Chapter 4

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.

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.