THE PORTSMOUTH MEMORIAL POEM. HOW IT FELL CALM ON SUMMER NIGHT. My Lady's rest was calm and deep: She had been gazing at the moon; And thus it chanced she fell asleep One balmy night in June. Freebooter winds stole richest smells From roses bursting in the gloom, And rifled half-blown daffodils, And lilies of perfume. These dainty robbers of the South Found "beauty" sunk in deep repose, And seized upon her crimson mouth, Thinking her lips a rose. The wooing winds made love full fast— To rouse her up in vain they tried— They kist and kist her, till, at last, In ecstasy they died. A FRIEND OF MINE. We sat beneath tall waving trees that flung Their heavy shadows o'er the dewy grass. Over the waters, breaking at our feet, Quivered the moon, and lighted solemnly The scene before us. He with whom I talked Was in the noble vigor of his youth: Tall, much beyond the standard, and well knit, With a dark, Norman face, from which the breeze Flung back his locks of ebon darkness which In rare luxuriance fell around his brow, That, in its massive beauty, brought me up Pictures by ancient masters; or the sharp And perfect features carved by Grecian hands, In days when Gods, in forms worthy of Gods, Started from marble to bewitch the world— A brow so beautiful was his, that one Might well conceive it always bound with dreams; His eyes were luminous and full of gleams, That made me think of waves wherein I've seen The moon-hued lightning breaking in the dark With sudden flashes of phosphoric light: His cheeks were bronze, his firm lips scarlet-hued. The Roman's valor, the Assyrian's love Of ease and pomp sat on his crimson lips, Uneasy rulers on the self-same throne, Spoiling the empire of the soul within: Such was his face. * * * * * His thoughts went forth like emperors, and all His words arrayed themselves around them like Imperial guards. * * * * * Opinions which I had been taught to hold As full of pith and gravity, he took As 'twere, 'twixt thumb and finger of his wit— Rubbed off their gloss, until they seemed to me, All, as he said, varnished hypocrisies. * * * * * Most wise for one so young! and strangely read In books of quaint philosophy—although His mind's strange alchemy could find some Rich thought hidden in the basest thing, Which he transmuted into golden words, So that in hearing him I often thought Upon the story of that Saint whose mouth Was radiant with the angel's blessed touch, Which gave him superhuman eloquence; And though he was thus gifted, yet—ah me! * * * * * Still earnest with my theme, I bade him think Of Auerbach's cellar, and that wassail night Whole centuries ago: and then in phrase, Better than that which cometh to me now I likened it—the necromancy which Drew richest vintage from the rugged boards— Unto the spell wherewith he'd bound himself— The spell by which he drew from simplest things Conceptions beautiful, as Faust drew wine From the rude table; for this friend of mine Was a true poet, though he seldom wrote: The wealth which might have royally endowed Some noble charity for coming time Was idly wasted—pearls dissolved in wine— * * * * * Still on my theme I hung and pointed out, Full eagerly, how Mephistopheles Ordered the gimlet wherewith it was drawn: * * * * * But he who went his way that summer night, Beneath the shadow of those stately trees Comes back to me—to earth—ah! nevermore. * * * * * He fell obscurely in the common ranks— His keen sword rusted in its splendid sheath. God pardon him his faults! for faults he had; But oh! so blent with goodness, that the while The lip of every theory of his Curved with a sneer, each action smiled With Christian charity. Like Manfred he had summoned to his aid Forbidden ministers—but unlike his— Of the earth, earthy, which did slowly clutch Upon his lofty faculties until They summoned him from the lone tow'r of thought And false philosophy wherein he dwelt. God pardon him! Amen. INDOLENCE. [5] * * * * * I turn aside; and, in the pause, might start As Mem'ry's elbow leans upon Time's Chart, Which shows, alas! how soon all men must glide Over meridians on life's ocean tide— Meridians showing how both youth and sage Are sailing northward to the zone of age: On to an atmosphere of gloom I wist, Where mariners are lost in melancholy mist. But gayer thoughts, like spring-tide swallows, dart Through youth's brave mind and animate its heart. * * * * * But Indolence is seen a pallid Ruth— A timid gleaner in the fields of youth— A wretched gath'rer of the scattered grain Left by the reapers who have swept the plain; But with no Boaz standing by the while, To watch its figure with approving smile. [Footnote 5: (From a Poem pronounced before the Phi Beta Kappa Society and graduating classes of William and Mary College, July 4th, 1858.)] THE JAMESTOWN ANNIVERSARY ODE. * * * * * In those vast forests dwelt a race of kings, Free as the eagle when he spreads his wings— His wings which never in their wild flight lag— In mists which fly the fierce tornado's flag; Their flight the eagle's! and their name, alas! The eagle's shadow swooping o'er the grass, Or, as it fades, it well may seem to be The shade of tempest driven o'er the sea. Fierce, too, this race, as mountain torrent wild, With haughty hearts, where Mercy rarely smiled— All their traditions—histories imbued With tales of war and sanguinary feud, Yet though they never couched the knightly lance, The glowing songs of Europe's old romance Can find their parallels amid the race, Which, on this spot, met England face to face. And when they met the white man, hand to hand, Twilight and sunrise stood upon the strand— Twilight and sunrise? Saxon sunshine gleams To-day o'er prairies and those distant streams, Which hurry onward through far Western plains, Where the last Indian, for a season, reigns. Here, the red CANUTE on this spot, sat down, His splendid forehead stormy with a frown, To quell, with the wild lightning of his glance The swift encroachment of the wave's advance; To meet and check the ruthless tide which rose, Crest after crest of energetic foes, While high and strong poured on each cruel wave, Until they left his royalty—a grave; But, o'er this wild, tumultuous deluge glows A vision fair as Heaven to saint e'er shows; A dove of mercy o'er the billows dark Fluttered awhile then fled within God's ark. Had I the power, I'd reverently describe That peerless maid—the "pearl of all her tribe," As evening fair, when coming night and day Contend together which shall wield its sway. But, here abashed, my paltry fancy stays; For her, too humble its most stately lays. A shade of twilight's softest, sweetest gloom— The dusk of morning—found a splendid tomb In England's glare; so strange, so vast, so bright, The dusk of morning burst in splendid light, Which falleth through the Past's cathedral aisles, Till sculptured Mercy like a seraph smiles. And though Fame's grand and consecrated fane No kingly statue may, in time, retain, Her name shall linger, nor with age grow faint; Its simple sound—the image of a saint. Sad is the story of that maiden's race, Long driven from each legendary place. All their expansive hunting-grounds are now Torn by the iron of the Saxon's plough, Which turns up skulls and arrow-heads and bones— Their places nameless and unmarked by stones. Now freighted vessels toil along the view, Where once was seen the Indian's bark canoe; And to the woods the shrill escaping steam Proclaims our triumph in discordant scream. Where rose the wigwam in its sylvan shade, Where the bold hunter in his freedom strayed, And met his foe or chased the bounding stag, The lazy horses at the harrow lag. Where the rude dance was held or war-song rose, The scene is one of plenty and repose. The quiver of her race is empty now, Its bow lies broken underneath the plough; And where the wheat-fields ripple in the gale, The vanished hunter scarcely leaves a trail. 'Twas where yon river musically flows, The European's nomenclature rose; A keen-edged axe, which since, alas! has swept Away their names—those boughs, which blossoms kept, Leaving so few, that when their story's drowned, 'Twill sink, alas! with no fair garland crowned. What strange vicissitudes and perils fell On the first settlers 'tis not mine to tell; I scarce may pause to syllable the name Which the great Captain left behind to fame; A name which echoes through the tented past Like sound of charge rung in a bugle's blast. His age, although it still put faith in stars, No longer glanced through feudal helmet's bars, But stood in its half armor; thus stands he An image half of antique chivalry, And half presented to our eager eyes, The brilliant type of modern enterprise. A knightly blade, without one spot of rust, Undimmed by time and undefaced by dust, His name hangs up in that past age's hall, Where many hang, the brightest of them all. AN ELEGIAC ODE.[6] * * * * * He chastens us as nations and as men, He smites us sore until our pride doth yield, And hence our heroes, each with hearts for ten, Were vanquished in the field; And stand to-day beneath our Southern sun O'erthrown in battle and despoiled of hope, Their drums all silent and their cause undone, And they all left to grope In darkness till God's own appointed time In His own manner passeth fully by. Our Penance this. His Parable sublime Means we must learn to die. Not as our soldiers died beneath their flags, Not as in tumult and in blood they fell, When from their columns, clad in homely rags, Rose the Confederate yell. Not as they died, though never mortal men Since Tubal Cain first forged his cruel blade Fought as they fought, nor ever shall agen Such Leader be obeyed! No, not as died our knightly, soldier dead, Though they, I trust, have found above surcease For all life's troubles, but on Christian bed Should we depart in peace, Falling asleep like those whose gentle deeds Are governed through time's passions and its strife, So justly that we might erect new creeds From each well ordered life, Whose saintly lessons are so framed that we May learn that pain is but a text sublime, Teaching us how to learn at Sorrow's knee To value things of time. Thus thinking o'er life's promise-breaking dreams, Its lights and shadows made of hopes and fears, I say that Death is kinder than he seems, And not the King of Tears. [Footnote: 6: It may not be out of place to state that this ode was written at the express and urgent request of the ladies of Warren county, North Carolina, and recited by the author, August 8th, 1866, on the occasion of the completion of the monument, erected by the ladies of Warren county, over the ashes of Miss Annie Carter Lee, who was the daughter of General Robert E. Lee and Mary Custis Lee; born at Arlington, Va., June 18th, 1839, and died at the White Sulphur Springs, Warren county, North Carolina, October 20th, 1862. The monument was unveiled in the presence of a great concourse of people, and with Major-Generals G.W.C. Lee and W.H.F. Lee, in attendance, as representatives of their family.] THE CADETS AT NEW MARKET.[7] * * * * * Their sleep is made glorious, And dead they're victorious Over defeat! Never Lethean billows Shall roll o'er their pillows, Red with the feet Of Mars from the wine press So bitterly sweet! Sleeping, but glorious, Dead in Fame's portal, Dead, but victorious, Dead, but immortal! They gave us great glory, What more could they give? They have left us a story, A story to live— And blaze on the brows of the State like a crown, While from these grand mountains the rivers run down, While grass grows in graveyards, or the Ocean's deep calls, Their deeds and their glory shall fresco these walls. [Footnote 7: Delivered at Virginia Military Institute, 1870.] OUR HEROIC DEAD. I. A King once said of a Prince struck down, "Taller he seems in death." And this speech holds truth, for now as then 'Tis after death that we measure men, And as mists of the past are rolled away Our heroes, who died in their tattered grey, Grow "taller" and greater in all their parts Till they fill our minds as they fill our hearts. And for those who lament them there's this relief— That Glory sits by the side of Grief, Yes, they grow "taller" as the years pass by And the World learns how they could do and die. II. A Nation respects them. The East and West, The far-off slope of the Golden Coast, The stricken South and the North agree That the heroes who died for you and me— Each valiant man, in his own degree, Whether he fell on the shore or sea, Did deeds of which This Land, though rich In histories may boast, And the Sage's Book and the Poet's Lay Are full of the deeds of the Men in Grey. III. No lion cleft from the rock is ours, Such as Lucerne displays, Our only wealth is in tears and flowers, And words of reverent praise. And the Roses brought to this silent Yard Are Red and White. Behold! They tell how wars for a kingly crown, In the blood of England's best writ down, Left Britain a story whose moral old Is fit to be graven in text of gold: The moral is, that when battles cease The ramparts smile in the blooms of peace. And flowers to-day were hither brought From the gallant men who against us fought; York and Lancaster!—Grey and Blue! Each to itself and the other true— And so I say Our Men in Grey Have left to the South and North a tale Which none of the glories of Earth can pale. IV. Norfolk has names in the sleeping host Which fill us with mournful pride— Taylor and Newton, we well may boast, McPhail, and Walke, and Selden, too, Brave as the bravest, as truest true! And Grandy struck down ere his May became June, A battle-flag folded away too soon, And Williams, than whom not a man stood higher, 'Mid the host of heroes baptized in fire. And Mallory, whose sires aforetime died, When Freedom and Danger stood side by side. McIntosh, too, with his boarders slain, Saunders and Jackson, the unripe grain, And Taliaferro, stately as knight of old, A blade of steel with a sheath of gold. And Wright, who fell on the Crater's red sod, Giving life to the Cause, his soul to GOD. And there is another, whose portrait at length Should blend graces of Sidney with great Raleigh's strength. Ah, John Randolph Tucker![8] To match me this name You must climb to the top of the Temple of Fame! These are random shots o'er the men at rest, But each rings out on a warrior's crest. Yes, names like bayonet points, when massed, Blaze out as we gaze on the splendid past. V. That past is now like an Arctic Sea Where the living currents have ceased to run, But over that past the fame of Lee Shines out as the "Midnight Sun:" And that glorious Orb, in its march sublime, Shall gild our graves till the end of time! [Footnote 8: That splendid seaman, Admiral Tucker.] MAHONE'S BRIGADE.[9] A METRICAL ADDRESS. "In pace decus, in bello praesidium."— Tacitus . I. Your arms are stacked, your splendid colors furled, Your drums are still, aside your trumpets laid, But your dumb muskets once spoke to the world— And the world listened to Mahone's Brigade. Like waving plume upon Bellona's crest, Or comet in red majesty arrayed, Or Persia's flame transported to the West, Shall shine the glory of Mahone's Brigade. Not once, in all those years so dark and grim, Your columns from the path of duty strayed; No craven act made your escutcheon dim— 'Twas burnished with your blood, Mahone's Brigade. Not once on post, on march, in camp, or field, Was your brave leader's trust in you betrayed, And never yet has old Virginia's shield Suffered dishonor through Mahone's Brigade. Who has forgotten at the deadly Mine, How our great Captain of great Captains bade Your General to retake the captured line? How it was done, you know, Mahone's Brigade. Who has forgotten how th' undying dead, And you, yourselves, won that for which Lee prayed? Who has forgotten how th' Immortal said: That "heroes" swept that field, Mahone's Brigade? From the far right, beneath the "stars and bars," You marched amain to Bushrod Johnson's aid, And when you charged—an arrow shot by Mars Went forward in your rush, Mahone's Brigade. In front stood death. Such task as yours before By mortal man has rarely been essayed, There you defeated Burnside's boasted corps, And did an army's work, Mahone's Brigade. And those who led you, field, or line, or staff, Showed they were fit for more than mere parade; Their motto: "Victory or an epitaph," And well they did their part, Mahone's Brigade. II. Were mine the gift to coin my heart of hearts In living words, fit tribute should be paid To all the heroes whose enacted parts Gave fame immortal to Mahone's Brigade. But he who bore the musket is the man Whose figure should for future time be made— Cleft from a rock by some new Thorwaldsen— The Private Soldier of Mahone's Brigade. His was that sense of duty only felt By souls heroic. In the modest shade He lived, or fell; but his, Fame's Starry Belt— His, Fame's own Galaxy, Mahone's Brigade. And in that Belt—all luminous with stars, Unnamed and woven in a wondrous braid— A blaze of glory in the sky of Mars— Your orbs are thickly set, Mahone's Brigade. The Private Soldier is the man who comes From mart, or plain, or grange, or sylvan glade, To answer calls of trumpets and of drums— So came the Soldier of Mahone's Brigade. His messmate, hunger; comrades, heat and cold; His decorations, death or wounds, conveyed To the brave patriot in ways manifold— But yet he flinched not in Mahone's Brigade. When needing bread, Fate gave him but a stone; Ragged, he answered when the trumpet brayed; Barefoot he marched, or died without a groan; True to his battle-flag, Mahone's Brigade. Could some Supreme Intelligence proclaim, Arise from all the pomp of rank and grade, War's truest heroes, oft we'd hear some name, Unmentioned by the world, Mahone's Brigade. And yet they have a name, enriched with thanks And tears and homage—which shall never fade— Their name is simply this: Men of the Ranks— The Knights without their spurs—Mahone's Brigade. And though unbelted and without their spurs, To them is due Fame's splendid accolade; And theirs the story which to-day still stirs The pulses of your heart, Mahone's Brigade. Men of the Ranks, step proudly to the front, 'Twas yours unknown through sheeted flame to wade, In the red battle's fierce and deadly brunt; Yours be full laurels in Mahone's Brigade. III. For those who fell be yours the sacred trust To see forgetfulness, shall not invade The spots made holy by their noble dust; Green keep them in your hearts, Mahone's Brigade. Oh, keep them green with patriotic tears! Forget not, now war's fever is allayed, Those valiant men, who, in the vanished years, Kept step with you in ranks, Mahone's Brigade. Each circling year, in the sweet month of May, Your countrywomen—matron and fair maid— Still pay their tribute to the Soldier's clay, And strew his grave with flow'rs, Mahone's Brigade. Join in the task, with retrospective eye; Men's mem'ries should not perish 'neath the spade; Pay homage to the dead, whose dying cry Was for the Commonwealth, Mahone's Brigade. Raise up, O State! a shaft to pierce the sky, To him, the Private, who was but afraid To fail in his full duty—not to die; And on its base engrave, "Mahone's Brigade." IV. Now that the work of blood and tears is done, Whether of stern assault, or sudden raid, Yours is a record second yet to none— None takes your right in line, Mahone's Brigade. Now that we've lost, as was fore-doomed, the day— Now that the good by ill has been outweighed— Let us plant olives on the rugged way, Once proudly trodden by Mahone's Brigade. And when some far-stretchen future folds the past, To us so recent, in its purple shade, High up, as if on some "tall Admiral's mast," Shall fly your battle-flags, Mahone's Brigade. V. Each battle-flag shall float abroad and fling A radiance round, as from a new-lit star; Or light the air about, as when a King Flashes in armor in his royal car; And Fame's own vestibule I see inlaid With their proud images, Mahone's Brigade. Your battle-flags shall fly throughout all time, By History's self exultingly unfurled; And stately prose, and loud-resounding rhyme, Nobler than mine, shall tell to all the world How dauntless moved, and how all undismayed, Through good and ill stood Mahone's Brigade. O glorious flags! No victory could stain Your tattered folds with one unworthy deed, O glorious flags! No country shall again Fly nobler symbols in its hour of need. Success stained not, nor could defeat degrade; Spotless they float to-day, Mahone's Brigade. Immortal flags, upon Time's breezes flung, Seen by the mind in forests, or in marts, Cherished in visions, praised from tongue to tongue, Wrapped in the very fibres of your hearts, And gazing on them, none may dare upbraid Your Leader, or your men, Mahone's Brigade. VI. That splendid Leader's name is yours, and he Flesh of your flesh, himself bone of your bone, His simple name maketh a history, Which stands, itself grand, glorious and alone, Or, 'tis a trophy, splendidly arrayed, With all your battle-flags, Mahone's Brigade. His name itself a history? Yes, and none May halt me here. In war and peace It challenges the full rays of the sun; And when the passions of our day shall cease, 'Twill stand undying, for all time displayed, Itself a battle-flag, Mahone's Brigade. He rose successor of that mighty man Who was the "right arm" [10] of immortal Lee; Whose genius put defeat beneath a ban; Who swept the field as tempest sweeps the sea; Who fought full hard, and yet full harder prayed. You knew that man full well, Mahone's Brigade. And here that great man's shadow claims a place; Within my mind I see his image rise, With Cromwell's will and Havelock's Christian grace; As daring as the Swede, as Frederick wise; Swift as Napoleon ere his hopes decayed; You knew the hero well, Mahone's Brigade. And when he fell his fall shook all the land, As falling oak shakes mountain side and glen; But soon men saw his good sword in the hand Of one, himself born leader among men,— Of him who led you through the fusilade, The storm of shot and shell, Mahone's Brigade. Immortal Lee, who triumphed o'er despair, Greater than all the heroes I have named. Whose life has made a Westminster where'er His name is spoken; he, so wise and famed, Gave Jackson's duties unto him whose blade Was lightning to your storms, Mahone's Brigade. Ere Jackson fell Mahone shone day by day, A burnished lance amid that crop of spears,— None rose above him in that grand array; And Lee, who stood Last of the Cavaliers, Knew he had found of War's stupendous trade, A Master at your head, Mahone's Brigade. O Countrymen! I see the coming days When he, above all hinderances and lets Shall stand in Epic form, lit by the rays Of Fame's eternal sun that never sets, The first great chapter of his life is made, And spoken in two words—"Mahone's Brigade." O Countrymen! I see historic brass Leap from the furnace in a blazing tide; I see it through strange transformations pass Into a form of energy and pride; Beneath our Capitol's majestic shade In bronze I see Mahone—Mahone's Brigade. O Countrymen! When dust has gone to dust. Still shall he live in story and in rhyme; Then History's self shall multiply his bust, And he defy the silent Conqueror, Time. My song is sung: My prophecy is made— The State will make it good, Mahone's Brigade. [Footnote 9: Recited at Norfolk Opera House, July 30, 1876, the twelfth anniversary of the Battle of the Crater, and second reunion of survivors of Mahone's old brigade.] [Footnote 10: Stonewall Jackson.] THE PORTSMOUTH MEMORIAL POEM. —THE FUTURE HISTORIAN. Oh the women of Old Portsmouth in their patience were sublime, As in working and in praying they abided GOD's own time! Marble saints in a stately Minster, in some land across the sea, In a flood of Winter moonlight were not half so pure to me! And your men in Grey were faithful! they were counted with the best! And where they fought no shadow fell on Old Virginia's crest. Rags in cold, bare feet in marches never turned your children back; In retreat they loved the rearguard, in advance they loved attack! Oh, my brothers! I see figures which all flit athwart my brain, Like the torches lit by lightning in some tempest-driven rain, And above the rushing vision, in my soul I hear the cry: "Those who fell for Home and Duty left us names that cannot die!" First, before the sleeping warriors, comes a gentle woman's face, Every mark Time made upon it seemed to add a Christian grace. Sister of the soldier's widow, mother of his orphan child, To us she seemed, indeed, as one on whom her GOD had smiled, Passed from our sight, sustained by CHRIST, she went upon her way, And be you sure, as I am, that her soul is here to-day! Other names now blaze upon me, and they shine out one by one As the rays dart out a glitter from a shield hung in the sun. Fiske, and White, and brave Vermillion, fell on Malvern's deadly slope, When the cause that they defended was a-glow with life and hope. Gallant Butt, and two Neimeyers you may boast in mood of pride, Types were they of valiant soldiers, and like soldiers true they died! And Grimes, at bloody Sharpsburg, went down prone upon the field, And Hodges, under Pickett, took his last sleep on his shield. And Cowley, and Forrest, and Wilson, and Cocke on your Window still blaze, And their names enrich its blazon in the evening's golden haze. Dunderdale, and Beaton, and Bennett, and Bingley, and Armistead, and Gayle, And Williams, the brave Color Sergeant, and Owens are men to bewail. Last, not least, there comes the Seaman, valiant Cooke, my cherished friend, Who was faithful to Virginia from beginning to the end; Had the theatre been given he had played a Nelson's part, Or in Anson's place had written his prodigious log and chart. Carolina—may GOD bless her!—gave that true man to the State, With a heart for any fortune and a soul for any fate. Seaman of the blue salt water! On our narrow streams you taught, Highest lessons of devotion in the battles that you fought. Other names crowd fast upon me as stars thicken on the view, When the night comes down upon us, but I fix my gaze on two— As the "midland oak" of England is chief tree of all her trees— As the peak of Teneriffa is chief peak of all the seas— So our mighty Lee and Stonewall—greater names no era boasts— Shall exalt their Shades forever o'er the grand Confederate Hosts! 'Twas not glory that they fought for through those weary years of pain Though the glory fell upon them as it ne'er may fall again. That sentiment inspired them which lifts men to make them great, Love of hearthstone, friends, and neighbors, and devotion to the State. Not as rebels but as warriors they sent forth their famous cry— Not as traitors but as freemen they went forth to do or die! Then give the dead your tears, oh, friends, upon this day of days, And let a solemn joy resound in all your words of praise! For honor still has claims on man, and duty still can call Above the sordid cares of life, the market and the stall. Yes, honor still has claims on man! Thank GOD that this is so! And there are heights of life where still all spotless lies the snow. Oh, better than lands and vast estates, or titles high and long The spirit of those whose deeds are fit to consecrate in Song! When Regulus to Carthage went, and went back to keep his word, His great action preached a homily which all mankind has heard. It gave to the sacred cause of truth an impulse which still lives, And left the world the moral which a grand example gives. Here, within a nutshell's compass, the high argument appears Which the man who dies for duty in his dying moment cheers, And 'tis thus the Human Epic, acted out by all below, Takes a fuller pulse and cadence in its long-resounding flow. In the future some historian shall come forth both strong and wise, With a love of the Republic, and the truth, before his eyes. He will show the subtle causes of the war between the States, He will go back in his studies far beyond our modern dates, He will trace out hostile ideas as the miner does the lodes, He will show the different habits born of different social codes, He will show the Union riven, and the picture will deplore, He will show it re-united and made stronger than before. Slow and patient, fair and truthful must the coming teacher be To show how the knife was sharpened that was ground to prune the tree. He will hold the Scales of Justice, he will measure praise and blame, And the South will stand the verdict, and will stand it without shame. [Illustration: MONUMENT AT YORKTOWN, VIRGINIA.] ARMS AND THE MAN. A Metrical Address recited on the one hundredth anniversary of the surrender of Lord Cornwallis at Yorktown on invitation of a joint committee of the Senate and House of the United States Congress. PROLOGUE. Full-burnished through the long-revolving years The ploughshare of a Century to-day Runs peaceful furrows where a crop of Spears Once stood in War's array. And we, like those who on the Trojan plain See hoary secrets wrenched from upturned sods;— Who, in their fancy, hear resound again The battle-cry of gods;— We now,—this splendid scene before us spread Where Freedom's full hexameter began— Restore our Epic, which the Nations read As far its thunders ran. Here visions throng on People and on Bard, Ranks all a-glitter in battalions massed And closed around as like a plumed guard, They lead us down the Past. I see great Shapes in vague confusion march Like giant shadows, moving vast and slow, Beneath some torch-lit temple's mighty arch Where long processions go. I see these Shapes before me, all unfold, But ne'er can fix them on the lofty wall, Nor tell them, save as she of Endor told What she beheld to Saul. THE DEAD STATESMAN. I see his Shape who should have led these ranks— GARFIELD I see whose presence had evoked The stormy rapture of a Nation's thanks— His chariot stands unyoked! Unyoked and empty, and the Charioteer To Fame's expanded arms has headlong rushed Ending the glories of a grand career, While all the world stood hushed. The thunder of his wheels is done, but he Sustained by patience, fortitude, and grace— A Christian Hero—from the struggle free— Has won the Christian's race! His wheel-tracks stop not in the Valley cold But upward lead, and on, and up, and higher, Till Hope can realize and Faith behold His chariot mount in fire! Therefore, my Countrymen, lift up your hearts! Therefore, my Countrymen, be not cast down! He lives with those who well have done their parts, And God bestowed his crown! And yet another form to-day I miss;— Grigsby the scholar, good, and pure, and wise, Who now, perchance, from scenes of perfect bliss Looks down with tender eyes. Where his great friend, through life great Winthrop stands, Winthrop, whose gift, in life's departing hours, Went to the dying Old Virginian's hands Who died amid those flowers.[11] Prayers change to blooms, the ancient Rabbins taught; So his, then, seemed to blossom forth and glow, As if his supplicating soul had brought Sandalphon down below. But, happily, that Winthrop stood to-day, The patriot, scholar, orator, and sage, To tell the meaning of this grand array And vindicate an Age. That Era's life and meaning his to teach, To him the parchments, but the shell to me, His voice the voice of billows on the beach Wherein we heard the sea. My voice the voice of some sequestered stream Which only boasts, as on its waters glide, That, here and there, it shows a broken gleam Of pictures on its tide. II. THE COLONIES. The fountain of our story spreads no clouds Of mist above it rich in varied glows, None paint us Gods and Goddesses in crowds Where some Scamander flows. The tale of Jamestown, which I need not gild, With that of Plymouth, by the World is seen, But none, in visions, fancifully build Olympus in between. At Jamestown stood the Saxon's home and graves, There Britain's spray broke on the native rock, There rose the English tide with crested waves And overwhelming shock. Virginia thence, stirred by a grand unrest, Swept o'er the waters, scaled the mountain's crag, Hewed out a more than Roman roadway West, And planted there her flag. Her fortune was forewritten even then— That fortune in the coming years to be "Mother of States and unpolluted men," And nurse of Liberty. Then 'twas our coast all bore Virginia's name; Next North Virginia took its separate place, And grew by slow degrees in wealth and fame And Freedom's special grace. [Footnote 11: Hugh Blair Grigsby, L.L.D., Chancellor of William and Mary College, and President of the Virginia Historical Society, Scholar and Historian, died on the day on which he received a gift of flowers from his life-long friend, Mr. Winthrop, and these literally gladdened the dying eyes of the noble gentleman whose loss will long be deplored by all who knew him, whether they live in Virginia or Massachusetts.] THE NEW ENGLAND GROUP. At Plymouth Rock a handful of brave souls, Full-armed in faith, erected home and shrine, And flourished where the wild Atlantic rolls Its pyramids of brine. There rose a manly race austere and strong, On whom no lessons of their day were lost, Earnest as some conventicle's deep song, And keen as their own frost. But that shrewd frost became a friend to those Who fronted there the Ice-King's bitter storm, For see we not that underneath the snows The growing wheat keeps warm? Soft ease and silken opulence they spurned; From sands of silver, and from emerald boughs With golden ingots laden full, they turned Like Pilgrims under vows. For them no tropic seas, no slumbrous calms, No rich abundance generously unrolled: In place of Cromwell's proffered flow'rs and palms They chose the long-drawn cold. The more it blew, the more they faced the gale; The more it snowed, the more they would not freeze; And when crops failed on sterile hill and vale— They went to reap the seas! Far North, through wild and stormy brine they ran, With hands a-cold plucked Winter by the locks! Masterful mastered great Leviathan And drove the foam as flocks! Next in their order came the Middle Group, Perchance less hardy, but as brave they grew,— Grew straight and tall with not a bend, or stoop— Heart-timber through and through! Midway between the ardent heat and cold They spread abroad, and by a homely spell, The iron of their axes changed to gold As fast the forests fell! Doing the things they found to do, we see That thus they drew a mighty empire's charts, And, working for the present, took in fee The future for their marts! And there unchallenged may the boast be made, Although they do not hold his sacred dust, That Penn, the Founder, never once betrayed The simple Indian's trust. To them the genius which linked Silver Lakes With the blue Ocean and the outer World, And the fair banner, which their commerce shakes, Wise Clinton's hand unfurled. THE SOUTHERN COLONIES. Then sweeping down below Virginia's Capes, From Chesapeake to where Savannah flows, We find the settlers laughing 'mid their grapes And ignorant of snows. The fragrant uppowock , and golden corn Spread far a-field by river and lagoon, And all the months poured out from Plenty's Horn Were opulent as June. Yet, they had tragedies all dark and fell! Lone Roanoke Island rises on the view, And this Peninsula its tale could tell Of Opecancanough! But, when the Ocean thunders on the shore Its waves, though broken, overflow the beach; So here our Fathers on and onward bore With English laws and speech. Kind skies above them, underfoot rich soils; Silence and Savage at their presence fled; This Giant's Causeway, sacred through their toils, Resounded at their tread. With ardent hearts, and ever-open hands, Candid and honest, brave and proud they grew, Their lives and habits colored by fair lands As skies give waters hue. The race in semi-Feudal State appears— Their Knightly figures glow in tender mist, With ghostly pennons flung from ghostly spears And ghostly hawks on wrist. By enterprise and high adventure stirred, From rude lunette and sentry-guarded croft They hawked at Empire, and, as on they spurred, Fate's falcon soared aloft! Fate's falcon soared aloft full strong and free, With blood on talons, plumage, beak, and breast! Her shadow like a storm-shade on the sea Far-sailing down the West! Swift hoofs clang out behind that Falcon's flights— Hoofs shod with Golden Horse Shoes catch the eye! And as they ring, we see the Forest-Knights— The Cavaliers ride by! THE OLD DOMINION. Midway between the orange and the snows As some fair planet rounds up from the sea, Eldest of all, the Central Power arose In vague immensity. She stretched from Seas in sun to Lakes in Shade, O'erstepped swift Rio Escondido's stream— Her bounds expressed, as by the Tudor made, An Alexander's dream. And liberal Stuart granted broad and free Bound'ries which still the annalist may boast— Limits which ran "throughout from sea to sea," And far along the coast! A mighty shaft through Raleigh's fingers slipped, Smith shot it, and—a Continent awoke! For that great arrow with an acorn tipped, Planted an English Oak! III. THE OAKS AND THE TEMPEST. Oaks multiplied apace, and o'er the seas Big rumors went in many a winding ring; And stories fabulous on every breeze Swept to a distant King. Full many a tale of wild romance, and myth, In large hyperbole the New World told, And down from days of Raleigh and of Smith The Colonies meant gold. Not from Banchoonan's mines came forth the ore, But from the waters, and the woods, and fields, Paid for in blood, but bringing more and more The wealth that labor yields. Then seeing this, that King beyond the sea, The jus divinum filling all his soul, Bethought him that he held these lands in fee And absolute control. When this high claim in action was displayed With one accord the young Plantations spoke, And told him, English-like, they were not made To plough with such a yoke. Thus met, not his to falter, or to flag, A sudden fury seized the Royal breast— Prometheus bound upon a Scythian crag His policy expressed. And, so, he ordered in those stormy hours His adamantine chains for one and all, Brute "Force" and soulless "Strength" the only Power On which he chose to call. Great men withstood him many a weary day; In Press and Parliament full well they strove: But all in vain, for he was bound to play A travesty on Jove! Then flamed the crater! And the flame took wing; Furious and far the lava blazed around, Until at last, on this same spot that King His Herculaneum found! Breed's Hill became Vesuvius, and its stream Rushed forth through years, a God-directed tide To light two Worlds and realize the dream For which brave Warren died. IV. THE EMBATTLED COLONIES. Before this thought the present hour recedes, As from the beach a billow backward rolls, And the great past, rich in heroic deeds Illuminates our souls! Stern Massachusetts Bay uplifts her form, Boston the tale of Lexington repeats, With breast unarmored she confronts the storm— New England England meets. I see the Middle Group by Fortune made The bloody Flanders of the Northern Coast, And, in a varying play of light and shade, Host thundering fall on host. I see the Carolinas, Georgia, mowed By War the Reaper, and grim Ruin stalk O'er wasted fields;—but Guilford paved the way That led to this same York. Here, too, Virginia in the vision comes— Full-bent to crown the battle's closing arch, Her pulses trumpets and her heart throbs drums, To animate her march. As Pocahontas, in a by-gone time, Leaped forth the wrath of Powhatan to brave, Virginia came, and here she stood sublime To perish, or to save. I see her interposing now her frame Between her sisters and the alien bands, And taking both of Freedom and of Fame Full seisin with her hands. V. WELCOME TO FRANCE. But, in that fiery zone She upriseth not alone, Over all the bloody fields Glitter Amazonian shields; While through the mists of years Another form appears, And as I bow my head Already you have said:— 'Tis France! Welcome to France! From sea to sea, With heart and hand! Welcome to all within the land— Thrice welcome let her be! And to France The Union here to-day Gives the right of this array, And folds her to her breast As the friend that she loves best. Yes to France. The proud Ruler of the West Bows her sun-illumined crest, Grave and slow, In a passion of fond memories of One hundred years ago! France's colors wave again High above this tented plain, Stream and flaunt, and blaze and shine, O'er the banner-painted brine, Float and flow! And the brazen trumpets blow While upon her serried lines, Full the light of Freedom shines In a broad, effulgent glow. And here this day I see The fairest dream that ever yet Was dreamt by History! As in cadence, and in time, To the martial throb and rhyme Of her bugles and her drums Forth a stately vision comes— Comes majestically slow— Comes a fair and stately vision of One hundred years ago! Welcome to France! From sea to sea, With heart and hand! Welcome to all within the land! Thrice welcome let her be! Of Freedom's Guild made free! Welcome! Thrice Welcome! Welcome let her be! And as in days of old Walter Raleigh did unfold His gay cloak, with all its hems Wrought in braided gold and gems, That his Queen might passing tread On the sumptuous cloth outspread, And step on the shining fold Or fair samnite rich in gold. So for France— Splendid, grand, majestic France!— May Fortune down her mantle throw To mend the way that she may go! May GLORY leap before to reap— Up to the shoulders turned her sleeves— And FAME behind follow to bind Unnumbered honors in unnumbered sheaves! And may that mantle forever be Under thy footfall, oh France the Free! Forever and forever! VI. THE ALLIES AT YORKTOWN. And here France came one hundred years ago! Red, russet, purple glowed upon the trees, And sunset glories deepened in their glow Along the painted seas. A wealth of color blazed on land and wave, Topaz and gold, and crimson met the eye— October hailed the ships which came to save With banners in the sky. DeBarras swept down from the Northern coast, DeGrasse, foam-driving, came with favoring breeze, And here surprised the proud, marauding host Like spectres of the seas. Then was no time for such a boastful strain As Campbell sang o'er Baltic's bloody tide, Nor did Britannia dominate the main In customary pride. France closed this river, and France ruled yon sea, Held all our waters in triumphant state, Her sails foretelling what was soon to be Like Ministers of Fate. And when the Union chants her proudest Lay DeGrasse is often on her tuneful lips, And his achievement challenges to-day Some Homer of the ships. So, when this spot its monument shall crown His name upon its base two Worlds shall see, With a fair wind his story shall sail down Through Ages yet to be, VII. THE RAVAGES OF WAR. This on the water: on the land a scene Whose Epic scope is far beyond my power, For on this spot a People's fate hath been Decided in an hour. Long was the conflict waged through weary years Counted from when the sturdy farmers fell: Hopes crucified, red trenches, bitter tears, Made Man another hell! See pallid women girt in woe and weeds! See little children gaunt for lack of food! Behold the catalogue of War's black deeds Where evil stands for good! See slaughtered cattle, never more to roam, Rot in the fields, while chimneys tall and bare Tell in dumb pathos how some quiet home Lit up the midnight air! See that burnt crop, yon choked-up sylvan well, This yeoman slain ye corven in the sun! My GOD! shreds of a woman's dress to tell Why murder there was done! Such things as these gave edge to all the blows Our fathers struck on this historic sod, Feet, hands, and faces turned toward their foes— Their valiant hearts to GOD. VIII. THE LINES AROUND YORKTOWN. Troops late by Williamsburg's brave palace walls, With trump and drum had marched down Glo'ster street, And some with throb of oars, and loud sea-calls Had landed from the fleet. And well our leader had befooled his foes— Left them like archers blundering in the dark To draw against the empty space their bows, While here was their true mark. Brave Lincoln on the right with kindling eye Smiles 'mid the cares of grave command immersed, To see dramatic retribution nigh And Charleston's fate reversed! The Light Troops stood upon the curved right flank, New Hampshire, Massachusetts Bay were there, Connecticut marched with them, rank on rank, And gallant Delaware. There, too, Virginia's sturdy yeomen stood, Led on by Nelson of the open hand, As thick and stubborn as a living wood In some enchanted land. Next came the steady Continental Line, Rhode Island, and New Jersey, breast to breast, Ready to tread the hot and smoking wine From War's red clusters pressed. New York and Pennsylvania on these plains Closed boldly in on the embattled town, Nor feared they threatened penalties and pains Of Parliament, or Crown. And Maryland, the gay and gallant came, As always ready for the battle's brunt; And here again Virginia faced the flame Along the deadly front. IX. THE FRENCH IN THE TRENCHES. And as the allied hosts advance All the left wing is given to France, Is given to France and—Fame! Yes, these together always ride The Dioscouroi of the tide Where War plays out the game! And that broad front 'tis her's to hold With hand of iron, heart of gold And helmet plumed with flame. Across the river broad she sends DeChoisy and Lauzun where ends The leaguer far and wide, While Weedon seconds as he may The gallant Frenchmen in array Upon the Gloucester side. As waves hurled on a stranded keel Make all the oaken timbers reel With many a pond'rous blow, So day by day, and night by night The French like billows foaming white Thunder against the foe. X. NELSON AND THE GUNNERS. O'er town, and works, and waves amain Far fell grim Ruin's furious rain, O'er parapet and mast, And riding on the thunder-swell Far flew the shot, far flew the shell Red Havoc on the blast! Then as the flashing cannon sowed Their iron crop brave Nelson rode, His bridle bit all foam, Up to the gunners, and said he: "Batter yon mansion down for me"— "Basement, and walls, and dome!" And better to sharpen those gunners' wits, "Five guineas," he cried, "for each shot that hits!"— That mansion was his home! XI. THE BELEAGUERED TOWN. Behind the town the sun sinks down Gilding the vane upon the spire, While many a wall reels to its fall Beneath the fell artillery fire. As sinks that sun mortar and gun Like living things leap grim and hot, And far and wide across the tide Spray-furrows show the flying shot. White smoke in clouds yon earthwork shrouds Where, steeped in battle to the lips, The French amain pour fiery rain On town, and walls, and English ships. That deadly sleet smites lines and fleet, As closes in the Autumn night, And Aboville from head to heel Thrills with the battle's wild delight. At every flash oak timbers crash— A sudden glare yon frigate dyes! Then flames up-gush, and roar, and rush, From deck to where her pennon flies! Those flames on high crimson the sky And paint their signals overhead, And every fold of smoke is rolled And woven in Plutonian red. All radiant now taffrail and prow, And hull, and cordage, beams and spars, Thus lit she sails on fiery gales To purple seas where float the stars. Ages ago just such a glow Woke Agamemnon's house to joy, Its red and gold to Argos told The long-expected fate of Troy. So, on these heights, that flame delights The Allies thundering at the wall, Forewrit they see the land set free And Albion's short-lived Ilium fall! Then as the Lilies turn to red Dipped in the battles' wine Another picture is outspread Where still the figures shine— The picture of a deadly fray Worthy the pencil of Vernet! XII. STORMING THE REDOUBTS. On the night air there floating comes, hoarse, war-like, low and deep, A sound as tho' the dreaming drums were talking in their sleep. "Fall in! Fall in!" The stormers form, in silence, stern and grim, Each heart full-beating out the time to Freedom's battle hymn.— "Charge! en Avant !"—The word goes forth and forth the stormers go, Each column like a mighty shaft shot from a mighty bow. And tumult rose upon the night like sound of roaring seas, Mars drank of the Horn of Ulphus and he drained it to the lees! Now by fair Freedom's splendid dreams! it was a gallant sight To see the blows against the foes well struck that Autumn night! Gimat, and Fish, and Hamilton, and Laurens pressed the foe, And Olney—brave Rhode Islander!—was there, alas! laid low. Viominil, and Noallies, and Damas, stout and brave, Broke o'er the English right redoubt a steel-encrested wave. St. Simon from his sick couch rose, wooed by the battle's charms, And like a knight of old romance went to the shock of arms. [But they who bore the muskets, who went charging thro' the flame, Deserve far more than ever will be given them by Fame— Then let us pour libations out!—full freely let them flow For the men who bore the muskets here a century ago!] And, then, the columns won the works, and then uprose the cheers That have lasted us and ours for a good one hundred years! And there were those amid the French filled with a rapture stern And long the cry resounded: "Live the Regiment of Auverne!" Long live the Gallic Army and long live splendid France, The Power that gives to History the beauty of Romance! Upon our right commanded one dearer by far than all, The hero who first came to us and came without a call; Whose name with that of his leader all histories entwine, The one as is the mighty oak, the other as the vine; The one the staff, the other the great banner on its lance— Now, need I name the dearest name of all the names of France? Oh, Marquis brave! Upon this shaft, deep-cut thy cherished name Twin Old Mortalities shall find—fond Gratitude and Fame! THE TWO LEADERS. Two chieftains watch the battle's tide and listen as it rolls And only HEAVEN above can tell the tumult of their souls! Cornwallis saw the British power struck down by one fell blow, A Gallic spearhead on the lance that laid the Lion low. But the Father of his Country saw the future all unrolled, Independence blazed before him written down in text of gold,