On open decks you manned the gun Armorial. What cheerings did you share, Impulsive in the van, When down upon leagued France and Spain We English ran— The freshet at your bowsprit Like the foam upon the can. Bickering, your colors Licked up the Spanish air, You flapped with flames of battle-flags— Your challenge, Temeraire! The rear ones of our fleet They yearned to share your place, Still vying with the Victory Throughout that earnest race— The Victory, whose Admiral, With orders nobly won, Shone in the globe of the battle glow— The angel in that sun. Parallel in story, Lo, the stately pair, As late in grapple ranging, The foe between them there— When four great hulls lay tiered, And the fiery tempest cleared, And your prizes twain appeared, Temeraire!

But Trafalgar is over now, The quarter-deck undone; The carved and castled navies fire Their evening-gun. O, Titan Temeraire, Your stern-lights fade away; Your bulwarks to the years must yield, And heart-of-oak decay. A pigmy steam-tug tows you, Gigantic, to the shore— Dismantled of your guns and spars, And sweeping wings of war. The rivets clinch the iron clads, Men learn a deadlier lore; But Fame has nailed your battle-flags— Your ghost it sails before: O, the navies old and oaken, O, the Temeraire no more!



A UTILITARIAN VIEW OF THE MONITOR'S FIGHT

Plain be the phrase, yet apt the verse, More ponderous than nimble; For since grimed War here laid aside His Orient pomp, 'twould ill befit Overmuch to ply The rhyme's barbaric cymbal.

Hail to victory without the gaud Of glory; zeal that needs no fans Of banners; plain mechanic power Plied cogently in War now placed— Where War belongs— Among the trades and artisans.

Yet this was battle, and intense— Beyond the strife of fleets heroic; Deadlier, closer, calm 'mid storm; No passion; all went on by crank, Pivot, and screw, And calculations of caloric.

Needless to dwell; the story's known. The ringing of those plates on plates Still ringeth round the world— The clangor of that blacksmiths' fray. The anvil-din Resounds this message from the Fates:

War shall yet be, and to the end; But war-paint shows the streaks of weather; War yet shall be, but warriors Are now but operatives; War's made Less grand than Peace, And a singe runs through lace and feather.



MALVERN HILL July, 1862

Ye elms that wave on Malvern Hill In prime of morn and May, Recall ye how McClellan's men Here stood at bay? While deep within yon forest dim Our rigid comrades lay— Some with the cartridge in their mouth, Others with fixed arms lifted South— Invoking so— The cypress glades? Ah wilds of woe!

The spires of Richmond, late beheld Through rifts in musket-haze, Were closed from view in clouds of dust On leaf-walled ways, Where streamed our wagons in caravan; And the Seven Nights and Days Of march and fast, retreat and fight, Pinched our grimed faces to ghastly plight— Does the elm wood Recall the haggard beards of blood?

The battle-smoked flag, with stars eclipsed, We followed (it never fell!)— In silence husbanded our strength— Received their yell; Till on this slope we patient turned With cannon ordered well; Reverse we proved was not defeat; But ah, the sod what thousands meet!— Does Malvern Wood Bethink itself, and muse and brood? We elms of Malvern Hill Remember everything; But sap the twig will fill: Wag the world how it will, Leaves must be green in Spring.



STONEWALL JACKSON Mortally wounded at Chancellorsville May, 1863

THE Man who fiercest charged in fight, Whose sword and prayer were long— Stonewall! Even him who stoutly stood for Wrong, How can we praise? Yet coming days Shall not forget him with this song.

Dead is the Man whose Cause is dead, Vainly he died and set his seal— Stonewall! Earnest in error, as we feel; True to the thing he deemed was due, True as John Brown or steel.

Relentlessly he routed us; But we relent, for he is low— Stonewall! Justly his fame we outlaw; so We drop a tear on the bold Virginian's bier, Because no wreath we owe.



THE HOUSE-TOP July, 1863 A Night Piece

No sleep. The sultriness pervades the air And binds the brain—a dense oppression, such As tawny tigers feel in matted shades, Vexing their blood and making apt for ravage. Beneath the stars the roofy desert spreads Vacant as Libya. All is hushed near by. Yet fitfully from far breaks a mixed surf Of muffled sound, the Atheist roar of riot. Yonder, where parching Sirius set in drought, Balefully glares red Arson—there—and there. The Town is taken by its rats—ship-rats And rats of the wharves. All civil charms And priestly spells which late held hearts in awe— Fear-bound, subjected to a better sway Than sway of self; these like a dream dissolve, And man rebounds whole aeons back in nature. Hail to the low dull rumble, dull and dead, And ponderous drag that shakes the wall. Wise Draco comes, deep in the midnight roll Of black artillery; he comes, though late; In code corroborating Calvin's creed And cynic tyrannies of honest kings; He comes, nor parlies; and the Town, redeemed, Gives thanks devout; nor, being thankful, heeds The grimy slur on the Republic's faith implied, Which holds that Man is naturally good, And—more—is Nature's Roman, never to be scourged.



CHATTANOOGA November, 1863

A kindling impulse seized the host Inspired by heaven's elastic air; Their hearts outran their General's plan, Though Grant commanded there— Grant, who without reserve can dare; And, "Well, go on and do your will," He said, and measured the mountain then: So master-riders fling the rein— But you must know your men.

On yester-morn in grayish mist, Armies like ghosts on hills had fought, And rolled from the cloud their thunders loud The Cumberlands far had caught: To-day the sunlit steeps are sought. Grant stood on cliffs whence all was plain, And smoked as one who feels no cares; But mastered nervousness intense Alone such calmness wears.

The summit-cannon plunge their flame Sheer down the primal wall, But up and up each linking troop In stretching festoons crawl— Nor fire a shot. Such men appall The foe, though brave. He, from the brink, Looks far along the breadth of slope, And sees two miles of dark dots creep, And knows they mean the cope.

He sees them creep. Yet here and there Half hid 'mid leafless groves they go; As men who ply through traceries high Of turreted marbles show— So dwindle these to eyes below. But fronting shot and flanking shell Sliver and rive the inwoven ways; High tops of oaks and high hearts fall, But never the climbing stays.

From right to left, from left to right They roll the rallying cheer— Vie with each other, brother with brother, Who shall the first appear— What color-bearer with colors clear In sharp relief, like sky-drawn Grant, Whose cigar must now be near the stump— While in solicitude his back Heaps slowly to a hump.

Near and more near; till now the flags Run like a catching flame; And one flares highest, to peril nighest— He means to make a name: Salvos! they give him his fame. The staff is caught, and next the rush, And then the leap where death has led; Flag answered flag along the crest, And swarms of rebels fled.

But some who gained the envied Alp, And—eager, ardent, earnest there— Dropped into Death's wide-open arms, Quelled on the wing like eagles struck in air— Forever they slumber young and fair, The smile upon them as they died; Their end attained, that end a height: Life was to these a dream fulfilled, And death a starry night.



ON THE PHOTOGRAPH OF A CORPS COMMANDER

Ay, man is manly. Here you see The warrior-carriage of the head, And brave dilation of the frame; And lighting all, the soul that led In Spottsylvania's charge to victory, Which justifies his fame.

A cheering picture. It is good To look upon a Chief like this, In whom the spirit moulds the form. Here favoring Nature, oft remiss, With eagle mien expressive has endued A man to kindle strains that warm.

Trace back his lineage, and his sires, Yeoman or noble, you shall find Enrolled with men of Agincourt, Heroes who shared great Harry's mind. Down to us come the knightly Norman fires, And front the Templars bore.

Nothing can lift the heart of man Like manhood in a fellow-man. The thought of heaven's great King afar But humbles us—too weak to scan; But manly greatness men can span, And feel the bonds that draw.



THE SWAMP ANGEL

There is a coal-black Angel With a thick Afric lip, And he dwells (like the hunted and harried) In a swamp where the green frogs dip. But his face is against a City Which is over a bay of the sea, And he breathes with a breath that is blastment, And dooms by a far decree.

By night there is fear in the City, Through the darkness a star soareth on; There's a scream that screams up to the zenith, Then the poise of a meteor lone— Lighting far the pale fright of the faces, And downward the coming is seen; Then the rush, and the burst, and the havoc, And wails and shrieks between.

It comes like the thief in the gloaming; It comes, and none may foretell The place of the coming—the glaring; They live in a sleepless spell That wizens, and withers, and whitens; It ages the young, and the bloom Of the maiden is ashes of roses— The Swamp Angel broods in his gloom.

Swift is his messengers' going, But slowly he saps their halls, As if by delay deluding. They move from their crumbling walls Farther and farther away; But the Angel sends after and after, By night with the flame of his ray— By night with the voice of his screaming— Sends after them, stone by stone, And farther walls fall, farther portals, And weed follows weed through the Town.

Is this the proud City? the scorner Which never would yield the ground? Which mocked at the coal-black Angel? The cup of despair goes round. Vainly he calls upon Michael (The white man's seraph was he,) For Michael has fled from his tower To the Angel over the sea. Who weeps for the woeful City Let him weep for our guilty kind; Who joys at her wild despairing— Christ, the Forgiver, convert his mind.



SHERIDAN AT CEDAR CREEK October, 1864

Shoe the steed with silver That bore him to the fray, When he heard the guns at dawning— Miles away; When he heard them calling, calling— Mount! nor stay: Quick, or all is lost; They've surprised and stormed the post, They push your routed host— Gallop! retrieve the day.

House the horse in ermine— For the foam-flake blew White through the red October; He thundered into view; They cheered him in the looming. Horseman and horse they knew. The turn of the tide began, The rally of bugles ran, He swung his hat in the van; The electric hoof-spark flew.

Wreathe the steed and lead him— For the charge he led Touched and turned the cypress Into amaranths for the head Of Philip, king of riders, Who raised them from the dead. The camp (at dawning lost), By eve, recovered—forced, Rang with laughter of the host At belated Early fled.

Shroud the horse in sable— For the mounds they heap! There is firing in the Valley, And yet no strife they keep; It is the parting volley, It is the pathos deep. There is glory for the brave Who lead, and nobly save, But no knowledge in the grave Where the nameless followers sleep.



IN THE PRISON PEN 1864

Listless he eyes the palisades And sentries in the glare; 'Tis barren as a pelican-beach But his world is ended there.

Nothing to do; and vacant hands Bring on the idiot-pain; He tries to think—to recollect, But the blur is on his brain.

Around him swarm the plaining ghosts Like those on Virgil's shore— A wilderness of faces dim, And pale ones gashed and hoar.

A smiting sun. No shed, no tree; He totters to his lair— A den that sick hands dug in earth Ere famine wasted there,

Or, dropping in his place, he swoons, Walled in by throngs that press, Till forth from the throngs they bear him dead— Dead in his meagreness.



THE COLLEGE COLONEL

He rides at their head; A crutch by his saddle just slants in view, One slung arm is in splints, you see, Yet he guides his strong steed—how coldly too.

He brings his regiment home— Not as they filed two years before, But a remnant half-tattered, and battered, and worn, Like castaway sailors, who—stunned By the surf's loud roar, Their mates dragged back and seen no more— Again and again breast the surge, And at last crawl, spent, to shore.

A still rigidity and pale— An Indian aloofness lones his brow; He has lived a thousand years Compressed in battle's pains and prayers, Marches and watches slow.

There are welcoming shouts, and flags; Old men off hat to the Boy, Wreaths from gay balconies fall at his feet, But to him—there comes alloy.

It is not that a leg is lost, It is not that an arm is maimed, It is not that the fever has racked— Self he has long disclaimed.

But all through the Seven Days' Fight, And deep in the Wilderness grim, And in the field-hospital tent, And Petersburg crater, and dim Lean brooding in Libby, there came— Ah heaven!—what truth to him.



THE MARTYR Indicative of the passion of the people on the 15th of April, 1865

Goon Friday was the day Of the prodigy and crime, When they killed him in his pity, When they killed him in his prime Of clemency and calm— When with yearning he was filled To redeem the evil-willed, And, though conqueror, be kind; But they killed him in his kindness, In their madness and their blindness, And they killed him from behind.

There is sobbing of the strong, And a pall upon the land; But the People in their weeping Bare the iron hand; Beware the People weeping When they bare the iron hand.

He lieth in his blood— The father in his face; They have killed him, the Forgiver— The Avenger takes his place, The Avenger wisely stern, Who in righteousness shall do What the heavens call him to, And the parricides remand; For they killed him in his kindness, In their madness and their blindness, And his blood is on their hand.

There is sobbing of the strong, And a pall upon the land; But the People in their weeping Bare the iron hand: Beware the People weeping When they bare the iron hand.



REBEL COLOR-BEARERS AT SHILOH A plea against the vindictive cry raised by civilians shortly after the surrender at Appomattox

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

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

The leader of a patriot-band Even so could view rebels who so could stand; And this when peril pressed him sore, Left aidless in the shivered front of war— Skulkers behind, defiant foes before, And fighting with a broken brand. The challenge in that courage rare— Courage defenseless, proudly bare— Never could tempt him; he could dare Strike up the leveled rifle there.

Sunday at Shiloh, and the day When Stonewall charged—McClellan's crimson May, And Chickamauga's wave of death, And of the Wilderness the cypress wreath— All these have passed away. The life in the veins of Treason lags, Her daring color-bearers drop their flags, And yield. Now shall we fire? Can poor spite be? Shall nobleness in victory less aspire Than in reverse? Spare Spleen her ire, And think how Grant met Lee.



AURORA BOREALIS Commemorative of the Dissolution of armies at the Peace May, 1865

What power disbands the Northern Lights After their steely play? The lonely watcher feels an awe Of Nature's sway, As when appearing, He marked their flashed uprearing In the cold gloom— Retreatings and advancings, (Like dallyings of doom), Transitions and enhancings, And bloody ray.

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



THE RELEASED REBEL PRISONER June, 1865

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

And yet but dimly he divines The depth of that deceit, And superstitution 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 a 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 heirloom 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.



"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.



ON THE SLAIN COLLEGIANS

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 tolled 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 sleeps 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.



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.



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 hid 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 piney 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 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.



COMMEMORATIVE OF A NAVAL VICTORY

Sailors there are of the 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 light 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 spirit which glad had hailed his worth, Sleep in oblivion.—The shark Glides white through the phosphorus sea.



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; They felt in that rapt pause, with warning rife, Horror and anguish for the civil strife.

Of North or South they reeked 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 Vicksburg fell, and the moody files marched out, Silent the victors stood, scorning to raise a shout.



Poems From Mardi



WE FISH

We fish, we fish, we merrily swim, We care not for friend nor for foe. Our fins are stout, Our tails are out, As through the seas we go.

Fish, Fish, we are fish with red gills; Naught disturbs us, our blood is at zero: We are buoyant because of our bags, Being many, each fish is a hero. We care not what is it, this life That we follow, this phantom unknown; To swim, it's exceedingly pleasant,— So swim away, making a foam. This strange looking thing by our side, Not for safety, around it we flee:— Its shadow's so shady, that's all,— We only swim under its lee. And as for the eels there above, And as for the fowls of the air, We care not for them nor their ways, As we cheerily glide afar!

We fish, we fish, we merrily swim, We care not for friend nor for foe: Our fins are stout, Our tails are out, As through the seas we go.



INVOCATION

Ha, ha, gods and kings; fill high, one and all; Drink, drink! shout and drink! mad respond to the call! Fill fast, and fill full; 'gainst the goblet ne'er sin; Quaff there, at high tide, to the uttermost rim:— Flood-tide, and soul-tide to the brim!

Who with wine in him fears? who thinks of his cares? Who sighs to be wise, when wine in him flares? Water sinks down below, in currents full slow; But wine mounts on high with its genial glow:— Welling up, till the brain overflow!

As the spheres, with a roll, some fiery of soul, Others golden, with music, revolve round the pole; So let our cups, radiant with many hued wines, Round and round in groups circle, our Zodiac's Signs:— Round reeling, and ringing their chimes!

Then drink, gods and kings; wine merriment brings; It bounds through the veins; there, jubilant sings. Let it ebb, then, and flow; wine never grows dim; Drain down that bright tide at the foam beaded rim:— Fill up, every cup, to the brim!



DIRGE

We drop our dead in the sea, The bottomless, bottomless sea; Each bubble a hollow sigh, As it sinks forever and aye.

We drop our dead in the sea,— The dead reek not of aught; We drop our dead in the sea,— The sea ne'er gives it a thought.

Sink, sink, oh corpse, still sink, Far down in the bottomless sea, Where the unknown forms do prowl, Down, down in the bottomless sea.

'Tis night above, and night all round, And night will it be with thee; As thou sinkest, and sinkest for aye, Deeper down in the bottomless sea.



MARLENA

Far off in the sea is Marlena, A land of shades and streams, A land of many delights, Dark and bold, thy shores, Marlena; But green, and timorous, thy soft knolls, Crouching behind the woodlands. All shady thy hills; all gleaming thy springs, Like eyes in the earth looking at you. How charming thy haunts, Marlena!— Oh, the waters that flow through Onimoo; Oh, the leaves that rustle through Ponoo: Oh, the roses that blossom in Tarma. Come, and see the valley of Vina: How sweet, how sweet, the Isles from Hina: 'Tis aye afternoon of the full, full moon, And ever the season of fruit, And ever the hour of flowers, And never the time of rains and gales, All in and about Marlena. Soft sigh the boughs in the stilly air, Soft lap the beach the billows there; And in the woods or by the streams, You needs must nod in the Land of Dreams.



PIPE SONG

Care is all stuff:— Puff! Puff! To puff is enough:— Puff! Puff More musky than snuff, And warm is a puff:— Puff! Puff Here we sit mid our puffs, Like old lords in their ruffs, Snug as bears in their muffs:— Puff! Puff Then puff, puff, puff, For care is all stuff, Puffed off in a puff— Puff! Puff!



SONG OF YOOMY

Departed the pride, and the glory of Mardi: The vaunt of her isles sleeps deep in the sea, That rolls o'er his corse with a hush, His warriors bend over their spears, His sisters gaze upward and mourn. Weep, weep, for Adondo is dead! The sun has gone down in a shower; Buried in clouds the face of the moon; Tears stand in the eyes of the starry skies, And stand in the eyes of the flowers; And streams of tears are the trickling brooks, Coursing adown the mountains.— Departed the pride, and the glory of Mardi: The vaunt of her isles sleeps deep in the sea. Fast falls the small rain on its bosom that sobs,— Not showers of rain, but the tears of Oro.



GOLD

We rovers bold, To the land of Gold, Over the bowling billows are gliding: Eager to toil, For the golden spoil, And every hardship biding. See! See! Before our prows' resistless dashes The gold-fish fly in golden flashes! 'Neath a sun of gold, We rovers bold, On the golden land are gaining; And every night, We steer aright, By golden stars unwaning! All fires burn a golden glare: No locks so bright as golden hair! All orange groves have golden gushings; All mornings dawn with golden flushings! In a shower of gold, say fables old, A maiden was won by the god of gold! In golden goblets wine is beaming: On golden couches kings are dreaming! The Golden Rule dries many tears! The Golden Number rules the spheres! Gold, gold it is, that sways the nations: Gold! gold! the center of all rotations! On golden axles worlds are turning: With phosphorescence seas are burning! All fire-flies flame with golden gleamings! Gold-hunters' hearts with golden dreamings! With golden arrows kings are slain: With gold we'll buy a freeman's name! In toilsome trades, for scanty earnings, At home we've slaved, with stifled yearnings: No light! no hope! Oh, heavy woe! When nights fled fast, and days dragged slow. But joyful now, with eager eye, Fast to the Promised Land we fly: Where in deep mines, The treasure shines; Or down in beds of golden streams, The gold-flakes glance in golden gleams! How we long to sift, That yellow drift! Rivers! Rivers! cease your goings! Sand-bars! rise, and stay the tide! 'Till we've gained the golden flowing; And in the golden haven ride!



THE LAND OF LOVE

Hail! voyagers, hail! Whence e'er ye come, where'er ye rove, No calmer strand, No sweeter land, Will e'er ye view, than the Land of Love!

Hail! voyagers, hail! To these, our shores, soft gales invite: The palm plumes wave, The billows lave, And hither point fix'd stars of light!

Hail! voyagers, hail! Think not our groves wide brood with gloom; In this, our isle, Bright flowers smile: Full urns, rose-heaped, these valleys bloom.

Hail! voyagers, hail! Be not deceived; renounce vain things; Ye may not find A tranquil mind, Though hence ye sail with swiftest wings.

Hail! voyagers, hail! Time flies full fast; life soon is o'er; And ye may mourn, That hither borne, Ye left behind our pleasant shore.



Poems From Clarel



DIRGE

Stay, Death, Not mine the Christus-wand Wherewith to charge thee and command: I plead. Most gently hold the hand Of her thou leadest far away; Fear thou to let her naked feet Tread ashes—but let mosses sweet Her footing tempt, where'er ye stray. Shun Orcus; win the moonlit land Belulled—the silent meadows lone, Where never any leaf is blown From lily-stem in Azrael's hand. There, till her love rejoin her lowly (Pensive, a shade, but all her own) On honey feed her, wild and holy; Or trance her with thy choicest charm. And if, ere yet the lover's free, Some added dusk thy rule decree— That shadow only let it be Thrown in the moon-glade by the palm.



EPILOGUE If Luther's day expand to Darwin's year, Shall that exclude the hope—foreclose the fear?

Unmoved by all the claims our times avow, The ancient Sphinx still keeps the porch of shade; And comes Despair, whom not her calm may cow, And coldly on that adamantine brow Scrawls undeterred his bitter pasquinade. But Faith (who from the scrawl indignant turns) With blood warm oozing from her wounded trust, Inscribes even on her shards of broken urns The sign o' the cross—the spirit above the dust!

Yea, ape and angel, strife and old debate— The harps of heaven and dreary gongs of hell; Science the feud can only aggravate— No umpire she betwixt the chimes and knell: The running battle of the star and clod Shall run forever—if there be no God.

Degrees we know, unknown in days before; The light is greater, hence the shadow more; And tantalized and apprehensive Man Appealing—Wherefore ripen us to pain? Seems there the spokesman of dumb Nature's train.

But through such strange illusions have they passed Who in life's pilgrimage have baffled striven— Even death may prove unreal at the last, And stoics be astounded into heaven.

Then keep thy heart, though yet but ill-resigned— Clarel, thy heart, the issues there but mind; That like the crocus budding through the snow— That like a swimmer rising from the deep— That like a burning secret which doth go Even from the bosom that would hoard and keep; Emerge thou mayst from the last whelming sea, And prove that death but routs life into victory.

THE END