THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862.
Ah! eyes may well be full of tears, And hearts with hate are hot; But even paced come round the years, And Nature changes not.
She meets with smiles our bitter grief, With songs our groans of pain ; She mocks with tint of flower and leaf The war-field's crimson stain.
Still in the cannon's pause we hear Her sweet thanksgiving psalm; Too near to God for doubt or fear, She shares the eternal calm.
She knows the seed lies safe below The fires that blast and burn; For all the tears of blood we sow, She waits the rich return.
She sees, with clearer eye than ours, The good of suffering born, —
The hearts that blossom like her flowers, And ripen like her corn.
Oh! give to us, in times like these, The vision of her eyes;
And make her eyes and fruited trees
Our golden prophecies!
Oh! give to us her finer ear!
Above this stormy din;
We too would hear the bells of cheer
Ring peace and freedom in.
THE CRIPPLE AT THE GATE.*
Look! how the hoofs and wheels to-day Scatter the dust on the broad highway, Where Beauty and Fashion, and Wealth and Pride On saddle and cushion serenely ride! The very steeds have a conscious prance Of pride in their elegant freight ! Love and laughter like jewels slip From the sparkling eye and the merry lip; You never would think that the Nation's life Hung on the thread of a desperate strife, Unless from these you should turn, by chance, To the Cripple at the Gate.
Weary and footsore, and ragged and soiled, Through the summer glare he has slowly toiled Along the edge of the broad highway, Since the early dawn of the westering day; His rags are flecked with the dusty foam That flew from the gilded bits
Of the champing steeds that passed him by; And a haggard shadow is in his eye, But it is not the gloom of an envious pain! He has left a limb on the battle-plain, And to win his way to his distant home At my gate, a Beggar, he sits!
THE CRIPPLE AT THE GATE. 133
He tells me his tale in a simple way:
" I had nothing," he says, "except my pay,
And a wife and four little girls, and so
I sent all my money to them, you know!
When I lost my limb, Sir
I do not complain, for, you see,
'Tis the fortune of war, and it might be worse ; And I'd lose the other to stop the curse Of this terrible strife! - But I meant to say, When I left the hospital t' other day, I did think I had a kind of a claim To be sent to my village free.
"Don't you think it hard yourself, Sir? True, There's a hundred dollars of bounty due In three years, or when the war's ended; but how Long may that be - can you tell me now? I did not enlist for bounty, I trust, My conscience I never have sold; But how does it look for a soldier to 'tramp,' Begging his way like a vagabond scamp, From the fields where he often risked his life, To the home where he left his babes and wife, In a uniform made of tatters and dust Instead of the 'blue and gold?'
"Whose fault this is, Sir, I do not know," Said the wayworn man as he rose to go; "But of this, alas! I am sure the sight Of a soldier returning in such a plight To the home whence, a few short months ago, He marched in a gallant band, With music, and banners, and shining steel, Will dull more ears to the battle-peal, And cause more bosoms with doubt to swell, Than the secret traitor's deadliest spell. Do'nt you see yourself, Sir, it must be so?" And he sighed as I held out my hand.
Lofty carriage and low coupé
Still whirl the dust on the broad highway; Beauty and Fashion, and Wealth and Pride Still through the roseate twilight ride, With love, and laughter, and prancing steed, As if Pleasure were all life's fate.
But I gaze no more on the joyous train, For my eye is fixed with a steadfast strain On the tattered soldier's halting stride, Till his tall form sinks down the dark hill-side; Then I cry, "Thank God! he hath now no need To beg at the stranger's gate!"
BY EDMUND C. STEDMAN.
BACK from the trebly crimson'd field Terrible words are thunder-tost; Full of the wrath that will not yield, Full of revenge for battles lost! Hark to their echo as it crost The Capital, making faces wan: "End this murderous holocaust; Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!
"Give us a man of God's own mould, Born to marshal his fellow-men; One whose fame is not bought and sold At the stroke of a politician's pen; Give us the man of thousands ten, Fit to do as well as to plan; Give us a rallying-cry, and then, - Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!
"No leader to shirk the boasting foe,
And to march and countermarch our brave, Till they fade like ghosts in the marshes low, And swamp-grass covers each nameless grave; Nor another, whose fatal banners wave
Aye in Disaster's shameful van; Nor another, to bluster, and lie, and rave; - Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!
"Hearts are mourning in the North, While the sister rivers seek the main, Red with our life-blood flowing forth, Who shall gather it up again? Though we march to the battle-plain Firmly as when the strife began, Shall all our offering be in vain? - Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!
"Is there never one in all the land,
One on whose might the Cause may lean ? Are all the common men so grand, And all the titled ones so mean? What if your failure may have been In trying to make good bread from bran From worthless metal a weapon keen? Abraham Lincoln, find us a MAN!
"Oh, we will follow him to the death,
Where the foeman's fiercest columns are! Oh, we will use our latest breath, Cheering for every sacred star! His to marshal us nigh and far, Ours to battle, as patriots can When a Hero leads the Holy War! - Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!" SEPTEMBER 8, 1862.
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