

Farewell, O thou gentle sister!
Thou, who in my cunning hand,
Didst deliver pious sermons,
Mild, innocuous, and bland;
Never more from thee I'll borrow
Moral sentiments to preach,
Nor shall “morrow” rhyme with “sorrow”
In thy bitter parting speech.

Farewell, O devoted Maiden!
Thou who for the country, true,
Sacrificed not only lover
But thy Lindley Murray, too;

379

Incoherent was my logic,
Wild and vague thy words I fear,
Yet the pit would still encore thee,
And the galleries would cheer.

Farewell, all ye facile phrases,
Gags and sentimental cant!
Names that took the place of ideas—
Sherman, Sheridan, and Grant;
Gone the days when schoolboy jingles
Took the place of manly talk,
When the “thought that breathed” was puffy,
And the word that burned—burnt cork.

Just before the battle, Mother,
Then my cheapest figure told;
While the rebel stood before us,
Then my glitter looked like gold.
Now this “cruel war is over,”
All inflated thought must fall;
Mother, dear, your boy must henceforth
Write sound sense, or not at all.

A THANKSGIVING RETROSPECT

Well! Charge your glasses!—Softly, friends,
The toast we drink to-night:
“The vacant chair,” that holds the post
Of honor on our right.
“The vacant chair”—why now so grave
Your looks once bright with love?
What though our circle narrows here,
It widens still above.

380

We drink to him who joins the host
That left our hearth before—
Dear hands that once have clasped our own
Shall touch his on that shore;
The grandsire whose unflinching soul
Went up from Concord fight,
Shall welcome him whose youthful arm
Last year struck home for Right!

That though he lived where barren hills
Were white with winter snows,
Where man through stubborn toil alone
To higher nature rose:
He sleeps where never click of hail
Or ice their changes ring,
But consonants of Winter yield
To open-vowels of Spring.

Above him drifts the cotton-bloom
Knee-deep above his grave;
The shroud that veils his southern bed
The north-wind never gave.
His sable mourners tread a shore
Enfranchised from their toil—
Thank God! (through valor such as his)
Our own—no foreign soil!

Then charge your glasses full, and pour
A stream as red and free
As that which from his youthful veins
Was poured for Liberty.
To-night no sorrow drown our thanks—
To-morrow tears may fall
For him who fills the vacant chair,
Yet sleeps near Tybee's wall.