Swift hoofs clang out behind that Falcon's flights— Hoofs shod with Golden Horse Shoes catch the eye! And as they ring, we see the Forest-Knights— The Cavaliers ride by!

THE OLD DOMINION.

Midway between the orange and the snows As some fair planet rounds up from the sea, Eldest of all, the Central Power arose In vague immensity.

She stretched from Seas in sun to Lakes in Shade, O'erstepped swift Rio Escondido's stream— Her bounds expressed, as by the Tudor made, An Alexander's dream.

And liberal Stuart granted broad and free Bound'ries which still the annalist may boast— Limits which ran "throughout from sea to sea," And far along the coast!

A mighty shaft through Raleigh's fingers slipped, Smith shot it, and—a Continent awoke! For that great arrow with an acorn tipped, Planted an English Oak!

III.

THE OAKS AND THE TEMPEST.

Oaks multiplied apace, and o'er the seas Big rumors went in many a winding ring; And stories fabulous on every breeze Swept to a distant King.

Full many a tale of wild romance, and myth, In large hyperbole the New World told, And down from days of Raleigh and of Smith The Colonies meant gold.

Not from Banchoonan's mines came forth the ore, But from the waters, and the woods, and fields, Paid for in blood, but bringing more and more The wealth that labor yields.

Then seeing this, that King beyond the sea, The jus divinum filling all his soul, Bethought him that he held these lands in fee And absolute control.

When this high claim in action was displayed With one accord the young Plantations spoke, And told him, English-like, they were not made To plough with such a yoke.

Thus met, not his to falter, or to flag, A sudden fury seized the Royal breast— Prometheus bound upon a Scythian crag His policy expressed.

And, so, he ordered in those stormy hours His adamantine chains for one and all, Brute "Force" and soulless "Strength" the only Power On which he chose to call.

Great men withstood him many a weary day; In Press and Parliament full well they strove: But all in vain, for he was bound to play A travesty on Jove!

Then flamed the crater! And the flame took wing; Furious and far the lava blazed around, Until at last, on this same spot that King His Herculaneum found!

Breed's Hill became Vesuvius, and its stream Rushed forth through years, a God-directed tide To light two Worlds and realize the dream For which brave Warren died.

IV.

THE EMBATTLED COLONIES.

Before this thought the present hour recedes, As from the beach a billow backward rolls, And the great past, rich in heroic deeds Illuminates our souls!

Stern Massachusetts Bay uplifts her form, Boston the tale of Lexington repeats, With breast unarmored she confronts the storm— New England England meets.

I see the Middle Group by Fortune made The bloody Flanders of the Northern Coast, And, in a varying play of light and shade, Host thundering fall on host.

I see the Carolinas, Georgia, mowed By War the Reaper, and grim Ruin stalk O'er wasted fields;—but Guilford paved the way That led to this same York.

Here, too, Virginia in the vision comes— Full-bent to crown the battle's closing arch, Her pulses trumpets and her heart throbs drums, To animate her march.

As Pocahontas, in a by-gone time, Leaped forth the wrath of Powhatan to brave, Virginia came, and here she stood sublime To perish, or to save.

I see her interposing now her frame Between her sisters and the alien bands, And taking both of Freedom and of Fame Full seisin with her hands.

V.

WELCOME TO FRANCE.

But, in that fiery zone She upriseth not alone, Over all the bloody fields Glitter Amazonian shields; While through the mists of years Another form appears, And as I bow my head Already you have said:— 'Tis France!

Welcome to France! From sea to sea, With heart and hand! Welcome to all within the land— Thrice welcome let her be!

And to France The Union here to-day Gives the right of this array, And folds her to her breast As the friend that she loves best. Yes to France. The proud Ruler of the West Bows her sun-illumined crest, Grave and slow, In a passion of fond memories of One hundred years ago!

France's colors wave again High above this tented plain, Stream and flaunt, and blaze and shine, O'er the banner-painted brine, Float and flow! And the brazen trumpets blow While upon her serried lines, Full the light of Freedom shines In a broad, effulgent glow. And here this day I see The fairest dream that ever yet Was dreamt by History!

As in cadence, and in time, To the martial throb and rhyme Of her bugles and her drums Forth a stately vision comes— Comes majestically slow— Comes a fair and stately vision of One hundred years ago!

Welcome to France! From sea to sea, With heart and hand! Welcome to all within the land! Thrice welcome let her be! Of Freedom's Guild made free! Welcome! Thrice Welcome! Welcome let her be!

And as in days of old Walter Raleigh did unfold His gay cloak, with all its hems Wrought in braided gold and gems, That his Queen might passing tread On the sumptuous cloth outspread, And step on the shining fold Or fair samnite rich in gold. So for France— Splendid, grand, majestic France!— May Fortune down her mantle throw To mend the way that she may go!

May GLORY leap before to reap— Up to the shoulders turned her sleeves— And FAME behind follow to bind Unnumbered honors in unnumbered sheaves! And may that mantle forever be Under thy footfall, oh France the Free! Forever and forever!

VI.

THE ALLIES AT YORKTOWN.

And here France came one hundred years ago! Red, russet, purple glowed upon the trees, And sunset glories deepened in their glow Along the painted seas.

A wealth of color blazed on land and wave, Topaz and gold, and crimson met the eye— October hailed the ships which came to save With banners in the sky.

DeBarras swept down from the Northern coast, DeGrasse, foam-driving, came with favoring breeze, And here surprised the proud, marauding host Like spectres of the seas.

Then was no time for such a boastful strain As Campbell sang o'er Baltic's bloody tide, Nor did Britannia dominate the main In customary pride.

France closed this river, and France ruled yon sea, Held all our waters in triumphant state, Her sails foretelling what was soon to be Like Ministers of Fate.

And when the Union chants her proudest Lay DeGrasse is often on her tuneful lips, And his achievement challenges to-day Some Homer of the ships.

So, when this spot its monument shall crown His name upon its base two Worlds shall see, With a fair wind his story shall sail down Through Ages yet to be,

VII.

THE RAVAGES OF WAR.

This on the water: on the land a scene Whose Epic scope is far beyond my power, For on this spot a People's fate hath been Decided in an hour.

Long was the conflict waged through weary years Counted from when the sturdy farmers fell: Hopes crucified, red trenches, bitter tears, Made Man another hell!

See pallid women girt in woe and weeds! See little children gaunt for lack of food! Behold the catalogue of War's black deeds Where evil stands for good!

See slaughtered cattle, never more to roam, Rot in the fields, while chimneys tall and bare Tell in dumb pathos how some quiet home Lit up the midnight air!

See that burnt crop, yon choked-up sylvan well, This yeoman slain ye corven in the sun! My GOD! shreds of a woman's dress to tell Why murder there was done!

Such things as these gave edge to all the blows Our fathers struck on this historic sod, Feet, hands, and faces turned toward their foes— Their valiant hearts to GOD.

VIII.

THE LINES AROUND YORKTOWN.

Troops late by Williamsburg's brave palace walls, With trump and drum had marched down Glo'ster street, And some with throb of oars, and loud sea-calls Had landed from the fleet.

And well our leader had befooled his foes— Left them like archers blundering in the dark To draw against the empty space their bows, While here was their true mark.

Brave Lincoln on the right with kindling eye Smiles 'mid the cares of grave command immersed, To see dramatic retribution nigh And Charleston's fate reversed!

The Light Troops stood upon the curved right flank, New Hampshire, Massachusetts Bay were there, Connecticut marched with them, rank on rank, And gallant Delaware.

There, too, Virginia's sturdy yeomen stood, Led on by Nelson of the open hand, As thick and stubborn as a living wood In some enchanted land.

Next came the steady Continental Line, Rhode Island, and New Jersey, breast to breast, Ready to tread the hot and smoking wine From War's red clusters pressed.

New York and Pennsylvania on these plains Closed boldly in on the embattled town, Nor feared they threatened penalties and pains Of Parliament, or Crown.

And Maryland, the gay and gallant came, As always ready for the battle's brunt; And here again Virginia faced the flame Along the deadly front.

IX.

THE FRENCH IN THE TRENCHES.

And as the allied hosts advance All the left wing is given to France, Is given to France and—Fame! Yes, these together always ride The Dioscouroi of the tide Where War plays out the game! And that broad front 'tis her's to hold With hand of iron, heart of gold And helmet plumed with flame. Across the river broad she sends DeChoisy and Lauzun where ends The leaguer far and wide, While Weedon seconds as he may The gallant Frenchmen in array Upon the Gloucester side.

As waves hurled on a stranded keel Make all the oaken timbers reel With many a pond'rous blow, So day by day, and night by night The French like billows foaming white Thunder against the foe.

X.

NELSON AND THE GUNNERS.

O'er town, and works, and waves amain Far fell grim Ruin's furious rain, O'er parapet and mast, And riding on the thunder-swell Far flew the shot, far flew the shell Red Havoc on the blast! Then as the flashing cannon sowed Their iron crop brave Nelson rode, His bridle bit all foam, Up to the gunners, and said he: "Batter yon mansion down for me"— "Basement, and walls, and dome!" And better to sharpen those gunners' wits, "Five guineas," he cried, "for each shot that hits!"— That mansion was his home!

XI.

THE BELEAGUERED TOWN.

Behind the town the sun sinks down Gilding the vane upon the spire, While many a wall reels to its fall Beneath the fell artillery fire.

As sinks that sun mortar and gun Like living things leap grim and hot, And far and wide across the tide Spray-furrows show the flying shot.

White smoke in clouds yon earthwork shrouds Where, steeped in battle to the lips, The French amain pour fiery rain On town, and walls, and English ships.

That deadly sleet smites lines and fleet, As closes in the Autumn night, And Aboville from head to heel Thrills with the battle's wild delight.

At every flash oak timbers crash— A sudden glare yon frigate dyes! Then flames up-gush, and roar, and rush, From deck to where her pennon flies!

Those flames on high crimson the sky And paint their signals overhead, And every fold of smoke is rolled And woven in Plutonian red.

All radiant now taffrail and prow, And hull, and cordage, beams and spars, Thus lit she sails on fiery gales To purple seas where float the stars.

Ages ago just such a glow Woke Agamemnon's house to joy, Its red and gold to Argos told The long-expected fate of Troy.

So, on these heights, that flame delights The Allies thundering at the wall, Forewrit they see the land set free And Albion's short-lived Ilium fall!

Then as the Lilies turn to red Dipped in the battles' wine Another picture is outspread Where still the figures shine— The picture of a deadly fray Worthy the pencil of Vernet!

XII.

STORMING THE REDOUBTS.

On the night air there floating comes, hoarse, war-like, low and deep, A sound as tho' the dreaming drums were talking in their sleep.

"Fall in! Fall in!" The stormers form, in silence, stern and grim, Each heart full-beating out the time to Freedom's battle hymn.—

"Charge! en Avant!"—The word goes forth and forth the stormers go, Each column like a mighty shaft shot from a mighty bow.

And tumult rose upon the night like sound of roaring seas, Mars drank of the Horn of Ulphus and he drained it to the lees!

Now by fair Freedom's splendid dreams! it was a gallant sight To see the blows against the foes well struck that Autumn night!

Gimat, and Fish, and Hamilton, and Laurens pressed the foe, And Olney—brave Rhode Islander!—was there, alas! laid low.

Viominil, and Noallies, and Damas, stout and brave, Broke o'er the English right redoubt a steel-encrested wave.

St. Simon from his sick couch rose, wooed by the battle's charms, And like a knight of old romance went to the shock of arms.

[But they who bore the muskets, who went charging thro' the flame, Deserve far more than ever will be given them by Fame—

Then let us pour libations out!—full freely let them flow For the men who bore the muskets here a century ago!]

And, then, the columns won the works, and then uprose the cheers That have lasted us and ours for a good one hundred years!

And there were those amid the French filled with a rapture stern And long the cry resounded: "Live the Regiment of Auverne!"

Long live the Gallic Army and long live splendid France, The Power that gives to History the beauty of Romance!

Upon our right commanded one dearer by far than all, The hero who first came to us and came without a call;

Whose name with that of his leader all histories entwine, The one as is the mighty oak, the other as the vine;

The one the staff, the other the great banner on its lance— Now, need I name the dearest name of all the names of France?

Oh, Marquis brave! Upon this shaft, deep-cut thy cherished name Twin Old Mortalities shall find—fond Gratitude and Fame!

THE TWO LEADERS.

Two chieftains watch the battle's tide and listen as it rolls And only HEAVEN above can tell the tumult of their souls!

Cornwallis saw the British power struck down by one fell blow, A Gallic spearhead on the lance that laid the Lion low.

But the Father of his Country saw the future all unrolled, Independence blazed before him written down in text of gold,

Like the Hebrew, on the mountain, looking forward then he saw The Promised Land of Freedom blooming under Freedom's law;

Saw a great Republic spurring in the lists where Nations ride, The peer of any Power in her majesty and pride;

Saw that young Republic gazing through her helmet's gilded bars Toward the West all luminous with th' light of coming stars;

From Atlantic to Pacific saw her banners all unfurled Heard sonorous trumpets blowing blessed Peace with all the world?

Roused from this glorious vision, with success within his reach, In few and simple words he made this long-resounding speech:

"The work is done, and well done:" thus spake he on this sod, In accents calm and measured as the accents of a God.

God, said I? Yes, his image rises on the raptured sight Like Baldur, the fair and blameless, the Goth's God of the Light!

XIII.

THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

As some spent gladiator, struck by Death, Whose reeling vision scarce a foe defines, For one last effort gathers all his breath, England draws in her lines.

Her blood-red flag floats out full fair, but flows O'er crumbling bastions, in fictitious state: Who stands a siege Cornwallis full well knows, Plays at a game with Fate.

Siege means surrender at the bitter end, From Ilium downward such the sword-made rule, With few exceptions, few indeed amend This law in any school!

The student who for these has ever sought 'Mid his exceptions Caesar counts as one, Besieger and besieged he, victor, fought Under a Gallic sun.

For Vircinget'rex failed, but at the wall: He strove and failed gilded by Glory's rays So that true soldiership describes that Gaul In terms of honest praise.

But there was not a Julius in the lines Round which our Chief the fatal leaguer drew, The noble Earl, though valiant, never shines 'Mid War's majestic few.

By hopes and fears in agonies long tossed— [Clinton hard fixed in method's rigid groove] The British Leader saw the game was lost; But, still, it had one move!

Could he attain yon spreading Gloucester shore; Could he and his cross York's majestic tide; He, then, might laugh to hear the cannon roar And far for safety ride.

Bold was the plan! and generous Light Horse Lee Gives it full measure of unstinted praise; But PROVIDENCE declared this should not be In its own wondrous ways.

Loud roared the storm! The rattling thunders rang! Against the blast his rowers could not row! White waves like hoary-headed Homers sang Hexameters of woe.

Then came the time to end the mighty Play, To drop the curtain and to quench the lamps, And soon the story took its jocund way Through all the Allied camps.

"Measure for measure" then was righteous law, The cup of Lincoln, bowed Cornwallis pressed, And as he drank the wondering Nations saw A sunrise—in the West!

Death fell upon the Royal cause that day, The King stood like Swift's oak with blighted crest, Headpiece and Crown both cleft he drooped away: Hic jacet—tells the rest!

And patriots stood where traitors late were jeered, Transformed from rebels into freemen bold, What seemed Membrino's helmet now appeared A real casque of gold!

XIV.

THE SURRENDER OF LORD CORNWALLIS.

Next came the closing scene: but shall I paint The scarlet column, sullen, slow, and faint, Which marched, with "colors cased" to yonder field, Where Britain threw down corslet, sword and shield?

Shall I depict the anguish of the brave Who envied comrades sleeping in the grave? Shall I exult o'er inoffensive dust Of valiant men whose swords have turned to rust? Shall I, like Menelaus by the coast, O'er dead Ajaces make unmanly boast? Shall I, in chains of an ignoble Verse, Degrade dead Hectors, and their pangs rehearse— Nay! such is not the mood this People feels, Their chariots drag no foemen by the heels! Let Ajax slumber by the sounding sea From the fell passion of his madness free! Let Hector's ashes unmolested sleep— But not to-day shall any Priam weep!

OUR ANCIENT ALLIES.

Superb in white and red, and white and gold, And white and violet, the French unfold Their blazoned banners on the Autumn air, While cymbols clash and brazen trumpets blare: Steeds fret and foam, and spurs with scabbards clank As far they form, in many a shining rank. Deux-Ponts is there, as hilt to sword blade true, And Guvion rises smiling on the view; And the brave Swede, as yet untouched by Fate, Rides 'mid his comrades with a mien elate; And Duportail—and scores of others glance Upon the scene, and all are worthy France! And for those Frenchmen and their splendid bands, The very Centuries shall clap their hands, While at their head, as all their banners flow, And all their drums roll out, and trumpets blow, Rides first and foremost splendid Rochambeau! And well he rides, worthy an epic rhyme— Full well he rides in attitude sublime— Fair Freedom's Champion in the lists of Time.

THE CONTINENTALS.

In hunting shirts, or faded blue and buff, And many clad in simple, rustic stuff, Their ensigns torn but held by Freedom's hand, In long-drawn lines the Continentals stand. To them precision, if not martial grace; Each heart triumphant but composed each face; Well taught in military arts by brave Steuben, With port of soldiers, majesty of men, All fathers of their Country like a wall They stand at rest to see the curtain fall. Well-taught were they by one who learned War's trade From Frederick, whom not Ruin's self dismayed;— Well-taught by one who never lost the heat Caught on an anvil where all Europe beat;— Beat in a storm of blows, with might and main, But on that Prussian anvil beat in vain! And to the gallant race of Steuben's name That long has held close intercourse with Fame, This great Republic bows its lofty crest, And folds his kinsmen to her ample breast: At fray, or festival, on march or halt, Von Steuben always far above the salt!

"THE MARQUIS."

The Brave young Marquis, second but to one For whom he felt the reverence of a son, Rides at the head of his division proud— A ray of Glory painted on the cloud! Mad Anthony is there, and Knox—but why Great names like battle flags attempt to fly? Who sings of skies lit up by Jove and Mars Thinks not to chant a catalogue of stars! I bow me low, and bowing low I pass Unnumbered heroes in unnumbered mass, While at their head in grave, and sober state, Rides one whom Time has found completely great Master of Fortune and the match of Fate!

* * * * *

Then Tilghman mounted on these Plains of York Swift sped away as speeds the homing hawk, And soon 'twas his to wake that watchman's cry That woke all Nations and shall never die!

THE ANCIENT ENEMIES.

Brave was the foeman! well he held his ground! But here defeat at kindred hands he found! The shafts rained on him, in a righteous cause, Came from the quiver of Old England's laws!

He fought in vain; and on this spot went down The jus divinum, and the kingly crown. But for those scenes Time long has made amends. The ancient enemies are present friends; Two swords, in Massachusetts, rich in dust, And, better still, the peacefulness of rust, Told the whole story in its double parts To one who lives in two great nations' hearts; And late above Old England's roar and din Slow-tolling bells spoke sympathy of kin: Victoria's wreath blooms on the sleeping breast Of him just gone to his reward and rest, And firm and fast between two mighty Powers New treaties live in those undying flowers.

THE SPLENDID THREE.

Turned back my gaze, on Spain's romantic shore I see Gaul bending by the grave of Moore, And later, when the page of Fame I scan I see brave France at deadly Inkerman, While on red Balaklava's field I hear Gallia's applause swell Albion's ringing cheer, England and France, as Allies, side by side Fought on the Pieho's melancholy tide, And there, brave Tattnall, ere the fight was done, Stirred English hearts as far as shone the sun, Or tides and billows in their courses run. That day, 'mid the dark Pieho's slaughter He said: "Blood is thicker than water!" And your true man though "brayed in a mortar" At feast, or at fray Will still feel it and say As he said: "Blood is thicker than water!"

And full homely is the saying but this story always starts An answer from ten thousand times ten thousand kindred hearts.

Then let us pray that as the sun shines ever on the sea Fair Peace forevermore may smile upon the Splendid Three!

May happy France see purple grapes a-glow on all her hills, And England breast-deep in her corn laugh back the laugh of rills!

May this fair land to which all roads lead as the roads of Rome Led to th' eternal city's gates still offer Man a home—

A home of peace and plenty, and of freedom and of ease, With all before him where to choose between the shining seas!

May the war-cries of the Captains yield to happy reapers shouts, And the clover whiten bastions and the olive shade redoubts!

XV.

THE WAR HORSE DRAWS THE PLOUGH.

At last our Fathers saw the Treaty sealed, Victory unhelmed her broad, majestic brow, The Sword became a Sickle in the field, The war horse drew the plough.

There is a time when men shape for their Land Its institutions 'mid some tempests' roar, Just as the waves that thunder on the strand Shape out and round the shore.

Then comes a day when institutions turn And carve the men, or cast them into moulds; One Era trembles while volcanoes burn, Another Age beholds

The hardened lava changed to hills and leas, With blooming glades and orchards intermixed, Vineyards which look abroad o'er purple seas, And deep foundations fixed.

So, when fell Chaos like a baleful Fate What we had won seemed bent to snatch away Sound thinkers rose who fashioned out the State As potters fashion clay.

XVI.

HEROES AND STATESMEN.

Of their great names I may record but few; He who beholds the Ocean white with sails And copies each confuses all the view, He paints too much—and fails.

His picture shows no high, emphatic light, Its shadows in full mass refuse to fall, And as its broken details meet the light Men turn it to the wall.

Of those great names but few may pass my lips, For he who speaks of Salamis then sees Not men who there commanded Grecian ships— But grand Themistocles!

Yet some I mark, and these discreetly take To grace my verse through duty and design, As one notes barks that leave the broadest wake Upon the stormy Brine.

These rise before me; and there Mason stands The Constitution-maker firm and bold, Like Bernal Diaz, planting with kind hands Fair trees to blaze in gold.

Amid the lofty group sedate, I see Great Franklin muse where Truth had locked her stores, Holding within his steady hand the key That opened many doors.

And Trumbull, strong as hammered steel of old, Stands boldly out in clear and high relief,— A blade unbending worth a hilt of gold,— He never failed his Chief.

Then Robert Morris glides into my Verse Turning the very stones at need to bread— Filling the young Republic's slender purse When Credit's self seemed dead.

Tylers I see—sprung from the sturdy Wat— A strong-armed rebel of an ancient date, With Falkland-Carys come, to draw the lot Cast in the helm of Fate.

And Marshall in his ermine white as snow, Wise, learned and profound Fame loves to draw, His noble function on the Bench to show That Reason is the Law.

His sword unbuckled and his brows unbent, The gallant Hamilton again appears, And in fair Freedom's mighty Parliament He marches with the Peers!

Henry is there beneath his civic crown; He speaks in words that thunder as they flow, And as he speaks his thunder-tones bring down An avalanche below!

Nor does John Adams in the picture lag, He was as bold, as resolute, and free, As is the eagle on a misty crag Above a stormy sea.

And 'mid his fellows in those days of need, Impassioned Jefferson burns like a sun, The New World's Prophet of the New World's Creed— Prophet and Priest in one!

These two together stood in our great past, When Independence flamed across the land; On Independence Day these two at last Departed hand in hand.

And they are taken by a patriot's mind As kindred types of our great Saxon stock, And that same thinker hopes some day to find Both statues in one block.[12]

But, here I number splendid names too fast, Heroes and Sages throng behind this group, And thick they come as came in Homer's past A Goddess and her troop;

And as that troop, 'mid frays and fell alarms, Swept, all a-glitter, on their mission bent, And bore from Vulcan the resplendent arms To great Achilles sent,

So came the names that light my pious Song— Came bearing Union forged in high debates— A sun-illuminated Shield, and strong, To guard these mighty States.

The Shield sent to the son of Peleus glowed With hammered wonders, all without a flaw; The Shield of Union in its splendor showed The Compromise of Law.

And as the Epic lifts a form sublime For all the Ages on its plinth of gold, So does our Story, challenging all time, Its crowning shape uphold!

[Footnote 12: This fine idea is borrowed from one of the addresses of Mr. Winthrop, the orator of the occasion.]

XVII.

PATER PATRAE.

Achilles came from Homer's Jove-like brain, Pavilioned 'mid his ships where Thetis trod; But he whose image dominates this plain Came from the hand of God!

Yet, of his life, which shall all time adorn I dare not sing; to try the theme would be To drink as 'twere that Scandinavian Horn Whose tip was in the Sea.

I bow my head and go upon my ways, Who tells that story can but gild the gold— Could I pile Alps on Apennines of praise The tale would not be told.

Not his the blade which lyric fables say Cleft Pyrenees from ridge to nether bed, But his the sword which cleared the Sacred Way For Freedom's feet to tread.

Not Caesar's genius nor Napoleon's skill Gave him proud mast'ry o'er the trembling earth; But great in honesty, and sense and will— He was the "man of worth."

He knew not North, nor South, nor West, nor East: Childless himself, Father of States he stood, Strong and sagacious as a Knight turned Priest, And vowed to deeds of good.

Compared with all Earth's heroes I may say He was, with even half his virtues hid, Greater in what his hand refrained than they Were great in what they did.

And thus his image dominates all time, Uplifted like the everlasting dome Which rises in a miracle sublime Above eternal Rome.

On Rome's once blooming plain where'er we stray That dome majestic rises on the view, Its Cross a-glow with every wandering ray That shines along the Blue.

So his vast image shadows all the lands, So holds forever Man's adoring eye, And o'er the Union which he left it stands Our Cross against the sky!

XVIII.

THE FLAG OF THE REPUBLIC.

My harp soon ceases; but I here allege Its strings are in my heart and tremble there: My Song's last strain shall be a claim and pledge— A claim, a pledge, a prayer!

I stand, as stood, in storied days of old, Vasco Balboa staring o'er bright seas When fair Pacific's tide of limpid gold Surged up against his knees.

For haughty Spain, her banner in his hand, He claimed a New World, sea, and plain, and crag— I claim the Future's Ocean for this land And here I plant her flag!

Float out, oh flag, from Freedom's burnished lance! Float out, oh flag, in Red, and White, and Blue! The Union's colors and the hues of France Commingled on the view!

Float out, oh flag, and all thy splendors wake! Float out, oh flag, above our Hero's bed! Float out, oh flag, and let thy blazon take New glories from the dead!

Float out, oh flag, o'er Freedom's noblest types! Float out, oh flag, all free of blot or stain! Float out, oh flag, the "Roses" in thy stripes Forever blent again!

Float out, oh flag, and float in every clime! Float out, oh flag, and blaze on every sea! Float out, oh flag, and float as long as Time And Space themselves shall be!

Float out, oh flag, o'er Freedom's onward march! Float out, oh flag, in Freedom's starry sheen! Float out, oh flag, above the Union's arch Where Washington is seen!

Float out, oh flag, above a smiling Land! Float out, oh flag, above a peaceful sod! Float out, oh flag, thy staff within the hand Beneficent of God!

XIX.

THE SOUTH IN THE UNION.

An ancient Chronicle has told That, in the famous days of old, In Antioch under ground The self-same lance was found— Unbitten by corrosive rust— The lance the Roman soldier thrust In CHRIST'S bare side upon the Tree; And that it brought A mighty spell To those who fought The Infidel And mighty victory.

And so this day To you I say— Speaking for millions of true Southern men— In words that have no undertow— I say, and say agen: Come weal, or woe, Should this Republic ever fight, By land, or sea, For present law, or ancient right The South will be As was that lance, Albeit not found Hid under ground But in the forefront of the first advance!

'Twill fly a pennon fair As ever kissed the air, On it, for every glance, Shall blaze majestic France Blent with our Hero's name In everlasting flame, And written, fair in gold, This legend on its fold: Give us back the ties of Yorktown! Perish all the modern hates! Let us stand together, brothers, In defiance of the Fates; FOR THE SAFETY OF THE UNION IS THE SAFETY OF THE STATES!



TO ALEXANDER GALT, THE SCULPTOR.

Alas! he's cold! Cold as the marble which his fingers wrought— Cold, but not dead; for each embodied thought Of his, which he from the Ideal brought To live in stone, Assures him immortality of fame.

Galt is not dead! Only too soon We saw him climb Up to his pedestal, where equal Time And coming generations, in the noon Of his full reputation, yet shall stand To pay just homage to his noble name.

Our Poet of the Quarries only sleeps, He cleft his pathway up the future's steeps, And now rests from his labors.

Hence 'tis I say; For him there is no death, Only the stopping of the pulse and breath— But simple breath is not the all in all; Man hath it but in common with the brutes— Life is in action and in brave pursuits! By what we dream, and having dreamt, dare do, We hold our places in the world's large view, And still have part in the affairs of men When the long sleep is on us.

He dreamt and made his dreams perpetual things Fit for the rugged cell of penitential saints, Or sumptuous halls of Kings, And showed himself a Poet in the Art: He chiselled Lyrics with a touch so fine, With such a tender beauty of their own, That rarest songs broke out from every line And verse was audible in voiceless stone! His Psyche, soft in beauty and in grace, Waits for her lover in the Western breeze, And a swift smile irradiates her face, As though she heard him whisper in the trees.

His passion-stricken Sappho seems alive— Before her none can ever feel alone, For on her face emotions so do strive That we forget she is but pallid stone; And all her tragedy of love and woe Is told us in the chilly marble's snow.

Bacchante, with her vine-crowned hair, Leaps to the cymbal-measured dance With such a passion in her air— Upon her brow—upon her lips— As thrills you to the finger-tips, And fascinates your glance.

These are, as 'twere, three of his Songs in stone— The first full of the tenderness of love, Speaking of moon-rise, and the low wind's call: The second of love's tragedy and fall; The third of shrill, mad laughter, and the tone Of festal music, on whose rise and fall Swift-footed dancers follow.

Nobler than these sweet lyric dreams, Dreamt out beside Italia's streams, He'd worked some Epic studies out, in part— To leave them incomplete his chiefest pain When the low pulses of his failing heart Admonished him of death.

Ay! he had soared upon a lofty wing, Wet with the purple and encrimsoned rain Of dreams, whose clouds had floated o'er his brain Until it ached with glories.

If you would see his Epic studies, go— Go with the student from his dim arcade— Halt where the Statesman standeth in the hall, And mark how careless voices hush and fall, And all light talk to sudden pause is brought In presence of the noble type of thought— Embodied Independence which he wrought From stone of far Carrara.

View his Columbus: Hero grand and meek, Scarred 'mid the battle's long-protracted brunt— Palos and Salvador stamped on his front, With not a line about it, poor or weak— A second Atlas, bearing on his brow A New World, just discovered.

Go see Virginia's wise, majestic face With some faint shadow of her coming woe Writ on the broad, expansive, virgin snow Of her imperial forehead, just as though Some disembodied Prophet-hand of eld The Sculptor's chisel in its touch had held, Foreshadowing her coming crown of thorns— Her crown and her great glory! These of the many; but they are enough— Enough to show that I have rightly said The marble's snow bids back from him decay, He sleepeth long; but sleeps not with the dead Who die, and are forgotten ere the clay Heaped over them hath hardened in the sun.

This much of Galt, the Artist: Of the man Fain would I speak, but in sad sooth I can Ne'er find the words wherein to tell How he was loved, or yet how well He did deserve it. All things of beauty were to him delight— The sunset's clouds—the turret rent apart— The stars which glitter in the noon of night— Spoke in one voice unto his mind and heart, His love of Nature made his love of Art, And had his span Of life been longer He had surely done Such noble things that he Like to a soaring eagle would have been At last—lost in the sun!



TO THE POET-PRIEST RYAN.

IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF A COPY OF HIS POEMS.

Himself I read beneath the words he writes ... I may come back and sing again.—RYAN.

I.

This Bard's to me a whole-souled man In honesty and might, For when he sees Wrong in the van He leaps like any Knight To horse, and charging on the wrong Smites it with the great sword of Song.

II.

Beneath the cassock of the Priest There throbs another heart— Another—but 'tis not the least— Which in his Lays takes part, So that 'mid clash of Swords and Spears There is no lack of Pity's tears.

III.

This other heart is brave and soft, As such hearts always are, And plumes itself, a bird aloft, When Morning's gates unbar— Till high it soars above the sod Bathed in the very light of God.

IV.

Woman and Soldier, Priest and Man, I find within these Lays, And the closer still th' Verse I scan The more I see to praise: Some of these Lyrics shower down The glories of the Cross and Crown.

V.

To thee, oh Bard! my head I bow, As I'd not to a King, And my last word, writ here and now, Is not a little thing; Recall the promise of thy strain— Thou art to "come and sing again!"



THREE NAMES.

Virginia in her proud, Colonial days Boasts three great names which full of glory shine; Two glitter like the burnished heads of spears, the third in tender light is half divine. Turning that page my eager fancy hears Trumpets and drums, and fleet on fleet appears.

Those names are graven deep and broad, to last And outlast Ages: while recording Time Hands down their story, worth an Epic Rhyme To light her future by her splendid past: One planned the Saxon's Empire o'er these lands,— The other planted it with valiant hands— The third, with Mercy's soft, celestial beams, Lights fair romances, histories and dreams.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

Whether in velvet white, slashed, and be-pearled, And rich in knots of clustering gems a-glow: Or, in his rusted armor, he unfurled St. George's Cross by Oronoko's flow; He was a man to note right well as one Who shot his arrows straightway at the sun.

Dark was his hair, his beard all crisp and curled. And narrow-lidded were his piercing eyes, Anhungered in their glances for a world That he might win by daring enterprise,— Explorer, soldier, scholar, poet, he Not only wrote but acted historie!— And that great Captain, of our Saxon stock, Took his last slumber on the ghastly block!

CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH.

A yeoman born, with patrimony small, He held the world at large as his estate; Found fit advices in the bugle's call And took his part in iron-tongued debate Where'er one sword another sword blade notched; Ne'er was he slain, though often he was scotched, Now down, now up, but always fronting fate.

At last a figure resolute, and grand In arms he leaped upon Virginia's strand; Fitted in many schools his course to steer He knew the ax, the musketoon, and brand, How to obey, and better to command; First of his line he stood—a planted spear The New World saw the English Pioneer!

POCAHONTAS.

Her story, sure, was fashioned out above, Ere 't was enacted on the scene below! For 't was a very miracle of love When from the savage hawk's nest came the dove With wings of peace to stay the ordered blow— The hawk's plumes bloody, but the dove's as snow!

And here my heart oppressed by pleasant tears Yields to a young girl's half angelic spell— Yes, for that maiden like a Saint appears; She needs no fresco, stone, nor shrine to tell Her story to the people of this Land— Saint of the Wilderness, enthroned amid The wooded Minster where the Pagan hid!



SUNSET ON HAMPTON ROADS.

Behind me purplish lines marked out the town, Before me stretched the noble Roadstead's tide: And there I saw the Evening sun go down Casting a parting glory far and wide— As King who for the cowl puts off his crown— So went the sun: and left a wealth of light Ere hidden by the cloister-gates of Night.

Beholding this my soul was stilled in prayer, I understood how all men, save the blind, Might find religion in a scene so fair And formulate a creed within the mind;— See prophesies in clouds; fates in the air; The skies flamed red; the murm'ring waves were hushed— "The conscious water saw its God and blushed."



A KING'S GRATITUDE.

Plain men have fitful moods and so have Kings, For Kings are only men, and often made Of clay as common as e'er stained a spade. But when the great are moody, then, the strings Of gilded harps are smitten, and their strains Are soft and soothing as the Summer rains.

And Saul was taken by an evil mood, He felt within himself his spirit faint: In vain he tossed upon his couch and wooed Refreshing slumbers. Sleep knows no constraint! Then David came: his physic and advice All in a harp, and cleared the mind of Saul— And Saul thereafter launched his javelin twice To nail the harper to the palace wall!



"THE TWINSES." [13]

Two little children toddled up to me, Their faces fair as faces well could be, Roses and snow, but pale the roses were Like flowers fainting for the lack of air. Sad was the tender study which I gave The winning creatures, both so sweet and grave, Two beautiful young Saxons, scarce knee high! As like as peas! Two Lilliputian men! Immortal ere they knew it by the pen Which waketh laughter or bedews the eye. God bless you, little people! May His hand Hold you within its hollow all your days! Smooth all the rugged places, and your ways Make long and pleasant in a fruitful land!

[Footnote 13: Children of his friend, Dr. George W. Bagby.]



DREAMERS.

Fools laugh at dreamers, and the dreamers smile In answer, if they any answer make: They know that Saxon Alfred could not bake The oaten cakes, but that he snatched his Isle Back from the fierce and bloody-handed Dane.

And so, they leave the plodders to their gains— Quit money changing for the student's lamp, And tune the harp to gain thereby some camp, Where what they learn is worth a kingdom's crown; They fashion bows and arrows to bring down The mighty truths which sail the upper air; To them the facts which make the fools despair Become familiar, and a thousand things Tell them the secrets they refuse to kings.



UNDER ONE BLANKET.

The sun went down in flame and smoke, The cold night passed without alarms, And when the bitter morning broke Our men stood to their arms.

But not a foe in front was found After the long and stubborn fight. The enemy had left the ground Where we had lain that night.

In hollows where the sun was lost Unthawed still lay the shining snow, And on the rugged ground the frost In slender spears did grow.

Close to us, where our final rush Was made at closing in of day, We saw, amid an awful hush, The rigid shapes of clay:

Things, which but yesterday had life, And answered to the trumpet's call, Remained as victims of the strife, Clods of the Valley all!

Then, the grim detail marched away A grave from the hard soil to wrench Wherein should sleep the Blue and Grey All in a ghastly trench!

A thicket of young pines arose, Midway upon that frosty ground; A shelter from the winds and snows, And by its edge I found

Two stiffened forms, where they had died, As sculptured marble white and cold, Lying together side by side Beneath one blanket's fold.

My heart already touched and sad The blanket down I gently drew And saw a sturdy form, well clad From head to heel in Blue.

Beside him, gaunt from many a fast, A pale and boyish "rebel" lay, Free of all pangs of life, at last, In tattered suit of Grey.

There side by side those soldiers slept Each for the cause that he thought good, And bowing down my head I wept Through human brotherhood.

Oh, sirs! it was a piteous thing To see how they had vainly tried With strips of shirts, and bits of string, To stay life's ebbing tide!

The story told itself aright; (Print scarce were plainer to the eye) How they together in the night Had laid them down to die.

The story told itself, I say, How smitten by their wounds and cold They'd nestled close, the Blue and Grey, Beneath one blanket's fold.

All their poor surgery could do They did to stop their wounds so deep, Until at last the Grey and Blue Like comrades fell asleep.

We dug for them a generous grave, Under that sombre thicket's lee, And there we laid the sleeping brave To wait God's reveille.

That grave by many a tear was graced From ragged heroes ranged around As in one blanket they were placed In consecrated ground.

Aye! consecrated, without flaw, Because upon that bloody sod, My soul uplifted stood and saw Where CHRIST had lately trod!



THE LEE MEMORIAL ODE.

"Great Mother of great Commonwealths" Men call our Mother State: And she so well has earned this name That she may challenge Fate To snatch away the epithet Long given her of "great."

First of all Old England's outposts To stand fast upon these shores Soon she brought a mighty harvest To a People's threshing floors, And more than golden grain was piled Within her ample doors.

Behind her stormy sunrise shone, Her shadow fell vast and long, And her mighty Adm'ral, English Smith, Heads a prodigous throng Of as mighty men, from Raleigh down, As ever arose in song.

Her names are the shining arrows Which her ancient quiver bears, And their splendid sheaf has thickened Through the long march of the years, While her great shield has been burnished By her children's blood and tears.

Yes, it is true, my Countrymen, We are rich in names and blood, And red have been the blossoms From the first Colonial bud, While her names have blazed as meteors By many a field and flood.

And as some flood tumultuous In sounding billows rolled Gives back the evening's glories In a wealth of blazing gold: So does the present from its waves Reflect the lights of old.

Our history is a shining sea Locked in by lofty land And its great Pillars of Hercules, Above the shining sand, I here behold in majesty Uprising on each hand.

These Pillars of our history, In fame forever young, Are known in every latitude And named in every tongue, And down through all the Ages Their story shall be sung.

The Father of his Country Stands above that shut-in sea A glorious symbol to the world Of all that's great and free; And to-day Virginia matches him— And matches him with Lee.

II.

Who shall blame the social order Which gave us men as great as these? Who condemn the soil of t' forest Which bring forth gigantic trees? Who presume to doubt that Providence Shapes out our destinies?

Fore-ordained, and long maturing, Came the famous men of old: In the dark mines deep were driven Down the shafts to reach the gold, And the story is far longer Than the histories have told.

From Bacon down to Washington The generations passed, Great events and moving causes Were in serried order massed: Berkeley well was first confronted, Better George the King at last!

From the time of that stern ruler To our own familiar days Long the pathway we have trodden, Hard, and devious were its ways Till at last there came the second Mightier Revolution's blaze:

Till at last there broke the tempest Like a cyclone on the sea, When the lightnings blazed and dazzled And the thunders were set free— And riding on that whirlwind came Majestic, Robert Lee!

Who—again I ask the question— Who may challenge in debate, With any show of truthfulness, Our former social state Which brought forth more than heroes In their lives supremely great?

Not Peter, the wild Crusader, When bent upon his knee, Not Arthur and his belted knights, In the Poet's Song, could be More earnest than those Southern men Who followed Robert Lee.

They thought that they were right and this Was hammered into those Who held that crest all drenched in blood Where the "Bloody Angle" rose. As for all else? It passes by As the idle wind that blows.

III.

Then stand up, oh my Countrymen! And unto God give thanks, On mountains, and on hillsides And by sloping river banks— Thank God that you were worthy Of the grand Confederate ranks:

That you who came from uplands And from beside the sea, Filled with love of Old Virginia And the teachings of the free, May boast in sight of all men That you followed Robert Lee.

Peace has come. God give his blessing On the fact and on the name! The South speaks no invective And she writes no word of blame; But we call all men to witness That we stand up without shame.

Nay! Send it forth to all the world That we stand up here with pride, With love for our living comrades And with praise for those who died: And in this manly frame of mind Till death we will abide.

GOD and our consciences alone Give us measure of right and wrong; The race may fall unto the swift And the battle to the strong: But the truth will shine in history And blossom into song.

Human grief full oft by glory Is assuaged and disappears When its requiem swells with music Like the shock of shields and spears, And its passion is too full of pride To leave a space for tears.

And hence to-day, my Countrymen, We come, with undimmed eyes, In homage of the hero Lee, The good, the great, the wise! And at his name our hearts will leap Till his last old soldier dies.

Ask me, if so you please, to paint Storm winds upon the sea; Tell me to weigh great Cheops— Set volcanic forces free; But bid me not, my Countrymen, To picture Robert Lee!

As Saul, bound for Damascus fair, Was struck blind by sudden light So my eyes are pained and dazzled By a radiance pure and white Shot back by the burnished armor Of that glory-belted Knight.

His was all the Norman's polish And sobriety of grace; All the Goth's majestic figure; All the Roman's noble face; And he stood the tall exemplar Of a grand historic race.

Baronial were his acres where Potomac's waters run; High his lineage, and his blazon Was by cunning heralds done; But better still he might have said Of his "works" he was the "son."

Truth walked beside him always, From his childhood's early years, Honor followed as his shadow, Valor lightened all his cares: And he rode—that grand Virginian— Last of all the Cavaliers!

As a soldier we all knew him Great in action and repose, Saw how his genius kindled And his mighty spirit rose When the four quarters of the globe Encompassed him with foes.

But he and his grew braver As the danger grew more rife, Avaricious they of glory But most prodigal of life, And the "Army of Virginia" Was the Atlas of the strife.

As his troubles gathered round him, Thick as waves that beat the shore, Atra Cura rode behind him, Famine's shadow filled his door; Still he wrought deeds no mortal man Had ever wrought before.

IV.

Then came the end, my Countrymen, The last thunderbolts were hurled! Worn out by his own victories His battle flags were furled And a history was finished That has changed the modern world.

As some saint in the arena Of a bloody Roman game, As the prize of his endeavor, Put on an immortal frame, Through long agonies our Soldier Won the crown of martial fame.

But there came a greater glory To that man supremely great (When his just sword he laid aside In peace to serve his State) For in his classic solitude He rose up and mastered Fate.

He triumphed and he did not die!— No funeral bells are tolled— But on that day in Lexington Fame came herself to hold His stirrup while he mounted To ride down the streets of gold.

He is not dead! There is no death! He only went before His journey on when CHRIST THE LORD Wide open held the door, And a calm, celestial peace is his: Thank God! forevermore.

V.

When the effigy of Washington In its bronze was reared on high 'Twas mine, with others, now long gone. Beneath a stormy sky, To utter to the multitude His name that cannot die.

And here to-day, my Countrymen, I tell you Lee shall ride With that great "rebel" down the years— Twin "rebels" side by side!— And confronting such a vision All our grief gives place to pride.

Those two shall ride immortal And shall ride abreast of Time, Shall light up stately history And blaze in Epic Rhyme— Both patriots, both Virginians true, Both "rebels," both sublime!

Our past is full of glories It is a shut-in sea, The pillars overlooking it Are Washington and Lee: And a future spreads before us, Not unworthy of the free.

And here and now, my Countrymen, Upon this sacred sod, Let us feel: It was "OUR FATHER" Who above us held the rod, And from hills to sea Like Robert Lee Bow reverently to God.

THE END