« EelmineJätka »
No jars disturb his gentle rest,
No noise his slumber breaks,
“ He'll see them when he wakes." (Southern.)
SPRING AT THE CAPITAL
BY ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN
The poplar drops beside the way
Its tasseled plumes of silver gray; The chestnut points its great brown buds, impatient
for the laggard May.
The honeysuckles lace the wall;
The hyacinths grow fair and tall; And mellow sun, and pleasant wind, and odorous bees
are over all.
Down-looking in this snow-white bud,
How distant seems the war's red flood ! How far remote the streaming wounds, the sickening
scent of human blood!
For Nature does not recognize
This strife that rends the earth and skies; No war-dreams vex the winter's sleep of clover-heads
She holds her even way the same,
Though navies sink, or cities flame: A snowdrop is a snowdrop still, despite the Nation's
joy or shame.
When blood her grassy altar wets,
She sends the pitying violets To heal the outrage with their bloom, and cover it
with soft regrets.
O crocuses with rain-wet eyes,
O tender-lipped anemones, What do you know of agony, and death, and blood
No shudder breaks your sunshine trance,
Though near you rolls, with slow advance, Clouding your shining leaves with dust, the anguish
Yonder a white encampment hums;
The clash of martial music comes; And now your startled stems are all a-tremble with the
jar of drums.
Whether it lessen or increase,
Or whether trumpets shout or cease, Still, deep within your tranquil hearts, the happy bees
are humming, “ Peace!” O flowers ! the soul that faints or grieves
New comfort from your lips receives; Sweet confidence and patient faith are hidden in your
Help us to trust still on and on,
That this dark night will soon be gone, And that these battle-stains are but the blood-red
trouble of the dawn,
Dawn of a broader, whiter day
Then ever blessed us with its ray,A dawn beneath whose purer light all guilt and
wrong shall fade away.
Then shall our Nation break its bands,
And, silencing the envious lands, Stand in the searching light unshamed, with spotless
robe, and clean, white hands.
ARMY CORRESPONDENT'S LAST RIDE
Five Forks, April 1, 1865
BY GEORGE ALFRED TOWNSEND
Ho! pony. Down the lonely road
Strike now your cheeriest pace!
Than burns my anxious face;
Must feel my nervous spur;
The tidings we aver :
To home and hamlet, town and hearth,
To thrill child, mother, man, I carry to the waiting North
Great news from Sheridan!
The birds are dead among the pines,
Slain by the battle fright,
That never reached the fight;
Of many a tumbled wain,
Die, drinking of the rain;
I spur my stumbling nag,
But victory to the flag!
Halt! who comes there? The countersign!
“ A friend.”-“ Advance! The fight,How goes it, say?”—“We won the day!”.
Huzza! Pass on!”—“Good-night!”. And parts the darkness on before,
And down the mire we tramp,
With many a pulsing camp;
Where ghosts look through the gloam,-
tread I hear the dead Follow the news toward home!
The hunted souls I see behind,
In swamp and in ravine,
Whose cry for mercy thrills the wind
Till cracks the sure carbine;
And show the trampled place
Turns up his young, dead face;
The conqueror parades,
The General's dashing aides.
O wondrous Youth! through this grand ruth
Runs my boy's life its thread;
The rolls of maimed and dead
And lonely thoughts and fears,
To bind the conquering years; A battle-ray, through ages gray
To light to deeds sublime, And flash the luster of this day
Down all the aisles of Time!
Ho! pony,—'tis the signal gun
The night-assault decreed;
Crash from the lines of Meade;
And shrieks the bursting air;
Grows ghastlier in the glare;