And breathing on the base rejected clay Till each dark face shone mystical and grand Against the breaking day; And lo, the shard the potter cast away Was grown a fiery chalice crystal-fine, Fulfilled of the divine Great wine of battle wrath by God's ring-finger stirred. Whence now, and now, infernal flowerage bloomed, By hasty and contemptuous hands were thrust In nature's busy old democracy To flush the mountain laurel when she blows Sweet by the southern sea, And heart with crumbled heart climbs in the rose: The untaught hearts with the high heart that knew This mountain fortress for no earthly hold Of temporal quarrel, but the bastion old Built by an unjust nation sheer and strong, And bowing down before that equal shrine Whereof his band and he were the most holy sign. AN ODE1 On the Unveiling of the Shaw Memorial on Boston Common, May 31, 1897 BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH I Not with slow, funereal sound Come we to this sacred ground; Not with wailing fife and solemn muffled drum, To lay, with bended knee, Hark to the measured tread of martial feet, Disaster and retreat! Hark, how the iron lips Of the great battleships Salute the City from her azure Bay! II Time was-time was, ah, unforgotten years!- But now let go 'By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. All sounds and signs and formulas of woe: Our children's children's children's eyes, In that heroic mood, He and his dusky braves One instant stood, and then Drave through that cloud of purple steel and flame, Which wrapt him, held him, gave him not again, But in its trampled ashes left to Fame An everlasting name! III That was indeed to live- With foot upon the ramparts of the foe! For heroes dying so! No need for sorrow here, No room for sigh or tear, Save such rich tears as happy eyelids know. See where he rides, our Knight! Of battle, and youth's gold about his brow; And parley hold with Fate, But proudly to fling down O soul of loyal valor and white truth, Thy serried ranks about thee as of yore, In thy undying youth! The tender heart, the eagle eye! Oh, unto him belong The homages of Song; Our praises and the praise Of coming days To him belong To him, to him, the dead that shall not die! THE BATTLEFIELD BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Encountered in the battle-cloud. Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave- Now all is calm, and fresh, and still; And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine are heard. No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry, Oh, be it never heard again! Soon rested those who fought; but thou A friendless warfare! lingering long Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot. The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown-yet faint thou not. Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, |