Devote thy memory to scorn and shame, And scoff at the pale, powerless thing thou art. Well was thy doom deserved; thou didst not spare Husband and wife, and from the mother's heart Didst wrest her children, deaf to shriek and prayer; Thy inner lair became The haunt of guilty shame; Thy lash dropped blood; the murderer, at thy side, Showed his red hands, nor feared the vengeance due. Thou didst sow earth with crimes, and, far and wide, A harvest of uncounted miseries grew, Until the measure of thy sins at last Was full, and then the avenging bolt was cast! Go now, accursed of God, and take thy place Worship of Moloch, tyrannies that built The Pyramids, and cruel creeds that taught I see the better years that hasten by Carry thee back into that shadowy past, The Thy victims pass no more, Is there, and there shall the grim block remain At which the slave was sold; while at thy feet Scourges and engines of restraint and pain Molder and rust by thine eternal seat. There, mid the symbols that proclaim thy crimes, Dwell thou, a warning to the coming times. CAVALRY CROSSING A FORD BY WALT WHITMAN A line in long array where they wind betwixt green islands, They take a serpentine course, their arms flash in the sun,-hark to the musical clank, Behold the silvery river, in it the splashing horses loitering stop to drink, Behold the brown-faced men, each group, each person, a picture, the negligent rest on the saddles, Some emerge on the opposite bank, others are just entering the ford-while, Scarlet and blue and snowy white, The guidon flags flutter gayly in the wind. BIVOUAC ON A MOUNTAIN SIDE BY WALT WHITMAN I see before me now a traveling army halting, Below a fertile valley spread, with barns and the orchards of summer, Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt, in places rising high, Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall shapes dingily seen, The numerous camp-fires scattered near and far, some away up on the mountain, The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, largesized, flickering, And over all the sky-the sky! far, far out of reach, studded, breaking out, the eternal stars. FROM "THE RIVER-FIGHT' BY HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL Would you hear of the River-Fight? Sailed the Great Admiral. On our high poop-deck he stood, Tried in tempest and gale, Bronzed in battle and wreck: Bell and Bailey grandly led Each his Line of the Blue and Red, And I mind me of more than they, Of the Seamen passed away- What thought our Admiral then, Since the terrible day, (Day of renown and tears!) When at anchor the Essex lay, Holding her foes at bay, When, a boy, by Porter's side he stood Till deck and plank-sheer were dyed with blood, 'Tis half a hundred years Half a hundred years to-day! Who could fail with him? Who reckon of life or limb? Not a pulse but beat the higher! There had you seen, by the starlight dim, The Flag is going under fire! Right up by the fort, with her helm hard-a-port, The Hartford is going under fire! The way to our work was plain, Back echoed Philip! ah, then How they sprung, in the dim night haze, To their work of toil and of clamor! How the loaders, with sponge and rammer, How the guns, as with cheer and shout Brought up on the waterways! First, as we fired at their flash, 'Twas lightning and black eclipse, With a bellowing roll and crash; But soon, upon either bow, What with forts, and fire-rafts, and ships, |