The Feast of the Virgins and Other Poems Part 41

G.o.d's will is peace on earth--good-will to men.

The chains all broken and the bond all free, O may this nation learn to war no more; Yea, into plow-shares may these brothers beat Their swords and into pruning-hooks their spears, Clasp hands again, and plant these battle-fields With golden corn and purple-cl.u.s.tered vines, And side by side re-build the broken walls-- Joined and cemented as one solid stone With patriot-love and Christ's sweet charity.

NEW-YEARS ADDRESS--JANUARY 1, 1866

[Written for the St. Paul Pioneer.]

Good morning--good morning--a happy new year!

We greet you, kind friends of the old _Pioneer_; Hope your coffee is good and your steak is well done, And you're happy as clams in the sand and the sun.

The old year's a shadow--a shade of the past; It is gone with its toils and its triumphs so vast-- With its joys and its tears--with its pleasure and pain-- With its shouts of the brave and its heaps of the slain-- Gone--and it cometh--no, never again.

And as we look forth on the future so fair Let us brush from the picture the visage of care; The error, the folly, the frown and the tear-- Drop them all at the grave of the silent old year.

Has the heart been oppressed with a burden of woe?

Has the spirit been cowed by a merciless blow?

Has the tongue of the brave or the voice of the fair Prayed to G.o.d and received no response to its prayer?

Look up!--'twas a shadow--the morning is here: A Happy New Year!--O, a Happy New Year!

Yet stay for a moment. We cannot forget The fields where the true and the traitor have met; When the old year came in we were trembling with fear Lest Freedom should fall in her glorious career; And the roar of the conflict was loud o'er the land Where the traitor-flag waved in a rebel's red hand; But the G.o.d of the Just led the hosts of the Free, And Victory marched from the north to the sea.

Behold--where the conflict was doubtful and dire-- There--on house-top and hill-top, on fortress and spire-- The Old Banner waves again higher and prouder, Though torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder.

G.o.d bless the brave soldiers that followed that flag Through river and swamp, over mountain and crag-- On the wild charge triumphant--the sullen retreat-- On fields spread with victory or piled with defeat; G.o.d bless their true hearts for they stood like a wall, And saved us our Country and saved us our all.

But many a mother and many a daughter Weep, alas, o'er the brave that went down in the slaughter.

Pile the monuments high--not on hill-top and plain-- To the glorious sons 'neath the old banner slain-- But over the land from the sea to the sea-- Pile their monuments high in the hearts of the Free.

Heaven bless the brave souls that are spared to return Where the "lamp in the window" ceased never to burn-- Where the vacant chair stood at the desolate hearth Since the son shouldered arms or the father went forth.

"Peace!--Peace!"--was the shout;--at the jubilant word Wives and mothers went down on their knees to the Lord!

Methinks I can see, through the vista of years-- From the memories of old such a vision appears-- A gray-haired old veteran in arm-chair at ease, With his grandchildren cl.u.s.tered intent at his knees, Recounting his deeds with an eloquent tongue, And a fire that enkindles the hearts of the young; How he followed the Flag from the first to the last-- On the long, weary march, in the battle's hot blast; How he marched under Sherman from center to sea, Or fought under Grant in his battles with Lee; And the old fire comes back to his eye as of yore, And his iron hand clutches his musket once more, As of old on the battle-field ghastly and red, When he sprang to the charge o'er the dying and dead; And the eyes of his listeners are gleaming with fire, As he points to that Flag floating high on the spire.

[Ill.u.s.tration: AND THE EYES OF HIS LISTENERS ARE GLEAMING WITH FIRE AS HE POINTS TO THAT FLAG FLOATING HIGH ON THE SPIRE.]

Heaven bless the new year that is just ushered in; May the Rebels repent of their folly and sin, Depart from their idols, extend the right hand, And pledge that the Union forever shall stand.

May they see that the rending of fetter and chain Is _their_ triumph as well--their unspeakable gain; That the Union dissevered and weltering in blood Could yield them no profit and bode them no good.

'Tis human to err and divine to forgive; Let us walk after Christ--bid the poor sinners live, And come back to the fold of the Union once more, And we'll do as the prodigal's father of yore-- Kill the well-fatted calf--(but we'll not do it twice) And invite them to dinner--and give them a slice.

There's old Johnny Bull--what a terrible groan Escapes when he thinks of his big "Rebel Loan"-- How the money went out with a nod and a grin, But the cotton--the cotton--it didn't come in.

Then he thinks of diplomacy--Mason-Slidell, And he wishes that both had been warming in h.e.l.l, For he got such a rap from our little Bill Seward That the red nose he blows is right hard to be cured; And then the steam pirates he built and equipped, And boasted, you know, that they couldn't be whipped; But alas for his boast--Johnny Bull "caught a Tartar,"

And now like a calf he is bawling for quarter.

Yes, bluff Johnny Bull will be tame as a yearling, Beg pardon and humbly "come down" with his sterling.

There's Monsieur _l'Escamoteur_[CU] over in France; He has had a clear field and a gay country dance Down there in Mexico--playing his tricks While we had a family "discussion wid sticks"; But the game is played out; don't you see it's so handy For Grant and his boys to march over the Grande.

He twists his waxed moustache and looks very blue, And he says to himself, (what he wouldn't to you) "Py tam--dair's mon poor leetle chappie--Dutch Max!

_Cornes du Diable_[CV]--'e'll 'ave to make tracks Or ve'll 'ave all dem tam Yankee poys on our packs."

Monsieur l'Empereur, if your Max can get out With the hair of his head on--he'd better, no doubt.

If you'll not take it hard, here's a bit of advice-- It is dangerous for big pigs to dance on the ice; They sometimes slip up and they sometimes fall in, And the ice you are on is exceedingly thin.

You're _au fait_, I'll admit, at a sharp game of chance, But the Devil himself couldn't always beat France.

Remember the fate of your uncle of yore, Tread lightly, and keep very close to the sh.o.r.e.

The Giant Republic--its future how vast!

Now, freed from the follies and sins of the past,

[CU] The Juggler.

[CV] Horns of the Devil!--equivalent to the exclamation--The Devil!

It will tower to the zenith; the ice-covered sea And Darien shall bound-mark the Land of the Free.

Behold how the landless, the poor and oppressed, Flock in on our sh.o.r.es from the East and the West!

Let them come--bid them come--we have plenty of room; Our forests shall echo, our prairies shall bloom; The iron horse, puffing his cloud-breath of steam, Shall course every valley and leap every stream; New cities shall rise with a magic untold, While our mines yield their treasures of silver and gold, And prosperous, united and happy, we'll climb Up the mountain of Fame till the end of Old Time-- Which, as I figure up, is a century hence: Then we'll all go abroad without any expense; We'll capture a comet--the smart Yankee race Will ride on his tail through the kingdom of s.p.a.ce, Tack their telegraph wires to Ura.n.u.s and Mars; Yea, carry their arts to the ultimate stars, And flaunt the Old Flag at the suns as they pa.s.s, And astonish the Devil himself with--their bra.s.s.

And now, "Gentle Readers," I'll bid you farewell; I hope this fine poem will please you--and _sell_.

You'll ne'er lack a friend if you ne'er lack a dime; May you never grow old till the end of Old Time; May you never be cursed with an itching for rhyme; For in spite of your physic, in spite of your plaster, The rash will break out till you go to disaster-- Which you plainly can see is the case with my Muse, For she scratches away though she's said her adieus.

Dear Ladies, though last to receive my oblation, And last in the list of Mosaic creation, The last is the best, and the last shall be first.

Through Eve, sayeth Moses, old Adam was cursed; But I cannot agree with you, Moses, that Adam Sinned and fell through the gentle persuasion of madam.

The victim, no doubt, of Egyptian flirtation, You mistook your chagrin for divine inspiration, And condemned all the s.e.x without proof or probation, As we rhymsters mistake the moonbeams that elate us For flashes of wit or the holy afflatus, And imagine we hear the applause of a nation,-- But all honest men who are married and blest Will agree that the last work of G.o.d is the best.

And now to you all--whether married or single-- Whether sheltered by slate, or by "shake," or by shingle-- G.o.d bless you with peace and with bountiful cheer, Happy houses, happy hearts--and a happy New Year!

P.S.--If you wish all these blessings, 'tis clear You should send in your "stamps" for the old _Pioneer_.

MY FATHER-LAND

[From the German of Theodor Korner.]

Where is the minstrel's Father-land?

Where the sparks of n.o.ble spirits flew, Where flowery wreaths for beauty grew, Where strong hearts glowed so glad and true For all things sacred, good and grand: There was my Father-land.

How named the minstrel's Father-land?

O'er slaughtered son--'neath tyrants' yokes, She weepeth now--and foreign strokes; They called her once the Land of Oaks-- Land of the Free--the German Land: Thus was called my Father-land.

Why weeps the minstrel's Father-land?

Because while tyrant's tempest hailed The people's chosen princes quailed, And all their sacred pledges failed; Because she could no ear command, Alas must weep my Father-land.

Whom calls the minstrel's Father-land?

She calls on heaven with wild alarm-- With desperation's thunder-storm-- On Liberty to bare her arm, On Retribution's vengeful hand: On these she calls--my Father-land.

What would the minstrel's Father-land?

She would strike the base slaves to the ground Chase from her soil the tyrant hound, And free her sons in shackles bound, Or lay them free beneath her sand: That would my Father-land.

And hopes the minstrel's Father-land?

She hopes for holy Freedom's sake, Hopes that her true sons will awake, Hopes that just G.o.d will vengeance take, And ne'er mistakes the Avenger's hand: Thereon relies my Father-land.

MY HEART'S ON THE RHINE