 | Joaquin Miller's Poems |  |
129
LOG CABIN LINES
131
THE SOLDIERS' HOME, WASHINGTON
The monument, tipped with electric fire,
Blazed high in a halo of light below
My low cabin door in the hills that inspire;
And the dome of the Capitol gleamed like snow
In a glory of light, as higher and higher
This wondrous creation of man was sent
To challenge the lights of the firmament.
Blazed high in a halo of light below
My low cabin door in the hills that inspire;
And the dome of the Capitol gleamed like snow
In a glory of light, as higher and higher
This wondrous creation of man was sent
To challenge the lights of the firmament.
A tall man, tawny and spare as bone,
With battered old hat and with feet half bare,
With the air of a soldier that was all his own—
Aye, something more than a soldier's air—
Came clutching a staff, with a face like stone;
Limped in through my gate—and I thought to beg—
Tight clutching a staff, slow dragging a leg.
With battered old hat and with feet half bare,
With the air of a soldier that was all his own—
Aye, something more than a soldier's air—
Came clutching a staff, with a face like stone;
Limped in through my gate—and I thought to beg—
Tight clutching a staff, slow dragging a leg.
The bent new moon, like a simitar,
Kept peace in Heaven. All earth lay still.
Some sentinel stars stood watch afar,
Some crickets kept clanging along the hill,
As the tall, stern relic of blood and war
Limped in, and, with hand up to brow half raised,
Limped up, looked about, as one dazed or crazed.
Kept peace in Heaven. All earth lay still.
Some sentinel stars stood watch afar,
Some crickets kept clanging along the hill,
As the tall, stern relic of blood and war
Limped in, and, with hand up to brow half raised,
Limped up, looked about, as one dazed or crazed.
[_]
In the early eighties I built a log cabin in the edge of Washington, to be more in touch with both sides of the Civil War as well as with the smaller republics. And then many noble people who had been ruined in the South were ill content to live in log cabins, as their slaves had lived. I wanted to teach that a log cabin can be made very comfortable, with content at hand.
132
His gaunt face pleading for food and rest,
His set lips white as a tale of shame,
His black coat tight to a shirtless breast,
His black eyes burning in mine-like flame;
But never a word from his set lips came
As he whipped in line his battered old leg,
And his knees made mouths, and as if to beg.
His set lips white as a tale of shame,
His black coat tight to a shirtless breast,
His black eyes burning in mine-like flame;
But never a word from his set lips came
As he whipped in line his battered old leg,
And his knees made mouths, and as if to beg.
Aye! black were his eyes; but doubtful and dim
Their vision of beautiful earth, I think.
And I doubt if the distant, dear worlds to him
Were growing brighter as he neared the brink
Of dolorous seas where phantom ships swim.
For his face was as hard as the hard, thin hand
That clutched that staff like an iron band.
Their vision of beautiful earth, I think.
And I doubt if the distant, dear worlds to him
Were growing brighter as he neared the brink
Of dolorous seas where phantom ships swim.
For his face was as hard as the hard, thin hand
That clutched that staff like an iron band.
“Sir, I am a soldier!” The battered old hat
Stood up as he spake, like to one on parade—
Stood taller and braver as he spake out that—
And the tattered old coat, that was tightly laid
To the battered old breast, looked so trim thereat
That I knew the mouths of the battered old leg
That had opened wide were not made to beg.
Stood up as he spake, like to one on parade—
Stood taller and braver as he spake out that—
And the tattered old coat, that was tightly laid
To the battered old breast, looked so trim thereat
That I knew the mouths of the battered old leg
That had opened wide were not made to beg.
“I have wandered and wandered this twenty year:
Searched up and down for my regiments.
Have they gone to that field where no foes appear?
Have they pitched in Heaven their cloud-white tents?
Or, tell me, my friend, shall I find them here
On the hill beyond, at the Soldiers' Home,
Where the weary soldiers have ceased to roam?
Searched up and down for my regiments.
Have they gone to that field where no foes appear?
Have they pitched in Heaven their cloud-white tents?
Or, tell me, my friend, shall I find them here
On the hill beyond, at the Soldiers' Home,
Where the weary soldiers have ceased to roam?
133
“Aye, I am a soldier and a brigadier;
Is this the way to the Soldiers' Home?
There is plenty and rest for us all, I hear,
And a bugler, bidding us cease to roam,
Rides over the hill all the livelong year—
Rides calling and calling the brave to come
And rest and rest in that Soldiers' Home.
Is this the way to the Soldiers' Home?
There is plenty and rest for us all, I hear,
And a bugler, bidding us cease to roam,
Rides over the hill all the livelong year—
Rides calling and calling the brave to come
And rest and rest in that Soldiers' Home.
“Is this, sir, the way? I wandered in here
Just as one oft will at the close of day.
Aye, I am a soldier and a brigadier!
Now, the Soldiers' Home, sir. Is this the way?
I have wandered and wandered this twenty year,
Seeking some trace of my regiments
Sabered and riddled and torn to rents.
Just as one oft will at the close of day.
Aye, I am a soldier and a brigadier!
Now, the Soldiers' Home, sir. Is this the way?
I have wandered and wandered this twenty year,
Seeking some trace of my regiments
Sabered and riddled and torn to rents.
“Aye, I am a soldier and a brigadier!
A battered old soldier in the dusk of his day;
But you don't seem to heed, or you don't seem to hear,
Though, meek as I may, I ask for the way
To the Soldiers' Home, which must be quite near,
While under your oaks, in your easy chair,
You sit and you sit, and you stare and you stare.
A battered old soldier in the dusk of his day;
But you don't seem to heed, or you don't seem to hear,
Though, meek as I may, I ask for the way
To the Soldiers' Home, which must be quite near,
While under your oaks, in your easy chair,
You sit and you sit, and you stare and you stare.
“What battle? What deeds did I do in the fight?
Why, sir, I have seen green fields turn as red
As yonder red town in that marvelous light!
Then the great blazing guns! Then the ghastly white dead—
But, tell me, I faint, I must cease to roam!
This battered leg aches! Then this sabered old head—
Is—is this the way to the Soldiers' Home?
Why, sir, I have seen green fields turn as red
As yonder red town in that marvelous light!
Then the great blazing guns! Then the ghastly white dead—
But, tell me, I faint, I must cease to roam!
This battered leg aches! Then this sabered old head—
Is—is this the way to the Soldiers' Home?
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“Why, I hear men say 't is a Paradise
On the green oak hills by the great red town;
That many old comrades shall meet my eyes;
That a tasseled young trooper rides up and rides down,
With bugle horn blowing to the still blue skies,
Rides calling and calling us to rest and to stay
In that Soldiers' Home. Sir, is this the way?
On the green oak hills by the great red town;
That many old comrades shall meet my eyes;
That a tasseled young trooper rides up and rides down,
With bugle horn blowing to the still blue skies,
Rides calling and calling us to rest and to stay
In that Soldiers' Home. Sir, is this the way?
“My leg is so lame! Then this sabered old head—
Ah! pardon me, sir, I never complain;
But the road is so rough, as I just now said;
And then there is this something that troubles my brain.
It makes the light dance from yon Capitol's dome;
It makes the road dim as I doubtfully tread—
And—sir, is this the way to the Soldiers' Home?
Ah! pardon me, sir, I never complain;
But the road is so rough, as I just now said;
And then there is this something that troubles my brain.
It makes the light dance from yon Capitol's dome;
It makes the road dim as I doubtfully tread—
And—sir, is this the way to the Soldiers' Home?
“From the first to the last in that desperate war—
Why, I did my part. If I did not fall,
A hair's breadth measure of this skull-bone scar
Was all that was wanting; and then this ball—
But what cared I? Ah! better by far
Have a sabered old head and a shattered old knee
To the end, than not had the praise of Lee—
Why, I did my part. If I did not fall,
A hair's breadth measure of this skull-bone scar
Was all that was wanting; and then this ball—
But what cared I? Ah! better by far
Have a sabered old head and a shattered old knee
To the end, than not had the praise of Lee—
“What! What do I hear? No home there for me?
Why, I heard men say that the war was at end!
Oh, my head swims so; and I scarce can see!
But a soldier's a soldier, I think, my friend,
Wherever that soldier may chance to be!
And wherever a soldier may chance to roam,
Why, a Soldiers' Home is a soldier's home!”
Why, I heard men say that the war was at end!
Oh, my head swims so; and I scarce can see!
But a soldier's a soldier, I think, my friend,
Wherever that soldier may chance to be!
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Why, a Soldiers' Home is a soldier's home!”
He turned as to go; but he sank to the grass;
And I lifted my face to the firmament;
For I saw a sentinel white star pass,
Leading the way the old soldier went.
And the light shone bright from the Capitol's dome,
Ah, brighter from Washington's monument,
Lighting his way to the Soldiers' Home.
And I lifted my face to the firmament;
For I saw a sentinel white star pass,
Leading the way the old soldier went.
And the light shone bright from the Capitol's dome,
Ah, brighter from Washington's monument,
Lighting his way to the Soldiers' Home.
The Cabin, Washington, D. C.
OLIVE
Dove-borne symbol, olive bough;
Dove-hued sign from God to men,
As if still the dove and thou
Kept companionship as then.
Dove-hued sign from God to men,
As if still the dove and thou
Kept companionship as then.
Dove-hued, holy branch of peace,
Antique, all-enduring tree;
Deluge and the floods surcease—
Deluge and Gethsemane.
Antique, all-enduring tree;
Deluge and the floods surcease—
Deluge and Gethsemane.
136
THE BATTLE FLAG AT SHENANDOAH
The tented field wore a wrinkled frown,
And the emptied church from the hill looked down
On the emptied road and the emptied town,
That summer Sunday morning.
And the emptied church from the hill looked down
On the emptied road and the emptied town,
That summer Sunday morning.
And here was the blue, and there was the gray;
And a wide green valley rolled away
Between where the battling armies lay,
That sacred Sunday morning.
And a wide green valley rolled away
Between where the battling armies lay,
That sacred Sunday morning.
And Custer sat, with impatient will,
His restless horse, 'mid his troopers still,
As he watched with glass from the oak-set hill,
That silent Sunday morning.
His restless horse, 'mid his troopers still,
As he watched with glass from the oak-set hill,
That silent Sunday morning.
Then fast he began to chafe and to fret;
“There's a battle flag on a bayonet
Too close to my own true soldiers set
For peace this Sunday morning!”
“There's a battle flag on a bayonet
Too close to my own true soldiers set
For peace this Sunday morning!”
“Ride over, some one,” he haughtily said,
“And bring it to me! Why, in bars blood red
And in stars I will stain it, and overhead
Will flaunt it this Sunday morning!”
“And bring it to me! Why, in bars blood red
And in stars I will stain it, and overhead
Will flaunt it this Sunday morning!”
Then a West-born lad, pale-faced and slim,
Rode out, and touching his cap to him,
Swept down, swept swift as Spring swallows swim,
That anxious Sunday morning.
Rode out, and touching his cap to him,
Swept down, swept swift as Spring swallows swim,
That anxious Sunday morning.
On, on through the valley! up, up, anywhere!
That pale-faced lad like a bird through the air
Kept on till he climbed to the banner there
That bravest Sunday morning!
That pale-faced lad like a bird through the air
137
That bravest Sunday morning!
And he caught up the flag, and around his waist
He wound it tight, and he turned in haste,
And swift his perilous route retraced
That daring Sunday morning.
He wound it tight, and he turned in haste,
And swift his perilous route retraced
That daring Sunday morning.
All honor and praise to the trusty steed!
Ah! boy, and banner, and all God speed!
God's pity for you in your hour of need
This deadly Sunday morning.
Ah! boy, and banner, and all God speed!
God's pity for you in your hour of need
This deadly Sunday morning.
O, deadly shot! and O, shower of lead!
O, iron rain on the brave, bare head!
Why, even the leaves from the trees fall dead
This dreadful Sunday morning!
O, iron rain on the brave, bare head!
Why, even the leaves from the trees fall dead
This dreadful Sunday morning!
But he gains the oaks! Men cheer in their might!
Brave Custer is laughing in his delight!
Why, he is embracing the boy outright
This glorious Sunday morning!
Brave Custer is laughing in his delight!
Why, he is embracing the boy outright
This glorious Sunday morning!
But, soft! Not a word has the pale boy said.
He unwinds the flag. It is starred, striped, red
With his heart's best blood; and he falls down dead,
In God's still Sunday morning.
He unwinds the flag. It is starred, striped, red
With his heart's best blood; and he falls down dead,
In God's still Sunday morning.
So, wrap this flag to his soldier's breast:
Into stars and stripes it is stained and blest;
And under the oaks let him rest and rest
Till God's great Sunday morning.
Into stars and stripes it is stained and blest;
And under the oaks let him rest and rest
Till God's great Sunday morning.
138
THE LOST REGIMENT
The dying land cried; they heard her death-call,
These bent old men stopped, listened intent;
Then rusty old muskets rushed down from the wall,
And squirrel-guns gleamed in that regiment,
And grandsires marched, old muskets in hand—
The last men left in the old Southland.
These bent old men stopped, listened intent;
Then rusty old muskets rushed down from the wall,
And squirrel-guns gleamed in that regiment,
And grandsires marched, old muskets in hand—
The last men left in the old Southland.
The gray grandsires! They were seen to reel,
Their rusty old muskets a wearisome load;
They marched, scarce tall as the cannon's wheel,
Marched stooping on up the corduroy road;
These gray old boys, all broken and bent,
Marched out, the gallant last regiment.
Their rusty old muskets a wearisome load;
They marched, scarce tall as the cannon's wheel,
Marched stooping on up the corduroy road;
These gray old boys, all broken and bent,
Marched out, the gallant last regiment.
139
But oh! that march through the cypress trees,
When zest and excitement had died away!
That desolate march through the marsh to the knees—
The gray moss mantling the battered and gray—
These gray grandsires all broken and bent—
The gray moss mantling the regiment.
When zest and excitement had died away!
That desolate march through the marsh to the knees—
The gray moss mantling the battered and gray—
These gray grandsires all broken and bent—
The gray moss mantling the regiment.
The gray bent men and the mosses gray;
The dull dead gray of the uniform!
The dull dead skies, like to lead that day,
Dull, dead, heavy and deathly warm!
Oh, what meant more than the cypress meant,
With its mournful moss, to that regiment?
The dull dead gray of the uniform!
The dull dead skies, like to lead that day,
Dull, dead, heavy and deathly warm!
Oh, what meant more than the cypress meant,
With its mournful moss, to that regiment?
That deadly march through the marshes deep!
That sultry day and the deeds in vain!
The rest on the cypress roots, the sleep—
The sleeping never to rise again!
The rust on the guns; the rust and the rent—
That dying and desolate regiment!
That sultry day and the deeds in vain!
The rest on the cypress roots, the sleep—
The sleeping never to rise again!
The rust on the guns; the rust and the rent—
That dying and desolate regiment!
The muskets left leaning against the trees,
The cannon-wheels clogged from the moss o'erhead,
The cypress trees bending on obstinate knees
As gray men kneeling by the gray men dead!
A lone bird rising, long legged and gray,
Slow rising and rising and drifting away.
The cannon-wheels clogged from the moss o'erhead,
The cypress trees bending on obstinate knees
As gray men kneeling by the gray men dead!
A lone bird rising, long legged and gray,
Slow rising and rising and drifting away.
The dank dead mosses gave back no sound,
The drums lay silent as the drummers there;
The sultry stillness it was so profound
You might have heard an unuttered prayer;
And ever and ever and far away,
Kept drifting that desolate bird in gray.
The drums lay silent as the drummers there;
The sultry stillness it was so profound
You might have heard an unuttered prayer;
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Kept drifting that desolate bird in gray.
The long gray shrouds of that cypress wood,
Like vails that sweep where the gray nuns weep—
That cypress moss o'er the dankness deep,
Why, the cypress roots they were running blood;
And to right and to left lay an old man dead—
A mourning cypress set foot and head.
Like vails that sweep where the gray nuns weep—
That cypress moss o'er the dankness deep,
Why, the cypress roots they were running blood;
And to right and to left lay an old man dead—
A mourning cypress set foot and head.
'Twas man hunting men in the wilderness there;
'Twas man hunting man and hunting to slay,
But nothing was found but death that day,
And possibly God—and that bird in gray
Slow rising and rising and drifting away.
'Twas man hunting man and hunting to slay,
But nothing was found but death that day,
And possibly God—and that bird in gray
Slow rising and rising and drifting away.
Now down in the swamp where the gray men fell
The fireflies volley and volley at night,
And black men belated are heard to tell
Of the ghosts in gray in a mimic fight—
Of the ghosts of the gallant old men in gray
Who silently died in the swamp that day.
The fireflies volley and volley at night,
And black men belated are heard to tell
Of the ghosts in gray in a mimic fight—
Of the ghosts of the gallant old men in gray
Who silently died in the swamp that day.
In a pretty little village of Louisiana destroyed by shells toward the end of the war, on a bayou back from the river, a great number of very old men had been left by their sons and grandsons, while they went to the war. And these old men, many of them veterans of other wars, formed themselves into a regiment, made for themselves uniforms, picked up old flintlock guns, even mounted a rusty old cannon, and so prepared to go to battle if ever the war came within their reach. Toward the close of the war some gunboats came down the river shelling the shore. The old men heard the firing, and, gathering together, they set out with their old muskets and rusty old cannon to try to reach the river over the corduroy road through the cypress swamp. They marched out right merrily that hot day, shouting and bantering to encourage each other, the dim fires of their old eyes burning with desire of battle, although not one of them was young enough to stand erect. And they never came back any more. The shells from the gunboats set the dense and sultry woods on fire. The old men were shut in by the flames—the gray beards and the gray moss and the gray smoke together.
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