It is not that a leg is lost, It is not that an arm is maimed, It is not that the fever has racked-- Self he has long disclaimed.

But all through the Seven Days' Fight, And deep in the Wilderness grim, And in the field-hospital tent, And Petersburg crater, and dim Lean brooding in Libby, there came-- Ah heaven!--what _truth_ to him.

THE MARTYR _Indicative of the pa.s.sion of the people on the 15th of April, 1865_

Goon Friday was the day Of the prodigy and crime, When they killed him in his pity, When they killed him in his prime Of clemency and calm-- When with yearning he was filled To redeem the evil-willed, And, though conqueror, be kind; But they killed him in his kindness, In their madness and their blindness, And they killed him from behind.

There is sobbing of the strong, And a pall upon the land; But the People in their weeping Bare the iron hand; Beware the People weeping When they bare the iron hand.

He lieth in his blood-- The father in his face; They have killed him, the Forgiver-- The Avenger takes his place, The Avenger wisely stern, Who in righteousness shall do What the heavens call him to, And the parricides remand; For they killed him in his kindness, In their madness and their blindness, And his blood is on their hand.

There is sobbing of the strong, And a pall upon the land; But the People in their weeping Bare the iron hand: Beware the People weeping When they bare the iron hand.

REBEL COLOR-BEARERS AT SHILOH _A plea against the vindictive cry raised by civilians shortly after the surrender at Appomattox_

The color-bearers facing death White in the whirling sulphurous wreath, Stand boldly out before the line; Right and left their glances go, Proud of each other, glorying in their show; Their battle-flags about them blow, And fold them as in flame divine: Such living robes are only seen Round martyrs burning on the green-- And martyrs for the Wrong have been.

Perish their Cause! but mark the men-- Mark the planted statues, then Draw trigger on them if you can.

The leader of a patriot-band Even so could view rebels who so could stand; And this when peril pressed him sore, Left aidless in the shivered front of war-- Skulkers behind, defiant foes before, And fighting with a broken brand.

The challenge in that courage rare-- Courage defenseless, proudly bare-- Never could tempt him; he could dare Strike up the leveled rifle there.

Sunday at Shiloh, and the day When Stonewall charged--McClellan's crimson May, And Chickamauga's wave of death, And of the Wilderness the cypress wreath-- All these have pa.s.sed away.

The life in the veins of Treason lags, Her daring color-bearers drop their flags, And yield. _Now_ shall we fire?

Can poor spite be?

Shall n.o.bleness in victory less aspire Than in reverse? Spare Spleen her ire, And think how Grant met Lee.

AURORA BOREALIS _Commemorative of the Dissolution of armies at the Peace_ May, 1865

What power disbands the Northern Lights After their steely play?

The lonely watcher feels an awe Of Nature's sway, As when appearing, He marked their flashed uprearing In the cold gloom-- Retreatings and advancings, (Like dallyings of doom), Transitions and enhancings, And b.l.o.o.d.y ray.

The phantom-host has faded quite, Splendor and Terror gone Portent or promise--and gives way To pale, meek Dawn; The coming, going, Alike in wonder showing-- Alike the G.o.d, Decreeing and commanding The million blades that glowed, The muster and disbanding-- Midnight and Morn.

THE RELEASED REBEL PRISONER June, 1865

Armies he's seen--the herds of war, But never such swarms of men As now in the Nineveh of the North-- How mad the Rebellion then!

And yet but dimly he divines The depth of that deceit, And superst.i.tution of vast pride Humbled to such defeat.

Seductive shone the Chiefs in arms-- His steel the nearest magnet drew; Wreathed with its kind, the Gulf-weed drives-- 'Tis Nature's wrong they rue.

His face is hidden in his beard, But his heart peers out at eye-- And such a heart! like a mountain-pool Where no man pa.s.ses by.

He thinks of Hill--a brave soul gone; And Ashby dead in pale disdain; And Stuart with the Rupert-plume, Whose blue eye never shall laugh again.

He hears the drum; he sees our boys From his wasted fields return; Ladies feast them on strawberries, And even to kiss them yearn.

He marks them bronzed, in soldier-trim, The rifle proudly borne; They bear it for an heirloom home, And he--disarmed--jail-worn.

Home, home--his heart is full of it; But home he never shall see, Even should he stand upon the spot: 'Tis gone!--where his brothers be.

The cypress-moss from tree to tree Hangs in his Southern land; As weird, from thought to thought of his Run memories hand in hand.

And so he lingers--lingers on In the City of the Foe-- His cousins and his countrymen Who see him listless go.

"FORMERLY A SLAVE"

_An idealized Portrait, by E. Vedder, in the Spring Exhibition of the National Academy, 1865_

The sufferance of her race is shown, And retrospect of life, Which now too late deliverance dawns upon; Yet is she not at strife.

Her children's children they shall know The good withheld from her; And so her reverie takes prophetic cheer-- In spirit she sees the stir.

Far down the depth of thousand years, And marks the revel shine; Her dusky face is lit with sober light, Sibylline, yet benign.

ON THE SLAIN COLLEGIANS

Youth is the time when hearts are large, And stirring wars Appeal to the spirit which appeals in turn To the blade it draws.

If woman incite, and duty show (Though made the mask of Cain), Or whether it be Truth's sacred cause, Who can aloof remain That shares youth's ardor, uncooled by the snow Of wisdom or sordid gain?

The liberal arts and nurture sweet Which give his gentleness to man-- Train him to honor, lend him grace Through bright examples meet-- That culture which makes never wan With underminings deep, but holds The surface still, its fitting place, And so gives sunniness to the face And bravery to the heart; what troops Of generous boys in happiness thus bred-- Saturnians through life's Tempe led, Went from the North and came from the South, With golden mottoes in the mouth, To lie down midway on a b.l.o.o.d.y bed.

Woe for the homes of the North, And woe for the seats of the South: All who felt life's spring in prime, And were swept by the wind of their place and time-- All lavish hearts, on whichever side, Of birth urbane or courage high, Armed them for the stirring wars-- Armed them--some to die.

Apollo-like in pride.

Each would slay his Python--caught The maxims in his temple taught-- Aflame with sympathies whose blaze Perforce enwrapped him--social laws, Friendship and kin, and by-gone days-- Vows, kisses--every heart unmoors, And launches into the seas of wars.

What could they else--North or South?

Each went forth with blessings given By priests and mothers in the name of Heaven; And honor in both was chief.

Warred one for Right, and one for Wrong?

So be it; but they both were young-- Each grape to his cl.u.s.ter clung, All their elegies are sung.

The anguish of maternal hearts Must search for balm divine; But well the striplings bore their fated parts (The heavens all parts a.s.sign)-- Never felt life's care or cloy.

Each bloomed and died an unabated Boy; Nor dreamed what death was--thought it mere Sliding into some vernal sphere.