Complete Poetical Works by Bret Harte Part 2

But who shall finish the unfinished strain, Or wake the instrument to awe and wonder, And bid the slender barrel breathe again, An organ-pipe of thunder!

His pen! what humbler memories cling about Its golden curves! what shapes and laughing graces Slipped from its point, when his full heart went out In smiles and courtly phrases?

The truth, half jesting, half in earnest flung; The word of cheer, with recognition in it; The note of alms, whose golden speech outrung The golden gift within it.

But all in vain the enchanter's wand we wave: No stroke of ours recalls his magic vision: The incantation that its power gave Sleeps with the dead magician.

A SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY

I read last night of the grand review In Washington's chiefest avenue,-- Two hundred thousand men in blue, I think they said was the number,-- Till I seemed to hear their trampling feet, The bugle blast and the drum's quick beat, The clatter of hoofs in the stony street, The cheers of people who came to greet, And the thousand details that to repeat Would only my verse enc.u.mber,-- Till I fell in a reverie, sad and sweet, And then to a fitful slumber.

When, lo! in a vision I seemed to stand In the lonely Capitol. On each hand Far stretched the portico, dim and grand Its columns ranged like a martial band Of sheeted spectres, whom some command Had called to a last reviewing.

And the streets of the city were white and bare, No footfall echoed across the square; But out of the misty midnight air I heard in the distance a trumpet blare, And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear The sound of a far tattooing.

Then I held my breath with fear and dread For into the square, with a brazen tread, There rode a figure whose stately head O'erlooked the review that morning, That never bowed from its firm-set seat When the living column pa.s.sed its feet, Yet now rode steadily up the street To the phantom bugle's warning:

Till it reached the Capitol square, and wheeled, And there in the moonlight stood revealed A well-known form that in State and field Had led our patriot sires: Whose face was turned to the sleeping camp, Afar through the river's fog and damp, That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp, Nor wasted bivouac fires.

And I saw a phantom army come, With never a sound of fife or drum, But keeping time to a throbbing hum Of wailing and lamentation: The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill, Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville, The men whose wasted figures fill The patriot graves of the nation.

And there came the nameless dead,--the men Who perished in fever swamp and fen, The slowly-starved of the prison pen; And, marching beside the others, Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's fight, With limbs enfranchised and bearing bright; I thought--perhaps 'twas the pale moonlight-- They looked as white as their brothers!

And so all night marched the nation's dead, With never a banner above them spread, Nor a badge, nor a motto brandished; No mark--save the bare uncovered head Of the silent bronze Reviewer; With never an arch save the vaulted sky; With never a flower save those that lie On the distant graves--for love could buy No gift that was purer or truer.

So all night long swept the strange array, So all night long till the morning gray I watched for one who had pa.s.sed away; With a reverent awe and wonder,-- Till a blue cap waved in the length'ning line, And I knew that one who was kin of mine Had come; and I spake--and lo! that sign Awakened me from my slumber.

THE COPPERHEAD

(1864)

There is peace in the swamp where the Copperhead sleeps, Where the waters are stagnant, the white vapor creeps, Where the musk of Magnolia hangs thick in the air, And the lilies' phylacteries broaden in prayer.

There is peace in the swamp, though the quiet is death, Though the mist is miasma, the upas-tree's breath, Though no echo awakes to the cooing of doves,-- There is peace: yes, the peace that the Copperhead loves.

Go seek him: he coils in the ooze and the drip, Like a thong idly flung from the slave-driver's whip; But beware the false footstep,--the stumble that brings A deadlier lash than the overseer swings.

Never arrow so true, never bullet so dread, As the straight steady stroke of that hammer-shaped head; Whether slave or proud planter, who braves that dull crest, Woe to him who shall trouble the Copperhead's rest!

Then why waste your labors, brave hearts and strong men, In tracking a trail to the Copperhead's den?

Lay your axe to the cypress, hew open the shade To the free sky and sunshine Jehovah has made; Let the breeze of the North sweep the vapors away, Till the stagnant lake ripples, the freed waters play; And then to your heel can you righteously doom The Copperhead born of its shadow and gloom!

A SANITARY MESSAGE

Last night, above the whistling wind, I heard the welcome rain,-- A fusillade upon the roof, A tattoo on the pane: The keyhole piped; the chimney-top A warlike trumpet blew; Yet, mingling with these sounds of strife, A softer voice stole through.

"Give thanks, O brothers!" said the voice, "That He who sent the rains Hath spared your fields the scarlet dew That drips from patriot veins: I've seen the gra.s.s on Eastern graves In brighter verdure rise; But, oh! the rain that gave it life Sprang first from human eyes.

"I come to wash away no stain Upon your wasted lea; I raise no banners, save the ones The forest waves to me: Upon the mountain side, where Spring Her farthest picket sets, My reveille awakes a host Of gra.s.sy bayonets.

"I visit every humble roof; I mingle with the low: Only upon the highest peaks My blessings fall in snow; Until, in tricklings of the stream And drainings of the lea, My unspent bounty comes at last To mingle with the sea."

And thus all night, above the wind, I heard the welcome rain,-- A fusillade upon the roof, A tattoo on the pane: The keyhole piped; the chimney-top A warlike trumpet blew; But, mingling with these sounds of strife, This hymn of peace stole through.

THE OLD MAJOR EXPLAINS

(RE-UNION, ARMY OF THE POTOMAC, 12TH MAY, 1871)

Well, you see, the fact is, Colonel, I don't know as I can come: For the farm is not half planted, and there's work to do at home; And my leg is getting troublesome,--it laid me up last fall,-- And the doctors, they have cut and hacked, and never found the ball.

And then, for an old man like me, it's not exactly right, This kind o' playing soldier with no enemy in sight.

"The Union,"--that was well enough way up to '66; But this "Re-Union," maybe now it's mixed with politics?

No? Well, you understand it best; but then, you see, my lad, I'm deacon now, and some might think that the example's bad.

And week from next is Conference.... You said the twelfth of May?

Why, that's the day we broke their line at Spottsylvan-i-a!

Hot work; eh, Colonel, wasn't it? Ye mind that narrow front: They called it the "Death-Angle"! Well, well, my lad, we won't Fight that old battle over now: I only meant to say I really can't engage to come upon the twelfth of May.

How's Thompson? What! will he be there? Well, now I want to know!

The first man in the rebel works! they called him "Swearing Joe."

A wild young fellow, sir, I fear the rascal was; but then-- Well, short of heaven, there wa'n't a place he dursn't lead his men.

And d.i.c.k, you say, is coming too. And Billy? ah! it's true We buried him at Gettysburg: I mind the spot; do you?

A little field below the hill,--it must be green this May; Perhaps that's why the fields about bring him to me to-day.

Well, well, excuse me, Colonel! but there are some things that drop The tail-board out one's feelings; and the only way's to stop.

So they want to see the old man; ah, the rascals! do they, eh?

Well, I've business down in Boston about the twelfth of May.

CALIFORNIA'S GREETING TO SEWARD

(1869)

We know him well: no need of praise Or bonfire from the windy hill To light to softer paths and ways The world-worn man we honor still.

No need to quote the truths he spoke That burned through years of war and shame, While History carves with surer stroke Across our map his noonday fame.