University of Virginia Library

I.

Brothers, is this the spot?
Let the drums cease to beat;
Let the tread of marching feet,
With the clash and clang of steel
And the trumpet's long appeal
(Cry of joy and sob of pain
In its passionate refrain)
Cease awhile,
Nor beguile
Thoughts that would rehearse the story
Of the past's remembered glory;
Thoughts that would revive to-day
Stern War's rude, imperious sway;
Waken battle's fiery glow
With its ardor and its woe,
With its wild, exulting thrills,
With the rush of mighty wills,
And the strength to do and dare—
Born of passion and of prayer!

II.

Let the present fade away,
And the splendors of to-day;
For our hearts within us burn
As our glances backward turn.
What rare memories awaken
As the tree of life is shaken,
And its storied branches blow
In the winds of long ago!
Do ye not remember, brothers,
Ere the war-days how 'twas said
Grand, heroic days were over
And proud chivalry was dead?
Still we saw the glittering lances
Gleaming through the old romances,
Still beheld the watch-fires burning
On the cloudy heights of Time;
And from fields that they had won,
When the stormy fight was done,
Saw victorious knights returning
Flushed with triumph's joy sublime!
For the light of song and story
Kindled with supernal glory
Plains where ancient heroes fought;
And illumined, with a splendor
Rare and magical and tender,
All the mighty deeds they wrought.
But we thought the sword of battle,
Long unused, had lost its glow,
And the sullen war-gods slumbered
Where their altar-fires burned low!

III.

Was the nation dull and sodden,
Buried in material things?
'Twas the chrysalis, awaiting
The sure stirring of its wings!
For when rang the thrilling war-cry
Over all the startled land,
And the fiery cross of battle,
Flaming, sped from hand to hand,
Then how fared it, O my brothers?
Were men false or craven then?
Did they falter?
Did they palter?
Did they question why or when?
Oh, the story shall be told
Until earth itself is old,
How, from mountain and from glen,
More than thrice ten thousand men
Heard the challenge of the foe,
Heard the nation's cry of woe,
Heard the summoning to arms,
And the battle's loud alarms!
In tumultuous surprise,
Lo, their answer rent the skies;
And its quick and strong heart-thrills
Rocked the everlasting hills!
Forth from blossoming fields they sped
To the fields with carnage red!
Left the plowshare standing still;
Left the bench, the forge, the mill;
Left the quiet walks of trade
And the quarry's marble shade;
Left the pulpit and the court,
Careless ease and idle sport;
Left the student's cloistered halls
In the old, gray college walls;
Left young love-dreams, dear and sweet,
War's stern front, unblenched, to meet!
Oh, the strange and sad amaze
Of those unforgotten days,
When the boys whom we had guided,
Nursed and loved, caressed and chided,
Suddenly, as in a night,
Sprang to manhood's proudest height;
And with calmly smiling lips,
As who life's rarest goblet sips,
Dauntless, with unhurried breath,
Marched to danger and to death!

IV.

Soldiers, is this the spot?
Fair the scene is, calm and fair,
In this still October air;
Far blue hills look gently down
On the happy, tranquil town,
And the ridges nearer by
Steeped in autumn sunshine lie.
Laden orchards, smiling fields,
Rich in all that nature yields;
Bright streams winding in and out
Fertile meadows round about,
Lowing herds and hum of bee,
Birds that flit from tree to tree,
Children's voices ringing clear,
All we touch or see or hear—
Fruit of gold in silver set—
Tell of joy and peace. And yet—
Soldiers, is this the spot
That can never be forgot?
Was it here that shot and shell
Poured as from the mouth of hell,
Drenched the shrinking, trembling plain
With a flood of fiery rain?
Was it here the awful wonder
Of the cannon's crashing thunder
Shook the affrighted hills, and made
Even the stolid rocks afraid?
Was it here an armèd host,
Like two clouds where lightnings play,
Or two oceans, tempest tost,
Clashed and mingled in the fray?
Here that, 'mid the din and smoke,
Roar of guns and sabre stroke,
Tramp of furious steeds, where moan
Horse and rider, both o'erthrown,
Lurid fires and battle yell,
Forty thousand brave men fell?

V.

O brothers, words are weak!
What tongue shall dare to speak?
Even song itself grows dumb
In this high presence.—Come
Forth, ye whose ashes lie
Under this arching sky!
Speak ye in accents clear
Words that we fain would hear!
Tell us when your dim eyes,
Holy with sacrifice,
Looked through the battle smoke
Up to the skies;
Tell us, ye valiant dead,
When your souls starward fled,
How from the portals far
Where the immortals are,
Chieftains and vikings old,
Heroes and warriors bold,
Men whom old Homer sung,
Men of each age and tongue,
Knights from a thousand fields
Bearing their blazoned shields
Thronged forth to meet ye!
Tell us how, floating down,
Each with a martyr's crown,
They who had kept the faith,
Grandly defying death;
They who for conscience' sake
Felt their firm heartstrings break;
They who for truth and right
Unshrinking fought the fight;
They who through fire and flame
Passed on to deathless fame,
Hastened to greet ye!
Tell how they welcomed ye,
Hailed and applauded ye,
Claimed ye as comrades true,
Brave as the world e'er knew;
Led your triumphant feet
Up to the highest seat,
Crowned ye with amaranth,
Laurel and palm.

VI.

Alas, alas! They speak not!
The silence deep they break not!
Heaven keeps its martyred ones
Beyond or moon or suns;
And Valhalla keeps its braves,
Leaving to us their graves!
Then let these graves speak for them
As long as the wind sweeps o'er them!
As long as the sentinel ridges
Keep guard on either hand;
As long as the hills they fought for
Like silent watch-towers stand!

VII.

Yet not of them alone
Round each memorial stone
Shall the proud breezes whisper as they pass,
Rustling the faded leaves
On chilly autumn eves,
And swaying tenderly the sheltering grass!
O ye who on this field
Knew not the joy to yield
Your young, glad lives in glorious conflict up;
Ye who as bravely fought,
Ye who as grandly wrought,
Draining with them war's darkly bitter cup,
As long as stars endure
And God and Truth are sure;
While Love still claims its own,
While Honor holds its throne
And Valor hath a name,
Still shall these stony pages
Repeat to all the ages
The story of your fame!

VIII.

O beautiful one, my Country,
Thou fairest daughter of Time,
To-day are thine eyes unclouded
In the light of a faith sublime!
No thunder of battle appals thee;
From thy woe thou hast found release;
From the graves of thy sons steals only
This one soft whisper,—“Peace!”