John Marr and Other Poems Part 9

An India ship of fame was she, Spices and shawls and fans she bore; A whaler when the wrinkles came-- Turned off! till, spent and poor, Her bones were sold (escheat)!

Ah! Stone Fleet.

Four were erst patrician keels (Names attest what families be), The _Kensington,_ and _Richmond_ too, _Leonidas,_ and _Lee_: But now they have their seat With the Old Stone Fleet.

To scuttle them--a pirate deed-- Sack them, and dismast; They sunk so slow, they died so hard, But gurgling dropped at last.

Their ghosts in gales repeat _Woe's us, Stone Fleet!_

And all for naught. The waters pa.s.s-- Currents will have their way; Nature is n.o.body's ally; 'tis well; The harbor is bettered--will stay.

A failure, and complete, Was your Old Stone Fleet.

THE TEMERAIRE

_Supposed to have been suggested to an Englishman of the old order by the fight of the Monitor and Merrimac_

The gloomy hulls in armor grim, Like clouds o'er moors have met, And prove that oak, and iron, and man Are tough in fibre yet.

But Splendors wane. The sea-fight yields No front of old display; The garniture, emblazonment, And heraldry all decay.

Towering afar in parting light, The fleets like Albion's forelands shine-- The full-sailed fleets, the shrouded show Of Ships-of-the-Line.

The fighting _Temeraire,_ Built of a thousand trees, Lunging out her lightnings, And beetling o'er the seas-- O Ship, how brave and fair, That fought so oft and well,

On open decks you manned the gun Armorial.

What cheerings did you share, Impulsive in the van, When down upon leagued France and Spain We English ran-- The freshet at your bowsprit Like the foam upon the can.

Bickering, your colors Licked up the Spanish air, You flapped with flames of battle-flags-- Your challenge, _Temeraire!_ The rear ones of our fleet They yearned to share your place, Still vying with the Victory Throughout that earnest race-- The Victory, whose Admiral, With orders n.o.bly won, Shone in the globe of the battle glow-- The angel in that sun.

Parallel in story, Lo, the stately pair, As late in grapple ranging, The foe between them there-- When four great hulls lay tiered, And the fiery tempest cleared, And your prizes twain appeared, _Temeraire!_

But Trafalgar is over now, The quarter-deck undone; The carved and castled navies fire Their evening-gun.

O, t.i.tan _Temeraire,_ Your stern-lights fade away; Your bulwarks to the years must yield, And heart-of-oak decay.

A pigmy steam-tug tows you, Gigantic, to the sh.o.r.e-- Dismantled of your guns and spars, And sweeping wings of war.

The rivets clinch the iron clads, Men learn a deadlier lore; But Fame has nailed your battle-flags-- Your ghost it sails before: O, the navies old and oaken, O, the _Temeraire_ no more!

A UTILITARIAN VIEW OF THE _MONITOR'S_ FIGHT

Plain be the phrase, yet apt the verse, More ponderous than nimble; For since grimed War here laid aside His Orient pomp, 'twould ill befit Overmuch to ply The rhyme's barbaric cymbal.

Hail to victory without the gaud Of glory; zeal that needs no fans Of banners; plain mechanic power Plied cogently in War now placed-- Where War belongs-- Among the trades and artisans.

Yet this was battle, and intense-- Beyond the strife of fleets heroic; Deadlier, closer, calm 'mid storm; No pa.s.sion; all went on by crank, Pivot, and screw, And calculations of caloric.

Needless to dwell; the story's known.

The ringing of those plates on plates Still ringeth round the world-- The clangor of that blacksmiths' fray.

The anvil-din Resounds this message from the Fates:

War shall yet be, and to the end; But war-paint shows the streaks of weather; War yet shall be, but warriors Are now but operatives; War's made Less grand than Peace, And a singe runs through lace and feather.

MALVERN HILL July, 1862

Ye elms that wave on Malvern Hill In prime of morn and May, Recall ye how McClellan's men Here stood at bay?

While deep within yon forest dim Our rigid comrades lay-- Some with the cartridge in their mouth, Others with fixed arms lifted South-- Invoking so-- The cypress glades? Ah wilds of woe!

The spires of Richmond, late beheld Through rifts in musket-haze, Were closed from view in clouds of dust On leaf-walled ways, Where streamed our wagons in caravan; And the Seven Nights and Days Of march and fast, retreat and fight, Pinched our grimed faces to ghastly plight-- Does the elm wood Recall the haggard beards of blood?

The battle-smoked flag, with stars eclipsed, We followed (it never fell!)-- In silence husbanded our strength-- Received their yell; Till on this slope we patient turned With cannon ordered well; Reverse we proved was not defeat; But ah, the sod what thousands meet!-- Does Malvern Wood Bethink itself, and muse and brood?

_We elms of Malvern Hill_ _Remember everything;_ _But sap the twig will fill:_ _Wag the world how it will,_ _Leaves must be green in Spring._

STONEWALL JACKSON _Mortally wounded at Chancellorsville_ May, 1863

THE Man who fiercest charged in fight, Whose sword and prayer were long-- Stonewall!

Even him who stoutly stood for Wrong, How can we praise? Yet coming days Shall not forget him with this song.

Dead is the Man whose Cause is dead, Vainly he died and set his seal-- Stonewall!

Earnest in error, as we feel; True to the thing he deemed was due, True as John Brown or steel.

Relentlessly he routed us; But _we_ relent, for he is low-- Stonewall!

Justly his fame we outlaw; so We drop a tear on the bold Virginian's bier, Because no wreath we owe.

THE HOUSE-TOP July, 1863 _A Night Piece_

No sleep. The sultriness pervades the air And binds the brain--a dense oppression, such As tawny tigers feel in matted shades, Vexing their blood and making apt for ravage.

Beneath the stars the roofy desert spreads Vacant as Libya. All is hushed near by.

Yet fitfully from far breaks a mixed surf Of m.u.f.fled sound, the Atheist roar of riot.

Yonder, where parching Sirius set in drought, Balefully glares red Arson--there--and there.

The Town is taken by its rats--ship-rats And rats of the wharves. All civil charms And priestly spells which late held hearts in awe-- Fear-bound, subjected to a better sway Than sway of self; these like a dream dissolve, And man rebounds whole aeons back in nature.

Hail to the low dull rumble, dull and dead, And ponderous drag that shakes the wall.

Wise Draco comes, deep in the midnight roll Of black artillery; he comes, though late; In code corroborating Calvin's creed And cynic tyrannies of honest kings; He comes, nor parlies; and the Town, redeemed, Gives thanks devout; nor, being thankful, heeds The grimy slur on the Republic's faith implied, Which holds that Man is naturally good, And--more--is Nature's Roman, never to be scourged.

CHATTANOOGA November, 1863

A kindling impulse seized the host Inspired by heaven's elastic air; Their hearts outran their General's plan, Though Grant commanded there-- Grant, who without reserve can dare; And, "Well, go on and do your will,"