[Poems by English in] The Southern Amaranth A carefully selected collection of poems growing out of and in reference to the late war |
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 | [Poems by English in] The Southern Amaranth |  |
424
The Lost Cause.
Lost! wherefore lost? That is not lost forever,
Which yields to numbers on the field of blood:
For truth has many fields for her endeavor—
Seas in their ebb can wait the hour of flood.
Which yields to numbers on the field of blood:
For truth has many fields for her endeavor—
Seas in their ebb can wait the hour of flood.
Worn out by contest with a myriad foemen,
If champions grow exhausted and despair,
What then—if on some cloudy day the gnomon
Points not the hour—the dial still is there.
If champions grow exhausted and despair,
What then—if on some cloudy day the gnomon
Points not the hour—the dial still is there.
The clouds will pass—the skies, not always shrouded,
Will gleam with glory, though to-day they lower,
And then the dial, never more enshrouded,
Will mark, and plainly mark, the triumph hour.
Will gleam with glory, though to-day they lower,
And then the dial, never more enshrouded,
Will mark, and plainly mark, the triumph hour.
Lost! wherefore lost? 'Tis not because in battle
Its friends were routed by o'erthronging foes,
Not 'mid the cannon's roar and musket's rattle,
Truth only deals its most effective blows.
Its friends were routed by o'erthronging foes,
Not 'mid the cannon's roar and musket's rattle,
Truth only deals its most effective blows.
No cause is lost, that, in itself, has merit,
Because its champions to brute-force succumb—
The sons, with pride, the fathers' wrongs inherit,
And they will speak—'tis only brutes are dumb.
Because its champions to brute-force succumb—
The sons, with pride, the fathers' wrongs inherit,
And they will speak—'tis only brutes are dumb.
The surest weapon is not gun or sabre,
Cannon, nor rifle, when for truth we fight:
A few fit words surpass the idiot's jabber,
Tongue, pen, and press, are potent for the right.
Cannon, nor rifle, when for truth we fight:
A few fit words surpass the idiot's jabber,
Tongue, pen, and press, are potent for the right.
425
Not always Sisyphus may fail, and glorious
The hour that witnesses his labors o'er;
Let him roll on, he yet will be victorious,
And on the summit rest to toil no more.
The hour that witnesses his labors o'er;
Let him roll on, he yet will be victorious,
And on the summit rest to toil no more.
Lost! what is lost? The lives, the gold, the labor
Of thousands, given for four long, weary years!
The story goes from neighbor unto neighbor,
From sire to son, but is not told with tears.
Of thousands, given for four long, weary years!
The story goes from neighbor unto neighbor,
From sire to son, but is not told with tears.
It is not told with shame, nor heard with terror,
How, for a principle, a people fought;
Not in the cause, there lay the evident error,
But in the mode by which the end was sought.
How, for a principle, a people fought;
Not in the cause, there lay the evident error,
But in the mode by which the end was sought.
Ballots as weapons are than bullets surer,
As will be proven ere the strife is done:
Truth, by discussion, finds her throne securer—
The council closes what the sword began.
As will be proven ere the strife is done:
Truth, by discussion, finds her throne securer—
The council closes what the sword began.
Lost! never lost! a cause when those who love it,
Laugh at misfortune, and reverse defy,
Loses no hope when falsehood sits above it,—
It may be wounded, but it cannot die.
Laugh at misfortune, and reverse defy,
Loses no hope when falsehood sits above it,—
It may be wounded, but it cannot die.
But yesterday the Austrian ruled in Venice:
To-day, he sullen fires his parting gun;
Appeal to reason, and abandon menace,
Time, firmness, patience, and the cause is won.
To-day, he sullen fires his parting gun;
Appeal to reason, and abandon menace,
Time, firmness, patience, and the cause is won.
562
The Letter to the Dead.
“We remember at the Wilderness a gallant Mississippian had fallen, and at night, just before burying him, there came a letter from her he loved best. One of the group around his body—a minister—whose tenderness was womanly, broke the silent tearfulness with which he saw the dead letter; he took it and laid it upon
563
Comes the letter from a mother?
Are a sister's longings there?
Or the fondness of another,
Loved and loving, young and fair?
Seek not now to know the writer,
Seek not whence or why it came;
As he died, his dimmed eyes saw her;
As he died he breathed her name.
It has come o'er hills and valleys,
Crossed o'er rivers, passed o'er lakes:
“Bury it upon his bosom,
He will see it when he wakes.”
Bury the dead with the letter unread,
There to remain,
Till the soldier awakes from his slumber,
To join in the battle again.
Are a sister's longings there?
Or the fondness of another,
Loved and loving, young and fair?
Seek not now to know the writer,
Seek not whence or why it came;
As he died, his dimmed eyes saw her;
As he died he breathed her name.
It has come o'er hills and valleys,
Crossed o'er rivers, passed o'er lakes:
“Bury it upon his bosom,
He will see it when he wakes.”
Bury the dead with the letter unread,
There to remain,
Till the soldier awakes from his slumber,
To join in the battle again.
Ah! but never more to battle
He will march by beat of drum;
Nevermore when fight is over
Sigh for gentle peace to come;
Nevermore to roll-call answer,
Nevermore will pace his round,
Keeping watch o'er sleeping comrades
Strewn upon the chilly ground;
Nevermore the light words utter
While his heart with sadness aches;
“Bury it upon his bosom,
He will see it when he wakes.”
Bury it deep with the soldier to sleep:
There let it lie,
While the green grass grows o'er the sleeper,
And the world goes hurrying by.
He will march by beat of drum;
Nevermore when fight is over
Sigh for gentle peace to come;
Nevermore to roll-call answer,
Nevermore will pace his round,
Keeping watch o'er sleeping comrades
Strewn upon the chilly ground;
Nevermore the light words utter
While his heart with sadness aches;
“Bury it upon his bosom,
He will see it when he wakes.”
564
There let it lie,
While the green grass grows o'er the sleeper,
And the world goes hurrying by.
She who lingered as she wrote it
O'er each tender word she penned,
She perchance will find her sorrow
With some later lover end.
But for him those words of loving
May survive when time is o'er,
And, though she forget her fondness?
Greet him on the further shore,
Cross his arms and close his eyelids,
'Tis his slumber that he takes;
“Bury it upon his bosom,
He will see it when he wakes.”
Lay him to rest with the scroll on his breast,
There, in the tomb,
Till the startled dead shall awaken
At the terrible day of doom.
O'er each tender word she penned,
She perchance will find her sorrow
With some later lover end.
But for him those words of loving
May survive when time is o'er,
And, though she forget her fondness?
Greet him on the further shore,
Cross his arms and close his eyelids,
'Tis his slumber that he takes;
“Bury it upon his bosom,
He will see it when he wakes.”
Lay him to rest with the scroll on his breast,
There, in the tomb,
Till the startled dead shall awaken
At the terrible day of doom.
| [Poems by English in] The Southern Amaranth | |