Chapter 20

Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary; Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary: Furl it, fold it,--it is best; For there's not a man to wave it, And there's not a sword to save it, And there's not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it, And its foes now scorn and brave it: Furl it, hide it,--let it rest!

Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered; Broken is its staff and shattered; And the valiant hosts are scattered, Over whom it floated high. Oh, 'tis hard for us to fold it, Hard to think there's none to hold it, Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh!

Furl that Banner--furl it sadly! Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, And ten thousands wildly, madly, Swore it should forever wave; Swore that foeman's sword should never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, Till that flag should float forever O'er their freedom or their grave!

Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low; And that Banner--it is trailing, While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe.

For, though conquered, they adore it,-- Love the cold, dead hands that bore it, Weep for those who fell before it, Pardon those who trailed and tore it; And oh, wildly they deplore it, Now to furl and fold it so!

Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory, Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, And 't will live in song and story Though its folds are in the dust! For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages-- Furl its folds though now we must.

Furl that Banner, softly, slowly! Treat it gently--it is holy, For it droops above the dead. Touch it not--unfold it never; Let it droop there, furled forever,-- For its people's hopes are fled!

ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN.

* * * * *

ALL.

There hangs a sabre, and there a rein, With a rusty buckle and green curb chain; A pair of spurs on the old gray wall, And a mouldy saddle--well, that is all.

Come out to the stable--it is not far; The moss grown door is hanging ajar. Look within! There's an empty stall, Where once stood a charger, and that is all.

The good black horse came riderless home, Flecked with blood drops as well as foam; See yonder hillock where dead leaves fall; The good black horse pined to death--that's all.

All? O, God! it is all I can speak. Question me not--I am old and weak; His sabre and his saddle hang on the wall, And his horse pined to death--I have told you all.

FRANCIS ALEXANDER DURIVAGE.

* * * * *

THE CLOSING SCENE.

Within the sober realm of leafless trees, The russet year inhaled the dreamy air; Like some tanned reaper, in his hour of ease, When all the fields are lying brown and bare.

The gray barns looking from their hazy hills, O'er the dun waters widening in the vales, Sent down the air a greeting to the mills On the dull thunder of alternate flails.

All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued, The hills seemed further and the stream sang low, As in a dream the distant woodman hewed His winter log with many a muffled blow.

The embattled forests, erewhile armed with gold, Their banners bright with every martial hue, Now stood like some sad, beaten host of old, Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue.

On slumb'rous wings the vulture held his flight; The dove scarce heard its sighing mate's complaint; And, like a star slow drowning in the light, The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint.

The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew,-- Crew thrice,--and all was stiller than before; Silent, till some replying warden blew His alien horn, and then was heard no more.

Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest, Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young; And where the oriole hung her swaying nest, By every light wind like a censer swung;--

Where sang the noisy martens of the eaves, The busy swallows circling ever near,-- Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, An early harvest and a plenteous year;--

Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, To warn the reaper of the rosy east:-- All now was sunless, empty, and forlorn.

Alone from out the stubble piped the quail, And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom; Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, Made echo to the distant cottage-loom.

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers; The spiders moved their thin shrouds night by night, The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, Sailed slowly by,--passed noiseless out of sight.

Amid all this--in this most cheerless air, And where the woodbine shed upon the porch Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood there Firing the floor with his inverted torch,--

Amid all this, the centre of the scene, The white-haired matron with monotonous tread Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien Sat, like a fate, and watched the flying thread,

She had known Sorrow,--he had walked with her, Oft supped, and broke the bitter ashen crust; And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir Of his black mantle trailing in the dust.

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, Her country summoned and she gave her all; And twice War bowed to her his sable plume,-- Re-gave the swords to rust upon the wall.

Re-gave the swords, but not the hand that drew And struck for Liberty the dying blow; Nor him who, to his sire and country true, Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe.

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, Like the low murmur of a hive at noon; Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune.

At last the thread was snapped; her head was bowed; Life dropt the distaff through his hands serene; And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene.

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

* * * * *

THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS.

[The Spanish-American War, 1898.]

A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here's to the Captain bold, And never forget the Commodore's debt when the deeds of might are told! They stand to the deck through the battle's wreck when the great shells roar and screech-- And never they fear when the foe is near to practise what they preach: But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia's true-blue sons, The men below who batter the foe--the men behind the guns!

Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into port once more, When, with more than enough of the "green-backed stuff," they start for their leave-o'-shore; And you'd think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who loll along the street Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce "mustache" to eat-- Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns The modest worth of the sailor boys--the lads who serve the guns.

But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells the fight is on. Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships of "Yank" and "Don," Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell, And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living hell; Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the midday suns, You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps--the men behind the guns!

Oh, well they know how the cyclones blow that they loose from their cloud of death, And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten-incher saith! The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with the great recoil, And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches for his spoil-- But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and runs, Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind the guns!

JOHN JEROME ROONEY.

* * * * *

THE BATTLE OF MANILA. A FRAGMENT.

[May I, 1898.]

By Cavité on the bay 'Twas the Spanish squadron lay; And the red dawn was creeping O'er the city that lay sleeping To the east, like a bride, in the May. There was peace at Manila, In the May morn at Manila,-- When ho, the Spanish admiral Awoke to find our line Had passed by gray Corregidor, Had laughed at shoal and mine, And flung to the sky its banners With "Remember" for the sign!

With the ships of Spain before In the shelter of the shore, And the forts on the right, They drew forward to the fight, And the first was the gallant Commodore; In the bay of Manila, In the doomed bay of Manila-- With succor half the world away, No port beneath that sky, With nothing but their ships and guns And Yankee pluck to try, They had left retreat behind them, They had come to win or die!

* * * * *

For we spoke at Manila, We said it at Manila, Oh be ye brave, or be ye strong, Ye build your ships in vain; The children of the sea queen's brood Will not give up the main; We hold the sea against the world As we held it against Spain.

Be warned by Manila, Take warning by Manila, Ye may trade by land, ye may fight by land, Ye may hold the land in fee; But not go down to the sea in ships To battle with the free; For England and America Will keep and hold the sea!

RICHARD HOVEY.

* * * * *

IV.

PEACE.

* * * * *

ODE TO PEACE.

Daughter of God! that sitt'st on high Amid the dances of the sky, And guidest with thy gentle sway The planets on their tuneful way; Sweet Peace! shall ne'er again The smile of thy most holy face, From thine ethereal dwelling-place, Rejoice the wretched, weary race Of discord-breathing men? Too long, O gladness-giving Queen! Thy tarrying in heaven has been; Too long o'er this fair blooming world The flag of blood has been unfurled, Polluting God's pure day; Whilst, as each maddening people reels, War onward drives his scythed wheels, And at his horses' bloody heels Shriek Murder and Dismay.

Oft have I wept to hear the cry Of widow wailing bitterly; To see the parent's silent tear For children fallen beneath the spear; And I have felt so sore The sense of human guilt and woe, That I, in Virtue's passioned glow, Have cursed (my soul was wounded so) The shape of man I bore! Then come from thy serene abode, Thou gladness-giving child of God! And cease the world's ensanguined strife, And reconcile my soul to life; For much I long to see, Ere I shall to the grave descend, Thy hand its blessed branch extend, And to the world's remotest end Wave Love and Harmony!

WILLIAM TENNANT.

* * * * *

END OF THE CIVIL WAR.

FROM KING RICHARD III., ACT I. SC. I.

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York, And all the clouds that lowered upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; Our bruisèd arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged War hath smoothed his wrinkled front. And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber, To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

SHAKESPEARE.

* * * * *

DISARMAMENT.

"Put up the sword!" the voice of Christ once more Speaks, in the pauses of the cannon's roar, O'er fields of corn by fiery sickles reaped And left dry ashes; over trenches heaped With nameless dead; o'er cities starving slow Under a rain of fire; through wards of woe Down which a groaning diapason runs From tortured brothers, husbands, lovers, sons Of desolate women in their far-off homes, Waiting to hear the step that never comes! O men and brothers! let that voice be heard. War fails, try peace; put up the useless sword!

Fear not the end. There is a story told In Eastern tents, when autumn nights grow cold, And round the fire the Mongol shepherds sit With grave responses listening unto it: Once on the errands of his mercy bent, Buddha, the holy and benevolent, Met a fell monster, huge and fierce of look, Whose awful voice the hills and forests shook.

"O son of peace!" the giant cried, "thy fate Is sealed at last, and love shall yield to hate." The unarmed Buddha looking, with no trace Of fear or anger, in the monster's face, In pity said, "Poor fiend, even thee I love." Lo! as he spake the sky-tall terror sank To hand-breadth size; the huge abhorrence shrank Into the form and fashion of a dove; And where the thunder of its rage was heard, Circling above him sweetly sang the bird: "Hate hath no harm for love," so ran the song, "And peace unweaponed conquers every wrong!"

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

* * * * *

TUBAL CAIN.

Old Tubal Cain was a man of might, In the days when earth was young; By the fierce red light of his furnace bright, The strokes of his hammer rung: And he lifted high his brawny hand On the iron glowing clear, Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers, As he fashioned the sword and the spear. And he sang: "Hurrah for my handiwork! Hurrah for the spear and the sword! Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well, For he shall be king and lord."

To Tubal Cain came many a one, As he wrought by his roaring fire, And each one prayed for a strong steel blade As the crown of his desire: And he made them weapons sharp and strong, Till they shouted loud for glee, And gave him gifts of pearl and gold, And spoils of the forest free. And they sang: "Hurrah for Tubal Cain, Who hath given us strength anew! Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire, And hurrah for the metal true!"

But a sudden change came o'er his heart, Ere the setting of the sun, And Tubal Cain was filled with pain For the evil he had done; He saw that men, with rage and hate, Made war upon their kind, That the land was red with the blood they shed, In their lust for carnage blind. And he said: "Alas! that ever I made, Or that skill of mine should plan, The spear and the sword for men whose joy Is to slay their fellow-man!"

And for many a day old Tubal Cain Sat brooding o'er his woe; And his hand forbore to smite the ore, And his furnace smouldered low. But he rose at last with a cheerful face, And a bright courageous eye, And bared his strong right arm for work, While the quick flames mounted high. And he sang: "Hurrah for my handiwork!" And the red sparks lit the air; "Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made,"-- And he fashioned the first ploughshare.

And men, taught wisdom from the past, In friendship joined their hands, Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall, And ploughed the willing lands; And sang: "Hurrah for Tubal Cain! Our stanch good friend is he; And for the ploughshare and the plough To him our praise shall be. But while oppression lifts its head, Or a tyrant would be lord, Though we may thank him for the plough, We'll not forget the sword!"

CHARLES MACKAY.

* * * * *

THE KNIGHT'S TOMB.

Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? Where may the grave of that good man be?-- By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, Under the twigs of a young birch-tree! The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, And whistled and roared in the winter alone, Is gone,--and the birch in its stead is grown.-- The knight's bones are dust, And his good sword rust;-- His soul is with the saints, I trust.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

* * * * *

NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.

"To fall on the battle-field fighting for my dear country,--that would not be hard."--_The Neighbors_.

O no, no,--let me lie Not on a field of battle when I die! Let not the iron tread Of the mad war-horse crush my helmèd head; Nor let the reeking knife, That I have drawn against a brother's life, Be in my hand when Death Thunders along, and tramples me beneath His heavy squadron's heels, Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels.

From such a dying bed, Though o'er it float the stripes of white and red, And the bald eagle brings The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings To sparkle in my sight, O, never let my spirit take her flight!

I know that beauty's eye Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly, And brazen helmets dance, And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance; I know that bards have sung, And people shouted till the welkin rung, In honor of the brave Who on the battle-field have found a grave; I know that o'er their bones How grateful hands piled monumental stones. Some of those piles I've seen: The one at Lexington upon the green Where the first blood was shed, And to my country's independence led; And others, on our shore, The "Battle Monument" at Baltimore, And that on Bunker's Hill. Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still; Thy "tomb," Themistocles, That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas, And which the waters kiss That issue from the gulf of Salamis. And thine, too, have I seen, Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green, That, like a natural knoll, Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll, Watched by some turbaned boy, Upon the margin of the plain of Troy. Such honors grace the bed, I know, whereon the warrior lays his head, And hears, as life ebbs out, The conquered flying, and the conqueror's shout; But as his eye grows dim, What is a column or a mound to him? What, to the parting soul. The mellow note of bugles? What the roll Of drums? No, let me die Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly, And the soft summer air, As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair, And from my forehead dries The death-damp as it gathers, and the skies Seem waiting to receive My soul to their clear depths! Or let me leave The world when round my bed Wife, children, weeping friends are gatherèd, And the calm voice of prayer And holy hymning shall my soul prepare To go and be at rest With kindred spirits,--spirits who have blessed The human brotherhood By labors, cares, and counsels for their good.

JOHN PIERPONT.

* * * * *

THE DAY IS COMING.

Come hither lads and hearken, for a tale there is to tell, Of the wonderful days a-coming, when all shall be better than well.

And the tale shall be told of a country, a land in the midst of the sea, And folk shall call it England in the days that are going to be.

There more than one in a thousand, in the days that are yet to come, Shall have some hope of the morrow, some joy of the ancient home.

For then--laugh not, but listen to this strange tale of mine-- All folk that are in England shall be better lodged than swine.

Then a man shall work and bethink him, and rejoice in the deeds of his hand; Nor yet come home in the even too faint and weary to stand.

Men in that time a-coming shall work and have no fear For to-morrow's lack of earning, and the hunger-Wolf anear.

I tell you this for a wonder, that no man then shall be glad Of his fellow's fall and mishap, to snatch at the work he had.

For that which the worker winneth shall then be his indeed, Nor shall half be reaped for nothing by him that sowed no seed.

Oh, strange new wonderful justice! But for whom shall we gather the gain? For ourselves and for each of our fellows, and no hand shall labor in vain.

Then all Mine and all Thine shall be Ours, and no more shall any man crave For riches that serve for nothing but to fetter a friend for a slave.

And what wealth then shall be left us, when none shall gather gold To buy his friend in the market, and pinch and pine the sold?

Nay, what save the lovely city, and the little house on the hill, And the wastes and the woodland beauty, and the happy fields we till;

And the homes of ancient stories, the tombs of the mighty dead; And the wise men seeking out marvels, and the poet's teeming head;

And the painter's hand of wonder, and the marvellous fiddle-bow, And the banded choirs of music: all those that do and know.

For all these shall be ours and all men's; nor shall any lack a share Of the toil and the gain of living, in the days when the world grows fair.

Ah! such are the days that shall be! But what are the deeds of to-day, In the days of the years we dwell in, that wear our lives away?

Why, then, and for what are we waiting? There are three words to speak: _We will it_, and what is the foeman but the dream-strong wakened and weak?

Oh, why and for what are we waiting, while our brothers droop and die, And on every wind of the heavens a wasted life goes by?

How long shall they reproach us, where crowd on crowd they dwell,-- Poor ghosts of the wicked city, the gold-crushed hungry hell?

Through squalid life they labored, in sordid grief they died,-- Those sons of a mighty mother, those props of England's pride.

They are gone; there is none can undo it, nor save our souls from the curse: But many a million cometh, and shall they be better or worse?

It is we must answer and hasten, and open wide the door For the rich man's hurrying terror, and the slow-foot hope of the poor.

Yea, the voiceless wrath of the wretched, and their unlearned discontent,-- We must give it voice and wisdom till the waiting-tide be spent.

Come then, since all things call us, the living and the dead, And o'er the weltering tangle a glimmering light is shed.

Come then, let us cast off fooling, and put by ease and rest, For the Cause alone is worthy till the good days bring the best.

Come, join in the only battle wherein no man can fail, Where whoso fadeth and dieth, yet his deed shall still prevail.

Ah! come, cast off all fooling, for this, at least, we know: That the dawn and the day is coming, and forth the banners go.

WILLIAM MORRIS.

* * * * *

THE GRAVE OF BONAPARTE.

On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billows Assail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave, The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows, Like fond weeping mourners, lean over the grave. The lightnings may flash, and the loud thunders rattle: He heeds not, he hears not, he's free from all pain;-- He sleeps his last sleep--he has fought his last battle! No sound can awake him to glory again!

O shade of the mighty, where now are the legions That rushed but to conquer when thou led'st them on? Alas! they have perished in far hilly regions, And all save the fame of their triumph is gone! The trumpet may sound, and the loud cannon rattle! They heed not, they hear not, they're free from all pain: They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their last battle! No sound can awake them to glory again!