Part 3

Lo! Dreamland’s terrible array, Advances still--Away, away!-- Down through the dark Cimmerian glen Stained with the blood of murdered men, Far from the beams of the friendly sun When “deeds without a name” are done, And the night-hags hold their dance of death Around the cauldron of Macbeth; Where the sire fell by the hand of the son-- A stab, a groan, and the crime was done; Where the duelist sped the ball of death, And the mother stifled the infant’s breath, Under yon gloomy cypress’ shade By the lonely grave of the beautiful maid, Murdered by him who had betrayed, Where her spectre glides at dead of night With clots of gore on her bosom white; Where on a gibbet the murderer swings Waving his fleshless arms like wings-- I fled, nor quaked at the hideous sight, For life and death were in my flight.

Across the burning desert’s waste Where the path by skeletons is traced, And the bones of the caravan welter and bleach As thick as the shells on the ocean’s beach, Swift as the winged winds I fly, And my swollen lips are all cracked and dry, And I plead in vain to the rainless sky, While my bloodshot eyes from their sockets burst In the torrid agony of thirst; But the demons that follow laugh and yell As they breathe the native blasts of hell. The simoon’s blast, Oh joy! is past, And the ocean beach is reached at last! A storm is out and the wild winds mock The ship as she drives on a hidden rock, And the sea-gull screams its piercing dirge As the dead drift in on the landward surge. No pause! but quick as thought I lave My burning limbs in the boiling wave, Till I reach a cliff in my watery flight And breathless scale its dizzy height. The ocean’s roar comes faint and weak As I cling to the side of the slippery peak, Watching the wrath of the fearful night By the fitful flash of tempest’s light. Lo! how the eyes of the demons glow As they cleave the boiling waves below! Yelling at me, their helpless prey As bloodhounds yell when the stag’s at bay! They climb! they mount! the demons all, And the beetling cliff begins to fall-- And I wake with a groan and a smothered scream To find it all a fever dream

MAJOR BASSETT’S CHASE.

_Text_--“O that they were wise, that they understood this, that they would consider their latter end!

How should one chase a thousand, and two put ten thousand to flight?

--Deuteronomy XXXII, 29, 30

Glenraven’s Night Riders, five hundred strong, Had finished their riot of outrage and wrong, They had burned Latham’s warehouse, robbed Italy’s King (What defense in the courts will the criminals bring? Who will dare to defend base ingratitude’s sting?); They have scourged a Kentuckian’s back like a slave, ’Twas the brute deed of cowards, not the just or the brave,[A] McCool on his shoulders plied an overseer’s lashes By the light of two warehouses sinking in ashes. They have dragged helpless maidens from innocent bed, They have shot through the bedrooms of widows--with lead These black-handed anarchists of murder and arson Fired four volleys at a silver haired Methodist parson, And yelled in derision as their shots rang on air, “Denounce us again, Sir Priest--if you dare! Neither for you, nor your Church, nor your God do we care! They have done all that arson and force could achieve, And quaking like cowards the outlaws take leave, Unlike valiant soldiers after manly affray But like thieves from a hen-roost sneak quickly away.

Out spoke Major Bassett: “The dogs had their day, And shooting’s a game at which two parties can play, They surprised us; the cowards have all skulked away. We’ll follow!” cried Bassett, and off with his mount Pursued--ten brave men and true were his count. There was clatter of hoofs down the old Cadiz road, ’Twas a clean pair of heels the Glenravenites showed. Alas, for the pluck of these minions of night, Black of mask and of heart, but their livers are white.

“Ride fast!” shrieked the Night Riders’ chief, looking back, “A thousand giants from Hopkinsville press on our track! The Mayor has mustered all Company D, In humanity’s name can such outrages be? Now is your time to do Latham up brown And fire him and his followers out of the town! Damn his turnpikes, on which thirty thousand he spent! Damn the churches he aided--Hotel, Monument-- (How grandly it towers o’er Confederate graves-- Shall the sons of such heroes be Night Riders’ slaves?) Damn all such aristocrats, they shall know by the powers, That after they’ve made it their money is ours!” Hoboes, loafers and robbers, ride for your lives, On your crimes the Raven of Glen Raven thrives, And its horrible croak strikes fear to the land When it calls to the raid the Night Riders’ band. But who would have thought that the dogs would shoot back Real Krag-Jorgensen bullets? Alas and alack! His words were cut short by a volley of lead-- There were loud shrieks of pain, in all quarters they fled; The shots of the bandits flew wide of their mark, As they galloped in terror away in the dark. Nor halted the maskers in their blood-sprinkled path To look back on three comrades writhing in death.

Then Bassett assembled his God-fearing squad And bowing their heads devoutly thanked God That when Christian men band to battle for Right One Christian can put a thousand outlaws to flight. Honest men will always walk off with the cake, And that is where Moses made no mistake; And to the Last Judgment all honest men Will bow to the Decalogue traced by his pen; For God Himself writes in Mount Sinai’s brief By Moses His penman, Humanity’s chief, The Night Rider is coward, assassin, and thief. Hold fast to Moses! A squad of eleven Who join hands with Truth, are posted for Heaven, And the outlaws who ’gainst truth and honor rebel Must go to their place with the outlaws in Hell.

So we’ll all shout huzza for Bassett and band, Till they banish the Night Riders out of the land. Forever shall God’s honest ministers preach Paul’s heaven-taught doctrine of order and law, As bold as John Baptist they shall stand in the breach To battle for Truth and keep villains in awe.

THE TEN BROTHERS.

[On the last day of the Christian County Fair, many years since, the ten sons of Mrs. Rebecca Brown, all excellent horsemen, entered the amphitheater mounted on iron-gray horses. After a fine exercise of horsemanship by the brothers the judges presented their aged mother with a silver cup, amid the loud applause of the vast crowd of spectators.]

’Tis the last afternoon of the old County Fair The amphitheatre’s thronged for a spectacle rare. Ten sons of one mother contend for the prize And a whirlwind of cheering ascends to the skies ’Tis surely a pity that horses and sheep, Mules, poultry and swine the blue ribbon should keep, O’er a highly bred strain of true women and men-- If degenerate men rule the State, pray what then?

On ten iron-gray horses they enter the ring, Ten brothers as graceful as swallows on wing. The crowd shouts and claps, for county and town Loved their silver-haired mother, Rebecca Brown. Let others for cattle and horses seek the prize The boys she had nursed were more dear in her eyes, Her sons were her jewels like Cornelia of old, More precious than Solomon’s rubies and gold, Each son a true citizen honored of men, Master workmen are all with plow, anvil or pen. In pairs and platoons they join and divide, Ever changing the figure in column they ride, Firm in the stirrup, with regular motion, Like flights of wild geese or the billows of ocean, O Mother! far better than rank, fashion, or wealth Is the toast all spectators now drink to your health.

“Here’s a health to good mothers, the Angels of home, Write their names in the Temple of Fame--on the dome!” Smiling through tears gazed the mother that day, Her eyes followed each son on his fleet iron-gray, Thrifty, frugal, and upright was each dutiful one, In the whole decade not a prodigal son Precious memories ran back o’er the long vista of years, Faith’s brilliant rainbow arched her fountain of tears, Love and hope all commingled with doubts and with fears.

O hour mysterious of omnipotent prayer! When the fireflies’ carnival flashes in air, When the Evening Star shines and the meteors glide She counselled them thus as they knelt by her side:-- “Let no plausible white lie, for gain, soil your lips; Let the dear sun of Truth be undimmed by eclipse. God’s commandments be yours, for their number is Ten, Obey them and be honored of God and of Men, For ’tis better by far to be honest than rich, And the King who is false finds his grave in a ditch; His manhood’s secure in the armour of Truth Who remembers his Creator in the days of his youth.”

Swift round the ring rode the Ten Brothers Brown, Till the bugle sounds “Halt!” for award of the crown. By what rule of the Fair shall the Judges decree? Horsemen, horses, or mother--to which of the three? There was strewing of flowers, kerchiefs waving _galore_ Acclamations round the vast amphitheatre roar As waves boom aloud ’gainst the rocks on the shore, As around the grand stand the brothers rode up The Judges with one voice cried, “Take, O Mother, this cup, Far better and higher than wealth, rank or beauty, Your sons are your jewels--take the high prize of Duty, For Motherhood’s Excellence is guarded secure While Truth reigns on high and the heavens endure!”

ECHO RIVER.

Through the unpeopled realms of night We have reached the Echo River; And our swinging torches’ light Over its sunless waters quiver-- Shooting their rays athwart the gloom Of yonder stern, colossal tomb; Emblazoning the funeral pall Of night, that drapes the high-arched hall, So dense, we almost hear it wave Over the Titan’s rocky grave-- Once the dread Cyclops of the Cave.

What bold Ulysses, standing by, Gazed on his dying agony, When, blind and frenzied, he laid down His scepter and imperial crown, And yielded up his struggling breath In this stern catacomb of death; And felt the icy shiver That chilled the fever’s fiery parch, When took his soul its Stygian march Adown the dark and stony arch Of gloomy Echo River?

Lone as the tarn, whose sobbing flood Sighs in some demon-haunted wood, Its cheerless waters ever run Without one welcome from the sun; Without a smile from one lone star That trembles in the sky afar; But wend their solitary way, Secluded from the light of day.

Kind Genii of the mystic wave, Who guard the portals of the cave, Gently along this sable tide Now let our little shallop glide; And by these weird and shadowy shores Direct the dusky boatman’s oars, Until yon night-enshrouded strand Receives our wandering pilgrim band

High towering, like the rocky walls Of the leviathan’s ocean halls, Rises the overshadowing cliff Above our frail but daring skiff, Which skims along this lower deep, Where angry tempests never sweep Nor polar star affords its ray To steer us on our trackless way. And as we slowly sail along, The plashing oar, the voice of song, Caught by the Naiads of the waves And echoed by the vocal caves, Enchant the pleased yet startled ear With strains that ring as loud and clear As the wild mountain music--born From the lone Alpine shepherd’s horn, In peals so loud that they affright The lammergeyer on dizzy height; And the bold eagle’s trumpet shriek, Loud-bugled from his thunder beak And echoed round from peak to peak, In hollow cadence dies away Along the mountain river, When the first stars of evening gray On the blue waters quiver.

* * * * *

Boom! rings the flashing pistol’s shot! The sound, by myriad echoes caught, Roars down the dark aisles of the grot; Loud as the earthquake demon’s groan, Peals the terrific thunder-tone-- As if the shrieking blasts of March, That wrestle with the mountain larch, Swept down the dark and stony arch Of glory’s Echo River.

’Tis gone! and now a sad farewell Unto the listening waves we tell; Softer than midnight serenade Sung to the ears of Spanish maid By the blue Guadalquiver! Plaintive and sweet as “Dixie”‘s air Of sadness which is not despair And ravishes the enchanted ear Of home-returning volunteer-- By his dear Bluegrass maiden sung, To mandolin with silver tongue. And witching is the fond adieu The voice of beauty sings to you-- O, music-murmuring river! For one, whose eyes and flowing locks Are darker than the raven’s wing Of midnight, brooding o’er yon rocks, Touches the plaintive sounding string, And pours a melancholy song That floats the vocal stream along, Sad as the convent’s vesper hymn, Chanted by nuns, at twilight dim, Or that strange harp, whose magic tone So wildly sweet, so sad and lone, To mortal minstrel never known, On night winds wafts its hollow moan. The ravished Genii of the waves Repeat the story through the caves; And far along the tuneful flood, A never-ending multitude Of echoing Ariels take their flight Far down the dark aisles of the night.

If, when our throbbing hearts are still, And pulseless lies the icy hand, Reality should then fulfill Our dreamings of a brighter land, Then may the unfettered spirit’s ear, In some supernal, sinless sphere, Hear some immortal song like this Float through the bowers of Paradise, That bloom serene forever. While wafted home to rest, we dream. By Eden’s clear, ambrosial stream, That clouds o’ershadow never. We part! But O, who would not grieve This world of melody to leave? For round our hearts a witching spell Lingers and whispers low, “Farewell!” Like the low moan of ocean shell. Or midnight chime of distant bell, The torches, dancing to and fro, Cast in long lines their golden glow Over the inky surge’s flow, Like arrows from Apollo’s bow Or Dian’s starry quiver! And like an anthem from the skies, The voice of heavenly music dies Far down the Echo River!

THE ANGEL OF THE HOSPITAL.

’Twas night in Richmond’s hospital. The day As though its eyes were dimmed by bloody rain From the red cloud of war, had quenched its light, And in its stead some pale sepulchral lamps Shed their dim rays across the halls of pain, And flaunted mystic shadows on the walls. Ah! woe is me! No ringing cry of “Charge!” Stirs the hot, sulphurous air. The parting groan, The shuddering moan of bitter agony From white lips quivering as they strive in vain To smother mortal pain, appall the ear, And make the warm blood curdle in the heart.

Nor flag, nor plume, nor bayonet, nor lance, Nor burnished gun, nor bugle-call, nor drum, Display the pomp of battle; but instead, The surgeon hard at work with lips compressed; The tourniquet, the scalpel, and the lance, The bandage and the splint are scattered round, Dumb symbols telling more than tongue can speak The awful presence of the fiend of war. Lo, there! What gentle form with cautious step Passes from cot to cot as noiselessly As the faint shadows flickering on the wall?

She comes to one, a soldier from his youth, Grown gray in arms, pierced through with mortal wounds; Beside his cot she kneels and tells of Him Who wrought redemption on the bitter cross. The veteran hears with smile of gratitude, And, like a frozen fount when it is touched By the sun’s rays, he melts in gushing tears, And, fixing his last look on her and Heaven, Passes away in penitential prayer.

She comes to one in sinewy manhood’s prime, Now prostrate like a lightning-shattered pine. Death fears he not. His busy thoughts have gone To his far cottage in the Southern wilds, Where his young bride and prattling little ones, Poor helpless lambs! chased by the wolves of war, Wait for the absent one, and sadly say, “How long he stays! Where can he be to-night?” The angel softly whispers in his ear, “A husband to the widow God will be, And guard her orphans. Let His will be done.” The dying man her consolation hears, And gives the dearest treasure of his soul In resignation to the will of Heaven.

A fair, pale boy of fifteen summers turns His wasted form upon the couch of death; Ah! how unlike the downy nest prepared By mother’s love, when slept the tender child. He heard the fife and drum and rushed to arms Amid the rude companionship of war. The raging fever burns his brain; he moans And raves in agony; his laboring breath Is quick and hot as that of stricken fawn Stretched by the Indian’s arrow on the plain. “Mother! dear mother!” oft his faltering tongue Shrieks to the cold bare walls, which echo back His wailing in the mockery of despair. The angel comes, and fondly bending o’er The boy she cools his throbbing brow and prays That the Good Shepherd would take home the lamb, Far wandering from the dear maternal fold, To the green valleys of eternal rest.

(Nurse lifts her hands in horror, and faints away. Others hasten to her relief. The dead boy is carried out.)

_Mary_: O, my long-lost dear brother! What an awful moment was that when, by the dim lamp-light, I recognized in the wan, wasted face of the dying boy, the child with whom I had sported so often in the meadows and by the brook, gathering berries or wild flowers, and shouting in the fullness of mirth till the woods rang with the echoes. With me he grew up. We studied our tasks together till our aims and sympathies seemed to be one. The horrid war-bugle sounded; the dismal drum beat; the beardless boy then rushed from my arms to throw himself into the tumult of battle. Suddenly, while waiting on the wounded in the house of torture, I came upon the lost one, mangled and bleeding. He gasps and dies in my arms without recognition! Mother of Sorrows, whose loving heart was pierced with woe as with a sword under the cross of thy Son, give thy divine sympathy to this heart so bereaved, crushed, and desolate!

_Materna_:

An iron scepter and a brazen crown The war-god bears; stern, cold, and merciless, He smites his worshippers with bloody hand.

_Foreman_:

So walks the angel on from scene to scene: Sweet vision of my dreams! thy light shall shine Through this dark world, all cloudless, calm, serene. Pure as the sacred evening star of love, The brightest planet in the host above!

WASHINGTON, April 28, 1863.

To S. C. MERCER, Editor of the _Nashville Daily Union_:

Private. Your labors are highly appreciated out of Tennessee. Go on as you have done unfaltering in the work you have commenced. The Union Club of Nashville is doing much good. Their proceedings are looked to with much interest. I hope their policy will be sound and their purposes decided.

I have got things straightened out, I hope for the better. I will be in Nashville soon.

ANDREW JOHNSON.

THE TWO SINGERS.

Two singers sat on New Year’s eve By the blaze of a flickering fire. “The old year is burning out,” said one “Like the embers of our own life’s fire; As the fire’s blaze are our passing days, As the year shall our lives be o’er; Let us sing a rhyme to the passing year Ere we shall rhyme no more.”

The elder rhymer, heavy of heart, Cried “Life is a thankless task. Its loves and its hate, its Church and State, Are only a hollow mask. Honor, and love, and rank and fame, Are chaff and idle words, And the schemes of men and the hopes of youth Are the chatter of silly birds.

“Thus runs my rhyme:--The Ferryman Time With his ever-waning glass, Has laid on his bier another year And sung his Midnight Mass. From the oak wood dim rose a funeral hymn As earth bewailed the dead, And the seas made moan through every zone As the souls to Judgment fled.

“The Ferryman stands on the sable sands Of the desolate Stygian stream; Not a starry eye from the stormy sky Shoots down one cheerful beam, But a hopeless wail filled the winter gale As the phantom guests rushed in, And fear and despair, and doubt were there, Hopes baffled, and woe and sin.

“Ambition told how his palace fell Whose turrets braved the clouds, His royal guests changed their courtly robes For pale and ghostly shrouds. His banquet hall is tenantless, Unstrung is the minstrel’s viol-- Not a sound to greet but the pendulum’s beat Of the lone monotonous dial.

“Genius proclaimed how folly’s scorn Robbed his nights and days of rest, And the only food of his eagle brood Was the life-blood of his breast. Bright were the gleams that lit his dreams, But ah! when he awoke His light was dead, his vision fled, And hope and heart were broke.

“Pale as the light of an Eastern night Straying through orange bowers, Comes the love-crazed maid, Ophelia sad, White-robed and crowned with flowers The essence she of purity, Born for love’s pure caress, But madness quenched her soul’s desire In utter wretchedness.

“So,” cried the bard, “the whole wide earth Is a den of baffled souls. ’Mid all its pleasures, joys, and hopes, The dreary death-bell tolls.”

“Hold,” cried his comrade--“See the whole And judge not by a part. The end shall crown the work, and heal The disappointed heart. See where the boatman waits to cross Death’s strange, mysterious stream The endless Life to Come outlasts This mortal, transient dream.

“Unworthy of a wise man’s lips Are the murmurs of despair; The heavens have never lost one star And God Himself reigns there, A faithful God created man-- He ne’er forsakes a friend; Wait, comrade, on God’s goodness still-- Be patient to the end.

“Through mists of doubt there shines a light Upon Death’s farther shore-- Where the Lethean draught of peace is quaffed And the struggle of earth is o’er. Our feet shall stand on the shining strand Of Life’s eternal river, Where the buds of Hope in fullness ope And Love endures forever.”

BATTLE OF MILL SPRING.

By the banks of the Cumberland echoes the roar Of the sentinel’s warning--the foe’s on the shore. Our war-drums are beaten, our bugles are blown, And our legions advance to their musical tone.

By the banks of the Cumberland, slippery and red With the death-dew of battle, and strewn with the dead, Kentucky has routed her arrogant foe, And victory’s star gilds the night of our woe.