Slaughter infernal rode with Despair, Not far off, in the saddle there sat A gray-bearded man in a black slouched hat; Quick and watchful he kept his eye On the bold Rebel brigades close by, Reserves that were standing (and dying) at ease, While the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees. For still with their loud, deep, bulldog bay, The grand old graybeard rode to the space A world of meaning there was in that! "Follow me! Steady! We'll save the day! "We'll go forward, but you must go back "And they moved not an inch in the perilous track; "Go to the rear, and we'll send them to hell!" And the sound of the battle was lost in their yell. Turning his bridle, Robert Lee Rode to the rear. Like waves of the sea, And backward in terror that foe was driven, Over the Wilderness, wood and wold. Sunset out of a crimson sky Streamed o'er a field of ruddier dye, Seasons have passed since that day and year- Hushed is the roll of the Rebel drum, The sabers are sheathed, and the cannon are dumb; But the fame of the Wilderness fight abides; And down into history grandly rides, The gray-bearded man in the black slouched hat. RE-ENLISTED 1 May, 1864 BY LUCY LARCOM O did you see him in the street, dressed up in armyblue, When drums and trumpets into town their storm of music threw A louder tune than all the winds could muster in the air, The Rebel winds, that tried so hard our flag in strips to tear? You didn't mind him? Oh, you looked beyond him then, perhaps, To see the mounted officers, rigged out with trooper caps, And shiny clothes, and sashes, and epaulets and all; call. She asked for men; and up he spoke, my handsome, hearty Sam, "I'll die for the dear old Union, if she'll take me as I am." And if a better man than he there's mother that can show, From Maine to Minnesota, then let the nation know! 1By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. You would not pick him from the rest by eagles or by stars, By straps upon his coat-sleeve, or gold or silver bars; Nor a corporal's strip of worsted; but there's something in his face, And something in his even step, a-marching in his place, That couldn't be improved by all the badges in the land: A patriot, and a good, strong man; are generals much more grand? We rest our pride on that big heart wrapped up in army-blue, The girl he loves, Mehitabel, and I, who love him too. He's never shirked a battle yet, though frightful risks he's run, Since treason flooded Baltimore, the spring of SixtyOne; Through blood and storm he's held out firm, nor fretted once, my Sam, At swamps of Chickahominy, or fields of Antietam. Though many a time, he's told us, when he saw them lying dead, The boys that came from Newburyport, and Lynn, and Marblehead, Stretched out upon the trampled turf, and wept on by the sky, It seemed to him the Commonwealth had drained her life-blood dry. "But then," he said, "the more's the need the coun try has of me: To live and fight the war all through, what glory it will be! The Rebel balls don't hit me; and, mother, if they should, You'll know I've fallen in my place, where I have always stood." He's taken out his furlough, and short enough it seemed: I often tell Mehitabel he'll think he only dreamed a star, And hearing the swift tide come in across the harbor bar. The Stars that shine above the Stripes, they light him southward now; The tide of war has swept him back; he's made a solemn vow To build himself no home-nest till his country's work is done; God bless the vow, and speed the work, my patriot, my son! And yet it is a pretty place where his new house might be; An orchard-road that leads your eye straight out upon the sea. The boy not work his father's farm? it seems almost a shame; But any selfish plan for him he's never let me name. |