 | War-lyrics and other poems |  |
WOOD AND COAL.
(November, 1863.)
Farmer SMITH shakes his old white head,
Fuel, he says, will be scarce and dear—
Half our young men are gone to the wars,
Little wood has been cut this year.
Fuel, he says, will be scarce and dear—
Half our young men are gone to the wars,
Little wood has been cut this year.
Skipper Jones strokes his grizzled beard,
Freights, he expects, were never so high—
Half our hands are shipped on the fleets,
Coals must be awful, by and by!
Freights, he expects, were never so high—
Half our hands are shipped on the fleets,
Coals must be awful, by and by!
Are ye glad, O Cedar and Fir?
Will ye sing, with the Seer of yore,
Rejoice! no feller, axe in hand,
Cometh against us more!
Will ye sing, with the Seer of yore,
Rejoice! no feller, axe in hand,
Cometh against us more!
63
Hush, with your wavy boast,
Your flutter of leafy words!
The funeral train of your Lords
Goes down from mountain to coast.
Your flutter of leafy words!
The funeral train of your Lords
Goes down from mountain to coast.
Their dirge is strident and hoarse—
Screech of bob-sled and chain,
Groan of drag and of wain,
Reeling under the giant corse
Of Oak from Merrimac's rugged source
And Pine from the hills of Maine.
Screech of bob-sled and chain,
Groan of drag and of wain,
Reeling under the giant corse
Of Oak from Merrimac's rugged source
And Pine from the hills of Maine.
And down where the dock-yard sits,
With mighty derrick and sheers—
Keel and carline, transom and bitts,
The mammoth Skeleton grows, and knits
The spoil of your hundred years.
With mighty derrick and sheers—
Keel and carline, transom and bitts,
The mammoth Skeleton grows, and knits
The spoil of your hundred years.
Are ye quiet, Kobold and Gnome?
Can ye crouch and whisper at will,
By lode and drift, in your sullen home,
Untroubled with pick or drill?
Can ye crouch and whisper at will,
By lode and drift, in your sullen home,
Untroubled with pick or drill?
Hark, how angry and fast,
By valley and mountain-gorge,
By port and foundry vast,
The roar of furnace and blast,
The clang of anvil and forge!
By valley and mountain-gorge,
By port and foundry vast,
The roar of furnace and blast,
The clang of anvil and forge!
64
For the Powers of Earth to-day
Are sounding an old, old Song—
The loud and the dreadful Lay
Of death to horror and wrong!
Are sounding an old, old Song—
The loud and the dreadful Lay
Of death to horror and wrong!
A thousand years hath it rang,
“Crime shall go under!”
Is all but a vast, vain pang?
God makes no blunder—
How the armories bellow and clang!
How the ship-yards thunder!
“Crime shall go under!”
Is all but a vast, vain pang?
God makes no blunder—
How the armories bellow and clang!
How the ship-yards thunder!
Ah, not for the fireside glow,
With its cheery urn and tray,
And the children's faces all a-row,
Are the woods and the mines, to-day!
With its cheery urn and tray,
And the children's faces all a-row,
Are the woods and the mines, to-day!
Scant is the spark ye spare for these,
Dark-ledged caverns and moss-gray trees!
A grimmer service is yours at last—
To roll the plate and to melt the cast,
Bolt the keelson and step the mast,
And drive the war-ship through winter seas.
Dark-ledged caverns and moss-gray trees!
A grimmer service is yours at last—
To roll the plate and to melt the cast,
Bolt the keelson and step the mast,
And drive the war-ship through winter seas.
So hath it been from the days of old—
Though the fire go out on the widow's hearth,
And the orphans cuddle abed for cold—
That is the way of our weary earth,
These are the pangs of a Nation's Birth.
Though the fire go out on the widow's hearth,
And the orphans cuddle abed for cold—
That is the way of our weary earth,
These are the pangs of a Nation's Birth.
65
Trust and endure!—for 'tis all of Fate—
And the end shall come, be it soon or late—
Better that one generation die,
Than a hundred live in horror and hate—
There's room for us all in God's fair sky.
And the end shall come, be it soon or late—
Better that one generation die,
Than a hundred live in horror and hate—
There's room for us all in God's fair sky.
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