Kitabı oku: «Complete Poetical Works», sayfa 2

THE COPPERHEAD

(1864)

 
     There is peace in the swamp where the Copperhead sleeps,
     Where the waters are stagnant, the white vapor creeps,
     Where the musk of Magnolia hangs thick in the air,
     And the lilies' phylacteries broaden in prayer.
     There is peace in the swamp, though the quiet is death,
     Though the mist is miasma, the upas-tree's breath,
     Though no echo awakes to the cooing of doves,—
     There is peace: yes, the peace that the Copperhead loves.
 
 
     Go seek him: he coils in the ooze and the drip,
     Like a thong idly flung from the slave-driver's whip;
     But beware the false footstep,—the stumble that brings
     A deadlier lash than the overseer swings.
     Never arrow so true, never bullet so dread,
     As the straight steady stroke of that hammer-shaped head;
     Whether slave or proud planter, who braves that dull crest,
     Woe to him who shall trouble the Copperhead's rest!
 
 
     Then why waste your labors, brave hearts and strong men,
     In tracking a trail to the Copperhead's den?
     Lay your axe to the cypress, hew open the shade
     To the free sky and sunshine Jehovah has made;
     Let the breeze of the North sweep the vapors away,
     Till the stagnant lake ripples, the freed waters play;
     And then to your heel can you righteously doom
     The Copperhead born of its shadow and gloom!
 

A SANITARY MESSAGE

 
     Last night, above the whistling wind,
       I heard the welcome rain,—
     A fusillade upon the roof,
       A tattoo on the pane:
     The keyhole piped; the chimney-top
       A warlike trumpet blew;
     Yet, mingling with these sounds of strife,
       A softer voice stole through.
 
 
     "Give thanks, O brothers!" said the voice,
       "That He who sent the rains
     Hath spared your fields the scarlet dew
       That drips from patriot veins:
     I've seen the grass on Eastern graves
       In brighter verdure rise;
     But, oh! the rain that gave it life
       Sprang first from human eyes.
 
 
     "I come to wash away no stain
       Upon your wasted lea;
     I raise no banners, save the ones
       The forest waves to me:
     Upon the mountain side, where Spring
       Her farthest picket sets,
     My reveille awakes a host
       Of grassy bayonets.
 
 
     "I visit every humble roof;
       I mingle with the low:
     Only upon the highest peaks
       My blessings fall in snow;
     Until, in tricklings of the stream
       And drainings of the lea,
     My unspent bounty comes at last
       To mingle with the sea."
 
 
     And thus all night, above the wind,
       I heard the welcome rain,—
     A fusillade upon the roof,
       A tattoo on the pane:
     The keyhole piped; the chimney-top
       A warlike trumpet blew;
     But, mingling with these sounds of strife,
       This hymn of peace stole through.
 

THE OLD MAJOR EXPLAINS

(RE-UNION, ARMY OF THE POTOMAC, 12TH MAY, 1871)

 
     Well, you see, the fact is, Colonel, I don't know as I can come:
     For the farm is not half planted, and there's work to do at home;
     And my leg is getting troublesome,—it laid me up last fall,—
     And the doctors, they have cut and hacked, and never found the ball.
 
 
     And then, for an old man like me, it's not exactly right,
     This kind o' playing soldier with no enemy in sight.
     "The Union,"—that was well enough way up to '66;
     But this "Re-Union," maybe now it's mixed with politics?
 
 
     No?  Well, you understand it best; but then, you see, my lad,
     I'm deacon now, and some might think that the example's bad.
     And week from next is Conference....  You said the twelfth of May?
     Why, that's the day we broke their line at Spottsylvan-i-a!
 
 
     Hot work; eh, Colonel, wasn't it?  Ye mind that narrow front:
     They called it the "Death-Angle"!  Well, well, my lad, we won't
     Fight that old battle over now: I only meant to say
     I really can't engage to come upon the twelfth of May.
 
 
     How's Thompson?  What! will he be there?  Well, now I want to know!
     The first man in the rebel works! they called him "Swearing Joe."
     A wild young fellow, sir, I fear the rascal was; but then—
     Well, short of heaven, there wa'n't a place he dursn't lead his men.
 
 
     And Dick, you say, is coming too.  And Billy? ah! it's true
     We buried him at Gettysburg: I mind the spot; do you?
     A little field below the hill,—it must be green this May;
     Perhaps that's why the fields about bring him to me to-day.
 
 
     Well, well, excuse me, Colonel! but there are some things that drop
     The tail-board out one's feelings; and the only way's to stop.
     So they want to see the old man; ah, the rascals! do they, eh?
     Well, I've business down in Boston about the twelfth of May.
 

CALIFORNIA'S GREETING TO SEWARD

(1869)

 
     We know him well: no need of praise
       Or bonfire from the windy hill
     To light to softer paths and ways
       The world-worn man we honor still.
 
 
     No need to quote the truths he spoke
       That burned through years of war and shame,
     While History carves with surer stroke
       Across our map his noonday fame.
 
 
     No need to bid him show the scars
       Of blows dealt by the Scaean gate,
     Who lived to pass its shattered bars,
       And see the foe capitulate:
 
 
     Who lived to turn his slower feet
       Toward the western setting sun,
     To see his harvest all complete,
       His dream fulfilled, his duty done,
 
 
     The one flag streaming from the pole,
       The one faith borne from sea to sea:
     For such a triumph, and such goal,
       Poor must our human greeting be.
 
 
     Ah! rather that the conscious land
       In simpler ways salute the Man,—
     The tall pines bowing where they stand,
       The bared head of El Capitan!
 
 
     The tumult of the waterfalls,
       Pohono's kerchief in the breeze,
     The waving from the rocky walls,
       The stir and rustle of the trees;
 
 
     Till, lapped in sunset skies of hope,
       In sunset lands by sunset seas,
     The Young World's Premier treads the slope
       Of sunset years in calm and peace.
 

THE AGED STRANGER

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR

 
     "I was with Grant"—the stranger said;
       Said the farmer, "Say no more,
     But rest thee here at my cottage porch,
       For thy feet are weary and sore."
 
 
     "I was with Grant"—the stranger said;
       Said the farmer, "Nay, no more,—
     I prithee sit at my frugal board,
       And eat of my humble store.
 
 
     "How fares my boy,—my soldier boy,
       Of the old Ninth Army Corps?
     I warrant he bore him gallantly
       In the smoke and the battle's roar!"
 
 
     "I know him not," said the aged man,
       "And, as I remarked before,
     I was with Grant"–  "Nay, nay, I know,"
       Said the farmer, "say no more:
 
 
     "He fell in battle,—I see, alas!
       Thou'dst smooth these tidings o'er,—
     Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be,
       Though it rend my bosom's core.
 
 
     "How fell he?  With his face to the foe,
       Upholding the flag he bore?
     Oh, say not that my boy disgraced
       The uniform that he wore!"
 
 
     "I cannot tell," said the aged man,
       "And should have remarked before.
     That I was with Grant,—in Illinois,—
       Some three years before the war."
 
 
     Then the farmer spake him never a word,
       But beat with his fist full sore
     That aged man who had worked for Grant
       Some three years before the war.
 

THE IDYL OF BATTLE HOLLOW

(WAR OF THE REBELLION, 1884)

 
     No, I won't,—thar, now, so!  And it ain't nothin',—no!
     And thar's nary to tell that you folks yer don't know;
     And it's "Belle, tell us, do!" and it's "Belle, is it true?"
     And "Wot's this yer yarn of the Major and you?"
     Till I'm sick of it all,—so I am, but I s'pose
     Thet is nothin' to you....  Well, then, listen! yer goes!
 
 
     It was after the fight, and around us all night
     Thar was poppin' and shootin' a powerful sight;
     And the niggers had fled, and Aunt Chlo was abed,
     And Pinky and Milly were hid in the shed:
     And I ran out at daybreak, and nothin' was nigh
     But the growlin' of cannon low down in the sky.
 
 
     And I saw not a thing, as I ran to the spring,
     But a splintered fence rail and a broken-down swing,
     And a bird said "Kerchee!" as it sat on a tree,
     As if it was lonesome, and glad to see me;
     And I filled up my pail and was risin' to go,
     When up comes the Major a-canterin' slow.
 
 
     When he saw me he drew in his reins, and then threw
     On the gate-post his bridle, and—what does he do
     But come down where I sat; and he lifted his hat,
     And he says—well, thar ain't any need to tell THAT;
     'Twas some foolishness, sure, but it 'mounted to this,
     Thet he asked for a drink, and he wanted—a kiss.
 
 
     Then I said (I was mad), "For the water, my lad,
     You're too big and must stoop; for a kiss, it's as bad,—
     You ain't near big enough."  And I turned in a huff,
     When that Major he laid his white hand on my cuff,
     And he says, "You're a trump!  Take my pistol, don't fear!
     But shoot the next man that insults you, my dear."
 
 
     Then he stooped to the pool, very quiet and cool,
     Leavin' me with that pistol stuck there like a fool,
     When thar flashed on my sight a quick glimmer of light
     From the top of the little stone fence on the right,
     And I knew 'twas a rifle, and back of it all
     Rose the face of that bushwhacker, Cherokee Hall!
 
 
     Then I felt in my dread that the moment the head
     Of the Major was lifted, the Major was dead;
     And I stood still and white, but Lord! gals, in spite
     Of my care, that derned pistol went off in my fright!
     Went off—true as gospil!—and, strangest of all,
     It actooally injured that Cherokee Hall!
 
 
     Thet's all—now, go 'long!  Yes, some folks thinks it's wrong,
     And thar's some wants to know to what side I belong;
     But I says, "Served him right!" and I go, all my might,
     In love or in war, for a fair stand-up fight;
     And as for the Major—sho! gals, don't you know
     Thet—Lord! thar's his step in the garden below.
 

CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD

(NEW JERSEY, 1780)

 
     Here's the spot.  Look around you.  Above on the height
     Lay the Hessians encamped.  By that church on the right
     Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers.  And here ran a wall,—
     You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball.
     Nothing more.  Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow,
     Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.
 
 
     Nothing more, did I say?  Stay one moment: you've heard
     Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the word
     Down at Springfield?  What, no?  Come—that's bad; why, he had
     All the Jerseys aflame!  And they gave him the name
     Of the "rebel high priest."  He stuck in their gorge,
     For he loved the Lord God—and he hated King George!
 
 
     He had cause, you might say!  When the Hessians that day
     Marched up with Knyphausen, they stopped on their way
     At the "farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms,
     Sat alone in the house.  How it happened none knew
     But God—and that one of the hireling crew
     Who fired the shot!  Enough!—there she lay,
     And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away!
 
 
     Did he preach—did he pray?  Think of him as you stand
     By the old church to-day,—think of him and his band
     Of militant ploughboys!  See the smoke and the heat
     Of that reckless advance, of that straggling retreat!
     Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view—
     And what could you, what should you, what would YOU do?
 
 
     Why, just what HE did!  They were left in the lurch
     For the want of more wadding.  He ran to the church,
     Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the road
     With his arms full of hymn-books, and threw down his load
     At their feet!  Then above all the shouting and shots
     Rang his voice: "Put Watts into 'em!  Boys, give 'em Watts!"
 
 
     And they did.  That is all.  Grasses spring, flowers blow,
     Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.
     You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball—
     But not always a hero like this—and that's all.
 

POEM

DELIVERED ON THE FOURTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF CALIFORNIA'S ADMISSION INTO THE UNION, SEPTEMBER 9, 1864

 
     We meet in peace, though from our native East
     The sun that sparkles on our birthday feast
     Glanced as he rose on fields whose dews were red
     With darker tints than those Aurora spread.
     Though shorn his rays, his welcome disk concealed
     In the dim smoke that veiled each battlefield,
     Still striving upward, in meridian pride,
     He climbed the walls that East and West divide,—
     Saw his bright face flashed back from golden sand,
     And sapphire seas that lave the Western land.
 
 
     Strange was the contrast that such scenes disclose
     From his high vantage o'er eternal snows;
     There War's alarm the brazen trumpet rings—
     Here his love-song the mailed cicala sings;
     There bayonets glitter through the forest glades—
     Here yellow cornfields stack their peaceful blades;
     There the deep trench where Valor finds a grave—
     Here the long ditch that curbs the peaceful wave;
     There the bold sapper with his lighted train—
     Here the dark tunnel and its stores of gain;
     Here the full harvest and the wain's advance—
     There the Grim Reaper and the ambulance.
 
 
     With scenes so adverse, what mysterious bond
     Links our fair fortunes to the shores beyond?
     Why come we here—last of a scattered fold—
     To pour new metal in the broken mould?
     To yield our tribute, stamped with Caesar's face,
     To Caesar, stricken in the market-place?
 
 
     Ah! love of country is the secret tie
     That joins these contrasts 'neath one arching sky;
     Though brighter paths our peaceful steps explore,
     We meet together at the Nation's door.
     War winds her horn, and giant cliffs go down
     Like the high walls that girt the sacred town,
     And bares the pathway to her throbbing heart,
     From clustered village and from crowded mart.
 
 
     Part of God's providence it was to found
     A Nation's bulwark on this chosen ground;
     Not Jesuit's zeal nor pioneer's unrest
     Planted these pickets in the distant West,
     But He who first the Nation's fate forecast
     Placed here His fountains sealed for ages past,
     Rock-ribbed and guarded till the coming time
     Should fit the people for their work sublime;
     When a new Moses with his rod of steel
     Smote the tall cliffs with one wide-ringing peal,
     And the old miracle in record told
     To the new Nation was revealed in gold.
 
 
     Judge not too idly that our toils are mean,
     Though no new levies marshal on our green;
     Nor deem too rashly that our gains are small,
     Weighed with the prizes for which heroes fall.
     See, where thick vapor wreathes the battle-line;
     There Mercy follows with her oil and wine;
     Or where brown Labor with its peaceful charm
     Stiffens the sinews of the Nation's arm.
     What nerves its hands to strike a deadlier blow
     And hurl its legions on the rebel foe?
     Lo! for each town new rising o'er our State
     See the foe's hamlet waste and desolate,
     While each new factory lifts its chimney tall,
     Like a fresh mortar trained on Richmond's wall.
 
 
     For this, O brothers, swings the fruitful vine,
     Spread our broad pastures with their countless kine:
     For this o'erhead the arching vault springs clear,
     Sunlit and cloudless for one half the year;
     For this no snowflake, e'er so lightly pressed,
     Chills the warm impulse of our mother's breast.
     Quick to reply, from meadows brown and sere,
     She thrills responsive to Spring's earliest tear;
     Breaks into blossom, flings her loveliest rose
     Ere the white crocus mounts Atlantic snows;
     And the example of her liberal creed
     Teaches the lesson that to-day we heed.
 
 
     Thus ours the lot with peaceful, generous hand
     To spread our bounty o'er the suffering land;
     As the deep cleft in Mariposa's wall
     Hurls a vast river splintering in its fall,—
     Though the rapt soul who stands in awe below
     Sees but the arching of the promised bow,
     Lo! the far streamlet drinks its dews unseen,
     And the whole valley wakes a brighter green.
 

MISS BLANCHE SAYS

 
     And you are the poet, and so you want
       Something—what is it?—a theme, a fancy?
     Something or other the Muse won't grant
       To your old poetical necromancy;
     Why, one half you poets—you can't deny—
       Don't know the Muse when you chance to meet her,
     But sit in your attics and mope and sigh
     For a faineant goddess to drop from the sky,
     When flesh and blood may be standing by
       Quite at your service, should you but greet her.
 
 
     What if I told you my own romance?
       Women are poets, if you so take them,
     One third poet,—the rest what chance
       Of man and marriage may choose to make them.
     Give me ten minutes before you go,—
       Here at the window we'll sit together,
     Watching the currents that ebb and flow;
     Watching the world as it drifts below
     Up the hot Avenue's dusty glow:
       Isn't it pleasant, this bright June weather?
 
 
     Well, it was after the war broke out,
       And I was a schoolgirl fresh from Paris;
     Papa had contracts, and roamed about,
       And I—did nothing—for I was an heiress.
     Picked some lint, now I think; perhaps
       Knitted some stockings—a dozen nearly:
     Havelocks made for the soldiers' caps;
     Stood at fair-tables and peddled traps
     Quite at a profit.  The "shoulder-straps"
       Thought I was pretty.  Ah, thank you! really?
 
 
     Still it was stupid.  Rata-tat-tat!
       Those were the sounds of that battle summer,
     Till the earth seemed a parchment round and flat,
       And every footfall the tap of a drummer;
     And day by day down the Avenue went
       Cavalry, infantry, all together,
     Till my pitying angel one day sent
     My fate in the shape of a regiment,
     That halted, just as the day was spent,
       Here at our door in the bright June weather.
 
 
     None of your dandy warriors they,—
       Men from the West, but where I know not;
     Haggard and travel-stained, worn and gray,
       With never a ribbon or lace or bow-knot:
     And I opened the window, and, leaning there,
       I felt in their presence the free winds blowing.
     My neck and shoulders and arms were bare,—
     I did not dream they might think me fair,
     But I had some flowers that night in my hair,
       And here, on my bosom, a red rose glowing.
 
 
     And I looked from the window along the line,
       Dusty and dirty and grim and solemn,
     Till an eye like a bayonet flash met mine,
       And a dark face shone from the darkening column,
     And a quick flame leaped to my eyes and hair,
       Till cheeks and shoulders burned all together,
     And the next I found myself standing there
     With my eyelids wet and my cheeks less fair,
     And the rose from my bosom tossed high in air,
       Like a blood-drop falling on plume and feather.
 
 
     Then I drew back quickly: there came a cheer,
       A rush of figures, a noise and tussle,
     And then it was over, and high and clear
       My red rose bloomed on his gun's black muzzle.
     Then far in the darkness a sharp voice cried,
       And slowly and steadily, all together,
     Shoulder to shoulder and side to side,
     Rising and falling and swaying wide,
     But bearing above them the rose, my pride,
       They marched away in the twilight weather.
 
 
     And I leaned from my window and watched my rose
       Tossed on the waves of the surging column,
     Warmed from above in the sunset glows,
       Borne from below by an impulse solemn.
     Then I shut the window.  I heard no more
       Of my soldier friend, nor my flower neither,
     But lived my life as I did before.
     I did not go as a nurse to the war,—
     Sick folks to me are a dreadful bore,—
       So I didn't go to the hospital either.
 
 
     You smile, O poet, and what do you?
       You lean from your window, and watch life's column
     Trampling and struggling through dust and dew,
       Filled with its purposes grave and solemn;
     And an act, a gesture, a face—who knows?—
       Touches your fancy to thrill and haunt you,
     And you pluck from your bosom the verse that grows
     And down it flies like my red, red rose,
     And you sit and dream as away it goes,
       And think that your duty is done,—now don't you?
 
 
     I know your answer.  I'm not yet through.
       Look at this photograph,—"In the Trenches"!
     That dead man in the coat of blue
       Holds a withered rose in his hand.  That clenches
     Nothing!—except that the sun paints true,
       And a woman is sometimes prophetic-minded.
     And that's my romance.  And, poet, you
     Take it and mould it to suit your view;
     And who knows but you may find it too
       Come to your heart once more, as mine did.