Chapter 3

There Valor fronts us with her storied shield, Brave in devices won on many a field; A splendid wreath snatched from the carnage grim Is twined around that buckler's burnished rim, And as we gaze, the brazen trumpets blare With shrill vibration shakes the frightened air-- The roll of musketry--the clash of steel-- The clang of hoofs as charging squadrons wheel-- The hoarse command--the imprecative cry-- Swell loud and long, while Fancy's eager eye Sees the stern van move on with crimson strides Where Freedom's warrior on his war-horse rides, Sees the great cannon flash out red and fast Through battle mists which canopy the past.

And solemn-fronted Truth with earnest eyes, Stands there serenely beautiful and wise; Her stately form in undisturbed repose, Rests by her well, where limpid crystal flows While on her face, which can severely frown, A smile is breaking as she gazes down; For clearly marked upon that tranquil wave Slumbers his image in a picture brave, And leaning on the fountain's coping stone, She scarce can tell his shadow from her own.

And Wisdom, with her meditative gaze, Beside its base her mighty chart displays; There with her solemn and impressive hand Writes as she stoops--as Christ wrote on the sand-- But what she traces all may read--'tis this: An invocation by our dreams of bliss-- By hopes to do and by our great deeds done, The war of sections thro' all time to shun-- She writes the words which almost seem divine, "Our deadliest foe's a geographic line!" And Justice, with her face severely grand, Stands 'mid the group, her balances in hand: Faultless in judging trivial deeds, or great, Unmoved by love and unimpressed by hate. Beside her gleams undimmed by spot, or rust, A mighty blade to strike when strike she must; And this bright falchion like that which defends The guarded gate where earth in Eden ends, With flame terrific and with ponderous sway Frightens each Brennus from her scales away.

And there we see pale, pleading Mercy bow, A troubled shadow on her saintly brow; Her fringed lashes tremulous with tears, Which glitter still through all the change of years: And as we see those tear drops slowly rise, Giving new softness to her tender eyes, Away the mists which o'er the dark past drift Are rent and scattered, while the sudden rift Shows, like some distant headland vast and dim Seen through the tempest, the great soul of him Who guarding against the native traitor, could Turn from her pleadings for his country's good.

And Honor last completes the stately group, With eye like eagle's in descending swoop, Fronted like goddess beautiful and proud When sailing on the "lazy-pacing cloud": Prouder her port than that of all the rest, With radiant forehead and translucent breast, She needs no gesture of supreme command For us to know her foremost of the band: They were his counsellors, she as the mind By which their promptings were in deeds combined-- In deeds which Fame, like fasces bears before The noblest consul that earth ever bore.

* * * * *

Why are we here? It were a bitter shame To pay this homage to a hero's name, And yet forget the principles which gave His true defiance to oblivion's wave! Aye! Sirs, remember when the day is spent, In Freedom's camp our soldier pitched his tent! Maintain your own--respect your brother's right-- Thus will you praise Jehovah's belted Knight.

Are we Pompeians gathered here to-day, Gazing upon our last superb display? Crowning the hours with many a festal wreath, While red Vesuvius bubbles underneath? Oh! no, my Countrymen! This cloud must be The smoke of incense floating o'er the free! No lava-flood can e'er o'erwhelm this land, Held as 'tis holden, in God's mighty hand.

And when the garlands of to-day are pale, Shall clang of armorers riveting our mail Rise in harsh dissonance where now the song In surging music sweeps the land along? No, Brothers, no! The Providence on high Stretches above us like the arching sky; As o'er the world that broad empyrean field, So o'er the nation God's protecting shield!

* * * * *

His the great will which sways the tide of earth-- His the great will which giveth empires birth-- And this grand truth through every age and clime Is written out in characters sublime; But most we see the traces of His hand In the great Epic of our native land.

This new world had its Adam and he fled-- God's was the voice and God's the mighty tread Which scared the red man from his Eden bowers God's the decree which made the garden ours! And Eden 'twas and such it still remains: Oh, Brothers! shall we prove a race of Cains? Shall impious hands be armed with deadly things, Because we bring up different offerings Unto our altars? To the Nation's shrine I take my gift; my brother, take thou thine! Again I ask: While this proud bronze remains, Shall this great people prove a race of Cains? Here make your answer at this statue's base, Beneath this warrior's calm, majestic face; And here remember that your best applause To him is shown in standing by the Laws! But if our rights shall ever be denied, I call upon you, by your race's pride, To seek some "West Augusta" and unfurl Our banner where the mountain vapors curl: Lowland and valley then will swell the cry, He left us free: thus will we live, or die! One other word, Virginia, hear thy son, Whose filial service now is nearly done-- Hear me old State! Thou art supremely blest: A hero's ashes slumber in thy breast! Oh, Mother! if the ashes of a king Could nerve to deeds with which Fame's trumpets ring, What glove of challenger shall make thee start, When thy great son lies sleeping on thy heart!

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.