Till a flash, not all of steel, Where the rolling caissons wheel, Brought a rumble and a roar Rolling down that velvet floor, And like blows of autumn flail Sharply threshed the iron hail.
Bunny, thrilled by unknown fears, Raised his soft and pointed ears, Mumbled his prehensile lip, Quivered his pulsating hip, As the sharp vindictive yell Rose above the screaming shell;
Thought the world and all its men,--All the charging squadrons meant,--All were rabbit-hunters then, All to capture him intent.
Bunny was not much to blame:
Wiser folk have thought the same,--Wiser folk who think they spy Every ill begins with "I."
Wildly panting here and there, Bunny sought the freer air, Till he hopped below the hill, And saw, lying close and still, Men with muskets in their hands.
(Never 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?
