When on the fervid air there came A strain--now rich and tender; The music seemed itself aflame With day"s departing splendor.
And yet once more the bugles sang Above the stormy riot; No shout upon the evening rang-- There reigned a holy quiet,
The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood Poured o"er the glistening pebbles; All silent now the Yankees stood, And silent stood the Rebels.
No unresponsive soul had heard That plaintive note"s appealing, So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirred The hidden founts of feeling.
Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees, As by the wand of fairy, The cottage "neath the live-oak trees, The cabin by the prairie.
Or cold or warm, his native skies Bend in their beauty o"er him; Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, His loved ones stand before him.
As fades the iris after rain In April"s tearful weather, The vision vanished, as the strain And daylight died together.
But memory, waked by music"s art, Expressed in simplest numbers, Subdued the sternest Yankee"s heart, Made light the Rebel"s slumbers.
And fair the form of music shines, That bright, celestial creature, Who still "mid war"s embattled lines, Gave this one touch of Nature.
[Footnote 90: Received a liberal education and relinquishing his profession--the law--for literature, was for some years editor of the Southern Literary Messenger. Has written chiefly for the magazines and for the newspapers. A native of Virginia.]
=_George Henry Boker, 1824-._= (Manual, p. 520.)
From the "Ode to a Mountain Oak."
=_411._= THE OAK AN EMBLEM.
Type of unbending Will!
Type of majestic self-sustaining Power!
Elate in sunshine, firm when tempests lower, May thy calm strength my wavering spirit fill!
Oh! let me learn from thee, Thou proud and steadfast tree, To bear unmurmuring what stern Time may send; Nor "neath life"s ruthless tempests bend: But calmly stand like thee, Though wrath and storm shake me, Though vernal hopes in yellow Autumn end, And, strong in truth, work out my destiny.
Type of long-suffering Power!
Type of unbending Will!
Strong in the tempest"s hour, Bright when the storm is still; Rising from every contest with an unbroken heart, Strengthen"d by every struggle, emblem of might thou art!
Sign of what man can compa.s.s, spite of an adverse state, Still from thy rocky summit, teach us to war with Fate!
=_412._= DIRGE FOR A SAILOR.
Slow, slow! toll it low, As the sea-waves break and flow; With the same dull slumberous motion.
As his ancient mother, Ocean, Rocked him on, through storm and calm, From the iceberg to the palm: So his drowsy ears may deem That the sound which breaks his dream Is the ever-moaning tide Washing on his vessel"s side.
Slow, slow! as we go.
Swing his coffin to and fro; As of old the l.u.s.ty billow Swayed him on his heaving pillow: So that he may fancy still, Climbing up the watery hill, Plunging in the watery vale, With her wide-distended sail, His good ship securely stands Onward to the golden lands.
Slow, slow! heave-a-ho!-- Lower him to the mould below; With the well-known sailor ballad, Lest he grow more cold and pallid At the thought that Ocean"s child, From his mother"s arms beguiled.
Must repose for countless years, Reft of all her briny tears, All the rights he owned by birth, In the dusty lap of earth.
=_William Allen Butler, 1825-._= (Manual, p. 521.)
From "Nothing to Wear."
=_413._=
O ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway, From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride, And the temples of Trade which tower on each side, To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt Their children have gathered, their city have built; Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey, Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair; Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt, Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt, Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old, Half-starved, and half-naked, lie crouched from the cold.
See those skeleton limbs, and those frost-bitten feet, All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street; Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor, Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of h.e.l.l, As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door; Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare, Spoiled children of Fashion--you"ve nothing to wear!
And O, if perchance there should be a sphere, Where all is made right which so puzzles us here,
Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence, Must be clothed for the life and the service above, With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love; O daughters of Earth! foolish virgins, beware!
Lest in that upper realm, you have nothing to wear!
=_Bayard Taylor, 1825-._= (Manual, pp. 523, 531.)
From "The Atlantic Monthly."
=_414._= "THE BURDEN OF THE DAY."
I.
Who shall rise and cast away, First, the Burden of the Day?
Who a.s.sert his place, and teach Lighter labor, n.o.bler speech, Standing firm, erect, and strong, Proud as Freedom, free as song?
II.
Lo! we groan beneath the weight Our own weaknesses create; Crook the knee and shut the lip, All for tamer fellowship; Load our slack, compliant clay With the Burden of the Day!
III.
Higher paths there are to tread; Fresher fields around us spread; Other flames of sun and star Flash at hand and lure afar; Larger manhood might we share, Surer fortune, did we dare!
IV.
In our mills of common thought By the pattern all is wrought: In our school of life, the man Drills to suit the public plan, And through labor, love and play, Shifts the Burden of the Day.
V.
Power of all is right of none!