Meantime the stream they strove to chain Now drinks a thousand springs, and sweeps With broadening breast, and mightier deeps, And rushes onward to the main;
While down the swelling current glides Our Ship of State before the blast, With streamers poured from every mast, Her thunders roaring from her sides.
Lord! bid the frenzied tempest cease, Hang out thy rainbow on the sea!
Laugh round her, waves! in silver glee, And speed her to the port of peace!
The Unknown Dead
The rain is plashing on my sill, But all the winds of Heaven are still; And so it falls with that dull sound Which thrills us in the church-yard ground, When the first spadeful drops like lead Upon the coffin of the dead.
Beyond my streaming window-pane, I cannot see the neighboring vane, Yet from its old familiar tower The bell comes, muffled, through the shower.
What strange and unsuspected link Of feeling touched, has made me think-- While with a vacant soul and eye I watch that gray and stony sky-- Of nameless graves on battle-plains Washed by a single winter's rains, Where, some beneath Virginian hills, And some by green Atlantic rills, Some by the waters of the West, A myriad unknown heroes rest.
Ah! not the chiefs, who, dying, see Their flags in front of victory, Or, at their life-blood's noble cost Pay for a battle nobly lost, Claim from their monumental beds The bitterest tears a nation sheds.
Beneath yon lonely mound--the spot By all save some fond few forgot-- Lie the true martyrs of the fight Which strikes for freedom and for right.
Of them, their patriot zeal and pride, The lofty faith that with them died, No grateful page shall farther tell Than that so many bravely fell; And we can only dimly guess What worlds of all this world's distress, What utter woe, despair, and dearth, Their fate has brought to many a hearth.
Just such a sky as this should weep Above them, always, where they sleep; Yet, haply, at this very hour, Their graves are like a lover's bower; And Nature's self, with eyes unwet, Oblivious of the crimson debt To which she owes her April grace, Laughs gayly o'er their burial-place.
The Two Armies
Two armies stand enrolled beneath The banner with the starry wreath; One, facing battle, blight and blast, Through twice a hundred fields has passed; Its deeds against a ruffian foe, Stream, valley, hill, and mountain know, Till every wind that sweeps the land Goes, glory laden, from the strand.
The other, with a narrower scope, Yet led by not less grand a hope, Hath won, perhaps, as proud a place, And wears its fame with meeker grace.
Wives march beneath its glittering sign, Fond mothers swell the lovely line, And many a sweetheart hides her blush In the young patriot's generous flush.
No breeze of battle ever fanned The colors of that tender band; Its office is beside the bed, Where throbs some sick or wounded head.
It does not court the soldier's tomb, But plies the needle and the loom; And, by a thousand peaceful deeds, Supplies a struggling nation's needs.
Nor is that army's gentle might Unfelt amid the deadly fight; It nerves the son's, the husband's hand, It points the lover's fearless brand; It thrills the languid, warms the cold, Gives even new courage to the bold; And sometimes lifts the veriest clod To its own lofty trust in God.
When Heaven shall blow the trump of peace, And bid this weary warfare cease, Their several missions nobly done, The triumph grasped, and freedom won, Both armies, from their toils at rest, Alike may claim the victor's crest, But each shall see its dearest prize Gleam softly from the other's eyes.
Christmas
How grace this hallowed day?
Shall happy bells, from yonder ancient spire, Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fire Round which the children play?
Alas! for many a moon, That tongueless tower hath cleaved the Sabbath air, Mute as an obelisk of ice, aglare Beneath an Arctic noon.
Shame to the foes that drown Our psalms of worship with their impious drum, The sweetest chimes in all the land lie dumb In some far rustic town.
There, let us think, they keep, Of the dead Yules which here beside the sea They've ushered in with old-world, English glee, Some echoes in their sleep.
How shall we grace the day?
With feast, and song, and dance, and antique sports, And shout of happy children in the courts, And tales of ghost and fay?
Is there indeed a door, Where the old pastimes, with their lawful noise, And all the merry round of Christmas joys, Could enter as of yore?
Would not some pallid face Look in upon the banquet, calling up Dread shapes of battles in the wassail cup, And trouble all the place?
How could we bear the mirth, While some loved reveler of a year ago Keeps his mute Christmas now beneath the snow, In cold Virginian earth?
How shall we grace the day?
Ah! let the thought that on this holy morn The Prince of Peace--the Prince of Peace was born, Employ us, while we pray!
Pray for the peace which long Hath left this tortured land, and haply now Holds its white court on some far mountain's brow, There hardly safe from wrong!
Let every sacred fane Call its sad votaries to the shrine of God, And, with the cloister and the tented sod, Join in one solemn strain!
With pomp of Roman form, With the grave ritual brought from England's shore, And with the simple faith which asks no more Than that the heart be warm!
He, who, till time shall cease, Will watch that earth, where once, not all in vain, He died to give us peace, may not disdain A prayer whose theme is--peace.
Perhaps ere yet the Spring Hath died into the Summer, over all The land, the peace of His vast love shall fall, Like some protecting wing.
Oh, ponder what it means!
Oh, turn the rapturous thought in every way!
Oh, give the vision and the fancy play, And shape the coming scenes!
Peace in the quiet dales, Made rankly fertile by the blood of men, Peace in the woodland, and the lonely glen, Peace in the peopled vales!
Peace in the crowded town, Peace in a thousand fields of waving grain, Peace in the highway and the flowery lane, Peace on the wind-swept down!
Peace on the farthest seas, Peace in our sheltered bays and ample streams, Peace wheresoe'er our starry garland gleams, And peace in every breeze!
Peace on the whirring marts, Peace where the scholar thinks, the hunter roams, Peace, God of Peace! peace, peace, in all our homes, And peace in all our hearts!
Ode Sung on the Occasion of Decorating the Graves of the Confederate Dead,
at Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S.C., 1867