Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War Part 12

All feeling hearts must feel for him Who felt this picture. Presage dim-- Dim inklings from the shadowy sphere Fixed him and fascinated here.

A demon-cloud like the mountain one Burst on a spirit as mild As this urned lake, the home of shades.

But Shakspeare's pensive child

Never the lines had lightly scanned, Steeped in fable, steeped in fate; The Hamlet in his heart was 'ware, Such hearts can antedate.

No utter surprise can come to him Who reaches Shakspeare's core; That which we seek and shun is there-- Man's final lore.

Rebel Color-bearers at s.h.i.+loh:[16]

A plea against the vindictive cry raised by civilians shortly after the surrender at Appomattox.

The color-bearers facing death White in the whirling sulphurous wreath, Stand boldly out before the line Right and left their glances go, Proud of each other, glorying in their show; Their battle-flags about them blow, And fold them as in flame divine: Such living robes are only seen Round martyrs burning on the green-- And martyrs for the Wrong have been.

Perish their Cause! but mark the men-- Mark the planted statues, then Draw trigger on them if you can.

The leader of a patriot-band Even so could view rebels who so could stand; And this when peril pressed him sore, Left aidless in the s.h.i.+vered front of war-- Skulkers behind, defiant foes before, And fighting with a broken brand.

The challenge in that courage rare-- Courage defenseless, proudly bare-- Never could tempt him; he could dare Strike up the leveled rifle there.

Sunday at s.h.i.+loh, and the day When Stonewall charged--McClellan's crimson May, And Chickamauga's wave of death, And of the Wilderness the cypress wreath-- All these have pa.s.sed away.

The life in the veins of Treason lags, Her daring color-bearers drop their flags, And yield. _Now_ shall we fire?

Can poor spite be?

Shall n.o.bleness in victory less aspire Than in reverse? Spare Spleen her ire, And think how Grant met Lee.

The Muster:[17]

Suggested by the Two Days' Review at Was.h.i.+ngton (May, 1865.)

The Abrahamic river-- Patriarch of floods, Calls the roll of all his streams And watery mut.i.tudes: Torrent cries to torrent, The rapids hail the fall; With shouts the inland freshets Gather to the call.

The quotas of the Nation, Like the water-shed of waves, Muster into union-- Eastern warriors, Western braves.

Martial strains are mingling, Though distant far the bands, And the wheeling of the squadrons Is like surf upon the sands.

The bladed guns are gleaming-- Drift in lengthened trim, Files on files for hazy miles-- Nebulously dim.

O Milky Way of armies-- Star rising after star, New banners of the Commonwealths, And eagles of the War.

The Abrahamic river To sea-wide fullness fed, Pouring from the thaw-lands By the G.o.d of floods is led: His deep enforcing current The streams of ocean own, And Europe's marge is evened By rills from Kansas lone.

Aurora-Borealis.

Commemorative of the Dissolution of Armies at the Peace.

(May, 1865.)

What power disbands the Northern Lights After their steely play?

The lonely watcher feels an awe Of Nature's sway, As when appearing, He marked their flashed uprearing In the cold gloom-- Retreatings and advancings, (Like dallyings of doom), Transitions and enhancings, And b.l.o.o.d.y ray.

The phantom-host has faded quite, Splendor and Terror gone-- Portent or promise--and gives way To pale, meek Dawn; The coming, going, Alike in wonder showing-- Alike the G.o.d, Decreeing and commanding The million blades that glowed, The muster and disbanding-- Midnight and Morn.

The Released Rebel Prisoner.[18]

(June, 1865.)

Armies he's seen--the herds of war, But never such swarms of men As now in the Nineveh of the North-- How mad the Rebellion then!

And yet but dimly he divines The depth of that deceit, And superst.i.tion of vast pride Humbled to such defeat.

Seductive shone the Chiefs in arms-- His steel the nearest magnet drew; Wreathed with its kind, the Gulf-weed drives-- 'Tis Nature's wrong they rue.

His face is hidden in his beard, But his heart peers out at eye-- And such a heart! like mountain-pool Where no man pa.s.ses by.

He thinks of Hill--a brave soul gone; And Ashby dead in pale disdain; And Stuart with the Rupert-plume, Whose blue eye never shall laugh again.

He hears the drum; he sees our boys From his wasted fields return; Ladies feast them on strawberries, And even to kiss them yearn.

He marks them bronzed, in soldier-trim, The rifle proudly borne; They bear it for an heir-loom home, And he--disarmed--jail-worn.

Home, home--his heart is full of it; But home he never shall see, Even should he stand upon the spot; 'Tis gone!--where his brothers be.

The cypress-moss from tree to tree Hangs in his Southern land; As weird, from thought to thought of his Run memories hand in hand.

And so he lingers--lingers on In the City of the Foe-- His cousins and his countrymen Who see him listless go.

A Grave near Petersburg, Virginia.[19]

Head-board and foot-board duly placed-- Gra.s.sed in the mound between; Daniel Drouth is the slumberer's name-- Long may his grave be green!

Quick was his way--a flash and a blow, Full of his fire was he-- A fire of h.e.l.l--'tis burnt out now-- Green may his grave long be!

May his grave be green, though he Was a rebel of iron mould; Many a true heart--true to the Cause, Through the blaze of his wrath lies cold.

May his grave be green--still green While happy years shall run; May none come nigh to disinter The--_Buried Gun_.

"Formerly a Slave."

An idealized Portrait, by E. Vedder, in the Spring Exhibition of the National Academy, 1865.