Part 6

And now, O, spirit of the Past, draw near, And let us feel thy blessed presence here! With reverent hearts and voices hushed and low, We wait to hear thy garments’ rustling flow! From all the conflicts of our busy life, From all its bitter and enduring strife, Its eager yearnings and its wild turmoil, Its cares, its joys, its sorrows and its toil, Its aspirations, that too often seem Like the remembered phantoms of a dream, We turn aside. This hour is thine alone, And none shall share the grandeur of thy throne. Ah! thou art here! Beneath these whispering trees Thy breath floats softly on the passing breeze; We feel the presence that we cannot see, And every moment draws us nearer thee. Could we but see thee with thy solemn eyes, In whose rare depths such wondrous meaning lies— Thy dark robes sweeping this enchanted ground— Thy midnight hair with purple pansies crowned— Thy lip so sadly sweet, thy brow serene! There is no expectation in thy mien, For thou hast done with dreams. Nor joy nor pain Can e’er disturb thy placid calm again. What is this veil that hides thee from our sight? Breathe it away, thou spirit darkly bright! It may not be! Our eyes are dim, Perhaps with age, perhaps with tears; We hear no more the choral hymn The angels sing among the spheres. Weary and worn and tempest-tossed, Much have we gained—and something lost— Since in the sunbeams golden glow, The rippling river’s silvery flow, The song of bird or murmuring bee, The fragrant flower, the stately tree, The royal pomp of sunset skies, And all earth’s varied harmonies, We saw and heard what nevermore Can Earth or Heaven to us restore, And felt a child’s unquestioning faith In childhood’s mystic lore!

* * * * *

Yet could our voices reach the slumbering dead Who rest so calmly in yon grass-grown bed, This truth would seem with greatest wonder fraught— _That they are heroes to our eyes and thought_. For they were men who never dreamed of fame: They did not toil to make themselves a name; They little fancied that when years had passed, And the long century had died at last, Another age should make their graves a shrine, And humble chaplets for their memory twine. They simply strove, as other men may strive, Full, earnest lives in sober strength to live; They did the duty nearest to their hand; Subdued wild nature as at God’s command; Laid the broad acres open to the sun, And made fair homes in forests dark and dun; Built churches, founded schools, established laws, Kindly and just and true to freedom’s cause; Resisted wrong, and with stout hands and hearts, In war, as well as peace, played well their parts. Their men were brave; their women pure and true; Their sons ashamed no honest work to do; And while they dreamed no dreams of being great, They did great deeds, and conquered hostile Fate. We laud them, we praise them, we bless them to-day; At their graves, as their right, tearful homage we pay! And the laurel-crowned Present comes humbly at last, And bends by our side at the shrine of the Past. With the hands that such burdens unshrinking have borne, From the brow weary cares have so furrowed and worn, She takes off the chaplet, and lays it with tears, That she cares not to hide, at the feet of the Years. Hark! a breath of faint music, a murmur of song! A form of strange beauty is floating along On the soft summer air, and the Future draws near, With a light on her young face, unshadowed and clear. Two garlands she bears in the arms that not yet Have toiled ’neath the burden and heat of the day; Lo! both are of amaranth, fragrant and wet With the dew of remembrance, and fadeless alway. Oh! well may we hush our vain babblings—and wait! He who merits the crown, wears it sooner or late! On the brow of the Present, the grave of the Past, The wreaths they have earned shall rest surely at last!

VERMONT

(WRITTEN FOR THE VERMONT CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, AT BENNINGTON, AUGUST 15, 1877.)

I.

O woman-form, majestic, strong and fair, Sitting enthroned where in upper air Thy mountain-peaks in solemn grandeur rise, Piercing the splendor of the summer skies— Vermont! Our mighty mother, crowned to-day In all the glory of thy hundred years, If thou dost bid me sing, how can I but obey? What though the lips may tremble, and the verse That fain would grandly thy grand deeds rehearse May trip and falter, and the stammering tongue Leave all unrhymed the rhymes that should be sung? I can but do thy bidding, as is meet, Bowing in humble homage at thy feet— Thy royal feet—and if my words are weak, O crownèd One, ’twas thou didst bid me speak!

II.

Yet what is there to say, Even on this proud day, This day of days, that hath not oft been said? What song is there to sing That hath not oft been sung? What laurel can we bring That ages have not hung A thousand times above their glorious dead? What crown to crown the living Is left us for our giving, That is not shaped to other brows That wore it long ago? Our very vows but echo vows Breathed centuries ago! Earth has no choral strain, No sweet or sad refrain, No lofty pæan swelling loud and clear, That Virgil did not know, Or Danté, wandering slow In mystic trances, did not pause to hear! When gods from high Olympus came To touch old Homer’s lips with flame, The morning stars together sung To teach their raptures to his tongue. For him the lonely ocean moaned; For him the mighty winds intoned Their deep-voiced chantings, and for him Sweet flower-bells pealed in forests dim. From earth and sea and sky he caught The spell of their divinest thought, While yet it blossomed fresh and new As Eden’s rosebuds wet with dew! Oh! to have lived when earth was young, With all its melodies unsung! The dome of heaven bent nearer then When gods and angels talked with men— When Song itself was newly born, The Incarnation of the Morn! But now, alas! all thought is old, All life is but a story told, And poet-tongues are manifold; And he is bold who tries to wake, Even for God or Country’s sake, In voice, or pen, or lute, or lyre, Sparks of the old Promethean fire!

III.

And yet—O Earth, thank God!—the soul of song Is as immortal as the eternal stars! O trembling heart! take courage and be strong. Hark! to a voice from yonder crystal bars:

_“Did the roses blow last June? Do the stars still rise and set? And over the crests of the mountains Are the light clouds floating yet? Do the rivers run to the sea With a deep, resistless flow? Do the little birds sing north and south As the seasons come and go?_

_Are the hills as fair as of old? Are the skies as blue and far? Have you lost the pomp of the sunset, Or the light of the evening star? Has the glory gone from the morning? Do the wild winds wail no more? Is there now no thunder of billows Beating the storm-lashed shore?_

_Is Love a forgotten story? Is Passion a jester’s theme? Has Valor thrown down its armor? Is Honor an idle dream? Is there no pure trust in woman? No conquering faith in God? Are there no feet strong to follow In the paths the martyrs trod?_

_Did you find no hero graves When your violets bloomed last May— Prouder than those of Marathon, Or ‘old Platea’s day’? When your red and white and blue On the free winds fluttered out, Were there no strong hearts and voices To receive it with a shout? Oh! let the Earth grow old! And the burning stars grow cold! And, if you will, declare man’s story told! Yet, pure as faith is pure, And sure as death is sure, As long as love shall live, shall song endure!_”

IV.

When, one by one, the stately, silent Years Glide like pale ghosts beyond our yearning sight, Vainly we stretch our arms to stay their flight, So soon, so swift they pass to endless night! We hardly learn to name them, To praise them or to blame them, To know their shadowy faces, Ere we see their empty places! Only once the glad Spring greets them; Only once fair Summer meets them; Only once the Autumn glory Tells for them its mystic story; Only once the Winter hoary Weaves for them its robes of light! Years leave their work half-done; like men, alas! With sheaves ungathered to their graves they pass, And are forgotten. What they strive to do Lives for a while in memory of a few; Then over all Oblivion’s waters flow— The Years are buried in the long ago! But when a Century dies, what room is there for tears? Rather in solemn exaltation let us come, With roll of drum (Not muffled as in woe), With blare of bugles, and the liquid flow Of silver clarions, and the long appeal Of the clear trumpets ringing peal on peal; With clash of bells, and hosts in proud array, To pay meet homage to its burial day! For its proud work is done. Its name is writ Where all the ages that come after it Shall read the eternal letters, blazoned high On the blue dome of the impartial sky. What ruthless fate can darken its renown, Or dim the lustre of its starry crown? On mountain-peaks of Time each Century stands alone; And each, for glory or for shame, hath reaped what it hath sown!

V.

But this—the one that gave thee birth A hundred years ago, O beauteous mother! This mighty Century had a mightier brother, Who from the watching earth Passed but last year! Twin-born indeed were they— For what are twelve months to the womb of time Pregnant with ages?—Hand in hand they climbed With clear, young eyes uplifted to the stars; With great, strong souls that never stopped for bars, Through storm and darkness up to glorious day! Each knew the other’s need; each in his breast The subtle tie of closest kin confessed; Counted the other’s honor as his own; Nor feared to sit upon a separate throne; Nor loved each other less when—wondrous fate!— One gave a Nation life, and one a State!

VI.

Oh! rude the cradle in which each was rocked, The infant Nation, and the infant State! Rough nurses were the Centuries, that mocked At mother-kisses, and for mother-arms Gave their young nurslings sudden harsh alarms, Quick blows and stern rebuffs. They bade them wait, Often in cold and hunger, while the feast Was spread for others, and, though last not least, Gave them sharp swords for playthings, and the din Of actual battle for the mimic strife That childhood glories in! Yet not the less they loved them. Spartans they, Who could not rear a weak, effeminate brood. Better the forest’s awful solitude, Better the desert spaces, where the day Wanders from dawn to dusk and finds no life!

VII.

But over all the tireless years swept on, Till side by side the Centuries grew old, And the young Nation, great and strong and bold, Forgot its early struggles, in triumphs later won! It stretched its arms from East to West; It gathered to its mighty breast From every clime, from every soil, The hunted sons of want and toil; It gave to each a dwelling-place; It blent them in one common race; And over all, from sea to sea, Wide flew the banner of the free! It did not fear the wrath of kings, Nor the dread grip of deadlier things— Gaunt Famine with its ghastly horde, Dishonor sheathing its foul sword, Nor faithless friend, nor treacherous blow Struck in the dark by stealthy foe; For over all its wide domain, From shore to shore, from main to main, From vale to mountain-top, it saw The reign of plenty, peace, and law!

VIII.

Thus fared the Nation, prosperous, great, and free, Prophet and herald of the good to be; And on its humbler way, in calm content, The lesser State, the while, serenely went. Safe in her mountain fastnesses she dwelt, Her life’s first cares forgot, its woes unfelt, And thought her bitterest tears had all been shed, For peace was in her borders, and God reigned overhead.

IX.

But suddenly over the hills there came A cry that rent her with grief and shame— A cry from the Nation in sore distress, Stricken down in the pride of its mightiness! With passionate ardor up she sprang, And her voice like the peal of a trumpet rang— “What ho! what ho! brave sons of mine, Strong with the strength of the mountain pine! To the front of the battle, away! away! The Nation is bleeding in deadly fray, The Nation, it may be, is dying to-day! On, then, to the rescue! away! away!”

X.

Ah! how they answered let the ages tell, For they shall guard the sacred story well! Green grows the grass to-day on many a battle-field; War’s dread alarms are o’er; its scars are healed; Its bitter agony has found surcease; A re-united land clasps hands in peace. But, oh! ye blessed dead, whose graves are strown From where our forests make perpetual moan, To those far shores where smiling Southern seas Give back soft murmurs to the fragrant breeze— Oh! ye who drained for us the bitter cup, Think ye we can forget what ye have offered up? The years will come and go, and other centuries die, And generation after generation lie Down in the dust; but, long as stars shall shine, Long as Vermont’s green hills shall bear the pine, As long as Killington shall proudly lift Its lofty peak above the storm-cloud’s rift, Or Mansfield hail the blue, o’erarching skies, Or fair Mount Anthony in grandeur rise, So long shall live the deeds that ye have done, So deathless be the glory ye have won!

XI.

Not with exultant joy And pride without alloy, Did the twin Centuries rejoice when all was o’er. What though the Nation rose Triumphant o’er its foes? What though the State had gained The meed of faith unstained? Their mighty hearts remembered the dead that came no more! Remembered all the losses, The weary, weary crosses, Remembered earth was poorer for the blood that had been shed, And knew that it was sadder for the story it had read! So, clasping hands with somewhat saddened mien, And eyes uplifted to the Great Unseen That rules alike o’er Centuries and men, Onward they walked serenely toward—the End!

XII.

One reached it last year. Ye remember well— The wondrous tale there is no need to tell— How the whole world bowed down beside its bier; How all the Nations came, from far or near, Heaping their treasures on its mighty pall— Never had kingliest king such funeral! Old Asia rose, and, girding her in haste, Swept in her jewelled robes across the waste, And called to Egypt lying prone and hid Where waits the Sphinx beside the pyramid; Fair Europe came with overflowing hands, Bearing the riches of her many lands; Dark Afric, laden with her virgin gold, Yet laden deeper with her woes untold; Japan and China in grotesque array, And all the enchanted islands of Cathay!

XIII.

To-day the other dies. It walked in humbler guise, Nor stood where all men’s eyes Were fixed upon it. Earth may not pause to lay A wreath upon its bier, Nor the world heed to-day Our dead that lieth here!

Yet well they loved each other— It and its greater brother. To loftiest stature grown, Each earned its own renown; Each sought of Time a crown, And each has won it;

XIV.

But what to us are Centuries dead, And rolling Years forever fled, Compared with thee, O grand and fair Vermont—our Goddess-mother? Strong with the strength of thy verdant hills, Fresh with the freshness of mountain-rills, Pure as the breath of the fragrant pine, Glad with the gladness of youth divine, Serenely thou sittest throned to-day Where the free winds that round thee play Rejoice in thy waves of sun-bright hair, O thou, our glorious mother! Rejoice in thy beautiful strength and say Earth holds not such another! Thou art not old with thy hundred years, Nor worn with toil, or care, or tears: But all the glow of the summer-time Is thine to-day in thy glorious prime! Thy brow is fair as the winter-snows, With a stately calm in its still repose; While the breath of the rose the wild bee sips, Half-mad with joy, cannot eclipse The marvellous sweetness of thy lips; And the deepest blue of the laughing skies Hides in the depths of thy fearless eyes, Gazing afar over land and sea Wherever thy wandering children be! Fold on fold, Over thy form of grandest mould Floweth thy robe of forest green, Now light, now dark, in its emerald sheen. Its broidered hem is of wild flowers rare, With feathery fern-fronds light as air Fringing its borders. In thy hair Sprays of the pink arbutus twine, And the curling rings of the wild grape vine. Thy girdle is woven of silver streams; Its clasp with the opaline lustre gleams Of a lake asleep in the sunset beams; And, half concealing And half revealing, Floats over all a veil of mist Pale-tinted with rose and amethyst!

XV.

Arise, O noble mother of great sons, Worthy to rank among earth’s mightiest ones, And daughters fair and beautiful and good, Yet wise and strong in loftiest womanhood— Rise from thy throne, and, standing far and high Outlined against the blue, adoring sky, Lift up thy voice, and stretch thy loving hands In benediction o’er the waiting lands! Take thou our fealty! at thy feet we bow, Glad to renew each oft-repeated vow! No costly gifts we bring to thee to-day; No votive wreaths upon thy shrine we lay; Take thou our hearts, then!—hearts that fain would be From this day forth, O goddess, worthier thee!

GETTYSBURG 1863-1889

I.

Brothers, is this the spot? Let the drums cease to beat; Let the tread of marching feet, With the clash and clang of steel And the trumpet’s long appeal (Cry of joy and sob of pain In its passionate refrain) Cease awhile, Nor beguile Thoughts that would rehearse the story Of the past’s remembered glory; Thoughts that would revive to-day Stern War’s rude, imperious sway; Waken battle’s fiery glow With its ardor and its woe, With its wild, exulting thrills, With the rush of mighty wills, And the strength to do and dare— Born of passion and of prayer!

II.

Let the present fade away, And the splendors of to-day; For our hearts within us burn As our glances backward turn. What rare memories awaken As the tree of life is shaken, And its storied branches blow In the winds of long ago! Do ye not remember, brothers, Ere the war-days how ’twas said Grand, heroic days were over And proud chivalry was dead? Still we saw the glittering lances Gleaming through the old romances, Still beheld the watch-fires burning On the cloudy heights of Time; And from fields that they had won, When the stormy fight was done, Saw victorious knights returning Flushed with triumph’s joy sublime! For the light of song and story Kindled with supernal glory Plains where ancient heroes fought; And illumined, with a splendor Rare and magical and tender, All the mighty deeds they wrought. But we thought the sword of battle, Long unused, had lost its glow, And the sullen war-gods slumbered Where their altar-fires burned low!

III.

_Was_ the nation dull and sodden, Buried in material things? ’Twas the chrysalis, awaiting The sure stirring of its wings! For when rang the thrilling war-cry Over all the startled land, And the fiery cross of battle, Flaming, sped from hand to hand, Then how fared it, O my brothers? Were men false or craven then? Did they falter? Did they palter? Did they question why or when? Oh, the story shall be told Until earth itself is old, How, from mountain and from glen, More than thrice ten thousand men Heard the challenge of the foe, Heard the nation’s cry of woe, Heard the summoning to arms, And the battle’s loud alarms! In tumultuous surprise, Lo, their answer rent the skies; And its quick and strong heart-thrills Rocked the everlasting hills! Forth from blossoming fields they sped To the fields with carnage red! Left the plowshare standing still; Left the bench, the forge, the mill; Left the quiet walks of trade And the quarry’s marble shade; Left the pulpit and the court, Careless ease and idle sport; Left the student’s cloistered halls In the old, gray college walls; Left young love-dreams, dear and sweet, War’s stern front, unblenched, to meet! Oh, the strange and sad amaze Of those unforgotten days, When the boys whom we had guided, Nursed and loved, caressed and chided, Suddenly, as in a night, Sprang to manhood’s proudest height; And with calmly smiling lips, As who life’s rarest goblet sips, Dauntless, with unhurried breath, Marched to danger and to death!

IV.