Part 7

Soldiers, is this the spot? Fair the scene is, calm and fair, In this still October air; Far blue hills look gently down On the happy, tranquil town, And the ridges nearer by Steeped in autumn sunshine lie. Laden orchards, smiling fields, Rich in all that nature yields; Bright streams winding in and out Fertile meadows round about, Lowing herds and hum of bee, Birds that flit from tree to tree, Children’s voices ringing clear, All we touch or see or hear— Fruit of gold in silver set— Tell of joy and peace. And yet— Soldiers, is this the spot That can never be forgot? Was it here that shot and shell Poured as from the mouth of hell, Drenched the shrinking, trembling plain With a flood of fiery rain? Was it here the awful wonder Of the cannon’s crashing thunder Shook the affrighted hills, and made Even the stolid rocks afraid? Was it here an armèd host, Like two clouds where lightnings play, Or two oceans, tempest tost, Clashed and mingled in the fray? Here that, ’mid the din and smoke, Roar of guns and sabre stroke, Tramp of furious steeds, where moan Horse and rider, both o’erthrown, Lurid fires and battle yell, Forty thousand brave men fell?

V.

O brothers, words are weak! What tongue shall dare to speak? Even song itself grows dumb In this high presence.—Come Forth, ye whose ashes lie Under this arching sky! Speak ye in accents clear Words that we fain would hear! Tell us when your dim eyes, Holy with sacrifice, Looked through the battle smoke Up to the skies; Tell us, ye valiant dead, When your souls starward fled, How from the portals far Where the immortals are, Chieftains and vikings old, Heroes and warriors bold, Men whom old Homer sung, Men of each age and tongue, Knights from a thousand fields Bearing their blazoned shields Thronged forth to meet ye! Tell us how, floating down, Each with a martyr’s crown, They who had kept the faith, Grandly defying death; They who for conscience’ sake Felt their firm heartstrings break; They who for truth and right Unshrinking fought the fight; They who through fire and flame Passed on to deathless fame, Hastened to greet ye! Tell how they welcomed ye, Hailed and applauded ye, Claimed ye as comrades true, Brave as the world e’er knew; Led your triumphant feet Up to the highest seat, Crowned ye with amaranth, Laurel and palm.

VI.

Alas, alas! They speak not! The silence deep they break not! Heaven keeps its martyred ones Beyond or moon or suns; And Valhalla keeps its braves, Leaving to us their graves! Then let these graves speak for them As long as the wind sweeps o’er them! As long as the sentinel ridges Keep guard on either hand; As long as the hills they fought for Like silent watch-towers stand!

VII.

Yet not of them alone Round each memorial stone Shall the proud breezes whisper as they pass, Rustling the faded leaves On chilly autumn eves, And swaying tenderly the sheltering grass! O ye who on this field Knew not the joy to yield Your young, glad lives in glorious conflict up; Ye who as bravely fought, Ye who as grandly wrought, Draining with them war’s darkly bitter cup, As long as stars endure And God and Truth are sure; While Love still claims its own, While Honor holds its throne And Valor hath a name, Still shall these stony pages Repeat to all the ages The story of your fame!

VIII.

O beautiful one, my Country, Thou fairest daughter of Time, To-day are thine eyes unclouded In the light of a faith sublime! No thunder of battle appals thee; From thy woe thou hast found release; From the graves of thy sons steals only This one soft whisper,—“PEACE!”

“NO MORE THE THUNDER OF CANNON”

No more the thunder of cannon, No more the clashing of swords, No more the rage of the contest, Nor the rush of contending hordes; But, instead, the glad reunion, The clasping of friendly hands, The song, for the shout of battle, Heard over the waiting lands.

O brothers, to-night we greet you With smiles, half sad, half gay— For our thoughts are flying backward To the years so far away— When with you who were part of the conflict, With us who remember it all, Youth marched with his waving banner, And his voice like a bugle call!

We would not turn back the dial, Nor live over the past again; We would not the path re-travel, Nor barter the “now” for the “then.” Yet, oh, for the bounding pulses, And the strength to do and dare, When life was one grand endeavor, And work clasped hands with prayer!

But blessed are ye, O brothers, Who feel in your souls alway The thrill of the stirring summons You heard but to obey; Who, whether the years go swift, Or whether the years go slow, Will wear in your hearts forever The glory of long ago!

GRANT AUGUST 8, 1885

God sends his angels where he will, From world to world, from star to star; They do his bidding as they fly, Whether or near or far!

Whither it went, or what its quest, I know not; but one August day A great white angel through the far Dim spaces took its way;

Until below it our fair earth, Like a rich jewel fitly hung— An emerald set with silver gleams— In the blue ether swung.

The angel looked; the angel paused; Then down the starry pathway swept, Till mount and valley, hill and plain, Beneath its vision slept.

Poised on a far blue mountain peak, It saw the land, from sea to sea, Lifting in veilèd splendor up The banner of the free!

From tower and turret, spire and dome, From stately halls, and cabins rude, Where crag and cliff and forest meet In awful solitude,

It saw strange, sombre pennants float, Black shadows on the summer breeze That bore, from shore to shore, the wail Of solemn symphonies.

It saw long files of armèd men, Clad in a garb of faded blue, Pass up and down the sorrowing land As if in grand review.

It saw through crowded city streets, Funereal trains move to and fro, With tolling bells, and muffled drums, And trumpets wailing low.

Descending then the angel sought A stern, sad man of many cares— Ah, oft before have mortals talked With angels, unawares!

The angel spake, as man to man— “What does it mean, O friend?” it cried, “These sad-browed hosts, these weeds of woe, This mourning far and wide?”

The stranger answered in amaze— “Know you not what the whole world knows? To his long home, thus grandly borne, Earth’s greatest warrior goes.

The foremost soldier of his age, The victor on full many a field— Who saw the bravest of the brave To his stern prowess yield.”

The angel sighed. “That means,” it said, “Tumult and anguish, pain and death, And countless sons of men borne down By the fierce cannon’s breath!”

Then passed from sight the heavenly guest, And from the mountain-top again Took its far flight from North to South, Above the homes of men.

But still, where’er it went, it saw The starry banners half mast high, And tower and turret hung with black Against the reddening sky!

Still saw long ranks of armèd men Who for the blue had worn the gray— Still saw the sad processions pass, Darkening the summer day!

“Was this _their_ conqueror whom you mourn?” The angel said to one who kept Lone watch where, deep in grass-grown graves, Young Southern soldiers slept.

“Victor, yet friend,” the answer came, “Even theirs who here their life-blood poured! He, when the bitter field was won, Was first to sheathe the sword,

And cry: ‘O brothers, take my hand— Brave foemen, let us be at peace! O’er all the undivided land Let clash of conflict cease!’”

The wondering angel went its way From world to world, from star to star, Where planet unto planet turned, And suns blazed out afar.

“Learn, learn, O universe,” it cried, “How great is he whose foemen lay Their love and homage at his feet, On this—his burial day!”

FRIAR ANSELMO AND OTHER POEMS

FRIAR ANSELMO

FRIAR ANSELMO for a secret sin Sat bowed with grief the convent cell within; Nor dared, such was his shame, to lift his eyes To the low wall whereon, in dreadful guise, The dead CHRIST hung upon the cursèd tree, Frowning, he thought, upon his misery. What was his sin it matters not to tell. But he was young and strong, the records say: Perhaps he wearied of his narrow cell; Perhaps he longed to work, as well as pray; Perhaps his heart too warmly beat that day! Perhaps—for life is long—the weary road That he must travel, bearing as a load The slow, monotonous hours that, one by one, Dragged in a lengthening chain from sun to sun, Appalled his eager spirit, and his vow Pressed like an iron hand upon his brow. Perhaps some dream of love, of home, of wife, Had stirred this tumult in his lonely life, Tempting his soul to barter heavenly bliss, And sell its birthright for a woman’s kiss! At all events, the struggle had been hard; And as a bird from the glad ether barred, So had he beat his wings till, bruised and torn, He wished that night he never had been born! And still the dead CHRIST on the cursèd tree Seemed but to mock his hopeless misery; Still Mary mother turned her eyes away, Nor saint nor angel bent to hear him pray!

The calm, cold moonlight through the casement shone; Weird shadows darkened on the floor of stone; Without, what solemn splendors! and within What fearful wrestlings with despair and sin! Sudden and loud the cloister bell outrang; Afar a door swung to with sullen clang; And overhead he heard the rhythmic beat, The measured monotone of many feet Seeking the chapel for the midnight prayer. Black wings seemed hovering round him in the air, Beating him back when with a stifled moan He would have sought the holy altar stone. Then with a swift, sharp cry, prostrate he fell Before the crucifix. “The gates of hell Shall not prevail against me!” loud he cried, Stretching his arms to CHRIST, the crucified. “By Thy dread cross, Thy dying agony, Thine awful passion, LORD, deliver me!”

Was it a dream? The taunting demons fled; Through the dim cell a wondrous glory spread; And all the air was filled with rare perfumes Wafted from censers rich with heavenly blooms. Transfigured stood the CHRIST before his eyes, Clothed in white samite, woven in Paradise, And from the empty cross upon the wall Streamed a wide splendor that encompassed all! Was it a dream? Anselmo’s sight grew dim; The cloistered chamber seemed to reel and swim; Yet well his spirit knew the glorious guest, And all his manhood rose to meet the test. “What wilt Thou have me, LORD, to do?” he cried With pallid lips, and kissed the sacred feet. And then in accents strangely calm, yet sweet, These words he heard from CHRIST, the crucified, The pitying CHRIST his inmost soul who read, With all its wild unrest, its doubt and dread: “MAKE THOU A COPY OF MY HOLY WORD!” Then mystic presences about him stirred; The vision faded. At the dawn of day Prostrate and pallid in the dusk he lay. Was it a dream? GOD knows! The narrow cell Wore the old aspect he had learned so well, And from the crucifix upon the wall No glory streamed illuminating all! Yet still a subtile fragrance filled the room; And looking round him in the soft, gray gloom, Anselmo saw upon the fretted floor An eagle’s quill that this grave legend bore: “He works most nobly for his fellow-men Who gives My word to them, by tongue or pen!”

Henceforth Anselmo prayed, but worked as well, Nor felt the bondage of his cloister cell; For all his soul was filled with high intent, He had no dream since its accomplishment— To make a copy of the Holy Word, Fairer than eye had seen, or ear had heard, Or heart conceived of! Day by day he wrought, His fingers guided by a single thought; Forming each letter with the tenderest care, With points of richest color here and there; With birds on swaying boughs, and butterflies Poised on gay wings o’er sprays of eglantine; With tangled tracery of flower and vine Through which gleamed cherub faces, half divine; With fading leaves that drift when summer dies, And angels floating down the evening skies— Each word an orison, each line a prayer! Slowly the work went on from day to day; The seasons came and went; May followed May; Year after year passed by with stately tread To join the countless legions of the dead, Till Fra Anselmo, wan and bowed with age, Bent, a gray monk, above the parchment page. Death waited till he wrote the last fair line, Then touched his hand and closed the Book Divine!

* * * * *

The world has grown apace since then. He who would give GOD’S word to men, In cloistered cell, o’er parchment page, No longer bends from youth to age. Countless as leaves by autumn strewn The leaves of His great Book are blown Over the earth as wide and far As seeds by wandering breezes are! Yet none the less He speaks to-day As to Anselmo in his cell; Bidding men speed upon their way His later messages as well. For not alone in Holy Book, In revelations dim and old, In sweetest stories simply told, In grand, prophetic strains that reach The loftiest heights of human speech, In martial hymn, or saintly psalm, In fiery threat, or logic calm, GOD’S messages are writ to-day— And He whose voice Mount Sinai shook Still bids men hearken and obey! He writes His name upon the hills; He whispers in the mountain rills; He speaks through every flower that blows, In breath of lily, tint of rose; In sultry calms; in furious beat Of the wild storm’s tempestuous feet; In starlit night, and dewy morn, And splendor of the day new-born! He uttereth His thunders where The shock of battle rends the air; He guides the fiery steeds of War; He rules unseen the maddening jar, The hate and din of party strife, And bids it serve the nation’s life; He leads fair Science, where she walks With stately tread among the stars, Or where, with reverent voice, she talks With Nature through the eternal bars! His Word is uttered wheresoe’er A human soul has ears to hear. The royal message never errs; GOD send it true interpreters!

THE KING’S ROSEBUD

Only a blushing rosebud, folding up Such wealth of sweetness in its dewy cup That the whole air was like rare incense flung From golden censers round high altars swung! One day the king passed by with stately tread, And, reaching forth his hand, he lightly said, “All sweets are mine; therefore this rose I take, And wear it in my bosom for Love’s sake.” Then, while the king passed on with smiling face, The sweet rose gloried in its pride of place.

But ah! the deeds that in Love’s name are done! The woeful wrack wrought underneath the sun! Still with that smile upon his lip, the king Laid his rash hand upon the beauteous thing; In hot haste tore the crimson leaves apart, And drained the sweetness from its glowing heart; Seared the soft petals with its fiery breath, Then tossed it from him to ignoble death! When next with idle steps I passed that way, Prone in the mire the king’s fair rosebud lay.

SOMEWHERE

How can I cease to pray for thee? Somewhere In God’s great universe thou art to-day: Can He not reach thee with His tender care? Can He not hear me when for thee I pray?

What matters it to Him, who holds within The hollow of His hand all worlds, all space, That thou art done with earthly pain and sin? Somewhere within His ken thou hast a place.

Somewhere thou livest and hast need of Him: Somewhere thy soul sees higher heights to climb; And somewhere still there may be valleys dim That thou must pass to reach the hills sublime.

Then all the more, because thou canst not hear Poor human words of blessing, will I pray, O true, brave heart! God bless thee, whereso’er In His great universe thou art to-day!

PERADVENTURE

I am thinking to-night of the little child That lay on my breast three summer days, Then swiftly, silently, dropped from sight, While my soul cried out in sore amaze.

It is fifteen years ago to-night; Somewhere, I know, he has lived them through, Perhaps with never a thought or dream Of the mother-heart he never knew!

Is he yet but a babe? or has he grown To be like his brothers, fair and tall, With a clear, bright eye, and a springing step, And a voice that rings like a bugle call?

I loved him. The rose in his waxen hand Was wet with the dew of my falling tears; I have kept the thought of my baby’s grave Through all the length of these changeful years.

Yet the love I gave him was not like that I give to-day to my other boys, Who have grown beside me, and turned to me In all their griefs and in all their joys.

Do you think he knows it? I wonder much If the dead are passionless, cold, and dumb; If into the calm of the deathless years No thrill of a human love may come!

Perhaps sometimes from the upper air He has seen me walk with his brothers three; Or felt in the tender twilight hour The breath of the kisses they gave to me!

Over his birthright, lost so soon, Perhaps he has sighed as the swift years flew; O child of my heart! you shall find somewhere The love that on earth you never knew!

RENA (A LEGEND OF BRUSSELS)

I.

St. Gudula’s bells were chiming for the midnight, sad and slow, In the ancient town of Brussels, many and many a year ago,

And St. Michael, poised so grandly on his lofty, airy height, Seemed transfigured in the glory of the full moon’s tender light,

When, a fair and saintly maiden crowned with locks of palest gold, Rena stood beside her lover, son of Hildebrand the Bold.

She with grief and tears was pallid; but his face was hard and stern: All the passion of his being in his dark eyes seemed to burn.

“Never dream that I will give thee back thy plighted faith,” he cried, “By St. Michael’s sword I swear it, thou, my love, shalt be my bride!”

“Nay, but hear me,” she responded; “hear the words that I must speak; I must speak, and thou must hearken, though my heart is like to break.

Yestermorn, as I sat spinning blithely at my cottage door, Straightway fell a stately shadow in the sunshine on the floor;

And a figure stood before me, so majestic and so grand, That I knew it in a moment for the mighty Hildebrand—

Stood and gazed on me till downward at my feet the distaff dropped, And in all my veins the pulsing of the swift life-current stopped.

‘Thou art Rena,’ then he uttered, and he swore a dreadful oath, And the tempest of his anger beat on me and on us both.

‘She who thinks to wed with Volmar must have lands and gold,’ said he, ‘Or must come of noble lineage, fit to mate with mine and me!

Thou art but a peasant maiden, empty-handed, lowly born; All the ladies of my castle would look down on thee with scorn.

Even he will weary of thee when his passion once is spent, Vainly cursing her who doomed him to an endless discontent!’

Then I, trembling, rose up slowly, and I looked him in the face, Though the dreadful frown it wore seemed to darken all the place.

‘Sir, I thank you for this warning,’ said I, speaking low and clear, ‘But the laughter of your ladies I must teach my heart to bear.

For the rest—your son is noble—and my simple womanhood He will hold in loving honor, as a saint the holy rood!’

Oh! then his stern face whitened, and a bitter laugh laughed he: ‘Truly this my son is noble, and he shall not wed with thee.

Hear my words now, and remember! for by this good sword I swear, And by Michael standing yonder, watching us from upper air,

If he dares to place a wedding-ring upon your dowerless hand, On his head shall fall a father’s curse—the curse of Hildebrand!’

O, my Volmar! Then the earth rocked, and I fell down in a swoon; When I woke the room was silent; it was past the hour of noon;

And I waited for thy coming, as the captive waits for death, With a mingled dread and longing, and a half-abated breath!”

Straight the young man bowed before her, as before a holy shrine: “Never hand of high-born lady was more richly dowered than thine!

What care I for gold or honors, or—my—father’s—curse?” he said; But the words died out in shudders, and his face grew like the dead.

Then she twined her white arms round him, and she murmured, sweet and low, As the night wind breathing softly over banks where violets blow:

“‘He who is accursed of father, he shall be accursed of God,’ Long ago said one who followed where the holy prophets trod.

Kiss me once, then, O my Volmar! just once more, my Volmar dear, Even as you would kiss my white lips if I lay upon my bier!

For a gulf as dark as death has opened wide ’twixt thee and me; Neither thou nor I can cross it, and thy wife I may not be!”

II.

Once again the bells of midnight chimed from St. Gudula’s towers, While St. Michael watched the city slumbering through the ghostly hours.

But no slumber came to Rena where she moaned in bitter pain, For the anguish of that parting wrought its work on heart and brain.

Suddenly the air grew heavy as with magical perfume, And a weird and wondrous splendor filled the dim and silent room.

In the middle of the chamber stood a lady fair and sweet, With bright tresses falling softly to her small and sandalled feet.

Flushed her cheeks were as a wild rose, and the glory of her eyes Was the laughing light and glory of the kindling morning skies.

Airy robes of lightest tissue from her white arms floated free; They seemed woven of the mist that curls above the azure sea,

Wrought in curious devices, star and wheel and leaf and flower, That, like frost upon a window-pane, might vanish in an hour.

In her hands she bore a cushion, quaintly fashioned, strangely set With small silver pins that spanned it like a branching coronet;

And from threads of finest texture swung light bobbins to and fro, As the lady stood illumined in the weird and wondrous glow.

Not a single word she uttered; but, as silent as a shade, Down the room she swiftly glided and beside the startled maid

Knelt, a radiant vision, smiling into Rena’s wondering eyes, Giving arch yet gracious answer to her tremulous surprise.

Then she laid the satin cushion on the wondering maiden’s knee, And to all her mute bewilderment, no syllable spake she.