"Break, my heart, and ease this pain—
Cease to throb, thou tortured brain;
Let me die,—since he is slain,
—Slain in battle!
Blessed brow, that loved to rest
Its dear whiteness on my breast—
Gory was the grass it prest,
—Slain in battle!
Oh! that still and stately form—
Never more will it be warm;
Chilled beneath that iron storm,
—Slain in battle!
Not a pillow for his head—
Not a hand to smooth his bed—
Not one tender parting said,
—Slain in battle!
Straightway from that bloody sod,
Where the trampling horsemen trod—
Lifted to the arms of God;
—Slain in battle!
Not my love to come between,
With its interposing screen—
Naught of earth to intervene;
—Slain in battle!
Snatched the purple billows o'er,
Through the fiendish rage and roar,
To the far and peaceful shore;
—Slain in battle!
Nunc demitte—thus I pray—
What else left for me to say,
Since my life is reft away?
—Slain in battle!
Let me die, oh! God!—the dart
Rankles deep within my heart,—
Hope, and joy, and peace, depart;
—Slain in battle!"
'Tis thus through her days and her nights of despair,
Her months of bereavement so bitter to bear,
That Alice moans ever. Ah! little they know,
Who look on that brow, still and white as the snow,
Who watch—but in vain—for the sigh or the tear,
That only comes thick when no mortal is near,—
Who whisper—"How gently she bends to the rod!"
Because all her heart-break is kept for her God,—
Ah! little they know of the tempests that roll
Their desolate floods through the depths of her soul!
Afar in our sunshiny homes on the shore,
We heed not how wildly the billows may roar;
We smile at our firesides, happy and free,
While the rich-freighted argosy founders at sea!
Though wrapped in the weeds of her widowhood, pale,—
Though life seems all sunless and dim through the veil
That drearily shadows her sorrowful brow,—
Is the cause of her country less dear to her now?
Does the patriot-flame in her heart cease to stir,—
Does she feel that the conflict is over for her?
Because the red war-tide has deluged her o'er,—
Has wreaked its wild wrath, and can harm her no more,—
Does she stand, self-absorbed, on the wreck she has braved,
Nor care if her country be lost or be saved?
By her pride in the soil that has given her birth—
By her tenderest memories garnered on earth—
By the legacy blood-bought and precious, which she
Would leave to her children—the right to be free,—
By the altar where once rose the hymn and the prayer;
By the home that lies scarred in its solitude there,—
By the pangs she has suffered,—the ills she has borne,—
By the desolate exile through which she must mourn,—
By the struggles that hallow this fair Southern sod,
By the vows she has breathed in the ear of her God,—
By the blood of the heart that she worshipped,—the life
That enfolded her own; by her love, as his wife;
By his death on the battle-field, gallantly brave,—
By the shadow that ever will wrap her—his grave—
By the faith she reposes, oh! Father! in Thee,
She claims that her glorious South must be free!
VIRGINIA.
A SONNET.
Grandly thou fillest the world's eye to-day,
My proud Virginia! When the gage was thrown—
The deadly gage of battle—thou, alone,
Strong in thy self-control, didst stoop to lay
The olive-branch thereon, and calmly pray
We might have peace, the rather. When the foe
Turned scornfully upon thee,—bade thee go,
And whistled up his war-hounds, then—the way
Of duty full before thee,—thou didst spring
Into the centre of the martial ring—
Thy brave blood boiling, and thy glorious eye,
Shot with heroic fire, and swear to claim
Sublimest victory in God's own name,—
Or, wrapped in robes of martyrdom,—to die!
JACKSON.
A SONNET.
Thank God for such a Hero!—Fearless hold
His diamond character beneath the sun,
And brighter scintillations, one by one,
Come flashing from it. Never knight of old
Wore on serener brow, so calm, yet bold,
Diviner courage: never martyr knew
Trust more sublime,—nor patriot, zeal more true,—
Nor saint, self-abnegation of a mould
Touched with profounder beauty. All the rare,
Clear, starry points of light, that gave his soul
Such lambent lustre, owned but one sole aim,—
Not for himself, nor yet his country's fame,
These glories shone: he kept the clustered whole
A jewel for the crown that Christ shall wear!
DIRGE FOR ASHBY.
Heard ye that thrilling word—
Accent of dread—
Flash like a thunderbolt,
Bowing each head—
Crash through the battle dun,
Over the booming gun—
"Ashby, our bravest one,—
Ashby is dead!"
Saw ye the veterans—
Hearts that had known
Never a quail of fear,
Never a groan—
Sob 'mid the fight they win,
—Tears their stern eyes within,—
"Ashby, our Paladin,
Ashby is gone!"
Dash,—dash the tear away—
Crush down the pain!
"Dulce et decus," be
Fittest refrain!
Why should the dreary pall
Round him be flung at all?
Did not our hero fall
Gallantly slain?
Catch the last word of cheer
Dropt from his tongue;
Over the volley's din,
Loud be it rung—
"Follow me! follow me!"—
Soldier, oh! could there be
Pæan or dirge for thee,
Loftier sung!
Bold as the Lion-heart,
Dauntless and brave;
Knightly as knightliest
Bayard could crave;
Sweet with all Sidney's grace—
Tender as Hampden's face—
Who—who shall fill the space
Void by his grave?
'Tis not one broken heart,
Wild with dismay;
Crazed with her agony,
Weeps o'er his clay:
Ah! from a thousand eyes
Flow the pure tears that rise;
Widowed Virginia lies
Stricken to-day!
Yet—though that thrilling word—
Accent of dread—
Falls like a thunderbolt,
Bowing each head—
Heroes! be battle done
Bravelier every one,
Nerved by the thought alone—
Ashby is dead!
STONEWALL JACKSON'S GRAVE.[A]
A simple, sodded mound of earth,
Without a line above it;
With only daily votive flowers
To prove that any love it:
The token flag that silently
Each breeze's visit numbers,
Alone keeps martial ward above
The hero's dreamless slumbers.
No name?—no record? Ask the world;
The world has read his story—
If all its annals can unfold
A prouder tale of glory:—
If ever merely human life
Hath taught diviner moral,—
If ever round a worthier brow
Was twined a purer laurel!
A twelvemonth only, since his sword
Went flashing through the battle—
A twelvemonth only, since his ear
Heard war's last deadly rattle—
And yet, have countless pilgrim-feet
The pilgrim's guerdon paid him,
And weeping women come to see
The place where they have laid him.
Contending armies bring, in turn,
Their meed of praise or honor,
And Pallas here has paused to bind
The cypress wreath upon her:
It seems a holy sepulchre,
Whose sanctities can waken
Alike the love of friend or foe,—
Of Christian or of pagan.
They come to own his high emprise,
Who fled in frantic masses,
Before the glittering bayonet
That triumphed at Manassas:
Who witnessed Kernstown's fearful odds,
As on their ranks he thundered,
Defiant as the storied Greek,
Amid his brave three hundred!
They well recall the tiger spring,
The wise retreat, the rally,
The tireless march, the fierce pursuit,
Through many a mountain valley:
Cross Keys unlock new paths to fame,
And Port Republic's story
Wrests from his ever-vanquish'd foes,
Strange tributes to his glory.
Cold Harbor rises to their view,—
The Cedars' gloom is o'er them;
Antietam's rough and rugged heights,
Stretch mockingly before them:
The lurid flames of Fredericksburg
Right grimly they remember,
That lit the frozen night's retreat,
That wintry-wild December!
The largess of their praise is flung
With bounty, rare and regal;
—Is it because the vulture fears
No longer the dead eagle?
Nay, rather far accept it thus,—
An homage true and tender,
As soldier unto soldier's worth,—
As brave to brave will render,
But who shall weigh the wordless grief
That leaves in tears its traces,
As round their leader crowd again,
The bronzed and veteran faces!
The "Old Brigade" he loved so well—
The mountain men, who bound him
With bays of their own winning, ere
A tardier fame had crowned him;
The legions who had seen his glance
Across the carnage flashing,
And thrilled to catch his ringing "charge"
Above the volley crashing;—
Who oft had watched the lifted hand,
The inward trust betraying,
And felt their courage grow sublime,
While they beheld him praying!
Good knights and true as ever drew
Their swords with knightly Roland;
Or died at Sobieski's side,
For love of martyr'd Poland;
Or knelt with Cromwell's Ironsides;
Or sang with brave Gustavus;
Or on the plain of Austerlitz,
Breathed out their dying aves!
Rare fame! rare name!—If chanted praise,
With all the world to listen,—
If pride that swells a nation's soul,—
If foemen's tears that glisten,—
If pilgrims' shrining love,—if grief
Which nought may soothe or sever,—
If these can consecrate,—this spot
Is sacred ground forever!
WHEN THE WAR IS OVER.
A CHRISTMAS LAY.
I.
Ah! the happy Christmas times!
Times we all remember;—
Times that flung a ruddy glow
O'er the gray December;—
Will they never come again,
With their song and story?
Never wear a remnant more
Of their olden glory?
Must the little children miss
Still the festal token?
Must their realm of young romance
All be marred and broken?
Must the mother promise on,
While her smiles dissemble,
And she speaks right quietly,
Lest her voice should tremble:—
"Darlings! wait till father comes—
Wait—and we'll discover
Never were such Christmas times,
When the war is over!"
II.
Underneath the midnight sky,
Bright with starry beauty,
Sad, the shivering sentinel
Treads his round of duty:
For his thoughts are far away,
Far from strife and battle,
As he listens dreamingly,
To his baby's prattle;—
As he clasps his sobbing wife,
Wild with sudden gladness,
Kisses all her tears away—
Chides her looks of sadness—
Talks of Christmas nights to come,—
And his step grows lighter,
Whispering, while his stiffening hand
Grasps his musket tighter:—
"Patience, love!—keep heart! keep hope!
To your weary rover,
What a home our home will be,
When the war is over!"
III.
By the twilight Christmas fire,
All her senses laden
With a weight of tenderness,
Sits the musing maiden:
From the parlor's cheerful blaze,
Far her visions wander,
To the white tent gleaming bright,
On the hill-side yonder.
Buoyant in her brave, young love,
Flushed with patriot honour,
No misgiving, no fond fear,
Flings its shade upon her.
Though no mortal soul can know
Half the love she bears him,
Proudly, for her country's sake,
From her heart she spares him.
—God be thanked!—she does not dream,
That her gallant lover
Will be in a soldier's grave,
When the war is over!
IV.
'Midst the turmoil and the strife
Of the war-tide's rushing,
Every heart its separate woe
In its depths is hushing.
Who has time for tears, when blood
All the land is steeping?
—In our poverty we grudge
Even the waste of weeping!
But when quiet comes again,
And the bands, long broken,
Gather round the hearth, and breathe
Names now seldom spoken—
Then we'll miss the precious links—
Mourn the empty places—
Read the hopeless "Nevermore,"
In each other's faces!
—Oh! what aching, anguish'd hearts
O'er lone graves will hover,
With a new, fresh sense of pain,
When the war is over!
V.
Stern endurance, bitterer still,
Sharp with self-denial,
Fraught with loftier sacrifice,
Fuller far of trial—
Strews our flinty path of thorns—
Marks our bloody story—
Fits us for the victor's palm—
Weaves our robe of glory!
Shall we faint with God above,
And His strong arm under—
And the cold world gazing on,
In a maze of wonder?
No! with more resistless march,
More resolved endeavor,
Press we onward—struggle still,
Fight and win forever!
—Holy peace will heal all ills,
Joy all losses cover,
Raptures rend our Southern skies,
When the war is over!
VIRGINIA CAPTA.
APRIL 9th, 1865.
I.
Unconquered captive!—close thine eye,
And draw the ashen sackcloth o'er,
And in thy speechless woe deplore
The fate that would not let thee die!
II.
The arm that wore the shield, strip bare;
The hand that held the martial rein,
And hurled the spear on many a plain—
Stretch—till they clasp the shackles there!
III.
The foot that once could crush the crown,
Must drag the fetters, till it bleed
Beneath their weight:—thou dost not need
It now, to tread the tyrant down.
IV.
Thou thought'st him vanquish'd—boastful trust!
—His lance, in twain—his sword, a wreck—
But with his heel upon thy neck,
He holds thee prostrate in the dust!
V.
Bend though thou must, beneath his will,
Let not one abject moan have place;
But with majestic, silent grace,
Maintain thy regal bearing still.
VI.
Look back through all thy storied past,
And sit erect in conscious pride:—
No grander heroes ever died—
No sterner, battled to the last!
VII.
Weep, if thou wilt, with proud, sad mein,
Thy blasted hopes—thy peace undone,—
Yet brave, live on,—nor seek to shun
Thy fate, like Egypt's conquer'd Queen.
VIII.
Though forced a captive's place to fill,
In the triumphal train,—yet there,
Superbly, like Zenobia, wear
Thy chains,—Virginia Victrix still!