Complete Poetical Works

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 Dick, 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.     No need to bid him show the scars       Of blows dealt by the Scaean gate,     Who lived to pass its shattered bars,       And see the foe capitulate:     Who lived to turn his slower feet       Toward the western setting sun,     To see his harvest all complete,       His dream fulfilled, his duty done,     The one flag streaming from the pole,       The one faith borne from sea to sea:     For such a triumph, and such goal,       Poor must our human greeting be.     Ah! rather that the conscious land       In simpler ways salute the Man,—     The tall pines bowing where they stand,       The bared head of El Capitan!     The tumult of the waterfalls,       Pohono's kerchief in the breeze,     The waving from the rocky walls,       The stir and rustle of the trees;     Till, lapped in sunset skies of hope,       In sunset lands by sunset seas,     The Young World's Premier treads the slope       Of sunset years in calm and peace.

THE AGED STRANGER

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR     "I was with Grant"—the stranger said;       Said the farmer, "Say no more,     But rest thee here at my cottage porch,       For thy feet are weary and sore."     "I was with Grant"—the stranger said;       Said the farmer, "Nay, no more,—     I prithee sit at my frugal board,       And eat of my humble store.     "How fares my boy,—my soldier boy,       Of the old Ninth Army Corps?     I warrant he bore him gallantly       In the smoke and the battle's roar!"     "I know him not," said the aged man,       "And, as I remarked before,     I was with Grant"–  "Nay, nay, I know,"       Said the farmer, "say no more:     "He fell in battle,—I see, alas!       Thou'dst smooth these tidings o'er,—     Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be,       Though it rend my bosom's core.     "How fell he?  With his face to the foe,       Upholding the flag he bore?     Oh, say not that my boy disgraced       The uniform that he wore!"     "I cannot tell," said the aged man,       "And should have remarked before.     That I was with Grant,—in Illinois,—       Some three years before the war."     Then the farmer spake him never a word,       But beat with his fist full sore     That aged man who had worked for Grant       Some three years before the war.

THE IDYL OF BATTLE HOLLOW

(WAR OF THE REBELLION, 1884)     No, I won't,—thar, now, so!  And it ain't nothin',—no!     And thar's nary to tell that you folks yer don't know;     And it's "Belle, tell us, do!" and it's "Belle, is it true?"     And "Wot's this yer yarn of the Major and you?"     Till I'm sick of it all,—so I am, but I s'pose     Thet is nothin' to you....  Well, then, listen! yer goes!     It was after the fight, and around us all night     Thar was poppin' and shootin' a powerful sight;     And the niggers had fled, and Aunt Chlo was abed,     And Pinky and Milly were hid in the shed:     And I ran out at daybreak, and nothin' was nigh     But the growlin' of cannon low down in the sky.     And I saw not a thing, as I ran to the spring,     But a splintered fence rail and a broken-down swing,     And a bird said "Kerchee!" as it sat on a tree,     As if it was lonesome, and glad to see me;     And I filled up my pail and was risin' to go,     When up comes the Major a-canterin' slow.     When he saw me he drew in his reins, and then threw     On the gate-post his bridle, and—what does he do     But come down where I sat; and he lifted his hat,     And he says—well, thar ain't any need to tell THAT;     'Twas some foolishness, sure, but it 'mounted to this,     Thet he asked for a drink, and he wanted—a kiss.     Then I said (I was mad), "For the water, my lad,     You're too big and must stoop; for a kiss, it's as bad,—     You ain't near big enough."  And I turned in a huff,     When that Major he laid his white hand on my cuff,     And he says, "You're a trump!  Take my pistol, don't fear!     But shoot the next man that insults you, my dear."     Then he stooped to the pool, very quiet and cool,     Leavin' me with that pistol stuck there like a fool,     When thar flashed on my sight a quick glimmer of light     From the top of the little stone fence on the right,     And I knew 'twas a rifle, and back of it all     Rose the face of that bushwhacker, Cherokee Hall!     Then I felt in my dread that the moment the head     Of the Major was lifted, the Major was dead;     And I stood still and white, but Lord! gals, in spite     Of my care, that derned pistol went off in my fright!     Went off—true as gospil!—and, strangest of all,     It actooally injured that Cherokee Hall!     Thet's all—now, go 'long!  Yes, some folks thinks it's wrong,     And thar's some wants to know to what side I belong;     But I says, "Served him right!" and I go, all my might,     In love or in war, for a fair stand-up fight;     And as for the Major—sho! gals, don't you know     Thet—Lord! thar's his step in the garden below.

CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD

(NEW JERSEY, 1780)     Here's the spot.  Look around you.  Above on the height     Lay the Hessians encamped.  By that church on the right     Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers.  And here ran a wall,—     You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball.     Nothing more.  Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow,     Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.     Nothing more, did I say?  Stay one moment: you've heard     Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the word     Down at Springfield?  What, no?  Come—that's bad; why, he had     All the Jerseys aflame!  And they gave him the name     Of the "rebel high priest."  He stuck in their gorge,     For he loved the Lord God—and he hated King George!     He had cause, you might say!  When the Hessians that day     Marched up with Knyphausen, they stopped on their way     At the "farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms,     Sat alone in the house.  How it happened none knew     But God—and that one of the hireling crew     Who fired the shot!  Enough!—there she lay,     And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away!     Did he preach—did he pray?  Think of him as you stand     By the old church to-day,—think of him and his band     Of militant ploughboys!  See the smoke and the heat     Of that reckless advance, of that straggling retreat!     Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view—     And what could you, what should you, what would YOU do?     Why, just what HE did!  They were left in the lurch     For the want of more wadding.  He ran to the church,     Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the road     With his arms full of hymn-books, and threw down his load     At their feet!  Then above all the shouting and shots     Rang his voice: "Put Watts into 'em!  Boys, give 'em Watts!"     And they did.  That is all.  Grasses spring, flowers blow,     Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.     You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball—     But not always a hero like this—and that's all.

POEM

DELIVERED ON THE FOURTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF CALIFORNIA'S ADMISSION INTO THE UNION, SEPTEMBER 9, 1864     We meet in peace, though from our native East     The sun that sparkles on our birthday feast     Glanced as he rose on fields whose dews were red     With darker tints than those Aurora spread.     Though shorn his rays, his welcome disk concealed     In the dim smoke that veiled each battlefield,     Still striving upward, in meridian pride,     He climbed the walls that East and West divide,—     Saw his bright face flashed back from golden sand,     And sapphire seas that lave the Western land.     Strange was the contrast that such scenes disclose     From his high vantage o'er eternal snows;     There War's alarm the brazen trumpet rings—     Here his love-song the mailed cicala sings;     There bayonets glitter through the forest glades—     Here yellow cornfields stack their peaceful blades;     There the deep trench where Valor finds a grave—     Here the long ditch that curbs the peaceful wave;     There the bold sapper with his lighted train—     Here the dark tunnel and its stores of gain;     Here the full harvest and the wain's advance—     There the Grim Reaper and the ambulance.     With scenes so adverse, what mysterious bond     Links our fair fortunes to the shores beyond?     Why come we here—last of a scattered fold—     To pour new metal in the broken mould?     To yield our tribute, stamped with Caesar's face,     To Caesar, stricken in the market-place?     Ah! love of country is the secret tie     That joins these contrasts 'neath one arching sky;     Though brighter paths our peaceful steps explore,     We meet together at the Nation's door.     War winds her horn, and giant cliffs go down     Like the high walls that girt the sacred town,     And bares the pathway to her throbbing heart,     From clustered village and from crowded mart.     Part of God's providence it was to found     A Nation's bulwark on this chosen ground;     Not Jesuit's zeal nor pioneer's unrest     Planted these pickets in the distant West,     But He who first the Nation's fate forecast     Placed here His fountains sealed for ages past,     Rock-ribbed and guarded till the coming time     Should fit the people for their work sublime;     When a new Moses with his rod of steel     Smote the tall cliffs with one wide-ringing peal,     And the old miracle in record told     To the new Nation was revealed in gold.     Judge not too idly that our toils are mean,     Though no new levies marshal on our green;     Nor deem too rashly that our gains are small,     Weighed with the prizes for which heroes fall.     See, where thick vapor wreathes the battle-line;     There Mercy follows with her oil and wine;     Or where brown Labor with its peaceful charm     Stiffens the sinews of the Nation's arm.     What nerves its hands to strike a deadlier blow     And hurl its legions on the rebel foe?     Lo! for each town new rising o'er our State     See the foe's hamlet waste and desolate,     While each new factory lifts its chimney tall,     Like a fresh mortar trained on Richmond's wall.     For this, O brothers, swings the fruitful vine,     Spread our broad pastures with their countless kine:     For this o'erhead the arching vault springs clear,     Sunlit and cloudless for one half the year;     For this no snowflake, e'er so lightly pressed,     Chills the warm impulse of our mother's breast.     Quick to reply, from meadows brown and sere,     She thrills responsive to Spring's earliest tear;     Breaks into blossom, flings her loveliest rose     Ere the white crocus mounts Atlantic snows;     And the example of her liberal creed     Teaches the lesson that to-day we heed.     Thus ours the lot with peaceful, generous hand     To spread our bounty o'er the suffering land;     As the deep cleft in Mariposa's wall     Hurls a vast river splintering in its fall,—     Though the rapt soul who stands in awe below     Sees but the arching of the promised bow,     Lo! the far streamlet drinks its dews unseen,     And the whole valley wakes a brighter green.

MISS BLANCHE SAYS

     And you are the poet, and so you want       Something—what is it?—a theme, a fancy?     Something or other the Muse won't grant       To your old poetical necromancy;     Why, one half you poets—you can't deny—       Don't know the Muse when you chance to meet her,     But sit in your attics and mope and sigh     For a faineant goddess to drop from the sky,     When flesh and blood may be standing by       Quite at your service, should you but greet her.     What if I told you my own romance?       Women are poets, if you so take them,     One third poet,—the rest what chance       Of man and marriage may choose to make them.     Give me ten minutes before you go,—       Here at the window we'll sit together,     Watching the currents that ebb and flow;     Watching the world as it drifts below     Up the hot Avenue's dusty glow:       Isn't it pleasant, this bright June weather?     Well, it was after the war broke out,       And I was a schoolgirl fresh from Paris;     Papa had contracts, and roamed about,       And I—did nothing—for I was an heiress.     Picked some lint, now I think; perhaps       Knitted some stockings—a dozen nearly:     Havelocks made for the soldiers' caps;     Stood at fair-tables and peddled traps     Quite at a profit.  The "shoulder-straps"       Thought I was pretty.  Ah, thank you! really?     Still it was stupid.  Rata-tat-tat!       Those were the sounds of that battle summer,     Till the earth seemed a parchment round and flat,       And every footfall the tap of a drummer;     And day by day down the Avenue went       Cavalry, infantry, all together,     Till my pitying angel one day sent     My fate in the shape of a regiment,     That halted, just as the day was spent,       Here at our door in the bright June weather.     None of your dandy warriors they,—       Men from the West, but where I know not;     Haggard and travel-stained, worn and gray,       With never a ribbon or lace or bow-knot:     And I opened the window, and, leaning there,       I felt in their presence the free winds blowing.     My neck and shoulders and arms were bare,—     I did not dream they might think me fair,     But I had some flowers that night in my hair,       And here, on my bosom, a red rose glowing.     And I looked from the window along the line,       Dusty and dirty and grim and solemn,     Till an eye like a bayonet flash met mine,       And a dark face shone from the darkening column,     And a quick flame leaped to my eyes and hair,       Till cheeks and shoulders burned all together,     And the next I found myself standing there     With my eyelids wet and my cheeks less fair,     And the rose from my bosom tossed high in air,       Like a blood-drop falling on plume and feather.     Then I drew back quickly: there came a cheer,       A rush of figures, a noise and tussle,     And then it was over, and high and clear       My red rose bloomed on his gun's black muzzle.     Then far in the darkness a sharp voice cried,       And slowly and steadily, all together,     Shoulder to shoulder and side to side,     Rising and falling and swaying wide,     But bearing above them the rose, my pride,       They marched away in the twilight weather.     And I leaned from my window and watched my rose       Tossed on the waves of the surging column,     Warmed from above in the sunset glows,       Borne from below by an impulse solemn.     Then I shut the window.  I heard no more       Of my soldier friend, nor my flower neither,     But lived my life as I did before.     I did not go as a nurse to the war,—     Sick folks to me are a dreadful bore,—       So I didn't go to the hospital either.     You smile, O poet, and what do you?       You lean from your window, and watch life's column     Trampling and struggling through dust and dew,       Filled with its purposes grave and solemn;     And an act, a gesture, a face—who knows?—       Touches your fancy to thrill and haunt you,     And you pluck from your bosom the verse that grows     And down it flies like my red, red rose,     And you sit and dream as away it goes,       And think that your duty is done,—now don't you?     I know your answer.  I'm not yet through.       Look at this photograph,—"In the Trenches"!     That dead man in the coat of blue       Holds a withered rose in his hand.  That clenches     Nothing!—except that the sun paints true,       And a woman is sometimes prophetic-minded.     And that's my romance.  And, poet, you     Take it and mould it to suit your view;     And who knows but you may find it too       Come to your heart once more, as mine did.

AN ARCTIC VISION

     Where the short-legged Esquimaux     Waddle in the ice and snow,     And the playful Polar bear     Nips the hunter unaware;     Where by day they track the ermine,     And by night another vermin,—     Segment of the frigid zone,     Where the temperature alone     Warms on St. Elias' cone;     Polar dock, where Nature slips     From the ways her icy ships;     Land of fox and deer and sable,     Shore end of our western cable,—     Let the news that flying goes     Thrill through all your Arctic floes,     And reverberate the boast     From the cliffs off Beechey's coast,     Till the tidings, circling round     Every bay of Norton Sound,     Throw the vocal tide-wave back     To the isles of Kodiac.     Let the stately Polar bears     Waltz around the pole in pairs,     And the walrus, in his glee,     Bare his tusk of ivory;     While the bold sea-unicorn     Calmly takes an extra horn;     All ye Polar skies, reveal your     Very rarest of parhelia;     Trip it, all ye merry dancers,     In the airiest of "Lancers;"     Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide,     One inch farther to the tide,     Nor in rash precipitation     Upset Tyndall's calculation.     Know you not what fate awaits you,     Or to whom the future mates you?     All ye icebergs, make salaam,—     You belong to Uncle Sam!     On the spot where Eugene Sue     Led his wretched Wandering Jew,     Stands a form whose features strike     Russ and Esquimaux alike.     He it is whom Skalds of old     In their Runic rhymes foretold;     Lean of flank and lank of jaw,     See the real Northern Thor!     See the awful Yankee leering     Just across the Straits of Behring;     On the drifted snow, too plain,     Sinks his fresh tobacco stain,     Just beside the deep inden-     Tation of his Number 10.     Leaning on his icy hammer     Stands the hero of this drama,     And above the wild-duck's clamor,     In his own peculiar grammar,     With its linguistic disguises,     La! the Arctic prologue rises:     "Wall, I reckon 'tain't so bad,     Seein' ez 'twas all they had.     True, the Springs are rather late,     And early Falls predominate;     But the ice-crop's pretty sure,     And the air is kind o' pure;     'Tain't so very mean a trade,     When the land is all surveyed.     There's a right smart chance for fur-chase     All along this recent purchase,     And, unless the stories fail,     Every fish from cod to whale;     Rocks, too; mebbe quartz; let's see,—     'Twould be strange if there should be,—     Seems I've heerd such stories told;     Eh!—why, bless us,—yes, it's gold!"     While the blows are falling thick     From his California pick,     You may recognize the Thor     Of the vision that I saw,—     Freed from legendary glamour,     See the real magician's hammer.

ST. THOMAS

(A GEOGRAPHICAL SURVEY, 1868)     Very fair and full of promise     Lay the island of St. Thomas:     Ocean o'er its reefs and bars     Hid its elemental scars;     Groves of cocoanut and guava     Grew above its fields of lava.     So the gem of the Antilles—     "Isles of Eden," where no ill is—     Like a great green turtle slumbered     On the sea that it encumbered.     Then said William Henry Seward,     As he cast his eye to leeward,     "Quite important to our commerce     Is this island of St. Thomas."     Said the Mountain ranges, "Thank'ee,     But we cannot stand the Yankee     O'er our scars and fissures poring,     In our very vitals boring,     In our sacred caverns prying,     All our secret problems trying,—     Digging, blasting, with dynamit     Mocking all our thunders!  Damn it!     Other lands may be more civil;     Bust our lava crust if we will!"     Said the Sea, its white teeth gnashing     Through its coral-reef lips flashing,     "Shall I let this scheming mortal     Shut with stone my shining portal,     Curb my tide and check my play,     Fence with wharves my shining bay?     Rather let me be drawn out     In one awful waterspout!"     Said the black-browed Hurricane,     Brooding down the Spanish Main,     "Shall I see my forces, zounds!     Measured by square inch and pounds,     With detectives at my back     When I double on my track,     And my secret paths made clear,     Published o'er the hemisphere     To each gaping, prying crew?     Shall I?  Blow me if I do!"     So the Mountains shook and thundered,     And the Hurricane came sweeping,     And the people stared and wondered     As the Sea came on them leaping:     Each, according to his promise,     Made things lively at St. Thomas.     Till one morn, when Mr. Seward     Cast his weather eye to leeward,     There was not an inch of dry land     Left to mark his recent island.     Not a flagstaff or a sentry,     Not a wharf or port of entry,—     Only—to cut matters shorter—     Just a patch of muddy water     In the open ocean lying,     And a gull above it flying.

OFF SCARBOROUGH

(SEPTEMBER, 1779)I     "Have a care!" the bailiffs cried       From their cockleshell that lay     Off the frigate's yellow side,       Tossing on Scarborough Bay,     While the forty sail it convoyed on a bowline stretched away.     "Take your chicks beneath your wings,       And your claws and feathers spread,     Ere the hawk upon them springs,—       Ere around Flamborough Head     Swoops Paul Jones, the Yankee falcon, with his beak and talons red."II     How we laughed!—my mate and I,—       On the "Bon Homme Richard's" deck,     As we saw that convoy fly       Like a snow-squall, till each fleck     Melted in the twilight shadows of the coast-line, speck by speck;     And scuffling back to shore       The Scarborough bailiffs sped,     As the "Richard" with a roar       Of her cannon round the Head,     Crossed her royal yards and signaled to her consort: "Chase ahead"III     But the devil seize Landais       In that consort ship of France!     For the shabby, lubber way       That he worked the "Alliance"     In the offing,—nor a broadside fired save to our mischance!—     When tumbling to the van,       With his battle-lanterns set,     Rose the burly Englishman       'Gainst our hull as black as jet,—     Rode the yellow-sided "Serapis," and all alone we met!IV     All alone, though far at sea       Hung his consort, rounding to;     All alone, though on our lee       Fought our "Pallas," stanch and true!     For the first broadside around us both a smoky circle drew:     And, like champions in a ring,       There was cleared a little space—     Scarce a cable's length to swing—       Ere we grappled in embrace,     All the world shut out around us, and we only face to face!V     Then awoke all hell below       From that broadside, doubly curst,     For our long eighteens in row       Leaped the first discharge and burst!     And on deck our men came pouring, fearing their own guns the worst.     And as dumb we lay, till, through       Smoke and flame and bitter cry,     Hailed the "Serapis:" "Have you       Struck your colors?" Our reply,     "We have not yet begun to fight!" went shouting to the sky!VI     Roux of Brest, old fisher, lay       Like a herring gasping here;     Bunker of Nantucket Bay,       Blown from out the port, dropped sheer     Half a cable's length to leeward; yet we faintly raised a cheer     As with his own right hand       Our Commodore made fast     The foeman's head-gear and       The "Richard's" mizzen-mast,     And in that death-lock clinging held us there from first to last!VII     Yet the foeman, gun on gun,       Through the "Richard" tore a road,     With his gunners' rammers run       Through our ports at every load,     Till clear the blue beyond us through our yawning timbers showed.     Yet with entrails torn we clung       Like the Spartan to our fox,     And on deck no coward tongue       Wailed the enemy's hard knocks,     Nor that all below us trembled like a wreck upon the rocks.VIII     Then a thought rose in my brain,       As through Channel mists the sun.     From our tops a fire like rain       Drove below decks every one     Of the enemy's ship's company to hide or work a gun:     And that thought took shape as I       On the "Richard's" yard lay out,     That a man might do and die,       If the doing brought about     Freedom for his home and country, and his messmates' cheering shout!IX     Then I crept out in the dark       Till I hung above the hatch     Of the "Serapis,"—a mark       For her marksmen!—with a match     And a hand-grenade, but lingered just a moment more to snatch     One last look at sea and sky!       At the lighthouse on the hill!     At the harvest-moon on high!       And our pine flag fluttering still!     Then turned and down her yawning throat I launched that devil's pill!X     Then a blank was all between       As the flames around me spun!     Had I fired the magazine?       Was the victory lost or won?     Nor knew I till the fight was o'er but half my work was done:     For I lay among the dead       In the cockpit of our foe,     With a roar above my head,—       Till a trampling to and fro,     And a lantern showed my mate's face, and I knew what now you know!