Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War Part 15

But withering famine slowly wore, And slowly fell disease did gloat.

Even Nature's self did aid deny; They choked in horror the pensive sigh.

Yea, off from home sad Memory bore (Though anguished Yearning heaved that way), Lest wreck of reason might befall.

As men in gales shun the lee sh.o.r.e, Though there the homestead be, and call, And thitherward winds and waters sway-- As such lorn mariners, so fared they.

But naught shall now their peace molest.

Their fame is this: they did endure-- Endure, when fort.i.tude was vain To kindle any approving strain Which they might hear. To these who rest, This healing sleep alone was sure.

Commemorative of a Naval Victory.

Sailors there are of gentlest breed, Yet strong, like every goodly thing; The discipline of arms refines, And the wave gives tempering.

The damasked blade its beam can fling; It lends the last grave grace: The hawk, the hound, and sworded n.o.bleman In t.i.tian's picture for a king, Are of Hunter or warrior race.

In social halls a favored guest In years that follow victory won, How sweet to feel your festal fame, In woman's glance instinctive thrown: Repose is yours--your deed is known, It musks the amber wine; It lives, and sheds a litle from storied days Rich as October sunsets brown, Which make the barren place to s.h.i.+ne.

But seldom the laurel wreath is seen Unmixed with pensive pansies dark; There's a light and a shadow on every man Who at last attains his lifted mark-- Nursing through night the ethereal spark.

Elate he never can be; He feels that spirits which glad had hailed his worth, Sleep in oblivion.--The shark Glides white through the prosphorus sea.

Presentation to the Authorities, by Privates, of Colors captured in Battles ending in the Surrender of Lee.

These flags of armies overthrown-- Flags fallen beneath the sovereign one In end foredoomed which closes war; We here, the captors, lay before The altar which of right claims all-- Our Country. And as freely we, Revering ever her sacred call, Could lay our lives down--though life be Thrice loved and precious to the sense Of such as reap the recompense Of life imperiled for just cause-- Imperiled, and yet preserved; While comrades, whom Duty as strongly nerved, Whose wives were all as dear, lie low.

But these flags given, glad we go To waiting homes with vindicated laws.

The Returned Volunteer to his Rifle.

Over the hearth--my father's seat-- Repose, to patriot-memory dear, Thou tried companion, whom at last I greet By steepy banks of Hudson here.

How oft I told thee of this scene-- The Highlands blue--the river's narrowing sheen.

Little at Gettysburg we thought To find such haven; but G.o.d kept it green.

Long rest! with belt, and bayonet, and canteen.

The Scout toward Aldie.

The Scout toward Aldie.

The cavalry-camp lies on the slope Of what was late a vernal hill, But now like a pavement bare-- An outpost in the perilous wilds Which ever are lone and still; But Mosby's men are there-- Of Mosby best beware.

Great trees the troopers felled, and leaned In antlered walls about their tents; Strict watch they kept; 'twas _Hark!_ and _Mark!_ Unarmed none cared to stir abroad For berries beyond their forest-fence: As glides in seas the shark, Rides Mosby through green dark.

All spake of him, but few had seen Except the maimed ones or the low; Yet rumor made him every thing-- A farmer--woodman--refugee-- The man who crossed the field but now; A spell about his life did cling-- Who to the ground shall Mosby bring?

The morning-bugles lonely play, Lonely the evening-bugle calls-- Unanswered voices in the wild; The settled hush of birds in nest Becharms, and all the wood enthralls: Memory's self is so beguiled That Mosby seems a satyr's child.

They lived as in the Eerie Land-- The fire-flies showed with fairy gleam; And yet from pine-tops one might ken The Capitol dome--hazy--sublime-- A vision breaking on a dream: So strange it was that Mosby's men Should dare to prowl where the Dome was seen.

A scout toward Aldie broke the spell.-- The Leader lies before his tent Gazing at heaven's all-cheering lamp Through blandness of a morning rare; His thoughts on bitter-sweets are bent: His sunny bride is in the camp-- But Mosby--graves are beds of damp!

The trumpet calls; he goes within; But none the prayer and sob may know: Her hero he, but bridegroom too.

Ah, love in a tent is a queenly thing, And fame, be sure, refines the vow; But fame fond wives have lived to rue, And Mosby's men fell deeds can do.

_Tan-tara! tan-tara! tan-tara!_ Mounted and armed he sits a king; For pride she smiles if now she peep-- Elate he rides at the head of his men; He is young, and command is a boyish thing: They file out into the forest deep-- Do Mosby and his rangers sleep?

The sun is gold, and the world is green, Opal the vapors of morning roll; The champing horses lightly prance-- Full of caprice, and the riders too Curving in many a caricole.

But marshaled soon, by fours advance-- Mosby had checked that airy dance.

By the hospital-tent the cripples stand-- Bandage, and crutch, and cane, and sling, And palely eye the brave array; The froth of the cup is gone for them (Caw! caw! the crows through the blueness wing); Yet these were late as bold, as gay; But Mosby--a clip, and gra.s.s is hay.

How strong they feel on their horses free, Tingles the tendoned thigh with life; Their cavalry-jackets make boys of all-- With golden b.r.e.a.s.t.s like the oriole; The chat, the jest, and laugh are rife.

But word is pa.s.sed from the front--a call For order; the wood is Mosby's hall.

To which behest one rider sly (Spurred, but unarmed) gave little heed-- Of dexterous fun not slow or spare, He teased his neighbors of touchy mood, Into plungings he p.r.i.c.ked his steed: A black-eyed man on a coal-black mare, Alive as Mosby in mountain air.

His limbs were long, and large and round; He whispered, winked--did all but shout: A healthy man for the sick to view; The taste in his mouth was sweet at morn; Little of care he cared about.

And yet of pains and pangs he knew-- In others, maimed by Mosby's crew.

The Hospital Steward--even he (Sacred in person as a priest), And on his coat-sleeve broidered nice Wore the caduceus, black and green.

No wonder he sat so light on his beast; This cheery man in suit of price Not even Mosby dared to slice.

They pa.s.s the picket by the pine And hollow log--a lonesome place; His horse adroop, and pistol clean; 'Tis c.o.c.ked--kept leveled toward the wood; Strained vigilance ages his childish face.

Since midnight has that stripling been Peering for Mosby through the green.

Splas.h.i.+ng they cross the freshet-flood, And up the muddy bank they strain; A horse at the spectral white-ash s.h.i.+es-- One of the span of the ambulance, Black as a hea.r.s.e. They give the rein: Silent speed on a scout were wise, Could cunning baffle Mosby's spies.

Rumor had come that a band was lodged In green retreats of hills that peer By Aldie (famed for the swordless charge[22]).

Much store they'd heaped of captured arms And, peradventure, pilfered cheer; For Mosby's lads oft hearts enlarge In revelry by some gorge's marge.

"Don't let your sabres rattle and ring; To his oat-bag let each man give heed-- There now, that fellow's bag's untied, Sowing the road with the precious grain.

Your carbines swing at hand--you need!

Look to yourselves, and your nags beside, Men who after Mosby ride."

Picked lads and keen went sharp before-- A guard, though scarce against surprise; And rearmost rode an answering troop, But flankers none to right or left.

No bugle peals, no pennon flies: Silent they sweep, and fail would swoop On Mosby with an Indian whoop.

On, right on through the forest land, Nor man, nor maid, nor child was seen-- Not even a dog. The air was still; The blackened hut they turned to see, And spied charred benches on the green; A squirrel sprang from the rotting mill Whence Mosby sallied late, brave blood to spill.

By worn-out fields they cantered on-- Drear fields amid the woodlands wide; By cross-roads of some olden time, In which grew groves; by gate-stones down-- Gra.s.sed ruins of secluded pride: A strange lone land, long past the prime, Fit land for Mosby or for crime.