Part 4

By those banks, that once bloomed like an Eden of joy The fiend of Disunion stalked forth to destroy, Our rich teeming harvests he swept in his wrath, And the blaze of our dwellings illumined his path.

Like an eagle-plumed arrow our Nemesis comes. Shout, soldiers! sound, bugles! and clamor, oh drums! Let the land ring aloud in the wildness of joy, And the bonfires blaze brightly--but not destroy.

For the God of the Union has prospered the right, And the ranks of Disunion have melted in flight. Blow, bugles! roll, river! and tell to the sea That our swords shall not rest ’till Kentucky is free.

THE GREEK SLAVE.

[Power’s Greek Slave was on exhibition in Lexington, Ky., where I lived when these lines were published in the Lexington _Observer and Reporter_.]

Soft as the silver songs which breathed Over the Lesbian Sappho’s shell, When the white-handed Paphians wreathed Garlands for her who sang so well, Is the low murmur of the waves Which swell along Zacynthus’ caves And in melodious echoes fall Within the mermaids’ ocean hall. There many a grove salutes the sea With song-birds’ ceaseless harmony Innumerable blossoms fling Rich odors on the dewy wing Of every breeze which wanders free Over the blue Ægean Sea; In golden splendor of the day Reflected from the burnished bay, Or spangled with the countless lights Which gem those skies on cloudless nights, And land and sea and sky above Breathe only peace and joy and love.

A maiden in her grape-vine bower Sat sorrowful at twilight’s hour, And as her fingers sweep the strings Of her guitar she softly sings, “O, for the Greeks of olden time Worthy our blest and sunny clime; Men who would rather die than brook That Turkish chain or Persian yoke Should strangle like a serpent’s coil One neck on freedom’s native soil. Never, O never, ye Spartan dead, Till you arise from your gory bed, Will the Sultan cease to bear away The flower of Greece for his harem’s prey. The sun is up; his rising ray Shoots brightly o’er the swelling bay, And richly mottled shells which strew The beach with many a dazzling hue. With tapered masts in sunshine gleaming And pennons in the breezes streaming And snowy sails yon shallop glides Gracefully over the heaving tides. And see a captive maiden stands Upon its deck with fettered hands. Her song is changed to a wail of pain For plundered home and parents slain. Harsh is the clanging of the chains Which bind her lithe and shapely limbs Keen are their deep and cankering pains But not for this her dark eye swims In agonizing tears, whose flow Betokens bitter shame and woe. Sorer are tears for freedom fled Than those affection gives the dead. The sorest pangs that fate can send Like arrows to the captive’s heart Are not from outward griefs; these end, Theirs is a transitory smart; But musing on her island home, The home of purity and bliss, And then the thought of days to come-- The hopeless harem, it is this Which fills her soul with deeper anguish Than makes the dying martyr languish.

But Power’s hand shall carve the tale Of sorrow in that Grecian vale. His cunning chisel shall relate The sorrow of a fallen State, And the incomparable Slave, Repeat o’er many a distant wave The legend of the hapless maid To Turkish lust and shame betrayed.

ODE TO IMPUDENCE

Goddess of Impudence, Whose tinsel-crowned pretense And shameless eye and cheek of polished brass Rule Young America With all-triumphant sway, The forward school-boy and precocious lass, Whose unweaned mouths smell of their nurses’ milk And others of that ilk-- Inspire my pen, Queen of the groundlings and the Upper Ten, For to thy empire both belong And both deserve a song.

What protean power Is thy mysterious dower? Thy wonder-working wand Transmutes all things to gold like Midas’ hand-- All save the _metal_ of thy followers’ _face_, And that is _brass_, we know in every place; Thy favors, where thou dost dispense, Make up for lack of decency and sense; Thy harlot tread Crushes the modest violet in its bed; Truth, wit, and merit are proclaimed a bore, And kicked _sans ceremonie_ from the door; And power, wealth, and fame Are given unto them who know no shame.

Thy trophies first are seen In youths and maidens tender, young, and green, Who stalk the streets about Before their doting mothers know they’re out; See how these infant swells Gallant their baby belles, Who know much more Than their mammas found out at twenty-four; They feel the early flame at seven; At nine They languish, sigh, and pine; Till, dying to be wedded at thirteen, A moonlight runaway concludes the scene.

The mincing maid, Let loose from school, Hooped, bustled, high-heeled, stayed, Pert as a jay and stubborn as a mule, Proves to the world that she has learned to faint To dip, to lily-white, and paint, And lift her skirts so high That the unwilling eye May see the neatness of her garter’s tie Oh, Impudence; thou hast removed The childish innocence we loved; No more we see The native blush of modesty; Saucy and malapert, The girl a coquette and the boy a flirt; Forward and bold, They honor not the old-- Not even the sire, Who sits unhonored by his cheerless fire-- Too fondly dreaming of the sweet repose Under the grape-vine shadows of Melrose. Nor her who bore the brood, The hissing vipers of ingratitude; But dark and ominous fate Sits like a raven o’er the gate Whence modesty has fled, And Impudence lifts up her brazen head, For Folly’s breath pollutes the air, And Wisdom will not linger there, And all within Bows to the iron rule of ignorance and sin.

See where the bold imposter plies his trade, And cheats of every kind are made; Quack creeds, quack medicines, quack politics, In wild confusion mix; And lo; the scribbler who _writes down_ The wisest and the noblest men, With his envenomed pen, To please the long-eared rabble of the town, The darkly hinted calumny, The vulgar jeer, The cynic sneer, The bold unblushing lie, He scatters round in heedless wrath, Like firebrands upon a madman’s path, So when the infernal crew had hunted down The statesman who deserved a crown, And shot the empoisoned dart Deep in his quivering heart, While, like a stag chased home, at bay he stood, Facing the clamorous pack athirst for blood; With awful grandeur beaming in his eye, Promethean in its agony, The hireling scribbler all unshamed By the sad gaze of him he had defamed, Exulted in his hellish work, As the assassin when he plies his dirk, And styled himself apostle sent to teach Mankind the glories of free thought and speech.

The Sage upon Judea’s Mount Unsealed the everlasting fount Of Peace and Truth and Love, And the Evangel Dove Came from the skies and nestled to his breast, And bright-eyed Hope, From Heaven’s starry slope, Under his gentle reign, Beheld the Golden Age return again, And Earth was blest. But lo; lean wolves have seized the fold, And _brass_ supplants the Age of Gold. Luxurious, profligate, and vile, With lips of guile, And Judas’ kiss and smile, The modern Pharisee, With broad phylactery, Converts the temple of his God Into a mart of crime and fraud. Inspired by thee, oh, Impudence; He holds the words of truth and speaks a lie, Cloaks blackest sins with fair pretense Of Apostolic piety, And shears the starving sheep and flays the lambs, ’Mid groans and prayers and penitential psalms.

Oh, Impudence; thy triumph is complete; Mankind lie prostrate at thy feet, And every class, Like bees in swarm, Are spell-bound by the charm Of “tinkling cymbals and of sounding brass,” Genius and modest worth Starve in the cradle of their birth. They win the meed of fame Whose deeds deserve the pillory of shame; Upon the topmost waves of honor ride, As scum and froth float on the swollen tide. So coxcombs in the garden blow, While fragrant myrtles nestle low; So hollyhocks uplift their head In scentless robes of flaunting red, And gaudy peonies Attract the passers’ eyes, Yet from their leaves no fragrant dews Their cheering influence diffuse Like that ambrosia and sweet violets shed, Or fragrant mignonette in its unnoticed bed.

MY BIRTHDAY.

Another milestone meets me, on Time’s weary road of woe, And onward to the sea of Death, o’er rugged steeps I go; Far in the West the setting sun in clouds is sinking fast, And night o’ertakes me with its storms and madly howling blast.

Ah, there were days whose lapse was like the flow of summer waves When June’s fresh roses stoop to kiss the murmuring stream that laves, When gentle tones and loving eyes my boyish pastimes blest And childhood’s every care was soothed upon a mother’s breast.

Sister, sweet sister, oh, could not the fearful spoiler spare A heart so true and innocent, a form so young and fair! I saw thy lily hands crossed on thy snowy winding sheet, But thy soul was by the shining throne, upon the golden street.

But oh, thy gentle voice on earth can make no music now, And in the tomb the funeral dust is gathered on thy brow. What now is left to me? To muse upon the past with pain While the quivering pulse is throbbing like a death knell on my brain.

I am like one shipwrecked upon some bleak and lonely shore, With not a voice to greet his ear except the billows’ roar; All that he loved are whelmed far down beneath the briny sea; Even hope deserts him now--alas! all hope has fled from me!

Dark falls the night--all pitiless the rainy tempests blow-- Earth yields no shelter, and above no friendly beacons glow; A crown of thorns is piercing through my aching, throbbing brow, And iron griefs my pallid cheeks with deep run furrows plow.

But oh, thou Holy One, whose feet once pressed this earthly sod; Balm of the bruised and bleeding heart, oh, sinless Lamb of God, To thee on bended knees, with tears of bitterness, I pray, For thou canst heal my stricken heart and guide me on the way.

BATTLE OF NASHVILLE

DECEMBER 15-16, 1864.

[Written as a Carriers’ Address for the Nashville _Daily Press and Times_, December 25, 1864.]

THE PREPARATION.

All day, while gazing from yon lofty tower, We saw, far gleaming through the mist and smoke, The camps, like fleets upon a circling sea, Or snowdrifts sleeping on the frozen hills, Dumb batteries, like bloodhounds in the leash, Yet terrible in silence, the blue tide Of cavalry, the battle’s foremost wave; The gunboats on the left; upon the right Fort Gillem’s bannered staff, and to the south Fort Negley’s bastions belting St. Cloud’s hill, And Morton and Casino by its side. How soon their guns will belch their sulphurous breath Upon the crimson carnival of Death!

THE NIGHT SCENE.

But when the darkness swallowed up the day, As if we entered the Elysian fields, Through the encircling clouds of awful night, We saw a glowing Paradise of light. A thousand camp-fires blossomed on the hills, The flame-leaved lilies of the Field of Mars, Minerva’s bloody roses, passion-flowers, Planted by sooty Vulcan, whose red disc Thrive best in crimson showers, and gather strength, Fanned by the moans and sighs of dying men, Each tented hill and pyramid of fire Flashed round the dark horizon, till it seemed A billowed sea of many-twinkling lights, Or burning girdle of Vesuvian crests Whose surging lava trembled to o’erleap Their glowing craters and engulf the plains. Alas, for many a harnessed warrior when Yon Battle-Titan turns him in his den!

THE PRELUDE.

Hearken! In the murky morning, Sounds the awful note of warning. Winding down the river shore Tramps the veteran Sixteenth Corps, Wilson’s bugles charm the river, With the signal of advance, Twenty thousand guidons quiver From the horsemen’s tapering lance! Twenty thousand chargers’ feet Hurry through the startled street, Stretching “to the crack of doom” Till they vanish in the gloom Of the woods which fringe the west Round Fort Zollicoffer’s crest. We hear along the western shore The sullen battle’s opening roar, While in the clouds, like the Angel of Death, The white-winged shells pour their sulphurous breath. Hatch’s horsemen spur their steeds, Croxton’s sabres bright and gleaming, Johnson in the vanguard leads Still encircling, still advancing, Onward like a torrent’s dashing, Spaulding’s carbine fire is flashing, Like a serpent line of fire-- Stewart reels before their ire. Rolls the battle-tumult higher-- The soldier falls--the charger bleeds, Stewart’s line recoils!--recedes! “Charge the batteries!”--It is done-- Stewart’s legions turn and fly-- Swells the glad shout of Victory!-- So the first day’s strife is won

THE SECOND DAY.

The morning breaks With battle thunder, The city wakes With fear and wonder. See the glittering bayonets shine, Along the front of Steedman’s line. The bugle’s call--the rolling drum-- The mad shriek of the flying shell, The rush--the soldier’s frenzied yell, The crash of the exploding bomb Careering wildly through the air, The distant batteries’ vivid glare, The cannons’ smoke which jets aloof, The foaming charger’s clattering hoof, The musketry’s incessant shower, Drifting its lead ’round Acklin’s tower; The cannister’s consuming spray, Where dauntless Steedman cleaves his way; Or fearless Wood’s heroic form Lion-like, confronts the storm, Startle the eye and stun the ear As sweeps the battle’s wild career There is dread and desperation, There is wrath and trepidation; They grapple, they reel In the sharp shock of steel, They struggle, they bleed, They rush, they recede; Death’s harvesters labor With carbine and sabre. In swaths the dead are falling, and the maimed and bleeding writhe Before the steady swinging of the ponderous battle-scythe.

THE CHIEF.

Serene and steady as the Polar Star Whose light no clouds can quench nor billows mar But shines while tempests lash the deep below, Thomas surveyed the turbid storm of war, And gazed and watched to strike the final blow, The Rock of Chickamauga, braving the whirlwind’s jar.

THE CHARGE.

Freemen of the stern Northwest, Come with bayonets in rest, Exiles of East Tennessee Strike! and make the oppressor flee. Warriors once in fetters bound, With liberty would you be crowned? Now or never stand your ground, Make your fearless masters feel The vengeance of a freeman’s steel, And _with_ or _on_ your shining shield Return in glory from the field. Clenched lips turn pale, but they pale not with fear, And the soldier’s eye gleams like a star in its sphere,-- There’s a hush! There’s a rumbling and crush, Like the breaking of the ice in a thawing river’s flush, The solid earth shakes with a universal rush, The clouds of battle break, The hills in terror quake, While the fire crackles down their sides like a red volcanic lake-- Beneath whose fiery surge that day full many a bark went down, And many a soul which morning woke from dreams of high renown. Face to face and sword to sword-- See the slave confront his lord; Through the tumult the foam-covered charger is spurred, And the shrieks of the wounded and dying are heard; And the muskets and carbines are doubled and battered And sabres and bayonets to atoms are scattered-- The command and the curse, and the groan and the yell, Thunder up like the mad-bubbling cauldron of Hell.[B] Eagles of victory, say, on which flag will you alight-- Confederate or Federal? Both deem their cause is right; Never more fearless rivals grappled in mortal fight. No carpet knights are they, but iron-sinewed men, From office, mine, and workshop, from mountain, prairie, glen, From legendary Southern river, from sparkling Northern lake, From Indiana beechwood, or Arkansas cane-brake. All worthy of the highest song that dropped from Homer’s pen. Leonidas at Thermopylæ led on no braver crew Than those who bore the “Stars and Bars”; nor bloody Waterloo, Than the men who carried the “Stars and Stripes” where bullets thickest flew. God speed the day when the boys in Gray shall charge with the boys in Blue, And San Juan and Manila Bay a loving-cup shall brew, And Dewey and Joe Wheeler the old love shall renew. Where is Thomas? His lips compressed, Smother the tumult in his breast; Along the line his clear survey Scans the sure fortune of the day. “Forward to the charge once more!” Then like the Judgment thunder, Cleaving the clouds asunder, The shock of battle sweeps from shore to shore And shakes the rock-ribbed valley with its roar. Like a tropical tornado, Death pours his crimson rain In swirling drifts of slaughter along the trampled plain. Bleeding and torn and shattered, Hood’s vanquished legions fly, And along the Union line goes up the shout of victory. Thus Nashville’s Two Days’ Battle by our silent chief was won, And our hearts were filled with gladness at the setting of the sun.

BLONDE AND BRUNETTE.

Two clouds, gold and purple, at sunrise contending; Two chords of rare music, contrasting and blending, Through the carnival flying like sunshine and shadow, Pursuing each other o’er mountain and meadow, Swept our blonde and brunette, all radiant with joy-- Cleopatra of Egypt, and Helen of Troy.

The blonde is a dew-spangled morning in June When birds, breeze and bees with the sun are in tune; Her lips and the rose scent the crystalline air And the sunshine is lost in the gold of her hair.

The brunette is a ray of the mystical light Which falls from the moon on a midsummer night, And visions celestial of Loveland arise, From the luminous depths of her violet eyes; And each rapturous gleam of her presence gives birth To the joys which fair Venus brought down to the earth.

GRAY AND BLUE.

DEDICATED TO COL. R. W. BROWN, OF THE LOUISVILLE TIMES.

The rage and the chaos of battle, The carnage and anguish are o’er, The wrath and the rout of Manassas, The death-knell of Gettysburg’s roar; And softly, round Nashville and Richmond, Descends, like Christ’s mercy, the dew Where sleep, till the angel of Judgment Shall wake them, the Gray and the Blue.

From the gray of the balm-breathing morning The mists of the night flee away Till the sun, in his orient splendor, Paints the vault with the clear blue of day; As those colors in Heaven commingle, O, hearts that are faithful and true! Blend now in affection together By your love of the Gray and the Blue.

Earth wondered when fought the gray legions Round Johnston and Cleburne and Lee, When the Blue followed Grant, Meade, and Thomas And Sherman marched down to the sea; And Stuart’s and Sheridan’s horsemen In scorn smote the war-dragon’s mouth, A stone wall of granite the Northland, A stone wall of marble the South.

Strew roses, the sweetest of Summer, For brave and magnanimous Lee, For Lincoln, the merciful victor, For the slain on the land and the sea, And the States in communion forever Like eagles their strength shall renew, And the Star of our Union shine brighter In the concord of Gray and of Blue.

Not vainly you perished, O brothers! For the land of your deathless devotion, The torch-bearing maid of Bartholdi Is kindling with splendor the ocean. One flag over Northland and Southland, Shall rally the faithful and true, While ocean rolls gray in the morning, Or mirrors the stars in its blue.

BISHOP DUDLEY’S DIRGE.

Hang old Christ Church with purple, The colors of a king, In honor of the kingly soul Which hence has taken wing; In consolation’s labor He fell--his Lord’s behest-- So evening skies are purple-clad When goes the sun to rest.

Paul’s Bishop--“Blameless, Vigilant, Wise, Patient, apt to Teach,” Careless of fame or lucre, All men he longed to reach; “Of Good Report ’mongst those Without,” Pure, Genial, Loyal, True, Thus, “Brother Man,” God’s Bishop Toiled, preached, and sowed for you.

Thus through the land toiled, preached, and sowed The manliest of men The seeds of truth, and from his dust Shall spring his like again; New Dudleys--’tis the Master’s pledge-- Shall at his voice arise, For his immortal spirit speaks To earth from Paradise, And the purple robes of other kings-- Such force a good example brings-- Shall glorify the skies.

THE DRESS CIRCLE.

[A ball-room mishap of crinoline days, founded on fact.]

“When we have shuffled off this mortal coil.”--_Hamlet_.

“Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime”? Where the girls live on partridges, oysters and turtle, And their days fly as swift as a musical rhyme? If you don’t it’s a pity--I think you had better Now listen, my story is true to the letter.

O Lulu! dear Lulu! most beautiful one, Whose dark locks sweep over thy exquisite face, As the wings of the tempest o’ershadow the sun, Fair fawn of the forest, thy bright dwelling place, Where the partridges, oysters and turtle were swallowed, With catsups and pickles, and fixin’s more solid, Was graced by no damsel so charming as thou Or so hapless, the night I am writing of now.

Dear Lulu, sweet angel, was just coming out, As they say, had just let the tucks out of her dresses, Had such a sly ogle, and the prettiest pout, And a coiffeur de Paris did up her tresses, So her Ma, Mrs. Browne, to give her a start, she Determined, one summer, to give her a party, The rout of the season, where her darling Lulu Might capture the town by her brilliant debut. (They rig up blood-horses with ribbons, you know, To make them sell quicker, when brought to the show.) So she sent a darky round the town, with cards to the elite, With “Mrs. Browne’s regards and she’ll be at home to-night.”