[Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) being scattered chapters from the history of the Cooper, Pomeroy, Woolson and Benedict families, with extracts From their Letters and Journals, as well as articles and poems by Constance Fenimore Woolson |
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GETTYSBURG. |
 | [Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) |  |
224
GETTYSBURG.
1876.
Oh ye too old to feel, too young to know
The memory of those years that stirred our hearts
Deeper than human hand can ever stir,
Or single sorrow, lost to you the glow,
The thrill, the tears, as, now while day departs
Beyond the soft blue mountains, on this spur
I stand—among the graves, the soldiers' graves,
The dead of Gettysburg.
The memory of those years that stirred our hearts
Deeper than human hand can ever stir,
Or single sorrow, lost to you the glow,
The thrill, the tears, as, now while day departs
Beyond the soft blue mountains, on this spur
I stand—among the graves, the soldiers' graves,
The dead of Gettysburg.
The slow years pass,—
The youths who lie here underneath this grass
Would have been men now, and the men have worn
The graver look of age.—O lives forlorn,
O girl-heart crushed, O heart of wife that craves
One look, one touch—O mother reft of son,
Though all the world beside forget these graves,
Ye, ye do not forget! They may not know
Around you, but the birthday of the one,
The one, the lost one, silently is kept,
Deep in your hearts, and swift hot tears still flow
Upon your pillows, though they deemed you slept
In calm forgetfulness.
The youths who lie here underneath this grass
Would have been men now, and the men have worn
The graver look of age.—O lives forlorn,
O girl-heart crushed, O heart of wife that craves
One look, one touch—O mother reft of son,
Though all the world beside forget these graves,
Ye, ye do not forget! They may not know
Around you, but the birthday of the one,
The one, the lost one, silently is kept,
Deep in your hearts, and swift hot tears still flow
Upon your pillows, though they deemed you slept
In calm forgetfulness.
Come, hither, ye
Who dwell in city streets, and view the scene
Rich with the harvest, fresh from summer rain,
Studded with orchards. Yet, the agony
Was fierce there in the wheat-field, and the green
Was drenched with red; a thousand men were slain
In those fair orchards; from that low stone wall
Along the brookside, started the fierce rush
Up the hill's crest—What is it thus to fall
And die in bitter pain while yet the flush
Of youth is on the cheek? They could not know
More than the space before them, dim with smoke
From the hot guns,—but, when the captains spoke,
Each man did aim straight at his nearest foe,
To slay him or—be slain. 'Twas all he knew
Of the wide battle—the few feet of earth
That held him when he fell. And yet, the worth
Of deeds like this it was that gained the day
With its red hosts of death.
Who dwell in city streets, and view the scene
Rich with the harvest, fresh from summer rain,
Studded with orchards. Yet, the agony
Was fierce there in the wheat-field, and the green
Was drenched with red; a thousand men were slain
In those fair orchards; from that low stone wall
Along the brookside, started the fierce rush
Up the hill's crest—What is it thus to fall
And die in bitter pain while yet the flush
Of youth is on the cheek? They could not know
More than the space before them, dim with smoke
From the hot guns,—but, when the captains spoke,
Each man did aim straight at his nearest foe,
To slay him or—be slain. 'Twas all he knew
Of the wide battle—the few feet of earth
That held him when he fell. And yet, the worth
Of deeds like this it was that gained the day
With its red hosts of death.
225
But no dark pall
Broods now upon this slope, or on our hearts,
Despite these tears; the graves stretch green away,
And flowers bloom everywhere, the evening dew
Doth pearl the carved “unknown”—They gave their lives,
Yea, through their faults, their sins, perhaps, there starts
Ever this thought—they gave their lives!
Broods now upon this slope, or on our hearts,
Despite these tears; the graves stretch green away,
And flowers bloom everywhere, the evening dew
Doth pearl the carved “unknown”—They gave their lives,
Yea, through their faults, their sins, perhaps, there starts
Ever this thought—they gave their lives!
Fair day
Of Consecration, thou didst hear the man,
The plain grand speaker,—say those words that live
Immortal on the page. “The world not long
Will note what we say here,—but never can
Forget what they did here,”—O, listening throng
Of dead, ye heard it! None so fit to give
This tribute as that one whose memory drives
Mere gilded grace and courtier's art away,
The people's son—their Leader.
Of Consecration, thou didst hear the man,
The plain grand speaker,—say those words that live
Immortal on the page. “The world not long
Will note what we say here,—but never can
Forget what they did here,”—O, listening throng
Of dead, ye heard it! None so fit to give
This tribute as that one whose memory drives
Mere gilded grace and courtier's art away,
The people's son—their Leader.
Let us say
His words again. The land will not note long,
Ye dead of Gettysburg, ye voiceless throng
Of mounds, what we may write; but God forbid
It e'er forget, or care not, what ye did!
His words again. The land will not note long,
Ye dead of Gettysburg, ye voiceless throng
Of mounds, what we may write; but God forbid
It e'er forget, or care not, what ye did!
| [Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) | |