Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War Part 10

He rides at their head; A crutch by his saddle just slants in view, One slung arm is in splints, you see, Yet he guides his strong steed--how coldly too.

He brings his regiment home-- Not as they filed two years before, But a remnant half-tattered, and battered, and worn, Like castaway sailors, who--stunned By the surf's loud roar, Their mates dragged back and seen no more-- Again and again breast the surge, And at last crawl, spent, to sh.o.r.e.

A still rigidity and pale-- An Indian aloofness lones his brow; He has lived a thousand years Compressed in battle's pains and prayers, Marches and watches slow.

There are welcoming shouts, and flags; Old men off hat to the Boy, Wreaths from gay balconies fall at his feet, But to _him_--there comes alloy.

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 Day's 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 Eagle of the Blue.[12]

Aloft he guards the starry folds Who is the brother of the star; The bird whose joy is in the wind Exultleth in the war.

No painted plume--a sober hue, His beauty is his power; That eager calm of gaze intent Foresees the Sibyl's hour.

Austere, he crowns the swaying perch, Flapped by the angry flag; The hurricane from the battery sings, But his claw has known the crag.

Amid the scream of sh.e.l.ls, his scream Runs shrilling; and the glare Of eyes that brave the blinding sun The vollied flame can bear.

The pride of quenchless strength is his-- Strength which, though chained, avails; The very rebel looks and thrills-- The anch.o.r.ed Emblem hails.

Though scarred in many a furious fray, No deadly hurt he knew; Well may we think his years are charmed-- The Eagle of the Blue.

A Dirge for McPherson,[13]

Killed in front of Atlanta.

(July, 1864.)

Arms reversed and banners c.r.a.ped-- m.u.f.fled drums; Snowy horses sable-draped-- McPherson comes.

_But, tell us, shall we know him more, Lost-Mountain and lone Kenesaw?_

Brave the sword upon the pall-- A gleam in gloom; So a bright name lighteth all McPherson's doom.

Bear him through the chapel-door-- Let priest in stole Pace before the warrior Who led. Bell--toll!

Lay him down within the nave, The Lesson read-- Man is n.o.ble, man is brave, But man's--a weed.

Take him up again and wend Graveward, nor weep: There's a trumpet that shall rend This Soldier's sleep.

Pa.s.s the ropes the coffin round, And let descend; Prayer and volley--let it sound McPherson's end.

_True fame is his, for life is o'er-- Sarpedon of the mighty war._

At the Cannon's Mouth.

Destruction of the Ram Albermarle by the Torpedo-Launch.

(October, 1864.)

Palely intent, he urged his keel Full on the guns, and touched the spring; Himself involved in the bolt he drove Timed with the armed hull's shot that stove His shallop--die or do!

Into the flood his life he threw, Yet lives--unscathed--a breathing thing To marvel at.

He has his fame; But that mad dash at death, how name?

Had Earth no charm to stay the Boy From the martyr-pa.s.sion? Could he dare Disdain the Paradise of opening joy Which beckons the fresh heart every where?

Life has more lures than any girl For youth and strength; puts forth a share Of beauty, hinting of yet rarer store; And ever with unfathomable eyes, Which baffingly entice, Still strangely does Adonis draw.

And life once over, who shall tell the rest?

Life is, of all we know, G.o.d's best.

What imps these eagles then, that they Fling disrespect on life by that proud way In which they soar above our lower clay.

Pretense of wonderment and doubt unblest: In Cushing's eager deed was shown A spirit which brave poets own-- That scorn of life which earns life's crown; Earns, but not always wins; but he-- The star ascended in his nativity.

The March to the Sea.

(December, 1864.)

Not Kenesaw high-arching, Nor Allatoona's glen-- Though there the graves lie parching-- Stayed Sherman's miles of men; From charred Atlanta marching They launched the sword again.

The columns streamed like rivers Which in their course agree, And they streamed until their flashing Met the flashing of the sea: It was glorious glad marching, That marching to the sea.

The brushed the foe before them (Shall gnats impede the bull?); Their own good bridges bore them Over swamps or torrents full, And the grand pines waving o'er them Bowed to axes keen and cool.

The columns grooved their channels.

Enforced their own decree, And their power met nothing larger Until it met the sea: It was glorious glad marching, A marching glad and free.

Kilpatrick's snare of riders In zigzags mazed the land, Perplexed the pale Southsiders With feints on every hand; Vague menace awed the hiders In forts beyond command.

To Sherman's shifting problem No foeman knew the key; But onward went the marching Unpausing to the sea: It was glorious glad marching, The swinging step was free.

The flankers ranged like pigeons In clouds through field or wood; The flocks of all those regions, The herds and horses good, Poured in and swelled the legions, For they caught the marching mood.

A volley ahead! They hear it; And they hear the repartee: Fighting was but frolic In that marching to the sea: It was glorious glad marching, A marching bold and free.

All nature felt their coming, The birds like couriers flew, And the banners brightly blooming The slaves by thousands drew, And they marched beside the drumming, And they joined the armies blue.

The c.o.c.ks crowed from the cannon (Pets named from Grant and Lee), Plumed fighters and campaigners In the marching to the sea: It was glorious glad marching, For every man was free.

The foragers through calm lands Swept in tempest gay, And they breathed the air of balm-lands Where rolled savannas lay, And they helped themselves from farm-lands-- As who should say them nay?

The regiments uproarious Laughed in Plenty's glee; And they marched till their broad laughter Met the laughter of the sea: It was glorious glad marching, That marching to the sea.