Hero, whose ashes sleep
By Vernon’s sacred steep,
Sire of the free!
To-day thy name be blessed
North, South, East and West,
And swell each patriot’s breast
With love to thee.
By Vernon’s sacred steep,
Sire of the free!
To-day thy name be blessed
North, South, East and West,
And swell each patriot’s breast
With love to thee.
Through tempests drear and dark
The Union’s holy ark
Thy hand did guide;
The ark which rode the flood
Of Revolution’s blood
For freedom’s mighty God
Was on thy side.
The Union’s holy ark
Thy hand did guide;
The ark which rode the flood
Of Revolution’s blood
For freedom’s mighty God
Was on thy side.
Where’er thy eagles flew
The world our glory knew
In war and peace.
Safe ’neath the fig and vine
Our fathers did recline,
And field and wave and mine
Gave rich increase.
The world our glory knew
In war and peace.
Safe ’neath the fig and vine
Our fathers did recline,
And field and wave and mine
Gave rich increase.
Oh, that to-day might yield
Once more the sword and shield
Of Washington!
Then freedom’s songs sublime
Should peal in thrilling chime
And, ’til remotest time,
The States be one.
Once more the sword and shield
Of Washington!
Then freedom’s songs sublime
Should peal in thrilling chime
And, ’til remotest time,
The States be one.
TO APRIL.
[Dedicated to the Weather Bureau.]
(Begun April 1.)
Sweet month of blue-eyed violets and fools,
I’m glad to see you, dear. Take off your bonnet,
While to your praise I pen a flowing sonnet.
A thousand misses in the boarding-schools
Now do the same on gilt-edged, scented paper,
And bite their nails and trim the midnight taper.
The clear lake like a polished mirror glows
In the seraphic loveliness of morn;
The speckled trout leap from their crystal pools,
Waking the startled skylark’s mellow horn;
On every hand new beauties still are born,
Till lingering sunset’s amethystine blaze
Illumes the vault of heaven with its far-streaming rays.
I’m glad to see you, dear. Take off your bonnet,
While to your praise I pen a flowing sonnet.
A thousand misses in the boarding-schools
Now do the same on gilt-edged, scented paper,
And bite their nails and trim the midnight taper.
The clear lake like a polished mirror glows
In the seraphic loveliness of morn;
The speckled trout leap from their crystal pools,
Waking the startled skylark’s mellow horn;
On every hand new beauties still are born,
Till lingering sunset’s amethystine blaze
Illumes the vault of heaven with its far-streaming rays.
(Finished April 10.)
Thus far without impediment I got,
My sleek Pegasus on an easy gallop,
Or ambling steady or on cosy trot
Smooth-scudding o’er the airy fields of thought,
As a Venetian gondola or shallop.
To halt with sudden bump my pencil’s brought.
“I can not tell a lie!” (Spring poems are “rot.”)
Now all my pretty phrases come to naught.
It’s just a shame! But then who would have thought—
Wild polar blizzards, snow and blinding sleet
Beat my Pegasus and benumbed his feet?
And, most unlucky mishap for a poet,
The brute has got the studs and will not go it.
One solid hour of labor have I lost—
I can’t write summer songs in winter’s frost.
O April, sure you did not count the cost
Of your confounded jag! I think you’re drunk!
Well, bluster if you want to show your spunk.
The Weather Bureau’s all turned inside out—
But pray clear up, Miss April, or clear out!
My sleek Pegasus on an easy gallop,
Or ambling steady or on cosy trot
Smooth-scudding o’er the airy fields of thought,
As a Venetian gondola or shallop.
To halt with sudden bump my pencil’s brought.
“I can not tell a lie!” (Spring poems are “rot.”)
Now all my pretty phrases come to naught.
It’s just a shame! But then who would have thought—
Wild polar blizzards, snow and blinding sleet
Beat my Pegasus and benumbed his feet?
And, most unlucky mishap for a poet,
The brute has got the studs and will not go it.
One solid hour of labor have I lost—
I can’t write summer songs in winter’s frost.
O April, sure you did not count the cost
Of your confounded jag! I think you’re drunk!
Well, bluster if you want to show your spunk.
The Weather Bureau’s all turned inside out—
But pray clear up, Miss April, or clear out!
ODE ON THE DEATH OF LEO XIII.
Dedicated to Mrs. Mary Anderson Navarro, London.
I see before me the Gladiator lie:
He leans upon his hand—his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony.
—Childe Harold.
He leans upon his hand—his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony.
—Childe Harold.
The Eternal City, shrine of many lands,
Slow fades; before his dying gaze expands
The Golden-streeted City, not made with hands;
Hail him with waving palms and loving eyes,
Heaven’s solemn choirs and sweet societies,
While sobs below him the great church he trod—
“To Cæsar, Cæsar’s; God’s we yield to God.”
Life’s duty done, he ends his manly part,
Stop the great throbbings of that true, pure heart;
Amid a sorrowing people’s prayers and tears,
God greets the saint of two-and-ninety years.
Slow fades; before his dying gaze expands
The Golden-streeted City, not made with hands;
Hail him with waving palms and loving eyes,
Heaven’s solemn choirs and sweet societies,
While sobs below him the great church he trod—
“To Cæsar, Cæsar’s; God’s we yield to God.”
Life’s duty done, he ends his manly part,
Stop the great throbbings of that true, pure heart;
Amid a sorrowing people’s prayers and tears,
God greets the saint of two-and-ninety years.
Not for the lust of luxury and beauty,
Not for the miser’s or the conqueror’s booty,
But for the still small voice of duty
Bravely did all temptation spurn
The immortal Lion of Lucerne.
Not for the miser’s or the conqueror’s booty,
But for the still small voice of duty
Bravely did all temptation spurn
The immortal Lion of Lucerne.
The Lion is at rest,
With his awe-inspiring crest,
In full-maned majesty and strength he has laid him down to rest.
Of all earth’s mortal monarchs the bravest, strongest, best,
His bright eye kindled with the love of Jesus and the Cross.
Who gave mankind the Light Divine
To save the world from loss.
With his awe-inspiring crest,
In full-maned majesty and strength he has laid him down to rest.
Of all earth’s mortal monarchs the bravest, strongest, best,
His bright eye kindled with the love of Jesus and the Cross.
Who gave mankind the Light Divine
To save the world from loss.
His grand life work is o’er,
And nations now deplore
The Lion of the Vatican, the warrior of the cross,
From Italy’s bay-indented shore
To where Columbia’s eagles soar,
Is heard the voice of weeping,
For the Lion softly sleeping,
The Lion of the Vatican,
Who never feared the face of man—
The Lion o’er whose urn
The mounting flames of glory burn;
Who died in duty’s harness—the Lion of Lucerne.
And nations now deplore
The Lion of the Vatican, the warrior of the cross,
From Italy’s bay-indented shore
To where Columbia’s eagles soar,
Is heard the voice of weeping,
For the Lion softly sleeping,
The Lion of the Vatican,
Who never feared the face of man—
The Lion o’er whose urn
The mounting flames of glory burn;
Who died in duty’s harness—the Lion of Lucerne.
He sleeps, but not forsaken,
For the Judgment trump shall blow,
Its blast of joy or woe.
The nations of the dead shall rise
And the Lion of the Vatican shall waken.
Once in earth’s Gethsemane by all but God forsaken!
With glory crested on his head and splendor in his eyes,
The kingdoms gather round the great white throne
To hear the final sentence
Of all who seek or scorn repentance.
For the Judgment trump shall blow,
Its blast of joy or woe.
The nations of the dead shall rise
And the Lion of the Vatican shall waken.
Once in earth’s Gethsemane by all but God forsaken!
With glory crested on his head and splendor in his eyes,
The kingdoms gather round the great white throne
To hear the final sentence
Of all who seek or scorn repentance.
Long ere the dreadful conflagration
Which shall consume each nation,
Along each height or hollow shore,
Loud shall reverberate the roar
Which made the iron Bismarck bow
Before the Lion’s calm, majestic brow;
Which bade the hostile cannon cease
And harmless pave the paths of peace,
Who walked where princely Virgil trod
And then like Enoch walked with God.
Which shall consume each nation,
Along each height or hollow shore,
Loud shall reverberate the roar
Which made the iron Bismarck bow
Before the Lion’s calm, majestic brow;
Which bade the hostile cannon cease
And harmless pave the paths of peace,
Who walked where princely Virgil trod
And then like Enoch walked with God.
Be patient, then, O Zion!
And wait the wakening of the Lion
Be patient still, for soon
Thy God shall grant the boon
Of universal peace;
And War’s red banner shall be furled
Throughout all the world.
And wait the wakening of the Lion
Be patient still, for soon
Thy God shall grant the boon
Of universal peace;
And War’s red banner shall be furled
Throughout all the world.
Paul Kruger’s diamond bribe[C] was worth
The ransom of a hundred kings;
Yet diamonds and pearls and all
The riches of this world have wings;
The Lion held God’s treasure fast—
Honor and truth and Heaven at last.
The ransom of a hundred kings;
Yet diamonds and pearls and all
The riches of this world have wings;
The Lion held God’s treasure fast—
Honor and truth and Heaven at last.
CHIABRERA’S EPITAPH.
Chiabrera, an Italian poet, is said to have written the following inscription for his tomb:
“Friend, I while living sought comfort in Parnassus;
Do thou, better counselled, seek it in Calvary.”
Do thou, better counselled, seek it in Calvary.”
The setting sun shone down the Apennines,
Gilding Vesuvius and his purpling vines,
And his dark collonades of whispering pines.
Gilding Vesuvius and his purpling vines,
And his dark collonades of whispering pines.
The tinkling bells of the returning flocks
Rang through the lengthening shadows of the rocks
And grateful coolness filled the shepherd’s walks.
Rang through the lengthening shadows of the rocks
And grateful coolness filled the shepherd’s walks.
The Star of Evening trembled in the West,
Like a rich pearl on Beauty’s throbbing breast,
And Heaven was all aglow with rapture blest.
Like a rich pearl on Beauty’s throbbing breast,
And Heaven was all aglow with rapture blest.
Upon his death-couch Chiabrera lay,
Life’s waning lights across his features play
Like the last beams of yon declining day.
Life’s waning lights across his features play
Like the last beams of yon declining day.
And as departing day its glory shed
Bright on the group which gathered round his bed,
In faltering words the dying poet said:
Bright on the group which gathered round his bed,
In faltering words the dying poet said:
“Chill blow the gales across the sea of Death,
Upon my brow I feel their icy breath—
And the bright star of song forsakes my path.
Upon my brow I feel their icy breath—
And the bright star of song forsakes my path.
“No more Apollo’s mount shall I behold—
The rainbow mist that round its summit rolled
Fades into clouds all joyless, dark and cold.
The rainbow mist that round its summit rolled
Fades into clouds all joyless, dark and cold.
“The groves are withered on Parnassus’ side;
The fields are dead—the streams no longer glide,
And every fount by fiery heat is dried.
The fields are dead—the streams no longer glide,
And every fount by fiery heat is dried.
“All dumb and shattered lies Apollo’s shell,
Broke are the chords my fingers loved so well,
Mourning the hand that wove their fairy spell.
Broke are the chords my fingers loved so well,
Mourning the hand that wove their fairy spell.
“Dread Calvary! beneath thy sheltering rock
Oh, let the gentle Shepherd of the flock
Shield me in mercy from the tempest’s shock;
Oh, let the gentle Shepherd of the flock
Shield me in mercy from the tempest’s shock;
“There from the pelting storm and bitter blast,
My weary soul its refuge finds at last.
Behold the Cross! The pang of Death is past.
My weary soul its refuge finds at last.
Behold the Cross! The pang of Death is past.
“Parnassus! up whose steeps I long have striven,
Thy summit, by the thunder-tempest riven,
Stops in the clouds—but Calvary’s rests in Heaven.”
Thy summit, by the thunder-tempest riven,
Stops in the clouds—but Calvary’s rests in Heaven.”
ELEGY
On the death of Captain Bacon, Kentucky Volunteers, U. S. A., slain at Sacraments, Ky., December, 1861.
Oh, sacred mountain of Kentucky’s dead,
Room in thy heart for Bacon’s honored head,
Whose true blood streaming from his manly breast
Shall dye with glories new thy marble crest,
And caught by every sun upon the air
Appeal to Heaven in everlasting prayer—
Prayer for the rescue of our outraged land,
From dark rebellion’s impious sword and brand;
Prayer for the fiery bolt by justice sped
To fall in vengeance for our slaughtered dead;
Prayer which, becoming of the winds a part,
Through all the land shall stir the nation’s heart,
And summon martial millions to the field
A patriot host, the nation’s living shield.
Room in thy heart for Bacon’s honored head,
Whose true blood streaming from his manly breast
Shall dye with glories new thy marble crest,
And caught by every sun upon the air
Appeal to Heaven in everlasting prayer—
Prayer for the rescue of our outraged land,
From dark rebellion’s impious sword and brand;
Prayer for the fiery bolt by justice sped
To fall in vengeance for our slaughtered dead;
Prayer which, becoming of the winds a part,
Through all the land shall stir the nation’s heart,
And summon martial millions to the field
A patriot host, the nation’s living shield.
Promethean sun! whose early splendors kiss
These pillars of Death’s grand Acropolis,
Of Boone the daring, Johnson stern and just,
Hardin the true, and Daveiss’ glorious dust,
Much-loved McKee, and gallant Henry Clay,—
Oft as thy torch illumes the morning gray
Touch Bacon’s tomb with thy reviving fire
And it shall answer thee like Memnon’s lyre,
With an inspiring voice whose kindling strain
Shall rouse Kentucky to avenge her slain,
And shed his base assassin’s blood as free
As yonder waves which hasten to the sea.
These pillars of Death’s grand Acropolis,
Of Boone the daring, Johnson stern and just,
Hardin the true, and Daveiss’ glorious dust,
Much-loved McKee, and gallant Henry Clay,—
Oft as thy torch illumes the morning gray
Touch Bacon’s tomb with thy reviving fire
And it shall answer thee like Memnon’s lyre,
With an inspiring voice whose kindling strain
Shall rouse Kentucky to avenge her slain,
And shed his base assassin’s blood as free
As yonder waves which hasten to the sea.
Oh, much-loved friend, for manly virtues dear,
Untimely up yon hill ascends thy bier.
We knew that with or on thy stainless shield
We would receive thee from the battle-field!
True to Kentucky’s and thy country’s call
Thou wert the first to arm thee—and to fall.
The plaintive dirge, the sob, the smothered groan
Thrill the pained air with melancholy moan,
While the slow river winding far below
Whispers through all its waves the song of woe,
And Frankfort’s echoing wall of cedared hills
With mournful cadence all the valley fills.
Untimely up yon hill ascends thy bier.
We knew that with or on thy stainless shield
We would receive thee from the battle-field!
True to Kentucky’s and thy country’s call
Thou wert the first to arm thee—and to fall.
The plaintive dirge, the sob, the smothered groan
Thrill the pained air with melancholy moan,
While the slow river winding far below
Whispers through all its waves the song of woe,
And Frankfort’s echoing wall of cedared hills
With mournful cadence all the valley fills.
TO THE LAW AND ORDER LEAGUE.
After Judge Bruce’s Address
At Hopkinsville.
Take courage, ye people of order and law,
Nor longer let Night Riders hold you in awe;
Though your crops be destroyed, your barns burnt in ashes,
Your women outraged, your backs scourged with lashes,
Take courage! Remember that God reigns on high
Who foredooms your tyrants ’neath His vengeance to die.
Nor longer let Night Riders hold you in awe;
Though your crops be destroyed, your barns burnt in ashes,
Your women outraged, your backs scourged with lashes,
Take courage! Remember that God reigns on high
Who foredooms your tyrants ’neath His vengeance to die.
When bad men conspire, let all good men unite;
All crime must be conquered by organized Right.
Though Satan conspire to persecute Job,
And muster all demons which travel the globe,
Though disease, war, and whirlwinds on all sides surround
And the wife of his bosom be treacherous found;
Though Judas and High Priest ’gainst Jesus plot,
Though Herod and Pilate His overthrow sought;
Though King George and Lord North and base Arnold swear
That Sam Adams and Hancock shall hang in the air;
Though the flood shall a whole world of wickedness drown,
Noah’s Ark shall land safely on Ararat’s crown.
So virtue shall triumph, ’tis Heaven’s decree,
And God’s law shall rule o’er the land and the sea
Job sees all his losses by Heaven restored,
Quelled Satan retreats at the frown of the Lord—
And Cornwallis at Yorktown surrenders his sword.
And ye citizens banded for order and law
No more let the Night Riders fill you with awe,
Though croaking Glenraven plays the treacherous friend,
And croaks at the crimes which he dares not defend,
Though he reprimands gently his infamous tools,
His alibi G——s and his Paddy McCools.
Remember, good citizens, nor harbor one doubt
That your vengeance is sure and that murder will out—
That the scoundrels who whipped the bare backs of your wives
Shall pay the full penalty down with their lives.
Remember, Night Riders, your infamous wrong
Was the wrong of an hour, but its vengeance is long;
There are crimes so inhuman, ’twere a crime to forgive;
Who scourges a woman ’twere a crime to let live.
Your lash unresisted mangled woman’s tender back,
And till death her avenger shall press on your track.
All crime must be conquered by organized Right.
Though Satan conspire to persecute Job,
And muster all demons which travel the globe,
Though disease, war, and whirlwinds on all sides surround
And the wife of his bosom be treacherous found;
Though Judas and High Priest ’gainst Jesus plot,
Though Herod and Pilate His overthrow sought;
Though King George and Lord North and base Arnold swear
That Sam Adams and Hancock shall hang in the air;
Though the flood shall a whole world of wickedness drown,
Noah’s Ark shall land safely on Ararat’s crown.
So virtue shall triumph, ’tis Heaven’s decree,
And God’s law shall rule o’er the land and the sea
Job sees all his losses by Heaven restored,
Quelled Satan retreats at the frown of the Lord—
And Cornwallis at Yorktown surrenders his sword.
And ye citizens banded for order and law
No more let the Night Riders fill you with awe,
Though croaking Glenraven plays the treacherous friend,
And croaks at the crimes which he dares not defend,
Though he reprimands gently his infamous tools,
His alibi G——s and his Paddy McCools.
Remember, good citizens, nor harbor one doubt
That your vengeance is sure and that murder will out—
That the scoundrels who whipped the bare backs of your wives
Shall pay the full penalty down with their lives.
Remember, Night Riders, your infamous wrong
Was the wrong of an hour, but its vengeance is long;
There are crimes so inhuman, ’twere a crime to forgive;
Who scourges a woman ’twere a crime to let live.
Your lash unresisted mangled woman’s tender back,
And till death her avenger shall press on your track.
Then rally, O citizens, from border to border,
One phalanx to fight for Law, Justice, and Order.
Kentucky has no place for the Night Rider’s foot;
What patriot tongue does not scorn to be mute?
Remember all history repeats the same tale,
That the wicked shall fail and the righteous prevail.
Unite! and your deeds shall be crowned with success,
Cheered on like old Scotland by “Bruce’s Address.”
Yes; though Lucifer, “Star of the Morning,” rebel,
His doom shall be closed in the torments of Hell.
“Black Hands,” Mafias, and Night Riders, birds of one feather,
Must go to the prison or scaffold together.
One phalanx to fight for Law, Justice, and Order.
Kentucky has no place for the Night Rider’s foot;
What patriot tongue does not scorn to be mute?
Remember all history repeats the same tale,
That the wicked shall fail and the righteous prevail.
Unite! and your deeds shall be crowned with success,
Cheered on like old Scotland by “Bruce’s Address.”
Yes; though Lucifer, “Star of the Morning,” rebel,
His doom shall be closed in the torments of Hell.
“Black Hands,” Mafias, and Night Riders, birds of one feather,
Must go to the prison or scaffold together.
“WITH THY SHIELD, OR UPON IT.”[D]
Dedicated to Col. R. M. Kelly, Superintendent of the National Cemetery, Louisville.
[The loss of a shield was regarded as peculiarly disgraceful by the Greek soldiers. The dead were borne home upon their shields. “Return with thy shield, my son, or upon it,” was the heroic injunction of a Spartan mother.]
Sound, trumpet sound! The die is cast!
The Rubicon of fate is passed!
The loyal and the rebel hosts,
Kentucky, throng thy leaguered coasts,
And on the issue of the strife
Hang peace and liberty and life;
All that the storied past endears,
And all the hopes of coming years;
The startled world looks on the field.
Thou canst not fly—thou dar’st not yield—
Then strike! and make thy foeman feel
Thy triply consecrated steel,
And with or on thy shining shield
Return, Kentucky, from the field.
The Rubicon of fate is passed!
The loyal and the rebel hosts,
Kentucky, throng thy leaguered coasts,
And on the issue of the strife
Hang peace and liberty and life;
All that the storied past endears,
And all the hopes of coming years;
The startled world looks on the field.
Thou canst not fly—thou dar’st not yield—
Then strike! and make thy foeman feel
Thy triply consecrated steel,
And with or on thy shining shield
Return, Kentucky, from the field.
Strike! though the battle’s dead be strown
O’er land and wave from zone to zone;
Strike! though the gulf of human blood
Roll o’er thee like the primal flood.
Treason at home—beyond the sea—
Its ally, ancient tyranny,
Democracy’s relentless foe,
Aim at thy heart their deadliest blow;
Freedom’s last hope remains with thee,
Oh, army of democracy;
Then lead thy martial hosts abroad
In the grand panoply of God,
And with or on thy shining shield,
Return, Kentucky, from the field.
O’er land and wave from zone to zone;
Strike! though the gulf of human blood
Roll o’er thee like the primal flood.
Treason at home—beyond the sea—
Its ally, ancient tyranny,
Democracy’s relentless foe,
Aim at thy heart their deadliest blow;
Freedom’s last hope remains with thee,
Oh, army of democracy;
Then lead thy martial hosts abroad
In the grand panoply of God,
And with or on thy shining shield,
Return, Kentucky, from the field.
Wave, banners, wave, and let the sky
Glow with your flashing wings on high;
There’s music in each rustling fold
Sweeter than minstrel ever told;
Oh, who that ever heard the story
Of all our dead who fell in glory,
Still pressing where the starry light
Streamed like a meteor o’er the fight,
Till their expiring bosoms poured
The red libation of the sword,
Would leave Kentucky now, or thrust
Her beaming forehead in the dust,
Where treason’s reptiles writhe and hiss
Like fiends shut out from Eden’s bliss?
Better the freeman’s lowliest grave
Than golden fetters of a slave;
Then with or on thy shining shield,
Return, Kentucky, from the field.
Glow with your flashing wings on high;
There’s music in each rustling fold
Sweeter than minstrel ever told;
Oh, who that ever heard the story
Of all our dead who fell in glory,
Still pressing where the starry light
Streamed like a meteor o’er the fight,
Till their expiring bosoms poured
The red libation of the sword,
Would leave Kentucky now, or thrust
Her beaming forehead in the dust,
Where treason’s reptiles writhe and hiss
Like fiends shut out from Eden’s bliss?
Better the freeman’s lowliest grave
Than golden fetters of a slave;
Then with or on thy shining shield,
Return, Kentucky, from the field.
If bribed by lust of power or gold
Thy country’s welfare thou hast sold,
Iscariot-like thy name shall be
In Freedom’s dark Gethsemane;
Disgrace and fell remorse shall plow
Eternal furrows o’er thy brow;
By angels, men, and fiends abhorred,
Like Judas who betrayed his Lord.
Outcast at home—across the sea
Shunned like a leper thou shalt be,
No spring shall slake thy burning thirst,
The fire shall shun thee as accursed
Day shall be cheerless—no repose
At night thy swollen eye shall close—
Lift to indignant Heaven thine eye,
Curse God in black despair, and die!
Kentucky, hast thou son so base,
Thy fame unsullied would disgrace?
Attaint his blood, disown his race,
His line, his very name efface.
Then charge! thy grand battalions free
From all attaint of treachery—
Charge on thy foes! make all the air
Vocal with freedom’s holiest prayer,
And with or on thy shining shield,
Return, Kentucky, from the field!
Thy country’s welfare thou hast sold,
Iscariot-like thy name shall be
In Freedom’s dark Gethsemane;
Disgrace and fell remorse shall plow
Eternal furrows o’er thy brow;
By angels, men, and fiends abhorred,
Like Judas who betrayed his Lord.
Outcast at home—across the sea
Shunned like a leper thou shalt be,
No spring shall slake thy burning thirst,
The fire shall shun thee as accursed
Day shall be cheerless—no repose
At night thy swollen eye shall close—
Lift to indignant Heaven thine eye,
Curse God in black despair, and die!
Kentucky, hast thou son so base,
Thy fame unsullied would disgrace?
Attaint his blood, disown his race,
His line, his very name efface.
Then charge! thy grand battalions free
From all attaint of treachery—
Charge on thy foes! make all the air
Vocal with freedom’s holiest prayer,
And with or on thy shining shield,
Return, Kentucky, from the field!
State of the “Dark and Bloody Ground,”
The trumpet peals its final sound
Down every mountain height arrayed
Comes thundering on the long brigade;
By every valley, pass, and river,
Sabres and bayonets flash and quiver;
Shame to the faithless son who falters
When impious hands assail their altars,
And fill each fount of happiness
With waves of woe and bitterness;
The dead their august shades present
By Frankfort’s Battle Monument;
Not now their souls can be at rest,
Though in the Islands of the Blest—
“Remember us,” their voices cry,
“When comes the hour of conflict nigh,”
And with or on thy shining shield,
Return, Kentucky, from the field.
The trumpet peals its final sound
Down every mountain height arrayed
Comes thundering on the long brigade;
By every valley, pass, and river,
Sabres and bayonets flash and quiver;
Shame to the faithless son who falters
When impious hands assail their altars,
And fill each fount of happiness
With waves of woe and bitterness;
The dead their august shades present
By Frankfort’s Battle Monument;
Not now their souls can be at rest,
Though in the Islands of the Blest—
“Remember us,” their voices cry,
“When comes the hour of conflict nigh,”
And with or on thy shining shield,
Return, Kentucky, from the field.
CONFIRMATION AT ST. ANDREW’S.
[To Agnes, Louisville.]
I send this morning, Agnes dear,
A white and fragrant flower,
Emblem of maiden Hope and Love,
In Confirmation’s hour.
O, may the blessings which descend
This moment on thy head
On thy pure virgin heart and soul
Like precious fragrance shed.
A white and fragrant flower,
Emblem of maiden Hope and Love,
In Confirmation’s hour.
O, may the blessings which descend
This moment on thy head
On thy pure virgin heart and soul
Like precious fragrance shed.
I in life’s evening gloaming walk,
Thou in the morning bright,
Night’s blossoms I unfolding see,
Thou the Auroral light—
Yet all my heart in sympathy
Attends thy morning dreams,
For well I know the bitterness
Of life’s delusive streams.
Thou in the morning bright,
Night’s blossoms I unfolding see,
Thou the Auroral light—
Yet all my heart in sympathy
Attends thy morning dreams,
For well I know the bitterness
Of life’s delusive streams.
A morning calm, a storm at eve,
At morn we joy, ere night we grieve:
So when the falling April showers,
Bringing the joy of birds and flowers,
’Neath the quick brush of golden sun
Catch rainbow colors one by one,
The liquid gems quick fade away
In dismal vapors cold and gray.
At morn we joy, ere night we grieve:
So when the falling April showers,
Bringing the joy of birds and flowers,
’Neath the quick brush of golden sun
Catch rainbow colors one by one,
The liquid gems quick fade away
In dismal vapors cold and gray.
Lo, Juliet’s girlish bridal bed
With funeral flowers is quickly spread
Ere the brief marriage vows are said.
Sleeping in Capulet’s vault below
Her wedding night with Romeo.
Not “True Love’s Course” alone, but Man’s,
Never ran smooth since Time began,
Even ’mid the thunder shouts of friends
McKinley’s breast the bullet rends.
With funeral flowers is quickly spread
Ere the brief marriage vows are said.
Sleeping in Capulet’s vault below
Her wedding night with Romeo.
Not “True Love’s Course” alone, but Man’s,
Never ran smooth since Time began,
Even ’mid the thunder shouts of friends
McKinley’s breast the bullet rends.
Wisdom, Wealth, Pleasure, Glory, Power,
Made Judah’s king rejoice:
Song, dance, and wine flowed free,—“Now comes
God’s judgment!” spoke a voice,
For earth is vain and life is frail
Since first the world began;
To fear and serve the living God
Is the whole lot of man.
Drink then, sweet Agnes, from the Fount
Of Christ’s Eternal Truth,
Till He shall bear thee o’er Death’s stream
To everlasting Youth.
Made Judah’s king rejoice:
Song, dance, and wine flowed free,—“Now comes
God’s judgment!” spoke a voice,
For earth is vain and life is frail
Since first the world began;
To fear and serve the living God
Is the whole lot of man.
Drink then, sweet Agnes, from the Fount
Of Christ’s Eternal Truth,
Till He shall bear thee o’er Death’s stream
To everlasting Youth.
THE CHRISTMAS FLOWER.
On a Floral Card.
Far sweeter than the rose
Which all the year round blows
On Cashmere’s fragrant bosom,
Is the fair flower which grows
Amid December snows;—
’Tis friendship’s Christmas blossom.
Which all the year round blows
On Cashmere’s fragrant bosom,
Is the fair flower which grows
Amid December snows;—
’Tis friendship’s Christmas blossom.
Its loving arms expanding,
The Christmas cross is standing,
The guide-post of the ages,
To point to realms of glory
And charm with simple story
The children and the sages.
The Christmas cross is standing,
The guide-post of the ages,
To point to realms of glory
And charm with simple story
The children and the sages.
Red rose and pallid lily,
Pansy and daffodilly,
Chrysanthemum and myrtle,
Around the cross are clinging
With wooing and sweet singing
Of nightingale and turtle.
Pansy and daffodilly,
Chrysanthemum and myrtle,
Around the cross are clinging
With wooing and sweet singing
Of nightingale and turtle.
The frozen Arctic splinter
Shot from the bow of winter
Will lose its power to harm us,
While dreams of childhood’s Christmas,
’Twixt heaven and earth an isthmus,
In nightly visions charm us.
Shot from the bow of winter
Will lose its power to harm us,
While dreams of childhood’s Christmas,
’Twixt heaven and earth an isthmus,
In nightly visions charm us.
The angry gale may shatter
Sweet Cashmere’s rose and scatter
Its leaves o’er vale and river;
The Christmas flower shall thrive
As long as Love shall live,
Forever and forever!
Sweet Cashmere’s rose and scatter
Its leaves o’er vale and river;
The Christmas flower shall thrive
As long as Love shall live,
Forever and forever!
TO THE SOLDIERS OF GENERAL DUMONT’S COMMAND.[E]
Nashville, Tenn., 1862.
Ye soldiers of the Union
With holiest valor fired,
To shield the land whose sacred cause
Your father’s souls inspired—
Strike at yon black rebellion,
Like a thunderbolt of dread,
For the safety of the living
And the memory of the dead!
With holiest valor fired,
To shield the land whose sacred cause
Your father’s souls inspired—
Strike at yon black rebellion,
Like a thunderbolt of dread,
For the safety of the living
And the memory of the dead!
Bright Banner of the Union!
By beauty’s fingers wrought,
Around the world thy lesson
Of glory has been taught.
It tells of deathless battle-fields,
To fame and freedom dear,
And speaks of peace and happiness
To man’s enraptured ear.
By beauty’s fingers wrought,
Around the world thy lesson
Of glory has been taught.
It tells of deathless battle-fields,
To fame and freedom dear,
And speaks of peace and happiness
To man’s enraptured ear.
Bright altar of the Union!
Around thy spotless shrine,
We swear disunion ne’er shall touch
Thy offering divine!
For our dead would sleep dishonored
And the living have no hope,
If in rebellion’s starless night
Our land were doomed to grope.
Around thy spotless shrine,
We swear disunion ne’er shall touch
Thy offering divine!
For our dead would sleep dishonored
And the living have no hope,
If in rebellion’s starless night
Our land were doomed to grope.
Charge, soldiers of the Union,
In truth’s eternal might,
Ye strike not for the lust of power,
But liberty and right.
The present and the Future plead—
The past full well ye know—
Strike home as your forefathers struck
And Heaven will guide the blow!
In truth’s eternal might,
Ye strike not for the lust of power,
But liberty and right.
The present and the Future plead—
The past full well ye know—
Strike home as your forefathers struck
And Heaven will guide the blow!
THE TWO GORDONS.
Dedicated to Mrs. Anna M. D. Gordon, Medical Missionary at Mungeli, India.
“Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task has done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages.
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.”
—General Gordon’s epitaph, from “Imogen’s Dirge,” in Cymbeline.
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task has done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages.
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.”
—General Gordon’s epitaph, from “Imogen’s Dirge,” in Cymbeline.
General George Gordon, Khartoum, Egypt, January 26, 1885.
Reverend E. M. Gordon, Hopkinsville, Ky., June 2, 1908.
Reverend E. M. Gordon, Hopkinsville, Ky., June 2, 1908.
In the mystic land of Egypt,
In the streets of old Khartoum,
O’er the grave of martyred Gordon
Does the rose of England bloom;
By Mahdi, the false prophet,
Borne down in hopeless strife,
The Christian hero Gordon
Laid down his priceless life.
In the streets of old Khartoum,
O’er the grave of martyred Gordon
Does the rose of England bloom;
By Mahdi, the false prophet,
Borne down in hopeless strife,
The Christian hero Gordon
Laid down his priceless life.
Thou Circean Cleopatra,
Of legendary Nile,
Luring to death the Roman Prince
By thy pernicious smile
A wine-inflamed and sensuous girl,
Frenzied by passion’s giddy whirl,
Thou once dissolved and drank a pearl
Inflamed by bacchanal applause,
Unworthy of a sovereign’s cause.
Hadst thou the pearl which Gordon found—
The pearl of boundless price—
The healing drink had cleansed thy soul
Like Magdalen’s sacrifice.
Egypt redeemed had hailed the morn
To a new life forever born,
Of legendary Nile,
Luring to death the Roman Prince
By thy pernicious smile
A wine-inflamed and sensuous girl,
Frenzied by passion’s giddy whirl,
Thou once dissolved and drank a pearl
Inflamed by bacchanal applause,
Unworthy of a sovereign’s cause.
Hadst thou the pearl which Gordon found—
The pearl of boundless price—
The healing drink had cleansed thy soul
Like Magdalen’s sacrifice.
Egypt redeemed had hailed the morn
To a new life forever born,
And in thy glittering diadem
Had shone the Cross—the hallowed gem
Worn by the Babe of Bethlehem,
Nor Africa had sent her fettered slaves
To fatal fields and mines and Middle Passage graves.
Had shone the Cross—the hallowed gem
Worn by the Babe of Bethlehem,
Nor Africa had sent her fettered slaves
To fatal fields and mines and Middle Passage graves.
From the mystic land of India,
In the flower of stalwart manhood,
Another Gordon came—
Counsellor, preacher, teacher—
The foster son of Hopkinsville,
Fearless and without blame;
No gem in India’s richest mines
Shot forth a purer flame.
In the flower of stalwart manhood,
Another Gordon came—
Counsellor, preacher, teacher—
The foster son of Hopkinsville,
Fearless and without blame;
No gem in India’s richest mines
Shot forth a purer flame.
India’s best civic honors
He calmly put aside—
“I serve the Man of Galilee,
Who upon Calvary died.
Nor wealth, nor fame, nor earthly prize
From Him shall me divide,
For I am bidden a chosen guest
To the Lamb’s holy marriage feast
To stand by Heaven’s own bride,
And I wear the rose of Sharon,
As I stand by my Saviour’s side.”—
O Hopkinsville! Thy foster son,
Priest, teacher, the poor leper’s friend,
Is thy eternal pride!
He calmly put aside—
“I serve the Man of Galilee,
Who upon Calvary died.
Nor wealth, nor fame, nor earthly prize
From Him shall me divide,
For I am bidden a chosen guest
To the Lamb’s holy marriage feast
To stand by Heaven’s own bride,
And I wear the rose of Sharon,
As I stand by my Saviour’s side.”—
O Hopkinsville! Thy foster son,
Priest, teacher, the poor leper’s friend,
Is thy eternal pride!
A yawning gulf once sundered
Rome’s Forum—’twas Jove’s will;
Quoth the high priest, “Rome’s dearest gift
Only the gulf can fill!”
Leap, Curtius, on thy frantic steed,
In panoply and plume,
Down the dark gulf—it closes up,
And thou hast met thy doom;
High in Olympic halls great Jove
For the martyred youth makes room.
Rome’s Forum—’twas Jove’s will;
Quoth the high priest, “Rome’s dearest gift
Only the gulf can fill!”
Leap, Curtius, on thy frantic steed,
In panoply and plume,
Down the dark gulf—it closes up,
And thou hast met thy doom;
High in Olympic halls great Jove
For the martyred youth makes room.
Immortal sacrifice! thy fame
Shall fly o’er every sea;
The loud seas shout to every land:
“Great souls are more precious than golden sand,
Or all the pearls on the ocean strand,
And they sparkle as gems on God’s right hand;
Death swallowed Curtius, but death itself
Is swallowed in victory.”
And Curtius and the Gordons twain,
And all who in duty’s strife are slain,
Shall live immortally,
And the harps of love shall sound their praise
In the choir above
In sweetest melody.
Shall fly o’er every sea;
The loud seas shout to every land:
“Great souls are more precious than golden sand,
Or all the pearls on the ocean strand,
And they sparkle as gems on God’s right hand;
Death swallowed Curtius, but death itself
Is swallowed in victory.”
And Curtius and the Gordons twain,
And all who in duty’s strife are slain,
Shall live immortally,
And the harps of love shall sound their praise
In the choir above
In sweetest melody.
Immortal is the sacred prize
Of him who for his fellow dies.
Leap—not to death—a leap for life
Was thine—far, far above the strife
And stress of Earth’s uncertain life—
Ungrateful oft to truest worth,
Too oft the rabble’s hate or scorn or mirth.
Of him who for his fellow dies.
Leap—not to death—a leap for life
Was thine—far, far above the strife
And stress of Earth’s uncertain life—
Ungrateful oft to truest worth,
Too oft the rabble’s hate or scorn or mirth.
Curtius! thou bearest not the sword or shield
Of bloody war, but to the psalms
Of poets’ harps thou wavest the palms
Which demi-gods in glory bear,
Walking the green Elysian fields
Forever free from toil or care,
Chanting a soul-inspiring song,
While pilgrims to thy shrine the Eternal City throng.
Of bloody war, but to the psalms
Of poets’ harps thou wavest the palms
Which demi-gods in glory bear,
Walking the green Elysian fields
Forever free from toil or care,
Chanting a soul-inspiring song,
While pilgrims to thy shrine the Eternal City throng.
Listen, O missionary brothers,
The mighty Christian brotherhood
Who toil in surplice, gown, or hood,
The rulers of each English-speaking nation
Proclaim the watchword of Salvation;
Monarchs become Evangel-nursing mothers;
The doves that perch
Within the belfry of the Church
Turn carrier-doves; their rustling wings
Fan every breeze with song; soft sings
Victoria’s low and gentle voice,
In tones which make mankind rejoice;
Of India’s Empress, England’s Queen,
Unsullied Sovereign she of brow serene,
Proclaims the law of Christ, her realm’s foundation.
Gladstone repeats the lofty proclamation:
England’s star-bannered colony,
Home of the upright, brave and free,
The States so wisely ruled by Washington—
Like England lit by never-setting sun—
Send from Columbia’s far-winding shore
The peaceful words to Hague of Theodore;
The Rose of Sharon’s fragrant hedge
Shall guard our borders, surest pledge
Of universal lasting peace,
And love shall reign and bloody wars shall cease.
The mighty Christian brotherhood
Who toil in surplice, gown, or hood,
The rulers of each English-speaking nation
Proclaim the watchword of Salvation;
Monarchs become Evangel-nursing mothers;
The doves that perch
Within the belfry of the Church
Turn carrier-doves; their rustling wings
Fan every breeze with song; soft sings
Victoria’s low and gentle voice,
In tones which make mankind rejoice;
Of India’s Empress, England’s Queen,
Unsullied Sovereign she of brow serene,
Proclaims the law of Christ, her realm’s foundation.
Gladstone repeats the lofty proclamation:
England’s star-bannered colony,
Home of the upright, brave and free,
The States so wisely ruled by Washington—
Like England lit by never-setting sun—
Send from Columbia’s far-winding shore
The peaceful words to Hague of Theodore;
The Rose of Sharon’s fragrant hedge
Shall guard our borders, surest pledge
Of universal lasting peace,
And love shall reign and bloody wars shall cease.
From Khartoum’s streets red with his blood
Went Gordon’s soul to greet his God;
Long had he served his Master well—
What mattered where or how he fell?
Thou, Gordon, canst not miss the way—
Go easily to Eden’s day,
Death’s trackless passage through the air
Goes straight to Heaven from everywhere.
Or Hopkinsville or old Khartoum,
Glorious alike the good man’s doom.
Wide is Christ’s many-mansioned room,
And endless Eden’s fadeless bloom,
Rescued by Calvary’s mighty cost—
Shall not one precious soul be lost.
Went Gordon’s soul to greet his God;
Long had he served his Master well—
What mattered where or how he fell?
Thou, Gordon, canst not miss the way—
Go easily to Eden’s day,
Death’s trackless passage through the air
Goes straight to Heaven from everywhere.
Or Hopkinsville or old Khartoum,
Glorious alike the good man’s doom.
Wide is Christ’s many-mansioned room,
And endless Eden’s fadeless bloom,
Rescued by Calvary’s mighty cost—
Shall not one precious soul be lost.
* * * * * * * *
Sleep quietly, O pilgrim guest;
Let no ill dreams disturb thy rest.
Thou hast blessed many, surely thou art blessed;
The merciful shall sleep with peaceful breast,
So summer twilights slumber in the West.
Let no ill dreams disturb thy rest.
Thou hast blessed many, surely thou art blessed;
The merciful shall sleep with peaceful breast,
So summer twilights slumber in the West.
* * * * * * * *
A kindly voice and tapping at the door
Salute him in the early morning;
Lovingly spake woman’s urgent warning—
“Refresh thee for thy journey—the time is brief.”
Too brief, alas, for us! but on that shore
Where time is counted by the clock no more
Thou art divine and Death’s sharp shock is o’er—
O the dread silence and its bitter grief!
Speak low—thou canst not wake him—knock no more!
For him shall many bleeding hearts be sore.
He hears not, for his love-illumined eyes,
Sealed to Earth’s scenes, open in other skies,
High in his Master’s Court in Paradise.
Love’s magic lyre is mute,
But yesterday his spirit-stirring voice,
Distinct and clear and mellow as a flute,
Made our enraptured hearts in love rejoice.
The accents of his tuneful tongue
Sounded like harp by angel strung
To melodies of Eden sung,
On which his ravished audience hung:
Chautauqua’s white and fluttering salute
Shall greet him nevermore—that wondrous voice is mute.
Far India’s pangs and perils now are o’er;
The fordless midnight torrent’s threat’ning roar,
Plague, famine, cobra’s fang and tiger’s leap,
In sunless jungle or Himalayan steep,
Confront the intrepid soul no more
Nor vainly menace him with scath
As he pursued the Galilean path
To help the friendless sick or starving poor,
For India’s wretched succor to secure;
Blessed Virgin, see another son!
Like Him of Calvary his course has run;
Greeting of friends and voice of loving wife,
The applause of eager listening crowds,
Rending the air as tempests rend the clouds,
Are naught to him God calls from earthly strife
To rapturous peace of Eden’s blissful life.
Salute him in the early morning;
Lovingly spake woman’s urgent warning—
“Refresh thee for thy journey—the time is brief.”
Too brief, alas, for us! but on that shore
Where time is counted by the clock no more
Thou art divine and Death’s sharp shock is o’er—
O the dread silence and its bitter grief!
Speak low—thou canst not wake him—knock no more!
For him shall many bleeding hearts be sore.
He hears not, for his love-illumined eyes,
Sealed to Earth’s scenes, open in other skies,
High in his Master’s Court in Paradise.
Love’s magic lyre is mute,
But yesterday his spirit-stirring voice,
Distinct and clear and mellow as a flute,
Made our enraptured hearts in love rejoice.
The accents of his tuneful tongue
Sounded like harp by angel strung
To melodies of Eden sung,
On which his ravished audience hung:
Chautauqua’s white and fluttering salute
Shall greet him nevermore—that wondrous voice is mute.
Far India’s pangs and perils now are o’er;
The fordless midnight torrent’s threat’ning roar,
Plague, famine, cobra’s fang and tiger’s leap,
In sunless jungle or Himalayan steep,
Confront the intrepid soul no more
Nor vainly menace him with scath
As he pursued the Galilean path
To help the friendless sick or starving poor,
For India’s wretched succor to secure;
Blessed Virgin, see another son!
Like Him of Calvary his course has run;
Greeting of friends and voice of loving wife,
The applause of eager listening crowds,
Rending the air as tempests rend the clouds,
Are naught to him God calls from earthly strife
To rapturous peace of Eden’s blissful life.
Two nations in one common grief
Lament the Gordons twain;
Both perished in the flower of life,
Swift-stricken, but not in vain;
One in the storm of battle,
One in his quiet room—
Clasp hands o’er your untimely slain,
Hopkinsville and old Khartoum.
Ye both have found eternal fame,
Through magic power of a noble name.
Lament the Gordons twain;
Both perished in the flower of life,
Swift-stricken, but not in vain;
One in the storm of battle,
One in his quiet room—
Clasp hands o’er your untimely slain,
Hopkinsville and old Khartoum.
Ye both have found eternal fame,
Through magic power of a noble name.
Now face to face, and hand in hand,
They talk in blest repose,
’Neath skies which know no deadly heat,
Nor winter’s bitter snows;
In the opulence of Eden,
Where Life’s shining river flows,
On the verdant banks of the River of Life,
Where the tree of Calvary grows,
Where Christ Himself is Gardener,
Creator, Shepherd, Pardoner,
And the sweetest flower in Heaven’s bower
Is Duty’s thornless rose.
They talk in blest repose,
’Neath skies which know no deadly heat,
Nor winter’s bitter snows;
In the opulence of Eden,
Where Life’s shining river flows,
On the verdant banks of the River of Life,
Where the tree of Calvary grows,
Where Christ Himself is Gardener,
Creator, Shepherd, Pardoner,
And the sweetest flower in Heaven’s bower
Is Duty’s thornless rose.
June 3, 1908.
THE WESTFIELD HOME.
(Dedicated to Mrs. Grover Cleveland, “Westfield,” Princeton, N. J.)