Part 3 — MEMORIAL DAY, AND OTHER POEMS.

For twenty years the snowy wings of Peace Over the land have brooded; flocks increase Upon the fields, now blessed by smiling stars, Where drave the reeking chariot-wheels of Mars. How like a falcon’s flight the years have flown, Since Appomattox rang the curtain down; And listening to my voice are tall young men, And women fair who were but children then. Our young Republic, freed from all his chains, For peaceful conquest girds his lusty reins. The smiling Mississippi to the sea Rolls as in days of old, unvexed and free, And East and West in one grand commonweal Are bound by triple bands of shining steel. The apple tree historic rots away; Our gunboats all have crumbled to decay; The rifle-pits that scarred the Southern plains Are washed away by twenty winters’ rains; The impetuous onset of the bayonet line Tramples no more the growing corn and vine, And nesting birds pour forth their raptures where The thunder-bolts of battle rent the air. But still remain in many hearts we know The ghastly scars of twenty years ago. How many a comrade’s widow treads alone A narrow path by cruel thorns o’ergrown! ’Tis long since song of mating bird has thrilled That lonely heart, with tender memories filled,— Memories still speeding backward to the time When, brave and beautiful in manhood’s prime, Her bridegroom more than twenty years ago Sprang at the bugle call to meet the foe. Strong men for other women dig the gold, Tread out the wine, and weave the silken fold; Her wine of Life in forests dark and dank The thirsty soil of Mississippi drank; Her daily lot for more than twenty years Has been the widow’s toil, and widow’s tears. Comrades, we’re growing old; upon our hairs Gather the frosts of more than twenty years, Since in the trench at Petersburg we lay, Or, gayly holding our triumphal way, Unto the sea we swept with Sherman’s pennon, Or heard the roar of Stonewall Jackson’s cannon, Waking the echoes of the Rapidan, Or through the valley whirled with Sheridan. Still surges up as though of yesterday The memory of those that passed away; Still floating down the vista of the years, We hear their voices, see their smiles and tears. In each successive strife how fast they fell— The tried companions that we knew so well. Some, fleeing from the ghastly prison pen, By bloodhounds tracked were slain in swamp and fen; Some ashes mingle with the sounding tide, And some enrich the rugged mountain side, Where the tall pines of frowning Kenesaw Quivered like reeds before the blast of war; Now looming up in shadowy ranks they stand Like guardian phantoms brooding o’er the land. No higher impulse thrilled the knights of old Who to the crusades like a torrent rolled, To pour for the dear cross their blood like wine Upon the plains of Holy Palestine, And feed on desert sands in the far East The jackals ravening for their glorious feast. They reck not where their scattered ashes rest Who speed to the reunion of the blest; As eaglets soaring to the gates of light Spurn the dull shells that long confined their flight. For you the amaranthine wreath we twine, Raise the high song, and pour the ruddy wine; For you the rhythmic beat of martial feet, As the long lines go swaying down the street; For you the plaintive reed’s subduing moan Commingles with the hautboy’s rapturous tone, The rolling drum, the thrilling trumpet blare, And silken banners float upon the air Like bright ethereal drapery trailing there. The noblest sons of Earth, of every clime, Welcome you to their galaxy sublime; And flowers, by maidens fairer still than they, Are offered to your sacred shades to-day; Roses and dittany—and lilies fair, Mingle their breath upon the vernal air; But sweeter than the fleeting gifts we bring Your memory perennial shall spring, And loving tears each spring-time shall bedew The flowers that loving hands shall here renew; And younger bards, with truer touch than mine, Will pour for you the flood of song divine, While millions yet unborn, with quickening breath, Will hear the tale heroic of your death. O host of gallant comrades sweeping by, Up the red track of glory to the sky— Reynolds, McPherson, Dahlgren, Garesché, And all the unknown names as brave as they,— Great hearts and souls as those of song and story, Whose only guerdon was a deathbed gory; As youthful as of yore we see you now, The flush of victory on each radiant brow, And youthful in our withering hearts shall glow Your generous valor in the Long Ago.

Song, legend, history, I scan in vain; Outside of Holy Writ, no shape appears So godlike as thy homely form; the spheres Darken and die, thy glory shall not wane. Monarchs have sat self-crowned upon the Seine And on the Tiber; nations sick with fears Have builded altars to them, drenched with tears And smoking with a hecatomb of slain. O Christ of Freedom, no high altars fume For thee, but freely flow the tears and blood, The pure sweet blood of thy own martyrdom, And tears of mingled grief and gratitude From the dark millions by thy pen set free, Led from their long Gethsemane by thee.

On the last sad day of the dying year, As I lay in my prison racked with pain, I heard the voices of children clear Swelling out on the night in a peaceful strain. They sang a farewell to the dying year, And the far faint tones of an organ fell With a soothing cadence upon my ear, And I slept at last in my loathsome cell. My body slept with its clanking chain, But the prison walls fled far away, And my spirit, glad and free again, Went forth as upon its bridal day. I never had thought again to sing, But a song welled forth from my joyous heart, As waters gush from a long-sealed spring When the chains of winter are rent apart. “I’m coming, I’m coming, my dove, my dear; In the heaven of thy arms, my own sweet wife, I’ll usher the birth of the glad new year; I’m coming, I’m coming, my love, my life!” * * * * * Hark! the clang of the changing sentry’s steel; Awaken, O fool, from thy blissful bed; On the stony floor of thy dungeon kneel, And hug thy chain, for the dream is fled.

How oft, a sentry sad and lone, The starry midnight host I’ve counted, As up the eastern horizon Into the sky they slowly mounted. Two still seemed missing from their place, The brightest of the heavenly number; But now I find them in thy face, Nightly they beam upon my slumber.

If daring deeds might win thy vows, At nothing would I falter; I’d dare thy father’s beetling brows, Or those of grim Gibraltar. I’ll seek the thickest of the strife, And lofty deeds of glory; My girl shall be a General’s wife, Or mourn a lover gory. Light batteries on the fatal field, Their countless victims strewing, Are the bright eyes to which I yield For quarter meekly suing. Thy lips are silken banners, and Beneath their crimson lustre, In gleaming lines the soldiers stand, Two ranks prepared for muster. The girl that jilts a veteran bold To marry a clodhopper, Would throw away the finest gold To pick up worthless copper.

The conscripts march, O cruel theft, While those that are rejected, The crooked and the lame, are left To comfort maids dejected. If swift promotion you would gain, Yet shrink from war and slaughter, The path is old and very plain— Marry the General’s daughter.

My little Pepita Will be jealous I know, For I promised to meet her, But how can I go? I come off of guard, And go on police; My sergeant’s a hard One, and gives me no peace. There’s the devil to pay At fatigue duty too; Every hour of the day There is something to do. A soldier at work, What a pitiful sight! I’d desert to the Turk In the very next fight, But his way of baptizing You all will agree, Is quite too surprising, It would never suit me. But my sergeant is worse Than a Turk or a Jew, He finds something to curse At, whatever I do. At every roll-call, If I’m not upon time, Drill, stables, and all, He counts it a crime; He laughs at my story, In the guard-house I’m thrown,— And this is the glory Of a Spanish dragoon.

Comrades, once more to-night we gather here, A dwindling band of graybeards; autumn sere Pales into winter, Indian summer’s glow Fades from the hills, reluctant still to go; And Earth itself fades from our sight away, Like rosy clouds that flit at close of day; In our hearts too the flame burns low at last,— An arctic winter closes round us fast. While the remaining grains, how few, alas! Of golden sand, pour through the hour-glass, Fill up, dear friends, your goblets once again, And warm the pulses in each shrunken vein With sunshine garnered on some Gallic plain, Or stolen from the vine-clad hills of Spain. Here’s to the living absent, comrades they So gay in camp, so dauntless in the fray, The lingering remnant of the mighty host That swept from far Atlanta to the coast. Since then their prows through every sea have foamed, And o’er five continents their feet have roamed, And plucked the brightest bays in fields afar, Who glittered brightest in the van of war. But fast and faster from our sight they fail, A few belated stragglers feebly hail Along the banks of Styx the boatman pale. Where’er they are, once more we pledge them all, Ere from the thinning ranks we too shall fall. Lift high the cup, a generous current pour, Libations to the chosen friends of yore, Who wander on the dim Plutonian shore. A mist arises from the wine-stained ground, And lo, what phantom faces gather round! Like storm-blown wreaths they flit—e’en so must we Soon pass like vapors blown across the sea. Now draw together, fling apart the doors Of wit and fancy, open up the stores Of feeling that have been repressed so long; Waken the voice of melody and song, These fleeting moments sweetly to prolong, And kindling up once more the altar fire, Let the last embers all in flame expire.