Scene I
(Dade's battleground. Enter Soldiers under
the command of General Gaines, who march to
the sound of mournful music around Major Dade's
grave.
General Gaines
Soldiers! beneath this little spot of earth,
(And hallowed be the land that gave him birth—)
Lies gallant Dade the bravest of the brave,
Who we had all most freely died to save!
(They march around his grave again.)
All that could dignify the valorous heart,
And make him nobler than the rest of man,
Impelled him onward to his Country's cause.
The noblest sense of justice that the voice
Of pure Religion ever taught to man,
Inspired him for the sacrifice you see—
When, from the Altar of his body slain,
Arose the finest Offering in his soul
That ever fled away unstained to Heaven.
But what could he bequeathe his Country's cause
More sacred than the noblest of her sons?
The utterance of my lips is far too poor
To speak his praises whose sad death deserves
An eulogy pronounced by Angels' tongues.
Though his lamented death now mourned by all,
Disdains the mockery of my feeble praise,
Yet it shall be the Argument for song
In Future Ages when the dulcet strains
Of Genius shall flow down the tide of Time
To fill Eternity with noble deeds!
Let not the Sacred Vail that hides him in
This solitude, be lifted from his grave;
But let the Silence that surrounds him here,
Speak the deep gratitude of all our hearts!
For speechless as this solitude now is,
There is, about its stillness, more profound
And audible eloquence, then in the deep
And loud-mouth thunder! All is silent now!
There is no deep-toned bell to toll, in long
Drawn intervals, the Requiem of his death!
There is no pompous monument to rear
Its ghostly aspect for the passers by!
The Silence of this tongueless Solitude
Shall speak sublime language for the dead,
Than ever could the cold lips of the pale
And letered Monument! The mighty Winds
In Nature's stormy concert shall attune
The shafted columns of the giant Oaks
In wonderous melody to sing his praise.
His Country's voice can speak his virtues best.
What are the glorious Sepulchres of Kings,
To genius laureled with immortal fame?
The one is fleeting as the drunkard's thoughts—
The other lasting as the immortal soul.
The weakness of my heart has sealed its tears
With the brave poet that I am called to act.
The Soldier in the battle-strife weeps not
Above the body of his brother slain.
The funeral pageant keeps the mourner's tears
All dry until at some auspicious hour,
When, like the unsealed gratitude of Heaven,
The heart pours out its weight of wo unseen;
And gathering strength from such divine relief,
Wakes vigorous like the strong man for the race.
(They march around his grave again to mournful music.)
Hail, Music! blessed Angel of the skies!
There was no language worthy of the Sons
Of God, but music such as Angels used,
To celebrate the Birth-day of the World.
The mighty cataracts were heard to pour
Their giant voices on the ear of Night!
And now, the humblest of Columbia's Sons
Lift up their proud hearts responsive to the strain.
But shall that brave man's death be unavenged?
No! let the lasting memory of his name
Sink deep in all our hearts for fierce revenge!
The blood-stained earth looks in the peaceful face
Of Heaven, imploring vengeance on the foe!
The last fond duty that we owe the dead,
Is thus to scatter flowers upon his grave!
(They scatter flowers on his grave to the
sound of mournful music, then march out.)
