And yet but dimly he divines The depth of that deceit, And superstition 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 passes 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— Grassed 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 hell—'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.

The sufferance of her race is shown, And retrospect of life, Which now too late deliverance dawns upon; Yet is she not at strife.

Her children's children they shall know The good withheld from her; And so her reverie takes prophetic cheer— In spirit she sees the stir

Far down the depth of thousand years, And marks the revel shine; Her dusky face is lit with sober light, Sibylline, yet benign.



The Apparition. (A Retrospect.)

Convulsions came; and, where the field Long slept in pastoral green, A goblin-mountain was upheaved (Sure the scared sense was all deceived), Marl-glen and slag-ravine.

The unreserve of Ill was there, The clinkers in her last retreat; But, ere the eye could take it in, Or mind could comprehension win, It sunk!—and at our feet.

So, then, Solidity's a crust— The core of fire below; All may go well for many a year, But who can think without a fear Of horrors that happen so?



Magnanimity Baffled.

"Sharp words we had before the fight; But—now the fight is done— Look, here's my hand," said the Victor bold, "Take it—an honest one! What, holding back? I mean you well; Though worsted, you strove stoutly, man; The odds were great; I honor you; Man honors man.

"Still silent, friend? can grudges be? Yet am I held a foe?— Turned to the wall, on his cot he lies— Never I'll leave him so! Brave one! I here implore your hand; Dumb still? all fellowship fled? Nay, then, I'll have this stubborn hand" He snatched it—it was dead.



On the Slain Collegians.[20]

Youth is the time when hearts are large, And stirring wars Appeal to the spirit which appeals in turn To the blade it draws. If woman incite, and duty show (Though made the mask of Cain), Or whether it be Truth's sacred cause, Who can aloof remain That shares youth's ardor, uncooled by the snow Of wisdom or sordid gain?

The liberal arts and nurture sweet Which give his gentleness to man— Train him to honor, lend him grace Through bright examples meet— That culture which makes never wan With underminings deep, but holds The surface still, its fitting place, And so gives sunniness to the face And bravery to the heart; what troops Of generous boys in happiness thus bred— Saturnians through life's Tempe led, Went from the North and came from the South, With golden mottoes in the mouth, To lie down midway on a bloody bed.

Woe for the homes of the North, And woe for the seats of the South; All who felt life's spring in prime, And were swept by the wind of their place and time— All lavish hearts, on whichever side, Of birth urbane or courage high, Armed them for the stirring wars— Armed them—some to die. Apollo-like in pride, Each would slay his Python—caught The maxims in his temple taught— Aflame with sympathies whose blaze Perforce enwrapped him—social laws, Friendship and kin, and by-gone days— Vows, kisses—every heart unmoors, And launches into the seas of wars. What could they else—North or South? Each went forth with blessings given By priests and mothers in the name of Heaven; And honor in both was chief. Warred one for Right, and one for Wrong? So be it; but they both were young— Each grape to his cluster clung, All their elegies are sung.

The anguish of maternal hearts Must search for balm divine; But well the striplings bore their fated parts (The heavens all parts assign)— Never felt life's care or cloy. Each bloomed and died an unabated Boy; Nor dreamed what death was—thought it mere Sliding into some vernal sphere. They knew the joy, but leaped the grief, Like plants that flower ere comes the leaf— Which storms lay low in kindly doom, And kill them in their flush of bloom.



America.

I.

Where the wings of a sunny Dome expand I saw a Banner in gladsome air— Starry, like Berenice's Hair— Afloat in broadened bravery there; With undulating long-drawn flow, As rolled Brazilian billows go Voluminously o'er the Line. The Land reposed in peace below; The children in their glee Were folded to the exulting heart Of young Maternity.

II.

Later, and it streamed in fight When tempest mingled with the fray, And over the spear-point of the shaft I saw the ambiguous lightning play. Valor with Valor strove, and died: Fierce was Despair, and cruel was Pride; And the lorn Mother speechless stood, Pale at the fury of her brood.

III.

Yet later, and the silk did wind Her fair cold form; Little availed the shining shroud, Though ruddy in hue, to cheer or warm. A watcher looked upon her low, and said— She sleeps, but sleeps, she is not dead. But in that sleep contortion showed The terror of the vision there— A silent vision unavowed, Revealing earth's foundation bare, And Gorgon in her hidden place. It was a thing of fear to see So foul a dream upon so fair a face, And the dreamer lying in that starry shroud.

IV.

But from the trance she sudden broke— The trance, or death into promoted life; At her feet a shivered yoke, And in her aspect turned to heaven No trace of passion or of strife— A clear calm look. It spake of pain, But such as purifies from stain— Sharp pangs that never come again— And triumph repressed by knowledge meet, Power dedicate, and hope grown wise, And youth matured for age's seat— Law on her brow and empire in her eyes. So she, with graver air and lifted flag; While the shadow, chased by light, Fled along the far-drawn height, And left her on the crag.



Verses Inscriptive and Memorial



On the Home Guards who perished in the Defense of Lexington, Missouri.

The men who here in harness died Fell not in vain, though in defeat. They by their end well fortified The Cause, and built retreat (With memory of their valor tried) For emulous hearts in many an after fray— Hearts sore beset, which died at bay.



Inscription for Graves at Pea Ridge, Arkansas.

Let none misgive we died amiss When here we strove in furious fight: Furious it was; nathless was this Better than tranquil plight, And tame surrender of the Cause Hallowed by hearts and by the laws. We here who warred for Man and Right, The choice of warring never laid with us. There we were ruled by the traitor's choice. Nor long we stood to trim and poise, But marched, and fell—victorious!



The Fortitude of the North under the Disaster of the Second Manassas.

They take no shame for dark defeat While prizing yet each victory won, Who fight for the Right through all retreat, Nor pause until their work is done. The Cape-of-Storms is proof to every throe; Vainly against that foreland beat Wild winds aloft and wilder waves below: The black cliffs gleam through rents in sleet When the livid Antarctic storm-clouds glow.



On the Men of Maine killed in the Victory of Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

Afar they fell. It was the zone Of fig and orange, cane and lime (A land how all unlike their own, With the cold pine-grove overgrown), But still their Country's clime. And there in youth they died for her— The Volunteers, For her went up their dying prayers: So vast the Nation, yet so strong the tie. What doubt shall come, then, to deter The Republic's earnest faith and courage high.



An Epitaph.

When Sunday tidings from the front Made pale the priest and people, And heavily the blessing went, And bells were dumb in the steeple; The Soldier's widow (summering sweerly here, In shade by waving beeches lent) Felt deep at heart her faith content, And priest and people borrowed of her cheer.



Inscription for Marye's Heights, Fredericksburg.

To them who crossed the flood And climbed the hill, with eyes Upon the heavenly flag intent, And through the deathful tumult went Even unto death: to them this Stone— Erect, where they were overthrown— Of more than victory the monument.



The Mound by the Lake.

The grass shall never forget this grave. When homeward footing it in the sun After the weary ride by rail, The stripling soldiers passed her door, Wounded perchance, or wan and pale, She left her household work undone— Duly the wayside table spread, With evergreens shaded, to regale Each travel-spent and grateful one. So warm her heart—childless—unwed, Who like a mother comforted.



On the Slain at Chickamauga.

Happy are they and charmed in life Who through long wars arrive unscarred At peace. To such the wreath be given, If they unfalteringly have striven— In honor, as in limb, unmarred. Let cheerful praise be rife, And let them live their years at ease, Musing on brothers who victorious died— Loved mates whose memory shall ever please.

And yet mischance is honorable too— Seeming defeat in conflict justified Whose end to closing eyes is his from view. The will, that never can relent— The aim, survivor of the bafflement, Make this memorial due.



An uninscribed Monument on one of the Battle-fields of the Wilderness.

Silence and Solitude may hint (Whose home is in yon piny wood) What I, though tableted, could never tell— The din which here befell, And striving of the multitude. The iron cones and spheres of death Set round me in their rust, These, too, if just, Shall speak with more than animated breath. Thou who beholdest, if thy thought, Not narrowed down to personal cheer, Take in the import of the quiet here— The after-quiet—the calm full fraught; Thou too wilt silent stand— Silent as I, and lonesome as the land.



On Sherman's Men who fell in the Assault of Kenesaw Mountain, Georgia.

They said that Fame her clarion dropped Because great deeds were done no more— That even Duty knew no shining ends, And Glory—'twas a fallen star! But battle can heroes and bards restore. Nay, look at Kenesaw: Perils the mailed ones never knew Are lightly braved by the ragged coats of blue, And gentler hearts are bared to deadlier war.



On the Grave of a young Cavalry Officer killed in the Valley of Virginia.

Beauty and youth, with manners sweet, and friends— Gold, yet a mind not unenriched had he Whom here low violets veil from eyes. But all these gifts transcended be: His happier fortune in this mound you see.



A Requiem for Soldiers lost in Ocean Transports.

When, after storms that woodlands rue, To valleys comes atoning dawn, The robins blithe their orchard-sports renew; And meadow-larks, no more withdrawn, Caroling fly in the languid blue; The while, from many a hid recess, Alert to partake the blessedness, The pouring mites their airy dance pursue. So, after ocean's ghastly gales, When laughing light of hoyden morning breaks, Every finny hider wakes— From vaults profound swims up with glittering scales; Through the delightsome sea he sails, With shoals of shining tiny things Frolic on every wave that flings Against the prow its showery spray; All creatures joying in the morn, Save them forever from joyance torn, Whose bark was lost where now the dolphins play; Save them that by the fabled shore, Down the pale stream are washed away, Far to the reef of bones are borne; And never revisits them the light, Nor sight of long-sought land and pilot more; Nor heed they now the lone bird's flight Round the lone spar where mid-sea surges pour.



On a natural Monument in a field of Georgia.[21]

No trophy this—a Stone unhewn, And stands where here the field immures The nameless brave whose palms are won. Outcast they sleep; yet fame is nigh— Pure fame of deeds, not doers; Nor deeds of men who bleeding die In cheer of hymns that round them float: In happy dreams such close the eye. 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 shore, 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 fortitude 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 nobleman In Titian'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 shine.

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 God 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 grass 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 breasts like the oriole; The chat, the jest, and laugh are rife. But word is passed 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 pricked 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 pass the picket by the pine And hollow log—a lonesome place; His horse adroop, and pistol clean; 'Tis cocked—kept leveled toward the wood; Strained vigilance ages his childish face. Since midnight has that stripling been Peering for Mosby through the green.

Splashing they cross the freshet-flood, And up the muddy bank they strain; A horse at the spectral white-ash shies— One of the span of the ambulance, Black as a hearse. 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— Grassed ruins of secluded pride: A strange lone land, long past the prime, Fit land for Mosby or for crime.

The brook in the dell they pass. One peers Between the leaves: "Ay, there's the place— There, on the oozy ledge—'twas there We found the body (Blake's you know); Such whirlings, gurglings round the face— Shot drinking! Well, in war all's fair— So Mosby says. The bough—take care!"

Hard by, a chapel. Flower-pot mould Danked and decayed the shaded roof; The porch was punk; the clapboards spanned With ruffled lichens gray or green; Red coral-moss was not aloof; And mid dry leaves green dead-man's-hand Groped toward that chapel in Mosby-land.

They leave the road and take the wood, And mark the trace of ridges there— A wood where once had slept the farm— A wood where once tobacco grew Drowsily in the hazy air, And wrought in all kind things a calm— Such influence, Mosby! bids disarm.

To ease even yet the place did woo— To ease which pines unstirring share, For ease the weary horses sighed: Halting, and slackening girths, they feed, Their pipes they light, they loiter there; Then up, and urging still the Guide, On, and after Mosby ride.

This Guide in frowzy coat of brown, And beard of ancient growth and mould, Bestrode a bony steed and strong, As suited well with bulk he bore— A wheezy man with depth of hold Who jouncing went. A staff he swung— A wight whom Mosby's wasp had stung.

Burnt out and homeless—hunted long! That wheeze he caught in autumn-wood Crouching (a fat man) for his life, And spied his lean son 'mong the crew That probed the covert. Ah! black blood Was his 'gainst even child and wife— Fast friends to Mosby. Such the strife.

A lad, unhorsed by sliding girths, Strains hard to readjust his seat Ere the main body show the gap 'Twixt them and the read-guard; scrub-oaks near He sidelong eyes, while hands move fleet; Then mounts and spurs. One drop his cap— "Let Mosby fine!" nor heeds mishap.

A gable time-stained peeps through trees: "You mind the fight in the haunted house? That's it; we clenched them in the room— An ambuscade of ghosts, we thought, But proved sly rebels on a house! Luke lies in the yard." The chimneys loom: Some muse on Mosby—some on doom.

Less nimbly now through brakes they wind, And ford wild creeks where men have drowned; They skirt the pool, a void the fen, And so till night, when down they lie, They steeds still saddled, in wooded ground: Rein in hand they slumber then, Dreaming of Mosby's cedarn den.

But Colonel and Major friendly sat Where boughs deformed low made a seat. The Young Man talked (all sworded and spurred) Of the partisan's blade he longed to win, And frays in which he meant to beat. The grizzled Major smoked, and heard: "But what's that—Mosby?" "No, a bird."

A contrast here like sire and son, Hope and Experience sage did meet; The Youth was brave, the Senior too; But through the Seven Days one had served, And gasped with the rear-guard in retreat: So he smoked and smoked, and the wreath he blew— "Any sure news of Mosby's crew?"

He smoked and smoked, eying the while A huge tree hydra-like in growth— Moon-tinged—with crook'd boughs rent or lopped— Itself a haggard forest. "Come" The Colonel cried, "to talk you're loath; D've hear? I say he must be stopped, This Mosby—caged, and hair close cropped."

"Of course; but what's that dangling there" "Where?" "From the tree—that gallows-bough; A bit of frayed bark, is it not" "Ay—or a rope; did we hang last?— Don't like my neckerchief any how" He loosened it: "O ay, we'll stop This Mosby—but that vile jerk and drop!"[23]

By peep of light they feed and ride, Gaining a grove's green edge at morn, And mark the Aldie hills upread And five gigantic horsemen carved Clear-cut against the sky withdrawn; Are more behind? an open snare? Or Mosby's men but watchmen there?

The ravaged land was miles behind, And Loudon spread her landscape rare; Orchards in pleasant lowlands stood, Cows were feeding, a cock loud crew, But not a friend at need was there; The valley-folk were only good To Mosby and his wandering brood.

What best to do? what mean yon men? Colonel and Guide their minds compare; Be sure some looked their Leader through; Dismsounted, on his sword he leaned As one who feigns an easy air; And yet perplexed he was they knew— Perplexed by Mosby's mountain-crew.

The Major hemmed as he would speak, But checked himself, and left the ring Of cavalrymen about their Chief— Young courtiers mute who paid their court By looking with confidence on their king; They knew him brave, foresaw no grief— But Mosby—the time to think is brief.

The Surgeon (sashed in sacred green) Was glad 'twas not for him to say What next should be; if a trooper bleeds, Why he will do his best, as wont, And his partner in black will aid and pray; But judgment bides with him who leads, And Mosby many a problem breeds.

The Surgeon was the kindliest man That ever a callous trace professed; He felt for him, that Leader young, And offered medicine from his flask: The Colonel took it with marvelous zest. For such fine medicine good and strong, Oft Mosby and his foresters long.

A charm of proof. "Ho, Major, come— Pounce on yon men! Take half your troop, Through the thickets wind—pray speedy be— And gain their read. And, Captain Morn, Picket these roads—all travelers stop; The rest to the edge of this crest with me, That Mosby and his scouts may see."

Commanded and done. Ere the sun stood steep, Back came the Blues, with a troop of Grays, Ten riding double—luckless ten!— Five horses gone, and looped hats lost, And love-locks dancing in a maze— Certes, but sophomores from the glen Of Mosby—not his veteran men.

"Colonel," said the Major, touching his cap, "We've had our ride, and here they are" "Well done! how many found you there" "As many as I bring you here" "And no one hurt?" "There'll be no scar— One fool was battered." "Find their lair" "Why, Mosby's brood camp every where."

He sighed, and slid down from his horse, And limping went to a spring-head nigh. "Why, bless me, Major, not hurt, I hope" "Battered my knee against a bar When the rush was made; all right by-and-by.— Halloa! they gave you too much rope— Go back to Mosby, eh? elope?"

Just by the low-hanging skirt of wood The guard, remiss, had given a chance For a sudden sally into the cover— But foiled the intent, nor fired a shot, Though the issue was a deadly trance; For, hurled 'gainst an oak that humped low over, Mosby's man fell, pale as a lover.

They pulled some grass his head to ease (Lined with blue shreds a ground-nest stirred). The Surgeon came—"Here's a to-do" "Ah!" cried the Major, darting a glance, "This fellow's the one that fired and spurred Down hill, but met reserves below— My boys, not Mosby's—so we go!"

The Surgeon—bluff, red, goodly man— Kneeled by the hurt one; like a bee He toiled. The pale young Chaplain too— (Who went to the wars for cure of souls, And his own student-ailments)—he Bent over likewise; spite the two, Mosby's poor man more pallid grew.

Meanwhile the mounted captives near Jested; and yet they anxious showed; Virginians; some of family-pride, And young, and full of fire, and fine In open feature and cheek that glowed; And here thralled vagabonds now they ride— But list! one speaks for Mosby's side.

"Why, three to one—your horses strong— Revolvers, rifles, and a surprise— Surrender we account no shame! We live, are gay, and life is hope; We'll fight again when fight is wise. There are plenty more from where we came; But go find Mosby—start the game!"

Yet one there was who looked but glum; In middle-age, a father he, And this his first experience too: "They shot at my heart when my hands were up— This fighting's crazy work, I see" But noon is high; what next do? The woods are mute, and Mosby is the foe.

"Save what we've got," the Major said; "Bad plan to make a scout too long; The tide may turn, and drag them back, And more beside. These rides I've been, And every time a mine was sprung. To rescue, mind, they won't be slack— Look out for Mosby's rifle-crack."

"We'll welcome it! give crack for crack! Peril, old lad, is what I seek" "O then, there's plenty to be had— By all means on, and have our fill" With that, grotesque, he writhed his neck, Showing a scar by buck-shot made— Kind Mosby's Christmas gift, he said.

"But, Colonel, my prisoners—let a guard Make sure of them, and lead to camp. That done, we're free for a dark-room fight If so you say." The other laughed; "Trust me, Major, nor throw a damp. But first to try a little sleight— Sure news of Mosby would suit me quite."

Herewith he turned—"Reb, have a dram" Holding the Surgeon's flask with a smile To a young scapegrace from the glen. "O yes!" he eagerly replied, "And thank you, Colonel, but—any guile? For if you think we'll blab—why, then You don't know Mosby or his men."

The Leader's genial air relaxed. "Best give it up," a whisperer said. "By heaven, I'll range their rebel den" "They'll treat you well," the captive cried; "They're all like us—handsome—well bred: In wood or town, with sword or pen, Polite is Mosby, bland his men."

"Where were you, lads, last night?—come, tell" "We?—at a wedding in the Vale— The bridegroom our comrade; by his side Belisent, my cousin—O, so proud Of her young love with old wounds pale— A Virginian girl! God bless her pride— Of a crippled Mosby-man the bride!"

"Four wall shall mend that saucy mood, And moping prisons tame him down" Said Captain Cloud. "God help that day" Cried Captain Morn, "and he so young. But hark, he sings—a madcap one" "O we multiply merrily in the May, The birds and Mosby's men, they say!"

While echoes ran, a wagon old, Under stout guard of Corporal Chew Came up; a lame horse, dingy white, With clouted harness; ropes in hand, Cringed the humped driver, black in hue; By him (for Mosby's band a sight) A sister-rebel sat, her veil held tight.

"I picked them up," the Corporal said, "Crunching their way over stick and root, Through yonder wood. The man here—Cuff— Says they are going to Leesburg town" The Colonel's eye took in the group; The veiled one's hand he spied—enough! Not Mosby's. Spite the gown's poor stuff,

Off went his hat: "Lady, fear not; We soldiers do what we deplore— I must detain you till we march" The stranger nodded. Nettled now, He grew politer than before:— "'Tis Mosby's fault, this halt and search" The lady stiffened in her starch.

"My duty, madam, bids me now Ask what may seem a little rude. Pardon—that veil—withdraw it, please (Corporal! make every man fall back); Pray, now I do but what I should; Bethink you, 'tis in masks like these That Mosby haunts the villages."

Slowly the stranger drew her veil, And looked the Soldier in the eye— A glance of mingled foul and fair; Sad patience in a proud disdain, And more than quietude. A sigh She heaved, and if all unaware, And far seemed Mosby from her care.

She came from Yewton Place, her home, So ravaged by the war's wild play— Campings, and foragings, and fires— That now she sought an aunt's abode. Her Kinsmen? In Lee's army, they. The black? A servant, late her sire's. And Mosby? Vainly he inquires.

He gazed, and sad she met his eye; "In the wood yonder were you lost" No; at the forks they left the road Because of hoof-prints (thick they were— Thick as the words in notes thrice crossed), And fearful, made that episode. In fear of Mosby? None she showed.

Her poor attire again he scanned: "Lady, once more; I grieve to jar On all sweet usage, but must plead To have what peeps there from your dress; That letter—'tis justly prize of war" She started—gave it—she must need. "'Tis not from Mosby? May I read?"

And straight such matter he perused That with the Guide he went apart. The Hospital Steward's turn began: "Must squeeze this darkey; every tap Of knowledge we are bound to start" "Garry," she said, "tell all you can Of Colonel Mosby—that brave man."

"Dun know much, sare; and missis here Know less dan me. But dis I know—" "Well, what?" "I dun know what I know" "A knowing answer!" The hump-back coughed, Rubbing his yellowish wool like tow. "Come—Mosby—tell!" "O dun look so! My gal nursed missis—let we go."

"Go where?" demanded Captain Cloud; "Back into bondage? Man, you're free" "Well, let we free!" The Captain's brow Lowered; the Colonel came—had heard: "Pooh! pooh! his simple heart I see— A faithful servant.—Lady" (a bow), "Mosby's abroad—with us you'll go.

"Guard! look to your prisoners; back to camp! The man in the grass—can he mount and away? Why, how he groans!" "Bad inward bruise— Might lug him along in the ambulance" "Coals to Newcastle! let him stay. Boots and saddles!—our pains we lose, Nor care I if Mosby hear the news!"

But word was sent to a house at hand, And a flask was left by the hurt one's side. They seized in that same house a man, Neutral by day, by night a foe— So charged his neighbor late, the Guide. A grudge? Hate will do what it can; Along he went for a Mosby-man.

No secrets now; the bugle calls; The open road they take, nor shun The hill; retrace the weary way. But one there was who whispered low, "This is a feint—we'll back anon; Young Hair-Brains don't retreat, they say; A brush with Mosby is the play!"

They rode till eve. Then on a farm That lay along a hill-side green, Bivouacked. Fires were made, and then Coffee was boiled; a cow was coaxed And killed, and savory roasts were seen; And under the lee of a cattle-pen The guard supped freely with Mosby's men.

The ball was bandied to and fro; Hits were given and hits were met; "Chickamauga, Feds—take off your hat" "But the Fight in the Clouds repaid you, Rebs" "Forgotten about Manassas yet" Chatting and chaffing, and tit for tat, Mosby's clan with the troopers sat.

"Here comes the moon!" a captive cried; "A song! what say? Archy, my lad" Hailing are still one of the clan (A boyish face with girlish hair), "Give us that thing poor Pansy made Last Year." He brightened, and began; And this was the song of Mosby's man:

Spring is come; she shows her pass— Wild violets cool! South of woods a small close grass— A vernal wool! Leaves are a'bud on the sassafras— They'll soon be full; Blessings on the friendly screen— I'm for the South! says the leafage green.

Robins! fly, and take your fill Of out-of-doors— Garden, orchard, meadow, hill, Barns and bowers; Take your fill, and have your will— Virginia's yours! But, bluebirds! keep away, and fear The ambuscade in bushes here.

"A green song that," a seargeant said; "But where's poor Pansy? gone, I fear" "Ay, mustered out at Ashby's Gap" "I see; now for a live man's song; Ditty for ditty—prepare to cheer. My bluebirds, you can fling a cap! You barehead Mosby-boys—why—clap!"

Nine Blue-coats went a-nutting Slyly in Tennessee— Not for chestnuts—better than that— Hugh, you bumble-bee! Nutting, nutting— All through the year there's nutting!

A tree they spied so yellow, Rustling in motion queer; In they fired, and down they dropped— Butternuts, my dear! Nutting, nutting— Who'll 'list to go a-nutting?

Ah! why should good fellows foemen be? And who would dream that foes they were— Larking and singing so friendly then— A family likeness in every face. But Captain Cloud made sour demur: "Guard! keep your prisoners in the pen, And let none talk with Mosby's men."

That captain was a valorous one (No irony, but honest truth), Yet down from his brain cold drops distilled, Making stalactites in his heart— A conscientious soul, forsooth; And with a formal hate was filled Of Mosby's band; and some he'd killed.

Meantime the lady rueful sat, Watching the flicker of a fire Were the Colonel played the outdoor host In brave old hall of ancient Night. But ever the dame grew shyer and shyer, Seeming with private grief engrossed— Grief far from Mosby, housed or lost.

The ruddy embers showed her pale. The Soldier did his best devoir: "Some coffee?—no?—cracker?—one" Cared for her servant—sought to cheer: "I know, I know—a cruel war! But wait—even Mosby'll eat his bun; The Old Hearth—back to it anon!"

But cordial words no balm could bring; She sighed, and kept her inward chafe, And seemed to hate the voice of glee— Joyless and tearless. Soon he called An escort: "See this lady safe In yonder house.—Madam, you're free. And now for Mosby.—Guide! with me."

("A night-ride, eh?") "Tighten your girths! But, buglers! not a note from you. Fling more rails on the fires—a blaze" ("Sergeant, a feint—I told you so— Toward Aldie again. Bivouac, adieu!") After the cheery flames they gaze, Then back for Mosby through the maze.

The moon looked through the trees, and tipped The scabbards with her elfin beam; The Leader backward cast his glance, Proud of the cavalcade that came— A hundred horses, bay and cream: "Major! look how the lads advance— Mosby we'll have in the ambulance!"

"No doubt, no doubt:—was that a hare?— First catch, then cook; and cook him brown" "Trust me to catch," the other cried— "The lady's letter!—a dance, man, dance This night is given in Leesburg town" "He'll be there too!" wheezed out the Guide; "That Mosby loves a dance and ride!"

"The lady, ah!—the lady's letter— A lady, then, is in the case" Muttered the Major. "Ay, her aunt Writes her to come by Friday eve (To-night), for people of the place, At Mosby's last fight jubilant, A party give, though table-cheer be scant."

The Major hemmed. "Then this night-ride We owe to her?—One lighted house In a town else dark.—The moths, begar! Are not quite yet all dead!" "How? how" "A mute, meek mournful little mouse!— Mosby has wiles which subtle are— But woman's wiles in wiles of war!"

"Tut, Major! by what craft or guile—" "Can't tell! but he'll be found in wait. Softly we enter, say, the town— Good! pickets post, and all so sure— When—crack! the rifles from every gate, The Gray-backs fire—dashes up and down— Each alley unto Mosby known!"

"Now, Major, now—you take dark views Of a moonlight night." "Well, well, we'll see" And smoked as if each whiff were gain. The other mused; then sudden asked, "What would you do in grand decree" I'd beat, if I could, Lee's armies—then Send constables after Mosby's men."

"Ay! ay!—you're odd." The moon sailed up; On through the shadowy land they went. "Names must be made and printed be!" Hummed the blithe Colonel. "Doc, your flask! Major, I drink to your good content. My pipe is out—enough for me! One's buttons shine—does Mosby see?

"But what comes here?" A man from the front Reported a tree athwart the road. "Go round it, then; no time to bide; All right—go on! Were one to stay For each distrust of a nervous mood, Long miles we'd make in this our ride Through Mosby-land.—Oh! with the Guide!"

Then sportful to the Surgeon turned: "Green sashes hardly serve by night" "Nor bullets nor bottles," the Major sighed, "Against these moccasin-snakes—such foes As seldom come to solid fight: They kill and vanish; through grass they glide; Devil take Mosby!—" his horse here shied.

"Hold! look—the tree, like a dragged balloon; A globe of leaves—some trickery here; My nag is right—best now be shy" A movement was made, a hubbub and snarl; Little was plain—they blindly steer. The Pleiads, as from ambush sly, Peep out—Mosby's men in the sky!

As restive they turn, how sore they feel, And cross, and sleepy, and full of spleen, And curse the war. "Fools, North and South" Said one right out. "O for a bed! O now to drop in this woodland green" He drops as the syllables leave his mouth— Mosby speaks from the undergrowth—

Speaks in a volley! out jets the flame! Men fall from their saddles like plums from trees; Horses take fright, reins tangle and bind; "Steady—Dismount—form—and into the wood" They go, but find what scarce can please: Their steeds have been tied in the field behind, And Mosby's men are off like the wind.

Sound the recall! vain to pursue— The enemy scatters in wilds he knows, To reunite in his own good time; And, to follow, they need divide— To come lone and lost on crouching foes: Maple and hemlock, beech and lime, Are Mosby's confederates, share the crime.

"Major," burst in a bugler small, "The fellow we left in Loudon grass— Sir slyboots with the inward bruise, His voice I heard—the very same— Some watchword in the ambush pass; Ay, sir, we had him in his shoes— We caught him—Mosby—but to lose!"

"Go, go!—these saddle-dreamers! Well, And here's another.—Cool, sir, cool" "Major, I saw them mount and sweep, And one was humped, or I mistake, And in the skurry dropped his wool" "A wig! go fetch it:—the lads need sleep; They'll next see Mosby in a sheep!

"Come, come, fall back! reform yours ranks— All's jackstraws here! Where's Captain Morn?— We've parted like boats in a raging tide! But stay-the Colonel—did he charge? And comes he there? 'Tis streak of dawn; Mosby is off, the woods are wide— Hist! there's a groan—this crazy ride!"

As they searched for the fallen, the dawn grew chill; They lay in the dew: "Ah! hurt much, Mink? And—yes—the Colonel!" Dead! but so calm That death seemed nothing—even death, The thing we deem every thing heart can think; Amid wilding roses that shed their balm, Careless of Mosby he lay—in a charm!

The Major took him by the Hand— Into the friendly clasp it bled (A ball through heart and hand he rued): "Good-by" and gazed with humid glance; Then in a hollow revery said "The weakness thing is lustihood; But Mosby—" and he checked his mood.

"Where's the advance?—cut off, by heaven! Come, Surgeon, how with your wounded there" "The ambulance will carry all" "Well, get them in; we go to camp. Seven prisoners gone? for the rest have care" Then to himself, "This grief is gall; That Mosby!—I'll cast a silver ball!"

"Ho!" turning—"Captain Cloud, you mind The place where the escort went—so shady? Go search every closet low and high, And barn, and bin, and hidden bower— Every covert—find that lady! And yet I may misjudge her—ay, Women (like Mosby) mystify.

"We'll see. Ay, Captain, go—with speed! Surround and search; each living thing Secure; that done, await us where We last turned off. Stay! fire the cage If the birds be flown." By the cross-road spring The bands rejoined; no words; the glare Told all. Had Mosby plotted there?

The weary troop that wended now— Hardly it seemed the same that pricked Forth to the forest from the camp: Foot-sore horses, jaded men; Every backbone felt as nicked, Each eye dim as a sick-room lamp, All faces stamped with Mosby's stamp.

In order due the Major rode— Chaplain and Surgeon on either hand; A riderless horse a negro led; In a wagon the blanketed sleeper went; Then the ambulance with the bleeding band; And, an emptied oat-bag on each head, Went Mosby's men, and marked the dead.

What gloomed them? what so cast them down, And changed the cheer that late they took, As double-guarded now they rode Between the files of moody men? Some sudden consciousness they brook, Or dread the sequel. That night's blood Disturbed even Mosby's brotherhood.

The flagging horses stumbled at roots, Floundered in mires, or clinked the stones; No rider spake except aside; But the wounded cramped in the ambulance, It was horror to hear their groans— Jerked along in the woodland ride, While Mosby's clan their revery hide.

The Hospital Steward—even he— Who on the sleeper kept his glance, Was changed; late bright-black beard and eye Looked now hearse-black; his heavy heart, Like his fagged mare, no more could dance; His grape was now a raisin dry: 'Tis Mosby's homily—Man must die.

The amber sunset flushed the camp As on the hill their eyes they fed; The pickets dumb looks at the wagon dart; A handkerchief waves from the bannered tent— As white, alas! the face of the dead: Who shall the withering news impart? The bullet of Mosby goes through heart to heart!

They buried him where the lone ones lie (Lone sentries shot on midnight post)— A green-wood grave-yard hid from ken, Where sweet-fern flings an odor nigh— Yet held in fear for the gleaming ghost! Though the bride should see threescore and ten, She will dream of Mosby and his men.

Now halt the verse, and turn aside— The cypress falls athwart the way; No joy remains for bard to sing; And heaviest dole of all is this, That other hearts shall be as gay As hers that now no more shall spring: To Mosby-land the dirges cling.



Lee in the Capitol.



Lee in the Capitol.[24] (April, 1866.)

Hard pressed by numbers in his strait, Rebellion's soldier-chief no more contends— Feels that the hour is come of Fate, Lays down one sword, and widened warfare ends. The captain who fierce armies led Becomes a quiet seminary's head— Poor as his privates, earns his bread. In studious cares and aims engrossed, Strives to forget Stuart and Stonewall dead— Comrades and cause, station and riches lost, And all the ills that flock when fortune's fled. No word he breathes of vain lament, Mute to reproach, nor hears applause— His doom accepts, perforce content, And acquiesces in asserted laws; Secluded now would pass his life, And leave to time the sequel of the strife. But missives from the Senators ran; Not that they now would gaze upon a swordless foe, And power made powerless and brought low: Reasons of state, 'tis claimed, require the man. Demurring not, promptly he comes By ways which show the blackened homes, And—last—the seat no more his own, But Honor's; patriot grave-yards fill The forfeit slopes of that patrician hill, And fling a shroud on Arlington. The oaks ancestral all are low; No more from the porch his glance shall go Ranging the varied landscape o'er, Far as the looming Dome—no more. One look he gives, then turns aside, Solace he summons from his pride: "So be it! They await me now Who wrought this stinging overthrow; They wait me; not as on the day Of Pope's impelled retreat in disarray— By me impelled—when toward yon Dome The clouds of war came rolling home" The burst, the bitterness was spent, The heart-burst bitterly turbulent, And on he fared.

In nearness now He marks the Capitol—a show Lifted in amplitude, and set With standards flushed with a glow of Richmond yet; Trees and green terraces sleep below. Through the clear air, in sunny light, The marble dazes—a temple white.

Intrepid soldier! had his blade been drawn For yon stirred flag, never as now Bid to the Senate-house had he gone, But freely, and in pageant borne, As when brave numbers without number, massed, Plumed the broad way, and pouring passed— Bannered, beflowered—between the shores Of faces, and the dinn'd huzzas, And balconies kindling at the sabre-flash, 'Mid roar of drums and guns, and cymbal-crash, While Grant and Sherman shone in blue— Close of the war and victory's long review.

Yet pride at hand still aidful swelled, And up the hard ascent he held. The meeting follows. In his mien The victor and the vanquished both are seen— All that he is, and what he late had been. Awhile, with curious eyes they scan The Chief who led invasion's van— Allied by family to one, Founder of the Arch the Invader warred upon: Who looks at Lee must think of Washington; In pain must think, and hide the thought, So deep with grievous meaning it is fraught.

Secession in her soldier shows Silent and patient; and they feel (Developed even in just success) Dim inklings of a hazy future steal; Their thoughts their questions well express: "Does the sad South still cherish hate? Freely will Southen men with Northern mate? The blacks—should we our arm withdraw, Would that betray them? some distrust your law. And how if foreign fleets should come— Would the South then drive her wedges home" And more hereof. The Virginian sees— Replies to such anxieties. Discreet his answers run—appear Briefly straightforward, coldly clear.

"If now," the Senators, closing, say, "Aught else remain, speak out, we pray" Hereat he paused; his better heart Strove strongly then; prompted a worthier part Than coldly to endure his doom. Speak out? Ay, speak, and for the brave, Who else no voice or proxy have; Frankly their spokesman here become, And the flushed North from her own victory save. That inspiration overrode— Hardly it quelled the galling load Of personal ill. The inner feud He, self-contained, a while withstood; They waiting. In his troubled eye Shadows from clouds unseen they spy; They could not mark within his breast The pang which pleading thought oppressed: He spoke, nor felt the bitterness die.

"My word is given—it ties my sword; Even were banners still abroad, Never could I strive in arms again While you, as fit, that pledge retain. Our cause I followed, stood in field and gate— All's over now, and now I follow Fate. But this is naught. A People call— A desolted land, and all The brood of ills that press so sore, The natural offspring of this civil war, Which ending not in fame, such as might rear Fitly its sculptured trophy here, Yields harvest large of doubt and dread To all who have the heart and head To feel and know. How shall I speak? Thoughts knot with thoughts, and utterance check. Before my eyes there swims a haze, Through mists departed comrades gaze— First to encourage, last that shall upbraid! How shall I speak? The South would fain Feel peace, have quiet law again— Replant the trees for homestead-shade. You ask if she recants: she yields. Nay, and would more; would blend anew, As the bones of the slain in her forests do, Bewailed alike by us and you. A voice comes out from these charnel-fields, A plaintive yet unheeded one: 'Died all in vain? both sides undone' Push not your triumph; do not urge Submissiveness beyond the verge. Intestine rancor would you bide, Nursing eleven sliding daggers in your side?

"Far from my thought to school or threat; I speak the things which hard beset. Where various hazards meet the eyes, To elect in magnanimity is wise. Reap victory's fruit while sound the core; What sounder fruit than re-established law? I know your partial thoughts do press Solely on us for war's unhappy stress; But weigh—consider—look at all, And broad anathema you'll recall. The censor's charge I'll not repeat, The meddlers kindled the war's white heat— Vain intermeddlers and malign, Both of the palm and of the pine; I waive the thought—which never can be rife— Common's the crime in every civil strife: But this I feel, that North and South were driven By Fate to arms. For our unshriven, What thousands, truest souls, were tried— As never may any be again— All those who stemmed Secession's pride, But at last were swept by the urgent tide Into the chasm. I know their pain. A story here may be applied: 'In Moorish lands there lived a maid Brought to confess by vow the creed Of Christians. Fain would priests persuade That now she must approve by deed The faith she kept. "What dead?" she asked. "Your old sire leave, nor deem it sin, And come with us." Still more they tasked The sad one: "If heaven you'd win— Far from the burning pit withdraw, Then must you learn to hate your kin, Yea, side against them—such the law, For Moor and Christian are at war" "Then will I never quit my sire, But here with him through every trial go, Nor leave him though in flames below— God help me in his fire!" So in the South; vain every plea 'Gainst Nature's strong fidelity; True to the home and to the heart, Throngs cast their lot with kith and kin, Foreboding, cleaved to the natural part— Was this the unforgivable sin? These noble spirits are yet yours to win. Shall the great North go Sylla's way? Proscribe? prolong the evil day? Confirm the curse? infix the hate? In Unions name forever alienate?

"From reason who can urge the plea— Freemen conquerors of the free? When blood returns to the shrunken vein, Shall the wound of the Nation bleed again? Well may the wars wan thought supply, And kill the kindling of the hopeful eye, Unless you do what even kings have done In leniency—unless you shun To copy Europe in her worst estate— Avoid the tyranny you reprobate."

He ceased. His earnestness unforeseen Moved, but not swayed their former mien; And they dismissed him. Forth he went Through vaulted walks in lengthened line Like porches erst upon the Palatine: Historic reveries their lesson lent, The Past her shadow through the Future sent.

But no. Brave though the Soldier, grave his plea— Catching the light in the future's skies, Instinct disowns each darkening prophecy: Faith in America never dies; Heaven shall the end ordained fulfill, We march with Providence cheery still.



A Meditation:

Attributed to a northerner after attending the last of two funerals from the same homestead—those of a national and a confederate officer (brothers), his kinsmen, who had died from the effects of wounds received in the closing battles.



A Meditation.

How often in the years that close, When truce had stilled the sieging gun, The soldiers, mounting on their works, With mutual curious glance have run From face to face along the fronting show, And kinsman spied, or friend—even in a foe.

What thoughts conflicting then were shared. While sacred tenderness perforce Welled from the heart and wet the eye; And something of a strange remorse Rebelled against the sanctioned sin of blood, And Christian wars of natural brotherhood.

Then stirred the god within the breast— The witness that is man's at birth; A deep misgiving undermined Each plea and subterfuge of earth; The felt in that rapt pause, with warning rife, Horror and anguish for the civil strife.

Of North or South they recked not then, Warm passion cursed the cause of war: Can Africa pay back this blood Spilt on Potomac's shore? Yet doubts, as pangs, were vain the strife to stay, And hands that fain had clasped again could slay.

How frequent in the camp was seen The herald from the hostile one, A guest and frank companion there When the proud formal talk was done; The pipe of peace was smoked even 'mid the war, And fields in Mexico again fought o'er.

In Western battle long they lay So near opposed in trench or pit, That foeman unto foeman called As men who screened in tavern sit: "You bravely fight" each to the other said— "Toss us a biscuit!" o'er the wall it sped.

And pale on those same slopes, a boy— A stormer, bled in noon-day glare; No aid the Blue-coats then could bring, He cried to them who nearest were, And out there came 'mid howling shot and shell A daring foe who him befriended well.

Mark the great Captains on both sides, The soldiers with the broad renown— They all were messmates on the Hudson's marge, Beneath one roof they laid them down; And free from hate in many an after pass, Strove as in school-boy rivalry of the class.

A darker side there is; but doubt In Nature's charity hovers there: If men for new agreement yearn, Then old upbraiding best forbear: "The South's the sinner!" Well, so let it be; But shall the North sin worse, and stand the Pharisee?

O, now that brave men yield the sword, Mine be the manful soldier-view; By how much more they boldly warred, By so much more is mercy due: When Vickburg fell, and the moody files marched out, Silent the victors stood, scorning to raise a shout.



Footnotes.

1. The gloomy lull of the early part of the winter of 1860-1, seeming big with final disaster to our institutions, affected some minds that believed them to constitute one of the great hopes of mankind, much as the eclipse which came over the promise of the first French Revolution affected kindred natures, throwing them for the time into doubt and misgivings universal.

2. "The terrible Stone Fleet on a mission as pitiless as the granite that freights it, sailed this morning from Port Royal, and before two days are past will have made Charleston an inland city. The ships are all old whalers, and cost the government from $2500 to $5000 each. Some of them were once famous ships.—" (From Newspaper Correspondences of the day.)

Sixteen vessels were accordingly sunk on the bar at the river entrance. Their names were as follows:

Amazon, America, American, Archer, Courier, Fortune, Herald, Kensington, Leonidas, Maria Theresa, Potomac, Rebecca Simms, L.C. Richmond, Robin Hood, Tenedos, William Lee.

All accounts seem to agree that the object proposed was not accomplished. The channel is even said to have become ultimately benefited by the means employed to obstruct it.

3. The Temeraire, that storied ship of the old English fleet, and the subject of the well-known painting by Turner, commends itself to the mind seeking for some one craft to stand for the poetic ideal of those great historic wooden warships, whose gradual displacement is lamented by none more than by regularly educated navy officers, and of all nations.

4. Some of the cannon of old times, especially the brass ones, unlike the more effective ordnance of the present day, were cast in shapes which Cellini might have designed, were gracefully enchased, generally with the arms of the country. A few of them—field-pieces—captured in our earlier wars, are preserved in arsenals and navy-yards.

5. Whatever just military criticism, favorable or otherwise, has at any time been made upon General McClellan's campaigns, will stand. But if, during the excitement of the conflict, aught was spread abroad tending the unmerited disparagement of the man, it must necessarily die out, though not perhaps without leaving some traces, which may or may not prove enduring. Some there are whose votes aided in the re-election of Abraham Lincoln, who yet believed, and retain the belief, that General McClellan, to say the least, always proved himself a patriotic and honorable soldier. The feeling which surviving comrades entertain for their late commnder is one which, from its passion, is susceptible of versified representation, and such it receives.

6. At Antietam Stonewall Jackson led one wing of Lee's army, consequenty sharing that day in whatever may be deemed to have been the fortunes of his superior.

7. Admiral Porter is son of the late Commodore Porter, commander of the Frigate Essex on that Pacific cruise which ended in the desparate fight off Valparaiso with the English frigates Cherub and Phoebe, in the year 1814.

8. Among numerous head-stones or monuments on Cemetery Hill, marred or destroyed by the enemy's concentrated fire, was one, somewhat conspicuous, of a Federal officer killed before Richmond in 1862.

On the 4th of July 1865, the Gettysburg National Cemetery, on the same height with the original burial-ground, was consecrated, and the corner-stone laid of a commemorative pile.

9. "I dare not write the horrible and inconceivable atrocities committed," says Froissart, in alluding to the remarkable sedition in France during his time. The like may be hinted of some proceedings of the draft-rioters.

10. Although the month was November, the day was in character an October one—cool, clear, bright, intoxicatingly invigorating; one of those days peculiar to the ripest hours of our American Autumn. This weather must have had much to do with the spontaneous enthusiasm which seized the troops—and enthusiasm aided, doubtless, by glad thoughts of the victory of Look-out Mountain won the day previous, and also by the elation attending the capture, after a fierce struggle, of the long ranges of rifle-pits at the mountain's base, where orders for the time should have stopped the advance. But there and then it was that the army took the bit between its teeth, and ran away with the generals to the victory commemorated. General Grant, at Culpepper, a few weeks prior to crossing the Rapidan for the Wilderness, expressed to a visitor his impression of the impulse and the spectacle: Said he: "I never saw any thing like it:" language which seems curiously undertoned, considering its application; but from the taciturn Commander it was equivalent to a superlative or hyperbole from the talkative.

The height of the Ridge, according to the account at hand, varies along its length from six to seven hundred feet above the plain; it slopes at an angle of about forty-five degrees.

11. The great Parrott gun, planted in the marshes of James Island, and employed in the prolonged, though at times intermitted bombardment of Charleston, was known among our soldiers as the Swamp Angel.

St. Michael's, characterized by its venerable tower, was the historic and aristrocratic church of the town.

12. Among the Northwestern regiments there would seem to have been more than one which carried a living eagle as an added ensign. The bird commemorated here was, according the the account, borne aloft on a perch beside the standard; went through successive battles and campaigns; was more than once under the surgeon's hands; and at the close of the contest found honorable repose in the capital of Wisconsin, from which state he had gone to the wars.

13. The late Major General McPherson, commanding the Army of the Tennessee, a major of Ohio and a West Pointer, was one of the foremost spirits of the war. Young, though a veteran; hardy, intrepid, sensitive in honor, full of engaging qualities, with manly beauty; possessed of genius, a favorite with the army, and with Grant and Sherman. Both Generals have generously acknowledged their professional obligiations to the able engineer and admirable soldier, their subordinate and junior.

In an informal account written by the Achilles to this Sarpedon, he says: "On that day we avenged his death. Near twenty-two hundred of the enemy's dead remained on the ground when night closed upon the scene of action."

It is significant of the scale on which the war was waged, that the engagement thus written of goes solely (so far as can be learned) under the vague designation of one of the battles before Atlanta.

14. The piece was written while yet the reports were coming North of Sherman's homeward advance from Savannah. It is needless to point out its purely dramatic character.

Though the sentiment ascribed in the beginning of the second stanza must, in the present reading, suggest the historic tragedy of the 14th of April, nevertheless, as intimated, it was written prior to that event, and without any distinct application in the writer's mind. After consideration, it is allowed to remain.

Few need be reminded that, by the less intelligent classes of the South, Abraham Lincoln, by nature the most kindly of men, was regarded as a monster wantonly warring upon liberty. He stood for the personification of tyrannic power. Each Union soldier was called a Lincolnite.

Undoubtedly Sherman, in the desolation he inflicted after leaving Atlanta, acted not in contravention of orders; and all, in a military point of view, if by military judged deemed to have been expedient, and nothing can abate General Sherman's shining renown; his claims to it rest on no single campaign. Still, there are those who can not but contrast some of the scenes enacted in Georgia and the Carolinas, and also in the Shenandoah, with a circumstance in a great Civil War of heathen antiquity. Plutarch relates that in a military council held by Pompey and the chiefs of that party which stood for the Commonwealth, it was decided that under no plea should any city be sacked that was subject to the people of Rome. There was this difference, however, between the Roman civil conflict and the American one. The war of Pompey and Caesar divided the Roman people promiscuously; that of the North and South ran a frontier line between what for the time were distinct communities or nations. In this circumstance, possibly, and some others, may be found both the cause and the justification of some of the sweeping measures adopted.

15. At this period of excitement the thought was by some passionately welcomed that the Presidential successor had been raised up by heaven to wreak vengeance on the South. The idea originated in the remembrance that Andrew Johnson by birth belonged to that class of Southern whites who never cherished love for the dominant: that he was a citizen of Tennessee, where the contest at times and in places had been close and bitter as a Middle-Age feud; the himself and family had been hardly treated by the Secessionists.

But the expectations build hereon (if, indeed, ever soberly entertained), happily for the country, have not been verified.

Likely the feeling which would have held the entire South chargeable with the crime of one exceptional assassin, this too has died away with the natural excitement of the hour.

16. The incident on which this piece is based is narrated in a newspaper account of the battle to be found in the "Rebellion Record." During the disaster to the national forces on the first day, a brigade on the extreme left found itself isolated. The perils it encountered are given in detail. Among others, the following sentences occur:

"Under cover of the fire from the bluffs, the rebels rushed down, crossed the ford, and in a moment were seen forming this side the creek in open fields, and within close musket-range. Their color-bearers stepped defiantly to the front as the engagement opened furiously; the rebels pouring in sharp, quick volleys of musketry, and their batteries above continuing to support them with a destructive fire. Our sharpshooters wanted to pick off the audacious rebel color-bearers, but Colonel Stuart interposed: 'No, no, they're too brave fellows to be killed.'"

17. According to a report of the Secretary of War, there were on the first day of March, 1865, 965,000 men on the army pay-rolls. Of these, some 200,000—artillery, cavalry, and infantry—made up from the larger portion of the veterans of Grant and Sherman, marched by the President. The total number of Union troops enlisted during the war was 2,668,000.

18. For a month or two after the completion of peace, some thousands of released captives from the military prisons of the North, natives of all parts of the South, passed through the city of New York, sometimes waiting farther transportation for days, during which interval they wandered penniless about the streets, or lay in their worn and patched gray uniforms under the trees of Battery, near the barracks where they were lodged and fed. They were transported and provided for at the charge of government.

19. Shortly prior to the evacuation of Petersburg, the enemy, with a view to ultimate repossession, interred some of his heavy guns in the same field with his dead, and with every circumstance calculated to deceive. Subsequently the negroes exposed exposed the stratagem.

20. The records of Northern colleges attest what numbers of our noblest youth went from them to the battle-field. Southern members of the same classes arrayed themselves on the side of Secession; while Southern seminaries contributed large quotas. Of all these, what numbers marched who never returned except on the shield.

21. Written prior to the founding of the National Cemetery at Andersonville, where 15,000 of the reinterred captives now sleep, each beneath his personal head-board, inscribed from records found in the prison-hospital. Some hundreds rest apart and without name. A glance at the published pamphlet containing the list of the buried at Andersonville conveys a feeling mournfully impressive. Seventy-four large double-columned page in fine print. Looking through them is like getting lost among the old turbaned head-stones and cypresses in the interminable Black Forest of Scutari, over against Constantinople.

22. In one of Kilpatrick's earlier cavalry fights near Aldie, a Colonel who, being under arrest, had been temporarily deprived of his sword, nevertheless, unarmed, insisted upon charging at the head of his men, which he did, and the onset proved victorious.

23. Certain of Mosby's followers, on the charge of being unlicensed foragers or fighters, being hung by order of a Union cavalry commander, the Partisan promptly retaliated in the woods. In turn, this also was retaliated, it is said. To what extent such deplorable proceedings were carried, it is not easy to learn.

South of the Potamac in Virginia, and within a gallop of the Long Bridge at Washington, is the confine of a country, in some places wild, which throughout the war it was unsafe for a Union man to traverse except with an armed escort. This was the chase of Mosby, the scene of many of his exploits or those of his men. In the heart of this region at least one fortified camp was maintained by our cavalry, and from time to time expeditions ended disastrously. Such results were helped by the exceeding cunning of the enemy, born of his wood-craft, and, in some instances, by undue confidence on the part of our men. A body of cavalry, starting from camp with the view of breaking up a nest of rangers, and absent say three days, would return with a number of their own forces killed and wounded (ambushed), without being able to retaliate farther than by foraging on the country, destroying a house or two reported to be haunts of the guerrillas, or capturing non-combatants accused of being secretly active in their behalf.

In the verse the name of Mosby is invested with some of those associations with which the popular mind is familiar. But facts do not warrant the belief that every clandestine attack of men who passed for Mosby's was made under his eye or even by his knowledge.

In partisan warfare he proved himself shrewd, able, and enterprising, and always a wary fighter. He stood well in the confidence of his superior officers, and was empoyed by them at times in furtherance of important movements. To our wounded on more than one occasion he showed considerate kindness. Officers and civilians captured by forces under his immediate command were, so long as remaining under his orders, treated with civility. These things are well known to those personally familiar with the irregular fighting in Virginia.

24. Among those summoned during the spring just passed to appear before the Reconstruction Committee of Congress was Robert E. Lee. His testimony is deeply interesting, both in itself and as coming from him. After various questions had been put and briefly answered, these words were addressed to him:

"If there be any other matter about which you wish to speak on this occasions, do so freely." Waiving this invitation, he responded by a short personal explanation of some point in a previous answer, and after a few more brief questions and replies, the interview closed.

In the verse a poetical liberty has been ventured. Lee is not only represented as responding to the invitation, but also as at last renouncing his cold reserve, doubtless the cloak to feelings more or less poignant. If for such freedom warrant be necessary the speeches in ancient histories, not to speak of those in Shakespeare's historic plays, may not unfitly perhaps be cited.

The character of the original measures proposed about time in the National Legislature for the treatment of the (as yet) Congressionally excluded South, and the spirit in which those measures were advocated—these are circumstances which it is fairly supposable would have deeply influenced the thoughts, whether spoken or withheld, of a Southerner placed in the position of Lee before the Reconstruction Committee.



Supplement.

Were I fastidiously anxious for the symmetry of this book, it would close with the notes. But the times are such that patriotism—not free from solicitude—urges a claim overriding all literary scruples.

It is more than a year since the memorable surrender, but events have not yet rounded themselves into completion. Not justly can we complain of this. There has been an upheavel affecting the basis of things; to altered circumstances complicated adaptations are to be made; there are difficulties great and novel. But is Reason still waiting for Passion to spend itself? We have sung of the soldiers and sailors, but who shall hymn the politicians?

In view of the infinite desirableness of Re-establishment, and considering that, so far as feeling is concerned, it depends not mainly on the temper in which the South regards the North, but rather conversely; one who never was a blind adherent feels constrained to submit some thoughts, counting on the indulgence of his countrymen.

And, first, it may be said that, if among the feelings and opinions growing immediately out of a great civil convulsion, there are any which time shall modify or do away, they are presumably those of a less temperate and charitable cast.

There seems no reason why patriotism and narrowness should go together, or why intellectual impartiality should be confounded with political trimming, or why serviceable truth should keep cloistered be a cause not partisan. Yet the work of Reconstruction, if admitted to be feasible at all, demands little but common sense and Christian charity. Little but these? These are much.

Some of us are concerned because as yet the South shows no penitence. But what exactly do we mean by this? Since down to the close of the war she never confessed any for braving it, the only penitence now left her is that which springs solely from the sense of discomfiture; and since this evidently would be a contrition hypocritical, it would be unworthy in us to demand it. Certain it is that penitence, in the sense of voluntary humiliation, will never be displayed. Nor does this afford just ground for unreserved condemnation. It is enough, for all practical purposes, if the South have been taught by the terrors of civil war to feel that Secession, like Slavery, is against Destiny; that both now lie buried in one grave; that her fate is linked with ours; and that together we comprise the Nation.

The clouds of heroes who battled for the Union it is needless to eulogize here. But how of the soldiers on the other side? And when of a free community we name the soldiers, we thereby name the people. It was in subserviency to the slave-interest that Secession was plotted; but it was under the plea, plausibly urged, that certain inestimable rights guaranteed by the Constitution were directly menaced, that the people of the South were cajoled into revolution. Through the arts of the conspirators and the perversity of fortune, the most sensitive love of liberty was entrapped into the support of a war whose implied end was the erecting in our advanced century of an Anglo-American empire based upon the systematic degradation of man.

Spite this clinging reproach, however, signal military virtues and achievements have conferred upon the Confederate arms historic fame, and upon certain of the commanders a renown extending beyond the sea—a renown which we of the North could not suppress even if we would. In personal character, also, not a few of the military leaders of the South enforce forbearance; the memory of others the North refrains from disparaging; and some, with more or less of reluctance, she can respect. Posterity, sympathizing with our convictions, but removed from our passions, may perhaps go farther here. If George IV. could out of the graceful instinct of a gentleman, raise an honorable monument in the great fane of Christendom over the remains of the enemy of his dynasty, Charles Edward, the invader of England and victor in the rout at Preston Pans—Upon whose head the king's ancestor but one reign removed has set a price—is it probable that the grandchildren of General Grant will pursue with rancor, or slur by sour neglect, the memory of Stonewall Jackson?

But the South herself is not wanting in recent histories and biographies which record the deeds of her chieftains—writings freely published at the North by loyal houses, widely read here, and with a deep though saddened interest. By students of the war such works are hailed as welcome accessories, and tending to the completeness of the record.

Supposing a happy issue out of present perplexities, then, in the generation next to come, Southerners there will be yielding allegiance to the Union, feeling all their interests bound up in it, and yet cherishing unrebuked that kind of feeling for the memory of the soldiers of the fallen Confederacy that Burns, Scott, and the Ettrick Shepherd felt for the memory of the gallant clansmen ruined through their fidelity to the Stuarts—a feeling whose passion was tempered by the poetry imbuing it, and which in no wise affected their loyalty to the Georges, and which, it may be added, indirectly contributed excellent things to literature. But, setting this view aside, dishonorable would it be in the South were she willing to abandon to shame the memory of brave men who with signal personal disinterestedness warred in her behalf, though from motives, as we believe, so deplorably astray.

Patriotism is not baseness, neither is it inhumanity. The mourners who this summer bear flowers to the mounds of the Virginian and Georgian dead are, in their domestic bereavement and proud affection, as sacred in the eye of Heaven as are those who go with similar offerings of tender grief and love into the cemeteries of our Northern martyrs. And yet, in one aspect, how needless to point the contrast.

Cherishing such sentiments, it will hardly occasion surprise that, in looking over the battle-pieces in the foregoing collection, I have been tempted to withdraw or modify some of them, fearful lest in presenting, though but dramatically and by way of a poetic record, the passions and epithets of civil war, I might be contributing to a bitterness which every sensible American must wish at an end. So, too, with the emotion of victory as reproduced on some pages, and particularly toward the close. It should not be construed into an exultation misapplied—an exultation as ungenerous as unwise, and made to minister, however indirectly, to that kind of censoriousness too apt to be produced in certain natures by success after trying reverses. Zeal is not of necessity religion, neither is it always of the same essence with poetry or patriotism.

There were excesses which marked the conflict, most of which are perhaps inseparable from a civil strife so intense and prolonged, and involving warfare in some border countries new and imperfectly civilized. Barbarities also there were, for which the Southern people collectively can hardly be held responsible, though perpetrated by ruffians in their name. But surely other qualities—exalted ones—courage and fortitude matchless, were likewise displayed, and largely; and justly may these be held the characteristic traits, and not the former.

In this view, what Northern writer, however patriotic, but must revolt from acting on paper a part any way akin to that of the live dog to the dead lion; and yet it is right to rejoice for our triumph, so far as it may justly imply an advance for our whole country and for humanity.

Let it be held no reproach to any one that he pleads for reasonable consideration for our late enemies, now stricken down and unavoidably debarred, for the time, from speaking through authorized agencies for themselves. Nothing has been urged here in the foolish hope of conciliating those men—few in number, we trust—who have resolved never to be reconciled to the Union. On such hearts every thing is thrown away except it be religious commiseration, and the sincerest. Yet let them call to mind that unhappy Secessionist, not a military man, who with impious alacrity fired the first shot of the Civil War at Sumter, and a little more than four years afterward fired the last one into his own heart at Richmond.

Noble was the gesture into which patriotic passion surprised the people in a utilitarian time and country; yet the glory of the war falls short of its pathos—a pathos which now at last ought to disarm all animosity.

How many and earnest thoughts still rise, and how hard to repress them. We feel what past years have been, and years, unretarded years, shall come. May we all have moderation; may we all show candor. Though, perhaps, nothing could ultimately have averted the strife, and though to treat of human actions is to deal wholly with second causes, nevertheless, let us not cover up or try to extenuate what, humanly speaking, is the truth—namely, that those unfraternal denunciations, continued through years, and which at last inflamed to deeds that ended in bloodshed, were reciprocal; and that, had the preponderating strength and the prospect of its unlimited increase lain on the other side, on ours might have lain those actions which now in our late opponents we stigmatize under the name of Rebellion. As frankly let us own—what it would be unbecoming to parade were foreigners concerned—that our triumph was won not more by skill and bravery than by superior resources and crushing numbers; that it was a triumph, too, over a people for years politically misled by designing men, and also by some honestly-erring men, who from their position could not have been otherwise than broadly influential; a people who, though indeed, they sought to perpetuate the curse of slavery, and even extend it, were not the authors of it, but (less fortunate, not less righteous than we) were the fated inheritors; a people who, having a like origin with ourselves, share essentially in whatever worthy qualities we may possess. No one can add to the lasting reproach which hopeless defeat has now cast upon Secession by withholding the recognition of these verities.

Surely we ought to take it to heart that that kind of pacification, based upon principles operating equally all over the land, which lovers of their country yearn for, and which our arms, though signally triumphant, did not bring about, and which law-making, however anxious, or energetic, or repressive, never by itself can achieve, may yet be largely aided by generosity of sentiment public and private. Some revisionary legislation and adaptive is indispensable; but with this should harmoniously work another kind of prudence not unallied with entire magnanimity. Benevolence and policy—Christianity and Machiavelli—dissuade from penal severities toward the subdued. Abstinence here is as obligatory as considerate care for our unfortunate fellow-men late in bonds, and, if observed, would equally prove to be wise forecast. The great qualities of the South, those attested in the War, we can perilously alienate, or we may make them nationally available at need.

The blacks, in their infant pupilage to freedom, appeal to the sympathies of every humane mind. The paternal guardianship which for the interval government exercises over them was prompted equally by duty and benevolence. Yet such kindliness should not be allowed to exclude kindliness to communities who stand nearer to us in nature. For the future of the freed slaves we may well be concerned; but the future of the whole country, involving the future of the blacks, urges a paramount claim upon our anxiety. Effective benignity, like the Nile, is not narrow in its bounty, and true policy is always broad. To be sure, it is vain to seek to glide, with moulded words, over the difficulties of the situation. And for them who are neither partisans, nor enthusiasts, nor theorists, nor cynics, there are some doubts not readily to be solved. And there are fears. Why is not the cessation of war now at length attended with the settled calm of peace? Wherefore in a clear sky do we still turn our eyes toward the South, as the Neapolitan, months after the eruption, turns his toward Vesuvius? Do we dread lest the repose may be deceptive? In the recent convulsion has the crater but shifted? Let us revere that sacred uncertainty which forever impends over men and nations. Those of us who always abhorred slavery as an atheistical iniquity, gladly we join in the exulting chorus of humanity over its downfall. But we should remember that emancipation was accomplished not by deliberate legislation; only through agonized violence could so mighty a result be effected. In our natural solicitude to confirm the benefit of liberty to the blacks, let us forbear from measures of dubious constitutional rightfulness toward our white countrymen —measures of a nature to provoke, among other of the last evils, exterminating hatred of race toward race. In imagination let us place ourselves in the unprecedented position of the Southerners—their position as regards the millions of ignorant manumitted slaves in their midst, for whom some of us now claim the suffrage. Let us be Christians toward our fellow-whites, as well as philanthropists toward the blacks our fellow-men. In all things, and toward all, we are enjoined to do as we would be done by. Nor should we forget that benevolent desires, after passing a certain point, can not undertake their own fulfillment without incurring the risk of evils beyond those sought to be remedied. Something may well be left to the graduated care of future legislation, and to heaven. In one point of view the co-existence of the two races in the South—whether the negro be bond or free—seems (even as it did to Abraham Lincoln) a grave evil. Emancipation has ridded the country of the reproach, but not wholly of the calamity. Especially in the present transition period for both races in the South, more or less of trouble may not unreasonably be anticipated; but let us not hereafter be too swift to charge the blame exclusively in any one quarter. With certain evils men must be more or less patient. Our institutions have a potent digestion, and may in time convert and assimilate to good all elements thrown in, however originally alien.

But, so far as immediate measures looking toward permanent Re-establishment are concerned, no consideration should tempt us to pervert the national victory into oppression for the vanquished. Should plausible promise of eventual good, or a deceptive or spurious sense of duty, lead us to essay this, count we must on serious consequences, not the least of which would be divisions among the Northern adherents of the Union. Assuredly, if any honest Catos there be who thus far have gone with us, no longer will they do so, but oppose us, and as resolutely as hitherto they have supported. But this path of thought leads toward those waters of bitterness from which one can only turn aside and be silent.

But supposing Re-establishment so far advanced that the Southern seats in Congress are occupied, and by men qualified in accordance with those cardinal principles of representative government which hitherto have prevailed in the land—what then? Why the Congressman elected by the people of the South will—represent the people of the South. This may seem a flat conclusion; but in view of the last five years, may there not be latent significance in it? What will be the temper of those Southern members? and, confronted by them, what will be the mood of our own representatives? In private life true reconciliation seldom follows a violent quarrel; but if subsequent intercourse be unavoidable, nice observances and mutual are indispensable to the prevention of a new rupture. Amity itelf can only be maintained by reciprocal respect, and true friends are punctilious equals. On the floor of Congress North and South are to come together after a passionate duel, in which the South though proving her valor, has been made to bite the dust. Upon differences in debate shall acrimonious recriminations be exchanged? shall censorious superiority assumed by one section provoke defiant self-assertion on the other? shall Manassas and Chickamauga be retorted for Chattanooga and Richmond? Under the supposition that the full Congress will be composed of gentlemen, all this is impossible. Yet if otherwise, it needs no prophet of Israel to foretell the end. The maintenance of Congressional decency in the future will rest mainly with the North. Rightly will more forbearance be required from the North than the South, for the North is victor.

But some there are who may deem these latter thoughts inapplicable, and for this reason: Since the test-oath opertively excludes from Congress all who in any way participated in Secession, therefore none but Southerners wholly in harmony with the North are eligible to seats. This is true for the time being. But the oath is alterable; and in the wonted fluctuations of parties not improbably it will undergo alteration, assuming such a form, perhaps, as not to bar the admission into the National Legislature of men who represent the populations lately in revolt. Such a result would involve no violation of the principles of democratic government. Not readily can one perceive how the political existence of the millions of late Secessionists can permanently be ignored by this Republic. The years of the war tried our devotion to the Union; the time of peace may test the sincerity of our faith in democracy.

In no spirit of opposition, not by way of challenge, is any thing here thrown out. These thoughts are sincere ones; they seem natural —inevitable. Here and there they must have suggested themselves to many thoughtful patriots. And, if they be just thoughts, ere long they must have that weight with the public which already they have had with individuals.

For that heroic band—those children of the furnace who, in regions like Texas and Tennessee, maintained their fidelity through terrible trials—we of the North felt for them, and profoundly we honor them. Yet passionate sympathy, with resentments so close as to be almost domestic in their bitterness, would hardly in the present juncture tend to discreet legislation. Were the Unionists and Secessionists but as Guelphs and Ghibellines? If not, then far be it from a great nation now to act in the spirit that animated a triumphant town-faction in the Middle Ages. But crowding thoughts must at last be checked; and, in times like the present, one who desires to be impartially just in the expression of his views, moves as among sword-points presented on every side.

Let us pray that the terrible historic tragedy of our time may not have been enacted without instructing our whole beloved country through terror and pity; and may fulfillment verify in the end those expectations which kindle the bards of Progress and Humanity.