Complete Poetical Works | Page 6

Bunny understands
That hypocrisy
of sleep,
In the vigils grim they keep,
As recumbent on that spot

They elude the level shot.)
One--a grave and quiet man,
Thinking of his wife and child
Far
beyond the Rapidan,
Where the Androscoggin smiled--
Felt the
little rabbit creep,
Nestling by his arm and side,
Wakened from
strategic sleep,
To that soft appeal replied,
Drew him to his
blackened breast,
And-- But you have guessed the rest.
Softly o'er that chosen pair
Omnipresent Love and Care
Drew a
mightier Hand and Arm,
Shielding them from every harm;
Right
and left the bullets waved,
Saved the saviour for the saved.

Who believes that equal grace
God extends in every place,
Little
difference he scans

Twixt a rabbit's God and man's.
THE REVEILLE
Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands,
And of armed men the hum;

Lo! a nation's hosts have gathered
Round the quick alarming drum,--

Saying, "Come,
Freemen, come!
Ere your heritage be wasted," said
the quick alarming drum.
"Let me of my heart take counsel:
War is not of life the sum;
Who
shall stay and reap the harvest
When the autumn days shall come?"
But the drum
Echoed, "Come!
Death shall reap the braver harvest,"
said the solemn-sounding drum.
"But when won the coming battle,
What of profit springs therefrom?

What if conquest, subjugation,
Even greater ills become?"
But the drum
Answered, "Come!
You must do the sum to prove it,"
said the Yankee answering drum.
"What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder,
Whistling shot and bursting
bomb,
When my brothers fall around me,
Should my heart grow
cold and numb?"
But the drum
Answered, "Come!
Better there in death united, than
in life a recreant.--Come!"
Thus they answered,--hoping, fearing,
Some in faith, and doubting
some,
Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming,
Said, "My chosen people,
come!"
Then the drum,
Lo! was dumb,
For the great heart of the nation,
throbbing, answered, "Lord, we come!"
OUR PRIVILEGE
Not ours, where battle smoke upcurls,
And battle dews lie wet,
To
meet the charge that treason hurls
By sword and bayonet.
Not ours to guide the fatal scythe
The fleshless Reaper wields;
The
harvest moon looks calmly down
Upon our peaceful fields.

The long grass dimples on the hill,
The pines sing by the sea,
And
Plenty, from her golden horn,
Is pouring far and free.
O brothers by the farther sea!
Think still our faith is warm;
The
same bright flag above us waves
That swathed our baby form.
The same red blood that dyes your fields
Here throbs in patriot
pride,--
The blood that flowed when Lander fell,
And Baker's
crimson tide.
And thus apart our hearts keep time
With every pulse ye feel,
And
Mercy's ringing gold shall chime
With Valor's clashing steel.
RELIEVING GUARD
THOMAS STARR KING. OBIIT MARCH 4, 1864
Came the relief. "What, sentry, ho!
How passed the night through thy
long waking?"
"Cold, cheerless, dark,--as may befit
The hour
before the dawn is breaking."
"No sight? no sound?" "No; nothing save
The plover from the
marshes calling,
And in yon western sky, about
An hour ago, a star
was falling."
"A star? There's nothing strange in that."
"No, nothing; but, above the
thicket,
Somehow it seemed to me that God
Somewhere had just
relieved a picket."
THE GODDESS
CONTRIBUTED TO THE FAIR FOR THE LADIES'
PATRIOTIC FUND OF THE PACIFIC
"Who comes?" The sentry's warning cry
Rings sharply on the evening
air:
Who comes? The challenge: no reply,
Yet something motions

there.
A woman, by those graceful folds;
A soldier, by that martial tread:

"Advance three paces. Halt! until
Thy name and rank be said."
"My name? Her name, in ancient song,
Who fearless from Olympus
came:
Look on me! Mortals know me best
In battle and in flame."
"Enough! I know that clarion voice;
I know that gleaming eye and
helm,
Those crimson lips,--and in their dew
The best blood of the
realm.
"The young, the brave, the good and wise,
Have fallen in thy curst
embrace:
The juices of the grapes of wrath
Still stain thy guilty
face.
"My brother lies in yonder field,
Face downward to the quiet grass:

Go back! he cannot see thee now;
But here thou shalt not pass."
A crack upon the evening air,
A wakened echo from the hill:
The
watchdog on the distant shore
Gives mouth, and all is still.
The sentry with his brother lies
Face downward on the quiet grass;

And by him, in the pale moonshine,
A shadow seems to pass.
No lance or warlike shield it bears:
A helmet in its pitying hands

Brings water from the nearest brook,
To meet his last demands.
Can this be she of haughty mien,
The goddess of the sword and shield?

Ah, yes! The Grecian poet's myth
Sways still each battlefield.
For not alone that rugged War
Some grace or charm from Beauty
gains;
But, when the goddess' work is done,
The woman's still
remains.
ON A PEN OF THOMAS STARR KING

This is the reed the dead musician dropped,
With tuneful magic in its
sheath still hidden;
The prompt allegro of its music stopped,
Its
melodies unbidden.
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