Part 1

POEMS

BY

S. C. MERCER

Tu ne cede malis, sed contra audentior ito --_Virgil_

LOUISVILLE JOHN P. MORTON & COMPANY INCORPORATED 1908

Copyright, 1908, BY S. C. MERCER

FOREWORD.

The poems here collected are in the main reprints of pieces that originally appeared in various newspapers and periodicals, beginning with the Louisville Journal in the late ’50s. This newspaper was at that time edited by the brilliant George D. Prentice, my personal friend, who a few years after I had left college offered me the assistant editorship of his paper. The imperative duty which at that time I owed to others forced me to decline this offer, although for many years I wrote editorials and verses for this then powerful and widely read journal. Many of the poems here collected have appeared in the columns of the Louisville daily papers and have been copied in other journals, North and South, and in poetic collections. Others were first printed in the Nashville Press and Times, of which I was editor during my two terms as Public Printer of Tennessee, during the administrations of Military Governor Andrew Johnson and of Governor Brownlow in the days of Reconstruction.

It will be noticed that the partisan poems breathe the spirit of the times in which they were written--the stormy ’60s--but I have not thought it wise to change their tone, they being now only the record of a long-since departed day. There has been some controversy as to the authorship of the poem “The Angel of the Hospital,” owing to a manuscript copy of this poem being found on the body of a young Confederate officer killed in one of the battles in Georgia, and from which the poem was reprinted in many of the Southern newspapers. I had previously, however, printed it in the Louisville Journal, and as newspapers were scarce in the South at that time, the unfortunate youth must have copied the verses before passing the newspaper on to his comrades.

THE AUTHOR.

Hopkinsville, June 30, 1908.

INDEX

PAGE The Two Kentuckians 1

The Hunter’s Last Ride 6

The Old Rock Spring 10

A Lyric for Lilian 11

The Strawberry Bowl 12

Hymn 18

John Morgan and His Men 19

The Whippoorwill 24

The New South 25

A Fever Dream 26

Major Bassett’s Chase 29

The Ten Brothers 31

Echo River 33

The Angel of the Hospital 36

The Two Singers 39

Battle of Mill Spring 41

The Greek Slave 42

Ode to Impudence 44

My Birthday 48

Battle of Nashville 49

Blonde and Brunette 53

Gray and Blue 54

Bishop Dudley’s Dirge 55

The Dress Circle 56

In Memoriam 60

The Sorrows of Hinda and Kleinfelter 61

Dr. John A. Broaddus 65

To Leonora 67

At His Post 69

Reconciliation 71

Ophelia 74

Death of the Seasons 76

New Year Ode, 1861 78

Monody 83

Washington’s Birthday Ode 86

To April 87

Ode on the Death of Leo XIII 88

Chiabrera’s Epitaph 90

Elegy 91

To the Law and Order League 92

“With Thy Shield, or Upon It” 94

Confirmation at St. Andrew’s 96

The Christmas Flower 98

To the Soldiers of General Dumont’s Command 99

The Two Gordons 100

The Westfield Home 105

The Harp in the Air; or a Night with Gerardi in Seelbach’s Roof-garden 107

Dedication Hymn 109

Lying in State at Princeton 110

In the Morning 113

POEMS

+--------------+ | POEMS BY | | S. C. MERCER | +--------------+

The sky of the Southland with grief is o’ercast; Bitter tears down the cheeks of the brave trickle fast; The moss-streamered oaks of Beauvoir bow their head-- Their Master is fallen, their Chieftain is dead. Wake, soldier, who liest outstretched on thy bier: Does the warwhoop of Black Hawk not startle thy ear? Seest thou not the long Mexican lancers’ array At dark Buena Vista rush fierce to the fray?

Hapless Mexican Cavalry! great was your scath As you fearlessly charged down that Angel of Death. The manes of the chargers like meteors streamed, Like rainbows far-flashing the gay pennons gleamed; Like lightning from Heaven Davis brandished his sword And fierce was the volley his riflemen poured; They reel in their saddles, they topple and fall, The flag of the cavalcade turns to a pall, Its ghostly Commander is the skeleton Death-- The fair rose of Mexico shrinks in his breath. They halt--they retreat--in wild tumult they run, The eagle soars victor--Buena Vista is won.

Hearken, O spangled Cavaliers, to that dread warning cry Which like the trump of Judgment is sounding from the sky-- “Remember cruel Alamo’s foul massacre and die!” Lo her avengers, Taylor, Davis, Hardin, McKee, and Clay! Abundant sacrifice went up in smoke of battle gray, So were thy Manes appeased, brave Crockett, on that day, Thy phantom sped from Alamo to cheer that bloody fray. Our troops on that field by their valor and scars Added stars to our flag’s constellation of stars, And Buena Vista’s immaculate name Like a beacon-fire burns in the temple of fame. Weep, daughters of Mexico, for lover and spouse, Hang crepe on the door of each desolate house, Long, long shall the maidens of Anahuac mourn For their fallen defenders who shall never return.

Once, in Senate encounter, in battle’s fierce brunt, Thy plume, like Navarre’s, streamed full high in the front. Thou wast once, like Scotch Bruce, of inflexible will, Unyielding, though conquered, and resolute still. In field or in council, with sword, tongue or pen, The molder of ideas, the leader of men. Clay--Webster--Oh, Chief, are thy pulses unstirred When the mighty debate in the Senate is heard? Hark, Sumter’s loud tocsin! Saw the world e’er the like? For Freedom and Union and Southland they strike. Grant, Meade, Lee and Thomas like Titans engage, And the Lost Cause departs like a ghost from the stage.

’Tis past, like a dream of the dawning in air, For thee, the world’s pageant of Vanity Fair. All faded--those phantoms and dreams of the past, And crepe ties the flag as it falls to the mast. The dirge wails its sorrow to dead ears in vain; The pallbearers’ flag is the flag of the train, The traveler’s baggage lies all in one chest, Whose check is a coffin plate lettered “At Rest.” And Metairie’s vault opes its dark, narrow berth For the cold, pallid earth which returns to the earth.

As I rode o’er the mountain I saw not how high Its pine-covered summit ascended the sky. ’Twas a mere undulation that rose from the plain-- But, as journeying on, I beheld it again, The veil of Omnipotence spread like a shroud On its brow, that looked down on the loftiest cloud. So our lives were too near to those lives which expired When the battle of freedom our continent fired. To measure their valor and virtue aright-- Our vision is dim when too close to the light.

Thou, Lincoln, sad martyr, just, generous, brave; A hero of heroes Omnipotence gave To mortals in molding thy gaunt, rugged face; Like Cromwell, no smooth dilettante in grace; But counting all power, glory, life itself, naught, Till the duty assigned thee by Heaven was wrought.

O voice of humanity whose exquisite tone Like the moan of the sea breathed a sadness its own-- As the sea mourns the infinite dead ’neath its waves, So mourned his great soul for war’s infinite graves-- How oft did the widow and orphan rejoice In the counsel and sympathy toned in that voice; Where sorrow abounded did his love more abound, Like the hand of a woman who nurses a wound, Like the lullaby sung to a babe at the breast Till singer and sufferer sink to sweet rest; It cheered the bruised hearts of the children of toil Like the summer-night-dew which refreshes the soil; Like the Lamb of Redemption he went to the cross And our infinite gain was secured by his loss.

No vision of conquest could lead him astray No sectional bias waved false lights in his way. Stem duty, as he saw it, confronted his eyes; And the future passed judgment at its solemn assize: “The Union which Washington won by his sword “I have sworn to preserve, ’tis my vow to the Lord. “Should the temple he built by my treachery burn, “My name would all ages indignantly spurn, “My honor be scorned, my oath be forsworn, “And my name from the roster of Patriots be torn. “This Union so fair asunder to rend, “No patriot has sworn--I’ve an oath to defend, “‘The Last Sigh of the Moor’ is a voice not in vain, “For the mother who bore him scorned Boabdil of Spain.”

The ages have brought forth no kinder than he His soul, like the broad, irresistible sea, Was a blending of majesty, sweetness and grace, Himself he forgot in his love for his race. The truths which he uttered all time will applaud, For his lips caught their flame from the altar of God.

Who can love in this life, and yet truly be wise? Who can hate, and still see with unprejudiced eyes? Our passions envelop our visions with mist; Their whirlwinds transport us wherever they list. To tenderly love and judge all hearts aright Belongs to One only--the Father of Light, Who sits on the throne with white radiance burning-- In whom is no variableness nor shadow of turning.

Fallen, fallen, is the storm-shattered oak of the South; Fallen, fallen, is the strong, stately pine of the North; One combatant loses, another one wins-- God have mercy on both and forgive them their sins. And if a man conquer, or if he should lose, ’Tis naught if the Great Judge His mercy refuse.

And now, all unheeding earth’s praises or blame, Thy two sons, Kentucky, repose in their fame. The victor struck down while the jubilant cheer Of honor and victory rang in his ear; The vanquished, who suffered in silence his lot, When the empire and glory he dreamed of were not. New Orleans and Springfield have taken to rest Two children, Kentucky, who nursed at thy breast.

Oh, Hardin and Christian, the homes of the great, Forgetfulness veils, through the satire of fate, While fame blazons far to the ends of the earth The log huts which gave to your progeny birth. The leaders of millions lie helpless and lone As the soldiers who perished unnoticed, unknown. Take them tenderly, dear Mother Earth, to thy breast, To sleep in their “windowless palace of rest.”

I hear, as I stand, pressed with grief, by your graves, A murmur, soft, strong, as of waves upon waves; And memory’s harp, with its mystical strings, Recalls, with the sweeping of infinite wings, How precious that flag by our fathers unfurled-- White flower of charity, light of the world, Float ever, proud banner of freedom sublime, Till the judgment’s last trump sounds the ending of time.

The Christmas Eve bells were all ringing aloud, When I dreamed that I saw on God’s bow in the cloud-- Its red like the rose dawn of Easter’s bright day; Its blue like the love that abideth for aye; Its gold the reflection of Paradise street; Its white the effulgence of God’s mercy seat-- An Angel, calm, radiant, of presence august, The great, golden balance of mercy adjust; And millions of martyrs on battlefields slain, Like the voice of the ocean, repeated the strain:

“O, States of the Union, all warfare shall cease; Christ lifts o’er the nation the banner of peace, As the prism-banded bow of the sky stanched the flood Its earth-child, the flag, ends the deluge of blood. War’s death-dealing cloud has forever rolled by, And Peace, with her olive branch, smiles from the sky Forever is silenced dissension’s wild roar; The demon of hate rends the Union no more.” And, lo! the bells answered from valley and hill: “Peace, peace upon earth, to all men of good-will!”

THE HUNTER’S LAST RIDE.

[We rode for hours, the day following, in the track of the fire which had swept the vast prairies as far as the eye could reach with utter desolation, finding on several occasions the charred remains of animals which had perished in the flames, and in one instance those of an unfortunate hunter and his horse.--Brissot’s Western Travels, Vol. II.]

One autumn eve, when clouds unfurled Swept down the west in bannered splendor, And dying sunset bathed the world In dolphin rainbows, mild and tender, As if the sun in heaven afar Lingered to greet the Evening Star, Mingling his glance of clearer light With the first radiance of the night, And in the twilight, tarrying late, Unwilling passed the western gate; A hunter, wearied with the chase, With his spent steed was slowly turning Unto his far-off resting place, Where his lone campfire light was burning-- For many a mile his steed had gone O’er the wide prairie since the dawn.

The choice bits from the saddle hung, The deer’s fat haunch, the buffalo’s tongue, A simple but a sweet repast To cheer his long and painful fast. Slow paced the strong but weary steed Of spacious chest and lightning speed, A coal black of the Norman breed Who ne’er had failed in time of need; A creature full of strength and grace, The noblest of his noble race In toil, in battle, or the chase, To hunt the bear on mountain side, To chase the deer o’er prairie wide, Or dash upon the ambuscade Of wily Indian foe arrayed, Or plunge through winter’s deepest snow, Or breast the torrent’s swiftest flow.

To huntsman who has borne the toil, Welcome the rest, and sweet the spoil; So mused McGregor in his mind, Leading his steed, when far behind, Upon his startled ears there came A rushing sound of distant flame-- A long, hoarse murmuring, sullen sound, As when an earthquake shakes the ground. Or the volcano’s voice of wrath Warns all to leave the lava’s path. A moment scarce he turned his head, Too well he knew that sound of dread, A moment--and McGregor saw A sight to chill his soul with awe; Behind him, hastening onward came A long, red serpent line of flame, Which, hissing, shot its tongues of light Upward into the gathering night, While midway ’twixt the earth and sky Like a death-angel hovering by, The smoke pall rolled in volumes dread, The awful banner of the dead. Quickly the burden was untied-- “Now, Saladin!” the huntsman cried, “Now, Saladin, my gallant steed, Attest thyself of noble breed, For never yet thy matchless speed Has served us in so sore a need, And never in the fiercest chase Hast thou e’er made so dread a race As this wild fight for life or death From yon fire-demon’s scorching breath.”

With nostrils spread and pointed ear, And eye of fierceness, not of fear, A moment brief, Saladin halted, While to his seat his rider vaulted, A moment snuffed the hot flame’s breath, The stifling atmosphere of death; A moment shook his streaming mane, Then sped like lightning o’er the plain-- Fly! Not for one brief moment stay-- Fly, for thy life--away, away!

Stretch every muscle--sinew--fly! To pause one moment is to die! Weary and worn and spent with pain, The struggling steed bounds o’er the plain Each iron sinew vainly straining; The fire upon his path is gaining; The mad flame brighter and brighter glows, The fatal circle smaller grows, And hotter, fiercer, wilder, higher, Leap the red demons of the fire.

The wild-eyed herd of buffaloes came Impetuous plunging through the flame; The antelopes in terror flying, On fleetest limbs in vain relying; The grouse fly round on whirring wings, Then blindly seek their funeral fires; The rattlesnake in anguish springs, Pierced with its own fang--writhes--expires. Long howls the wolf in dismal yell, Such as might shake the caves of hell, And many a wild, despairing cry Of brutes in mortal agony Falls thickly on McGregor’s ear, In wailings ominous and drear.

’Tis on him--now at last, Encircled by the fiery blast, McGregor stands With folded hands, Firm as a martyr when he braves The rack, the faggot, or the waves. Exhausted, panting, foaming, gasping, As though an iron band were clasping His laboring chest, Saladin sank With quivering side and streaming flank, While his pale rider rent the air With one sad groan of deep despair. Red rose the fire-cave’s crackling arch, Red rose the lurid walls around him, The hungry flames his pulses parch, And like a boa’s coils have bound him.

The buffalo In dying throe, With furious hoof the hunter paws; The wolf with howl And shriek and growl In his red life’s blood bathes his jaws, And rends his limbs apart, And the expiring panther gnaws His palpitating heart, As if the long revenge they cherish Were eased if their old foe might perish.

By the red moon’s ghostly light, Struggling through the murky vail, Dripping and dank with tears of night, And chill mist casting shadows pale, A voice of sorrow seems to wail, A fitful, sobbing, plaintive tone, Thrilling the pained air with its moan, As if some Ariel unsleeping, A death watch in the sky was keeping, His harp of tears in pity sweeping: “Rest, huntsman! from thy final chase, Rest, Saladin! from thy last, long race, Horseman and horse they both have gone; Dying with all their armor on, And slumbering in their last repose Together, circled by their foes.”

THE OLD ROCK SPRING.

I know not what of sadness strange, Comes over my soul to-day, As I think of Time’s unceasing change, And the friends he has snatched away; For Time has turned those locks to gray, Which were black as a raven’s wing, Of the boys and girls who used to play, Around the Old Rock Spring.

II.

Strange voices whisper from its depths, The tones of a far church bell, A sweet soprano’s melody A parting friend’s farewell, And phantoms flutter o’er its waves, Pale brides with wreath and ring; Then vanish like the bubbles that burst On the face of the Old Rock Spring.

III.

Why die the beautiful and strong? Why does the great oak fall? Why fades the rose? These fleeting drops Of water outlive them all: Snow, rain or mist--around the world They sweep on tireless wing, Then fall like mother nature’s tears, On the breast of the Old Rock Spring.

IV.

“How soon we are forgotten clean When we are gone,” quoth Rip, We perish and the stream of death Engulfs the proudest ship;

Gone!--like a faded, broken plume Dropped from an eagle’s wing, Or pebble tossed by a sportive child, In the depths of the Old Rock Spring.

V.

Some in silence and some in strife, Friends, passed to the dim Unknown, In manhood’s prime or the morn of life, And I am left alone; In vain do I essay a song, On a harp with broken string, While the hot tears trickle down my cheeks, And fall in the Old Rock Spring.

A LYRIC FOR LILIAN.

I BRING THEE A GARLAND.

I bring thee a garland, O, violet-eyed maid Its exquisite bloom in thy dark locks, I braid. Love nourished each flower with a sigh and a tear, And the sigh and the tear Shall make them more dear, And bring them new charms with each vanishing year.

I fill thee a goblet--’tis the heart’s purest wine, Fresh foamed from the wine-press of St. Valentine, The Rathskeller holds it which sits in the skies, Whose roseate gleaming Is bright in its beaming, As the love-stars which shine in the heav’n of thine eyes.

I bring thee a song, and though humble the strain, Love glows in each word of the burning refrain. And oh, that its notes were as wild and as sweet As the plashing of fountains Or horns on the mountains, Or songs which thy dear lips in warblings repeat.

THE STRAWBERRY BOWL

[A private and confidential Epistle to Sam Gaines, Editor of the Hopkinsville New Era. Written for the Kentucky Press Association.]

God might have made a better berry than the strawberry, but certainly he never did.--_Izaak Walton._

YE SALUTATION.