 | Our heroic themes |  |
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OUR HEROIC THEMES.
Turn as I may in search of worthy themes,
To fill with life the poet's solemn dreams,—
Some hint from Rome, some retrospect of Greece,
Red with their war, or golden with their peace;
Some thought of Lancelot and Guinevere,
The “arm in samite” and the “mystic mere”;
Or those grand echoes that forever flow
From Roland's horn through narrow Roncesvaux;
Some spark yet living of the strange romance
Whose flame illumined the Crusader's lance;
Or that strong purpose which unclosed the seas
Before the vision of the Genoese;
Or when the love-lock and the close-cropped crown
Died with a laugh, or triumphed with a frown;
Or the frail Mayflower poured her prayerful flock
Upon the breast of Plymouth's wintry rock;
Or when the children of these hardy men
Bearded the throne they never loved again;—
Something I sought, whose wonted sound might call
Familiar echoes from this learnéd hall;
But sought in vain. The Past, unreal and far,
Loomed through the dusty vapors of our war,
And what was clear before my boyish glance
Lost, for the man, its old significance.
Those splendid themes, so sacred to my youth,—
Those dreams of fancy with their heart of truth,—
Paled as I viewed them in the fresher rays
That light the scenes of these heroic days;
Shrank, as the young Colossus of our age
With scornful finger turned the historic page,
And sought, through pygmy chiefs and pygmy wars,
To peer his stature and his dreadful scars;—
Sought till a smile o'erran his studious frown,
Then razed the records as he wrote his own:
Matchless in grandeur, product of a cause
As deep and changeless as those moral laws
That base themselves upon the throne of God,—
Fair with His blessings, awful with His rod.
Find me in history, since Adam fell,
This story's rival or its parallel:
A nation rising to undo a wrong
Forged by itself, and to its mind made strong
By every word its angry tongue had hurled
In stout defiance at a sneering world.
Since Paul was stricken on Damascus' plain,
Brimming with mischief and contrivings vain,
And God's dread brightness sealed his mortal sight,
But fired his spirit with a heavenly light,
Such swift conversion has not entered in
The darkened vision of unconscious sin,
As when this nation, in its proudest glow,
Reeled, weak and blinded, with the sudden blow;
But saw—thank God!—truth's inward ray make plain
The old delusions of its erring brain;
And even as Paul, from Ananias' hands,
Received his vision and his Lord's commands,
So, changed and contrite, sank the Nation down
Before thy touch of glory, brave John Brown!
To fill with life the poet's solemn dreams,—
Some hint from Rome, some retrospect of Greece,
Red with their war, or golden with their peace;
Some thought of Lancelot and Guinevere,
The “arm in samite” and the “mystic mere”;
Or those grand echoes that forever flow
From Roland's horn through narrow Roncesvaux;
Some spark yet living of the strange romance
Whose flame illumined the Crusader's lance;
Or that strong purpose which unclosed the seas
Before the vision of the Genoese;
Or when the love-lock and the close-cropped crown
Died with a laugh, or triumphed with a frown;
Or the frail Mayflower poured her prayerful flock
4
Or when the children of these hardy men
Bearded the throne they never loved again;—
Something I sought, whose wonted sound might call
Familiar echoes from this learnéd hall;
But sought in vain. The Past, unreal and far,
Loomed through the dusty vapors of our war,
And what was clear before my boyish glance
Lost, for the man, its old significance.
Those splendid themes, so sacred to my youth,—
Those dreams of fancy with their heart of truth,—
Paled as I viewed them in the fresher rays
That light the scenes of these heroic days;
Shrank, as the young Colossus of our age
With scornful finger turned the historic page,
And sought, through pygmy chiefs and pygmy wars,
To peer his stature and his dreadful scars;—
Sought till a smile o'erran his studious frown,
Then razed the records as he wrote his own:
Matchless in grandeur, product of a cause
5
That base themselves upon the throne of God,—
Fair with His blessings, awful with His rod.
Find me in history, since Adam fell,
This story's rival or its parallel:
A nation rising to undo a wrong
Forged by itself, and to its mind made strong
By every word its angry tongue had hurled
In stout defiance at a sneering world.
Since Paul was stricken on Damascus' plain,
Brimming with mischief and contrivings vain,
And God's dread brightness sealed his mortal sight,
But fired his spirit with a heavenly light,
Such swift conversion has not entered in
The darkened vision of unconscious sin,
As when this nation, in its proudest glow,
Reeled, weak and blinded, with the sudden blow;
But saw—thank God!—truth's inward ray make plain
The old delusions of its erring brain;
And even as Paul, from Ananias' hands,
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So, changed and contrite, sank the Nation down
Before thy touch of glory, brave John Brown!
But why explore the sources of the flood,
Whence all the land ran steel and fire and blood?
My heart is fretting, like a tethered steed,
To join the hero in his noble deed.
A noise of armies gathers in my ears,
The Southern yells, the Northern battle-cheers;
The endless volleys, ceaseless as the roar
Of the vexed ocean brawling with its shore;
The groaning cannon, puffing at a breath
Man's shreds and fragments through the jaws of death;
The rush of horses, and the whirring sway
Of the keen sabre cleaving soul from clay;
And over all, intelligible and clear
As spoken language to a listening ear,
The trumpet orders the tumultuous herds,
And leads the flocks of battle with its words.
'T was mine to witness and to feel the shame
Manassas cast upon our early fame,
When the raw greenness of our boastful bands
Yielded a victory almost in their hands;
Fled from the field before a vanquished foe,
And lied about it, to complete the woe.
Since then, through all the changes of the war,
My eyes have followed our ascending star.
Ascending ever, though at times the cloud
Of dark disaster casts its murky shroud
About our guide, oppressing men with fear
Lest the last day of liberty drew near;—
Through all I knew, and with my faith upborne
Turned on the weak a smile of pitying scorn,
That our calm star still filled its destined place,
Lost to our sight, but shining in God's face.
Whence all the land ran steel and fire and blood?
My heart is fretting, like a tethered steed,
To join the hero in his noble deed.
A noise of armies gathers in my ears,
The Southern yells, the Northern battle-cheers;
The endless volleys, ceaseless as the roar
Of the vexed ocean brawling with its shore;
The groaning cannon, puffing at a breath
Man's shreds and fragments through the jaws of death;
The rush of horses, and the whirring sway
Of the keen sabre cleaving soul from clay;
And over all, intelligible and clear
As spoken language to a listening ear,
The trumpet orders the tumultuous herds,
And leads the flocks of battle with its words.
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Manassas cast upon our early fame,
When the raw greenness of our boastful bands
Yielded a victory almost in their hands;
Fled from the field before a vanquished foe,
And lied about it, to complete the woe.
Since then, through all the changes of the war,
My eyes have followed our ascending star.
Ascending ever, though at times the cloud
Of dark disaster casts its murky shroud
About our guide, oppressing men with fear
Lest the last day of liberty drew near;—
Through all I knew, and with my faith upborne
Turned on the weak a smile of pitying scorn,
That our calm star still filled its destined place,
Lost to our sight, but shining in God's face.
With growing courage, day by day I hung
Above the soldier of the quiet tongue.
Sneers hissed about him, penmen fought his war:
Here he was lacking, there he went too far.
Alas! how bloody! But, alack! how tame!
O for Lee's talent!—O ye fools, for shame!
From the first move, his foe defensive stood;
And was that nothing? It was worth the blood.
O chief supreme, the head of glory's roll!
O will of steel, O lofty, generous soul,
Sharing thy laurels, lest a comrade want;
Why should I name thee? Every mouth cries, Grant!
Above the soldier of the quiet tongue.
Sneers hissed about him, penmen fought his war:
8
Alas! how bloody! But, alack! how tame!
O for Lee's talent!—O ye fools, for shame!
From the first move, his foe defensive stood;
And was that nothing? It was worth the blood.
O chief supreme, the head of glory's roll!
O will of steel, O lofty, generous soul,
Sharing thy laurels, lest a comrade want;
Why should I name thee? Every mouth cries, Grant!
Firm was my faith in him whose sturdy skill
Three dreadful days had held the quaking hill;
Stood, like a rock, on which the fiery spray
Beat out its life, then slowly ebbed away;
Saved our domain from rapine, waste, and wrath,
And taught the foe an unreturning path,—
Light of our darkness, succor of our need,
God of our country, bless the name of Meade!
Three dreadful days had held the quaking hill;
Stood, like a rock, on which the fiery spray
Beat out its life, then slowly ebbed away;
Saved our domain from rapine, waste, and wrath,
And taught the foe an unreturning path,—
Light of our darkness, succor of our need,
God of our country, bless the name of Meade!
I watched with Thomas while his wary glance
Marked the rash foes their heedless lines advance;
Step after step he lured their willing feet
Into the toils, from whence was no retreat
Then with a swoop, as when the eagle swings
Out of his eyry, with the roar of wings,
The veteran fell upon his venturous prey,—
And—let Bragg end it, if there 's aught to say.
Marked the rash foes their heedless lines advance;
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Into the toils, from whence was no retreat
Then with a swoop, as when the eagle swings
Out of his eyry, with the roar of wings,
The veteran fell upon his venturous prey,—
And—let Bragg end it, if there 's aught to say.
I saw with wonder Sherman's Titan line
Pour from the mountains to the distant brine,
Sweep treason's cradle bare of all its brood,
And turn its garden to a solitude.
Fear ran before him, Famine groaned behind,
And, following Famine, came the humble mind.
Pour from the mountains to the distant brine,
Sweep treason's cradle bare of all its brood,
And turn its garden to a solitude.
Fear ran before him, Famine groaned behind,
And, following Famine, came the humble mind.
Who felt a care within his bosom grow,
Of more than pity for the hapless foe,
Or spent a fear on that which Fate's decrees
Already wrote amongst her victories,
When in the tumult of the battled van
Shone Fortune's darling, mounted Sheridan?
Rapid to plan and peerless in the fight,
He plucked Fame's chaplet as by sovereign right;
Emerged triumphant from a wild retreat,
And blazoned victory's colors on defeat.
Of more than pity for the hapless foe,
Or spent a fear on that which Fate's decrees
Already wrote amongst her victories,
When in the tumult of the battled van
Shone Fortune's darling, mounted Sheridan?
10
He plucked Fame's chaplet as by sovereign right;
Emerged triumphant from a wild retreat,
And blazoned victory's colors on defeat.
I marked the Navy lay its iron hand
Upon the waves, and clutch the trembling land.
Heard the stern music of Dupont resound,
To time the measures of his fiery round;
Or Foot's fierce clamor, as his flaming breath
Sounded a challenge in the face of death.
Saw Morris rising from the wreck-strewn sea,
Crowned with more fame than beams from victory;
Or foe-girt Winslow, ocean's errant knight,
Dare Treason's champion to a single fight;
Or Porter thunder with his shot and shell
Upon the foe's last, crumbling citadel:
Or—let us pause before that height we scale,
Where stands a title that makes others pale;
That so much tried the stretching arm of Fame,
She stood on tiptoe when she wrote his name.
Captor of cities and of sovereign States,
Whose prow unlocked the rivers' arméd gates;
Whose starry ensign ruled the troubled sky,
And waved o'er earth the rod of destiny.
Ever victorious, he but raised his hand,
And cringing Fortune lackeyed his command.
What name but one shall I pronounce, to clear
My tongue from flattery in the public ear?
The land replies, from palace, farm, and hut;—
Shall I proclaim it?—David Farragut!
Upon the waves, and clutch the trembling land.
Heard the stern music of Dupont resound,
To time the measures of his fiery round;
Or Foot's fierce clamor, as his flaming breath
Sounded a challenge in the face of death.
Saw Morris rising from the wreck-strewn sea,
Crowned with more fame than beams from victory;
Or foe-girt Winslow, ocean's errant knight,
Dare Treason's champion to a single fight;
Or Porter thunder with his shot and shell
Upon the foe's last, crumbling citadel:
Or—let us pause before that height we scale,
Where stands a title that makes others pale;
That so much tried the stretching arm of Fame,
11
Captor of cities and of sovereign States,
Whose prow unlocked the rivers' arméd gates;
Whose starry ensign ruled the troubled sky,
And waved o'er earth the rod of destiny.
Ever victorious, he but raised his hand,
And cringing Fortune lackeyed his command.
What name but one shall I pronounce, to clear
My tongue from flattery in the public ear?
The land replies, from palace, farm, and hut;—
Shall I proclaim it?—David Farragut!
Through anxious years, I saw the martial flood
Surge back and forth in waves of fire and blood.
Sometimes it paused and sometimes seemed to reel,
Spent and exhausted, from the Rebel steel;
But every shock was sapping, blow by blow,
The bars that backward held the overflow;
Till, suddenly, the ruin cracked and roared,
And over all the human torrent poured!
Then bloomed the harvest of our patient aims;
Then bowed the world before our deeds and names;
Then on the proudest of Fame's temple-gates
Shone novel records and thick-crowded dates.
New wreaths were hung upon her hornéd shrines,
New clarions blown before her martial lines;
Fresh incense smoked, and fresh libations dripped;
The vernal laurels from the hills were stripped,
And woven in chaplets. Far and near the hum
Of gladness ushered the returning drum.
Welcome stood beckoning, looking towards the South,
With cheers of transport brimming in the mouth;
Till came the rapture of that crowning hour,
When the vast armies poured their awful power,
In dense procession, through the marble banks,
That rang and quivered with a nation's thanks;
While, like a temple of the morning sky,—
August, sublime, refulgent, calm, and high,—
Towered in its might, as symbol of the whole,
The dome-crowned presence of the Capitol.
I envy those whose tattered standards waved
Within the city which their valor saved,—
The Eastern heroes and their Western peers,—
The holy joy that glittered in their tears,
As, thronging upward to the nation's throne,
They knelt, and sobbed, and kissed the very stone.
And thou, brave army, that hast borne the brunt
Of stern defeat so often on thy front,—
Thou who hast rallied from each stunning blow,
With godlike patience facing still the foe,—
Thou moving pivot of the deadly fight,
Whose steadfast centre held all things aright,—
Twice saved us from the foe's audacious feet,
And drove him howling through his last retreat,—
Hung on his steps until for peace he knelt,
And sued for mercy which he never felt,—
I thank fair Fortune that it was thy fate
Alone to hurl the traitors from their state;
Alone to make their capital thy prize,
And watch the treason close its bloody eyes!
O roll, Potomac, prouder of thy name,
Touched by the splendor of thy army's fame!
Thrill with the steps of thy returning braves,
Wail through thy margins of uncounted graves,
Laugh at the echo of thy soldiers' shout,
Whisper their story to the lands about,
Yea, feel each passion of the human soul,
But roll, great river, in thy glory roll!
Surge back and forth in waves of fire and blood.
Sometimes it paused and sometimes seemed to reel,
Spent and exhausted, from the Rebel steel;
But every shock was sapping, blow by blow,
The bars that backward held the overflow;
Till, suddenly, the ruin cracked and roared,
And over all the human torrent poured!
12
Then bowed the world before our deeds and names;
Then on the proudest of Fame's temple-gates
Shone novel records and thick-crowded dates.
New wreaths were hung upon her hornéd shrines,
New clarions blown before her martial lines;
Fresh incense smoked, and fresh libations dripped;
The vernal laurels from the hills were stripped,
And woven in chaplets. Far and near the hum
Of gladness ushered the returning drum.
Welcome stood beckoning, looking towards the South,
With cheers of transport brimming in the mouth;
Till came the rapture of that crowning hour,
When the vast armies poured their awful power,
In dense procession, through the marble banks,
That rang and quivered with a nation's thanks;
While, like a temple of the morning sky,—
August, sublime, refulgent, calm, and high,—
Towered in its might, as symbol of the whole,
The dome-crowned presence of the Capitol.
13
Within the city which their valor saved,—
The Eastern heroes and their Western peers,—
The holy joy that glittered in their tears,
As, thronging upward to the nation's throne,
They knelt, and sobbed, and kissed the very stone.
And thou, brave army, that hast borne the brunt
Of stern defeat so often on thy front,—
Thou who hast rallied from each stunning blow,
With godlike patience facing still the foe,—
Thou moving pivot of the deadly fight,
Whose steadfast centre held all things aright,—
Twice saved us from the foe's audacious feet,
And drove him howling through his last retreat,—
Hung on his steps until for peace he knelt,
And sued for mercy which he never felt,—
I thank fair Fortune that it was thy fate
Alone to hurl the traitors from their state;
Alone to make their capital thy prize,
And watch the treason close its bloody eyes!
14
Touched by the splendor of thy army's fame!
Thrill with the steps of thy returning braves,
Wail through thy margins of uncounted graves,
Laugh at the echo of thy soldiers' shout,
Whisper their story to the lands about,
Yea, feel each passion of the human soul,
But roll, great river, in thy glory roll!
We who have watched the fortunes of this war,
Whate'er our faith, securely and afar,
Should blush like girls to see our soldiers come
Behind their colors and their boy-borne drum,
And think that we bore neither gun nor sword,
But gave our Country—what?—an idle word,
As through the terrors of the fiery strife
She plunged, sore panting for her very life.
This was no war to soothe a monarch's pride;
Angels and devils struggled on each side;
Tugged hand to hand, with hot, ferocious breath;
The prize existence, and the forfeit death;
While human freedom, for the whole world's sake,
Hung, like a martyr, at the gory stake.
Whate'er our faith, securely and afar,
Should blush like girls to see our soldiers come
Behind their colors and their boy-borne drum,
And think that we bore neither gun nor sword,
But gave our Country—what?—an idle word,
As through the terrors of the fiery strife
She plunged, sore panting for her very life.
This was no war to soothe a monarch's pride;
Angels and devils struggled on each side;
Tugged hand to hand, with hot, ferocious breath;
15
While human freedom, for the whole world's sake,
Hung, like a martyr, at the gory stake.
The moral issue stood sublime and clear
Above the strife, above mere hope or fear;
What men might compass, to our hands was given;
But as we strove, we wrought the work of Heaven.
Crown we our heroes with a holier wreath
Than man e'er wore upon this side of death;
Mix with their laurels deathless asphodels,
And chime their pæans from the sacred bells!
Let holy priests and virgins, vowed to God,
Make the hills altars, and the valleys' sod
One flowery censer, till the country's face
Warbles and smokes to do its Maker grace.
Above the strife, above mere hope or fear;
What men might compass, to our hands was given;
But as we strove, we wrought the work of Heaven.
Crown we our heroes with a holier wreath
Than man e'er wore upon this side of death;
Mix with their laurels deathless asphodels,
And chime their pæans from the sacred bells!
Let holy priests and virgins, vowed to God,
Make the hills altars, and the valleys' sod
One flowery censer, till the country's face
Warbles and smokes to do its Maker grace.
Nor in your prayers forget the martyred Chief,
Fallen for the gospel of your own belief,
Who, ere he mounted to the people's throne,
Asked for your prayers, and joined in them his own.
I knew the man. I see him, as he stands
With gifts of mercy in his outstretched hands;
A kindly light within his gentle eyes,
Sad as the toil in which his heart grew wise;
His lips half parted with the constant smile
That kindled truth, but foiled the deepest guile;
His head bent forward, and his willing ear
Divinely patient right and wrong to hear:
Great in his goodness, humble in his state,
Firm in his purpose, yet not passionate,
He led his people with a tender hand,
And won by love a sway beyond command.
Summoned by lot to mitigate a time
Frenzied with rage, unscrupulous with crime,
He bore his mission with so meek a heart
That Heaven itself took up his people's part;
And when he faltered, helped him ere he fell,
Eking his efforts out by miracle.
No king this man, by grace of God's intent;
No, something better, freemen,—President!
A nature modelled on a higher plan,
Lord of himself, an inborn gentleman!
Fallen for the gospel of your own belief,
Who, ere he mounted to the people's throne,
16
I knew the man. I see him, as he stands
With gifts of mercy in his outstretched hands;
A kindly light within his gentle eyes,
Sad as the toil in which his heart grew wise;
His lips half parted with the constant smile
That kindled truth, but foiled the deepest guile;
His head bent forward, and his willing ear
Divinely patient right and wrong to hear:
Great in his goodness, humble in his state,
Firm in his purpose, yet not passionate,
He led his people with a tender hand,
And won by love a sway beyond command.
Summoned by lot to mitigate a time
Frenzied with rage, unscrupulous with crime,
He bore his mission with so meek a heart
That Heaven itself took up his people's part;
And when he faltered, helped him ere he fell,
Eking his efforts out by miracle.
No king this man, by grace of God's intent;
17
A nature modelled on a higher plan,
Lord of himself, an inborn gentleman!
Pass by his fate. Forget the closing strife
In the vast memories of his noble life.
Forget the scene, the bravo stealing nigh,
The pistol-shot, the new-made widow's cry,
The palsied people, and the tears that ran
O'er half a world to mourn a single man.
But oh! remember, while the mind can hold
One record sacred to the days of old,
The gentle heart that beat its life away
Just as young morning donned his robe of gray,
Stole through the tears beneath his golden tread,
And touched in vain the eyelids of the dead!
Remember him, as one who died for right
With victory's trophies glittering in his sight;
His mission finished, and the settled end
Assured and owned by stranger, foe, and friend.
Nothing was left him but to taste the sweet
Of triumph sitting in the nation's seat;
And for that triumph Heaven prepared its courts,
And cleared its campaigns for unwonted sports;
Summoned the spirits of the noble dead
Who fell in battle for the cause he led:
Soldiers and chiefs awakened from the clay,
And ranged their legions in the old array.
There Lyon led, and Kearny rode amain,
And wise McPherson drew his bridle-rein;
Brave Reynolds marshalled his undaunted corps,
And Sedgwick pressed to reach the front once more.
The star of Mitchell glittered over all,
And Stevens answered Reno's bugle-call.
Bayard looked worthy of his knightly name,
And Mansfield's eyes were bright with battle-flame.
Lander's grand brow was flushed with eager ire,
And Strong arose from Wagner's roaring fire.
There gallant Buford in the van was seen,
And Corcoran waved his flag of Irish green.
Birney's clear eyes were radiant with his faith.
Winthrop and Greble dared a second death.
Down Shaw's dark front a solemn purpose ran,—
The slave's resolve to prove himself—mere man;
The hero's courage for that humble hope
Was all that winged him up the bloody slope.
There burly Nelson blustered through his men,
And Richardson deployed his lines again.
Baker looked thoughtful; Wadsworth's liberal hand
Pointed right forward; and the sharp command
Of Smith's wild valor bore his soldiers on,
As when it rang o'er fated Donelson!
In the vast memories of his noble life.
Forget the scene, the bravo stealing nigh,
The pistol-shot, the new-made widow's cry,
The palsied people, and the tears that ran
O'er half a world to mourn a single man.
But oh! remember, while the mind can hold
One record sacred to the days of old,
The gentle heart that beat its life away
Just as young morning donned his robe of gray,
Stole through the tears beneath his golden tread,
And touched in vain the eyelids of the dead!
Remember him, as one who died for right
With victory's trophies glittering in his sight;
His mission finished, and the settled end
Assured and owned by stranger, foe, and friend.
18
Of triumph sitting in the nation's seat;
And for that triumph Heaven prepared its courts,
And cleared its campaigns for unwonted sports;
Summoned the spirits of the noble dead
Who fell in battle for the cause he led:
Soldiers and chiefs awakened from the clay,
And ranged their legions in the old array.
There Lyon led, and Kearny rode amain,
And wise McPherson drew his bridle-rein;
Brave Reynolds marshalled his undaunted corps,
And Sedgwick pressed to reach the front once more.
The star of Mitchell glittered over all,
And Stevens answered Reno's bugle-call.
Bayard looked worthy of his knightly name,
And Mansfield's eyes were bright with battle-flame.
Lander's grand brow was flushed with eager ire,
And Strong arose from Wagner's roaring fire.
There gallant Buford in the van was seen,
And Corcoran waved his flag of Irish green.
19
Winthrop and Greble dared a second death.
Down Shaw's dark front a solemn purpose ran,—
The slave's resolve to prove himself—mere man;
The hero's courage for that humble hope
Was all that winged him up the bloody slope.
There burly Nelson blustered through his men,
And Richardson deployed his lines again.
Baker looked thoughtful; Wadsworth's liberal hand
Pointed right forward; and the sharp command
Of Smith's wild valor bore his soldiers on,
As when it rang o'er fated Donelson!
All these, and more, before the Martyr's gaze
Passed through the shouts of heaven's tumultuous praise,
The sound of clarions, and the choral songs
Of rapture bursting from the seraph throngs,—
Passed, like a pageant from the evening skies,
But left a picture on celestial eyes
Whose tints shall mellow as the days increase,
And shine a marvel in the Realm of Peace;—
Outlast the stir and bustle of our race,
When earth has vanished from her ancient place,
And naught survives in all eternity
Save faded fragments of our history,
And this angelic legend, told of one
Sprung from a planet cycles since undone:
“Yon human spirit, with the tender eyes,
God welcomed here with high solemnities;
Gave him a triumph, until then unknown,
He standing meekly close beside the Throne.”
Passed through the shouts of heaven's tumultuous praise,
The sound of clarions, and the choral songs
Of rapture bursting from the seraph throngs,—
Passed, like a pageant from the evening skies,
But left a picture on celestial eyes
20
And shine a marvel in the Realm of Peace;—
Outlast the stir and bustle of our race,
When earth has vanished from her ancient place,
And naught survives in all eternity
Save faded fragments of our history,
And this angelic legend, told of one
Sprung from a planet cycles since undone:
“Yon human spirit, with the tender eyes,
God welcomed here with high solemnities;
Gave him a triumph, until then unknown,
He standing meekly close beside the Throne.”
| Our heroic themes | |