A Wreath Of Virginia Bay Leaves Part 12

And there were those amid the French filled with a rapture stern And long the cry resounded: "Live the Regiment of Auverne!"

Long live the Gallic Army and long live splendid France, The Power that gives to History the beauty of Romance!

Upon our right commanded one dearer by far than all, The hero who first came to us and came without a call;

Whose name with that of his leader all histories entwine, The one as is the mighty oak, the other as the vine;

The one the staff, the other the great banner on its lance-- Now, need I name the dearest name of all the names of France?

Oh, Marquis brave! Upon this shaft, deep-cut thy cherished name Twin Old Mortalities shall find--fond Grat.i.tude and Fame!

THE TWO LEADERS.

Two chieftains watch the battle's tide and listen as it rolls And only HEAVEN above can tell the tumult of their souls!

Cornwallis saw the British power struck down by one fell blow, A Gallic spearhead on the lance that laid the Lion low.

But the Father of his Country saw the future all unrolled, Independence blazed before him written down in text of gold,

Like the Hebrew, on the mountain, looking forward then he saw The Promised Land of Freedom blooming under Freedom's law;

Saw a great Republic spurring in the lists where Nations ride, The peer of any Power in her majesty and pride;

Saw that young Republic gazing through her helmet's gilded bars Toward the West all luminous with th' light of coming stars;

From Atlantic to Pacific saw her banners all unfurled Heard sonorous trumpets blowing blessed Peace with all the world?

Roused from this glorious vision, with success within his reach, In few and simple words he made this long-resounding speech:

"The work is done, and well done:" thus spake he on this sod, In accents calm and measured as the accents of a G.o.d.

G.o.d, said I? Yes, his image rises on the raptured sight Like Baldur, the fair and blameless, the Goth's G.o.d of the Light!

XIII.

THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

As some spent gladiator, struck by Death, Whose reeling vision scarce a foe defines, For one last effort gathers all his breath, England draws in her lines.

Her blood-red flag floats out full fair, but flows O'er crumbling bastions, in fict.i.tious state: Who stands a siege Cornwallis full well knows, Plays at a game with Fate.

Siege means surrender at the bitter end, From Ilium downward such the sword-made rule, With few exceptions, few indeed amend This law in any school!

The student who for these has ever sought 'Mid his exceptions Caesar counts as one, Besieger and besieged he, victor, fought Under a Gallic sun.

For Vircinget'rex failed, but at the wall: He strove and failed gilded by Glory's rays So that true soldiers.h.i.+p describes that Gaul In terms of honest praise.

But there was not a Julius in the lines Round which our Chief the fatal leaguer drew, The n.o.ble Earl, though valiant, never s.h.i.+nes 'Mid War's majestic few.

By hopes and fears in agonies long tossed-- [Clinton hard fixed in method's rigid groove]

The British Leader saw the game was lost; But, still, it had one move!

Could he attain yon spreading Gloucester sh.o.r.e; Could he and his cross York's majestic tide; He, then, might laugh to hear the cannon roar And far for safety ride.

Bold was the plan! and generous Light Horse Lee Gives it full measure of unstinted praise; But PROVIDENCE declared this should not be In its own wondrous ways.

Loud roared the storm! The rattling thunders rang!

Against the blast his rowers could not row!

White waves like h.o.a.ry-headed Homers sang Hexameters of woe.

Then came the time to end the mighty Play, To drop the curtain and to quench the lamps, And soon the story took its jocund way Through all the Allied camps.

"Measure for measure" then was righteous law, The cup of Lincoln, bowed Cornwallis pressed, And as he drank the wondering Nations saw A sunrise--in the West!

Death fell upon the Royal cause that day, The King stood like Swift's oak with blighted crest, Headpiece and Crown both cleft he drooped away: _Hic jacet_--tells the rest!

And patriots stood where traitors late were jeered, Transformed from rebels into freemen bold, What seemed Membrino's helmet _now_ appeared A real casque of gold!

XIV.

THE SURRENDER OF LORD CORNWALLIS.

Next came the closing scene: but shall I paint The scarlet column, sullen, slow, and faint, Which marched, with "colors cased" to yonder field, Where Britain threw down corslet, sword and s.h.i.+eld?

Shall I depict the anguish of the brave Who envied comrades sleeping in the grave?

Shall I exult o'er inoffensive dust Of valiant men whose swords have turned to rust?

Shall I, like Menelaus by the coast, O'er dead Ajaces make unmanly boast?

Shall I, in chains of an ign.o.ble Verse, Degrade dead Hectors, and their pangs rehea.r.s.e-- Nay! such is not the mood this People feels, Their chariots drag no foemen by the heels!

Let Ajax slumber by the sounding sea From the fell pa.s.sion of his madness free!

Let Hector's ashes unmolested sleep-- But not to-day shall any Priam weep!

OUR ANCIENT ALLIES.

Superb in white and red, and white and gold, And white and violet, the French unfold Their blazoned banners on the Autumn air, While cymbols clash and brazen trumpets blare: Steeds fret and foam, and spurs with scabbards clank As far they form, in many a s.h.i.+ning rank.

Deux-Ponts is there, as hilt to sword blade true, And Guvion rises smiling on the view; And the brave Swede, as yet untouched by Fate, Rides 'mid his comrades with a mien elate; And Duportail--and scores of others glance Upon the scene, and all are worthy France!

And for those Frenchmen and their splendid bands, The very Centuries shall clap their hands, While at their head, as all their banners flow, And all their drums roll out, and trumpets blow, Rides first and foremost splendid Rochambeau!

And well he rides, worthy an epic rhyme-- Full well he rides in att.i.tude sublime-- Fair Freedom's Champion in the lists of Time.

THE CONTINENTALS.

In hunting s.h.i.+rts, or faded blue and buff, And many clad in simple, rustic stuff, Their ensigns torn but held by Freedom's hand, In long-drawn lines the Continentals stand.

To them precision, if not martial grace; Each heart triumphant but composed each face; Well taught in military arts by brave Steuben, With port of soldiers, majesty of men, All fathers of their Country like a wall They stand at rest to see the curtain fall.

Well-taught were they by one who learned War's trade From Frederick, whom not Ruin's self dismayed;-- Well-taught by one who never lost the heat Caught on an anvil where all Europe beat;-- Beat in a storm of blows, with might and main, But on that Prussian anvil beat in vain!

And to the gallant race of Steuben's name That long has held close intercourse with Fame, This great Republic bows its lofty crest, And folds his kinsmen to her ample breast: At fray, or festival, on march or halt, Von Steuben always far above the salt!