Stoop, angels, hither from the skies! There is no holier spot of ground Than where defeated valor lies, By mourning beauty crowned! HENRY TIMROD. THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. [The women of Columbus, Mississippi, strewed flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and the National soldiers.] By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Under the other, the Gray. These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat, All with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the laurel, the Blue; Under the willow, the Gray. From the silence of sorrowful hours Under the lilies, the Gray. So with an equal splendor The morning sun-rays fall, With a touch, impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all ;- So, when the summer calleth, Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done; In the storm of the years that are fading, No braver battle was won ; ODE TO PEACE. PEACE. DAUGHTER of God! that sitt'st on high Sweet Peace! shall ne'er again Of discord-breathing men? Too long, O gladness-giving Queen ! Thy tarrying in heaven has been; Too long o'er this fair blooming world The flag of blood has been unfurled, Polluting God's pure day ; Whilst, as each maddening people reels, War onward drives his scythed wheels, And at his horses' bloody heels Shriek Murder and Dismay. Oft have I wept to hear the cry For children fallen beneath the spear; The sense of human guilt and woe, For much I long to see, WILLIAM TENNANT. Now all is calm and fresh and still; And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine, are heard. No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry, — O, be it never heard again! Soon rested those who fought; but thou A friendless warfare! lingering long Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot; The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown, — yet faint thon not. Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again, Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, Like those who fell in battle here! Another hand thy sword shall wield, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE BATTLE-FIELD. ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encountered in the battle-cloud. Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave, Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save. THE softest whisperings of the scented South, And, where the thunders of the fight were born, With song of larks, low-lingering in the loam, But still the thought: Somewhere,-upon the hills, Sad wistful eyes and broken hearts that beat And, when the oaks their leafy banners wave, FRANK L. STANTON Nor let the reeking knife, Thunders along, and tramples me beneath From such a dying bed, Though o'er it float the stripes of white and red, And the bald eagle brings The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings To sparkle in my sight, O, never let my spirit take her flight! I know that beauty's eye Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly, And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance; Who on the battle-field have found a grave; Have grateful hands piled monumental stones. Where the first blood was shed, And to my country's independence led; The "Battle Monument " at Baltimore, Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still ; That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas, That issue from the gulf of Salamis. And thine, too, have I seen, Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green, Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll, Upon the margin of the plain of Troy. Such honors grace the bed, I know, whereon the warrior lays his head, The conquered flying, and the conqueror's shout; What is a column or a mound to him? The mellow note of bugles? What the roll Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly, As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair, The death-damp as it gathers, and the skies My soul to their clear depths! Or let me leave The world when round my bed And holy hymning shall my soul prepare With kindred spirits, — spirits who have blessed By labors, cares, and counsels for their good. JOHN PIERPONT. MY AUTUMN WALK. ON woodlands ruddy with autumn I look on the beauty round me, For the wind that sweeps the meadows Blows out of the far Southwest, Where our gallant men are fighting, And the gallant dead are at rest. The golden-rod is leaning, And the purple aster waves In a breeze from the land of battles, A breath from the land of graves. Full fast the leaves are dropping Before that wandering breath; As fast, on the field of battle, Our brethren fall in death. Beautiful over my pathway The forest spoils are shed; They are spotting the grassy hillocks With purple and gold and red. Beautiful is the death-sleep Of those who bravely fight In their country's holy quarrel, And perish for the Right. But who shall comfort the living, The light of whose homes is gone : The bride that, early widowed, Lives broken-hearted on ; The matron whose sons are lying I look on the peaceful dwellings Whose windows glimmer in sight, With croft and garden and orchard That bask in the mellow light; |