Poems of American Patriotism Part 9

With far-off vision gazing clear Beyond this gloomy atmosphere Which shuts us out with doubt and fear

He--marking how her high increase Ran greatening in perpetual lease Through balmy years of odorous Peace

Greeted in one transcendent cry Of intense, pa.s.sionate ecstasy The sight which thrilled him utterly;

Saluting, with most proud disdain Of murder and of mortal pain, The vision which shall be again!

So, lifted with prophetic pride, Raised conquering hands to heaven and cried: "All hail the Stars and Stripes!" and died.

THE PICKET GUARD

ETHEL LYNN BEERS

[Sidenote: Sept., 1861]

_The stereotyped announcement, "All Quiet on the Potomac," was followed one day in September, 1861, by the words, "A Picket Shot,"

and these so moved the auth.o.r.ess that she wrote this poem on the impulse of the moment._

"All quiet along the Potomac," they say, "Except now and then a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

'Tis nothing--a private or two, now and then, Will not count in the news of the battle; Not an officer lost--only one of the men, Moaning out, all alone, the death rattle."

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming.

A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping; While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard--for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed Far away in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack--his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep-- For their mother--may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to s.h.i.+ne just as brightly as then, That night, when the love yet unspoken Leaped up to his lips--when low-murmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken.

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling, And gathers his gun closer up to its place As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He pa.s.ses the fountain, the blasted pine-tree-- The footstep is lagging and weary; Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?

Was it moonlight so wondrously flas.h.i.+ng?

It looked like a rifle--"Ah! Mary, good-bye!"

And the life-blood is ebbing and plas.h.i.+ng.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead-- The picket's off duty forever.

THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

[Sidenote: Oct., 1861]

Along a riverside, I know not where, I walked one night in mystery of dream; A chill creeps curdling yet beneath my hair, To think what chanced me by the pallid gleam Of a moon-wraith that waned through haunted air.

Pale fireflies pulsed within the meadow-mist Their halos, wavering thistledowns of light; The loon, that seemed to mock some goblin tryst, Laughed; and the echoes, huddling in affright, Like Odin's hounds, fled baying down the night.

Then all was silent, till there smote my ear A movement in the stream that checked my breath: Was it the slow plash of a wading deer?

But something said, "This water is of Death!

The Sisters wash a shroud,--ill thing to hear!"

I, looking then, beheld the ancient Three Known to the Greek's and to the Northman's creed, That sit in shadow of the mystic Tree, Still crooning, as they weave their endless brede, One song: "Time was, Time is, and Time shall be."

No wrinkled crones were they, as I had deemed, But fair as yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, To mourner, lover, poet, ever seemed; Something too high for joy, too deep for sorrow, Thrilled in their tones, and from their faces gleamed.

"Still men and nations reap as they have strawn,"

So sang they, working at their task the while; The fatal raiment must be cleansed ere dawn; For Austria? Italy? the Sea-Queen's isle?

O'er what quenched grandeur must our shroud be drawn?

Or is it for a younger, fairer corse, That gathered States for children round his knees, That tamed the wave to be his posting-horse, Feller of forests, linker of the seas, Bridge-builder, hammerer, youngest son of Thor's?

"What make we, murmur'st thou? and what are we?

When empires must be wound, we bring the shroud, The time-old web of the implacable Three: Is it too coa.r.s.e for him, the young and proud?

Earth's mightiest deigned to wear it,--why not he?"

"Is there no hope?" I moaned, "so strong, so fair!

Our Fowler whose proud bird would brook erewhile No rival's swoop in all our western air!

Gather the ravens, then, in funeral file For him, life's morn yet golden in his hair?"

"Leave me not hopeless, ye unpitying dames!

I see, half seeing. Tell me, ye who scanned The stars, Earth's elders, still must n.o.blest aims Be traced upon oblivious ocean-sands?

Must Hesper join the wailing ghosts of names?"

"When gra.s.s-blades stiffen with red battle-dew Ye deem we choose the victor and the slain: Say, choose we them that shall be leal and true To the heart's longing, the high faith of brain?

Yet there the victory lies, if ye but knew."

"Three roots bear up Dominion: Knowledge, Will,-- These twain are strong, but stronger yet the third,-- Obedience,--'t is the great tap-root that still, Knit round the rock of Duty, is not stirred, Though Heaven-loosed tempests spend their utmost skill."

"Is the doom sealed for Hesper? 'T is not we Denounce it, but the Law before all time: The brave makes danger opportunity; The waverer, paltering with the chance sublime, Dwarfs it to peril: which shall Hesper be?"

"Hath he let vultures climb his eagle's seat To make Jove's bolts purveyors of their maw?

Hath he the Many's plaudits found more sweet Than Wisdom? held Opinion's wind for Law?

Then let him hearken for the doomster's feet."

"Rough are the steps, slow-hewn in flintiest rock, States climb to power by; slippery those with gold Down which they stumble to eternal mock: No chafferer's hand shall long the sceptre hold, Who, given a Fate to shape, would sell the block."

"We sing old Sagas, songs of weal and woe, Mystic because too cheaply understood; Dark sayings are not ours; men hear and know, See Evil weak, see strength alone in Good, Yet hope to stem G.o.d's fire with walls of tow."