Ode (so-called) on a Lite Melancholy Accident in the Shenandoah Valley (so-called.)

John Esten Cooke.

My mug is broken, my heart is sad! What woes can fate still hold in store! The friend I cherished a thousand days Is smashed to pieces on the floor! Is shattered and to Limbo gone, I'll see my Mug no more!

Relic it was of joyous hours Whose golden memories still allure-- When coffee made of rye we drank, And gray was all the dress we wore! When we were paid some cents a month, But never asked for more!

In marches long, by day and night, In raids, hot charges, shocks of war, Strapped on the saddle at my back This faithful comrade still I bore-- This old companion, true and tried, I'll never carry more!

From the Rapidan to Gettysburg-- "Hard bread" behind, "sour krout" before-- This friend went with the cavalry And heard the jarring-cannon roar In front of Cemetery Hill-- Good heavens! how they did roar!

Then back again, the foe behind, Back to the "Old Virginia shore"-- Some dead and wounded left--some holes In flags, the sullen graybacks bore; This mug had made the great campaign, And we'd have gone once more!

Alas! we never went again! The red cross banner, slow but sure, "Fell back"--we bade to sour krout (Like the lover of Lenore) A long, sad, lingering farewell-- To taste its joys no more.

But still we fought, and ate hard bread, Or starved--good friend, our woes deplore! And still this faithful friend remained-- Riding behind me as before-- The friend on march, in bivouac, When others were no more.

How oft we drove the horsemen blue In Summer bright or Winter frore! How oft before the Southern charge Through field and wood the blue-birds tore! Im "harmonized," but long to hear The bugles ring once more.

Oh yes! we're all "fraternal" now, Purged of our sins, we're clean and pure, Congress will "reconstruct" us soon-- But no gray people on that floor! I'm harmonized--"so-called"--but long To see those times once more!

Gay days! the sun was brighter then, And we were happy, though so poor! That past comes back as I behold My shattered friend upon the floor, My splintered, useless, ruined mug, From which I'll drink no more.

How many lips I'll love for aye, While heart and memory endure, Have touched this broken cup and laughed-- How they did laugh!--in days of yore! Those days we'd call "a beauteous dream, If they had been no more!"

Dear comrades, dead this many a day, I saw you weltering in your gore, After those days, amid the pines On the Rappahannock shore! When the joy of life was much to me But your warm hearts were more!

Yours was the grand heroic nerve That laughs amid the storm of war-- Souls that "loved much" your native land, Who fought and died therefor! You gave your youth, your brains, your arms, Your blood--you had no more!

You lived and died true to your flag! And now your wounds are healed--but sore Are many hearts that think of you Where you have "gone before." Peace, comrade! God bound up those forms, They are "whole" forevermore!

Those lips this broken vessel touched, His, too!--the man's we all adore-- That cavalier of cavaliers, Whose voice will ring no more-- Whose plume will float amid the storm Of battle never more!

Not on this idle page I write That name of names, shrined in the core Of every heart!--peace! foolish pen, Hush! words so cold and poor! His sword is rust; the blue eyes dust, His bugle sounds no more!

Never was cavalier like ours! Not Rupert in the years before! And when his stern, hard work was done, His griefs, joys, battles o'er-- His mighty spirit rode the storm, And led his men once more!

He lies beneath his native sod, Where violets spring, or frost is hoar: He recks not--charging squadrons watch His raven plume no more! That smile we'll see, that voice we'll hear, That hand we'll touch no more!

My foolish mirth is quenched in tears: Poor fragments strewed upon the floor, Ye are the types of nobler things That find their use no more-- Things glorious once, now trodden down-- That makes us smile no more!

Of courage, pride, high hopes, stout hearts-- Hard, stubborn nerve, devotion pure, Beating his wings against the bars, The prisoned eagle tried to soar! Outmatched, overwhelmed, we struggled still-- Bread failed--we fought no more!

Lies in the dust the shattered staff That bore aloft on sea and shore, That blazing flag, amid the storm! And none are now so poor, So poor to do it reverence, Now when it flames no more!

But it is glorious in the dust, Sacred till Time shall be no more: Spare it, fierce editors! your scorn-- The dread "Rebellion's" o'er! Furl the great flag--hide cross and star, Thrust into darkness star and bar, But look! across the ages far It flames for evermore!