This is the arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the villages with strange alarms.
Ah! what a sound will rise—how wild and dreary—
When the death-angel touches those swift keys!
What loud lament and dismal miserere
Will mingle with...
The Softest whisperings of the scented South,
And rust and roses in the cannon’s mouth;
And, where the thunders of the fight were born,
The wind’s sweet tenor in the standing corn;
With song of larks, low-lingering in the loam,
And blue skies bending over love and home.
But still the thought: Somewhere,—upon the hills,
Or where the...
Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armèd hands
Encountered in the battle-cloud.
Ah! never shall the land forget
How gushed the life-blood of her brave,—
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.
Now all is calm and fresh...
How sleep the brave who sink to rest
By all their country’s wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mold,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,...
The Angel of the nation’s peace
Has wreathed with flowers the battle-drum;
We see the fruiting fields increase
Where sound of war no more shall come.
The swallow skims the Tennessee,
Soft winds play o’er the Rapidan;
There only echo notes of glee,
Where gleamed a mighty army’s van!
Fair Chattanooga’s wooded slope...
From “Sentinel Songs”
THE FALLEN cause still waits,—
Its bard has not come yet,
His song—through one of to-morrow’s gates
Shall shine—but never set.
But when he comes—he ’ll sweep
A harp with tears all stringed,
And the very notes he strikes will weep,
As they come, from his hand, woe-winged.
Ah! grand shall be...
When falls the soldier brave
Dead—at the feet of wrong,—
The poet sings, and guards his grave
With sentinels of song.
Songs, march! he gives command,
Keep faithful watch and true;
The living and dead of the Conquered Land
Have now no guards save you.
Grave Ballads! mark ye well!
Thrice holy is your trust!...
[At Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S. C.]
SLEEP sweetly in your humble graves,—
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause!
Though yet no marble column craves
The pilgrim here to pause,
In seeds of laurel in the earth
The blossom of your fame is blown,
And somewhere, waiting for its birth,
The shaft is in the stone!
...
[The women of Columbus, Mississippi, strewed flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and the National soldiers.]
BY the flow of the inland river,
Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver
Asleep are the ranks of the dead;—
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;—...
[1876]
our fathers’ God! from out whose hand
The centuries fall like grains of sand,
We meet to-day, united, free,
And loyal to our land and Thee,
To thank Thee for the era done,
And trust Thee for the opening one.
Here, where of old, by Thy design,
The fathers spake that word of Thine
Whose echo is the glad refrain...
