Intaglios

Tennessee in Tennessee, the dogwood tree Blossoms to-night: towards the sea The Cumberland makes melody, In Tennessee. And Morgan mounts his steed once more; In phantom file his troopers pour Along; the stars hear once again The song of Morgan and his men. In Tennessee, the slave is free To-night; but waking he can see The raiders—hears them—tremblingly, In Tennessee. ON THE PLAINS CIRCLING on high, in cloudless sky, The shadowed hawk with passioned eye In widening orbits floats, a spy, Circling on high. He marks the gopher’s clean-picked bones, Whitening upon the hot dry stones Of the dust-choked gulch, and strikes straightway, In fancy strikes, the hastening prey. But all is still—noon hath her will; Not e’en a snake crawls on the hill; Only the hawk moves, fain to kill, Circling on high.