[In most of the collections this poem is printed under the title of "The Dead Cannoneer," but the author assures the present editor that the only title he ever gave it is the name of the boy general, "John Pelham," who was killed at Kelly's Ford, Virginia, 17th March, 1863.-EDITOR.] JUST UST as the spring came laughing through the strife, With all its gorgeous cheer, In the bright April of historic life, The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath Hushed in the alabaster arms of Death, Our young Marcellus sleeps. Nobler and grander than the Child of Rome The knightly scion of a Southern home Gentlest and bravest in the battle-brunt, A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow, And there's a wail of immemorial woe The pennon drops that led the sacred band The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face; Couched in their marble slumber, flashed the grace O mother of a blessed soul on high! Thy tears may soon be shed; Think of thy boy with princes of the sky, How must he smile on this dull world beneath, Fevered with swift renown, He, with the martyr's amaranthine wreath Twining the victor's crown! (Bombardment of Fort Sumter by the fleet, 7th April, 1863.) BY PAUL, H. HAYNE. I. Two "WO hours, or more, beyond the prime of a blithe April day, The Northmen's mailed "Invincibles" steamed up fair Charleston Bay; They came in sullen file and slow, low-breasted on the wave, Black as a midnight front of storm, and silent as the grave. II. A thousand warrior-hearts beat high as those dread monsters drew More closely to the game of death across the breezeless blue, And twice ten thousand hearts of those who watched the scene afar, Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle's broaden ing star. III. Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect stands, The ready lanyards firmly grasped in bold, untrembling hands, So moveless in their marbled calm, their stern heroic guise, They looked like forms of statued stone with burning human eyes! IV. Our banners on the outmost walls, with stately rustling fold, Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight's ruddy gold, They mount to the deep roll of drums, and widely echoing cheers, And then-once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait the grim cannoneers. V. Onward-in sullen file and slow, low glooming on the wave, Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the grave, When sudden, shivering up the calm, o'er startled flood and shore, Burst from the sacred Island Fort the thunder-wrath of yore! |