Chapter V
Then, as the passion of old Gris GrillonA wave swift swelling, grew to highest heightAnd snapped a foaming consummation forthWith salty hissing, came the friar throughThe mass. A stillness of white faces wroughtA transient death on all the hands and breastsOf all the crowd, and men and women stood,One instant, fixed, as they had died upright.Then suddenly Lord Raoul rose up in selleAnd thrust his dagger straight upon the breastOf Gris Grillon, to pin him to the wall;But ere steel-point met flesh, tall Jacques GrillonHad leapt straight upward from the earth, and inThe self-same act had whirled his bow by endWith mighty whirr about his head, and struckThe dagger with so featly stroke and fullThat blade flew up and hilt flew down, and leftLord Raoul unfriended of his weapon.ThenThe fool cried shrilly, “Shall a knight of FranceGo stabbing his own cattle?” And Lord Raoul,Calm with a changing mood, sat still and called:“Here, huntsmen, ’tis my will ye seize the hindThat broke my dagger, bind him to this treeAnd slice both ears to hair-breadth of his head,To be his bloody token of regretThat he hath put them to so foul employAs catching villainous breath of strolling priestsThat mouth at knighthood and defile the Church.”The knife . . . . . [Rest of line lost.]To place the edge . . . [Rest of line lost.]Mary! the blood! it oozes sluggishly,Scorning to come at call of blade so base.Sathanas! He that cuts the ear has leftThe blade sticking at midway, for to turnAnd ask the Duke “if ’tis not doneThus far with nice precision,” and the DukeLeans down to see, and cries, “’tis marvellous nice,Shaved as thou wert ear-barber by profession!”Whereat one witling cries, “’tis monstrous fit,In sooth, a shaven-pated priest should haveA shaven-eared audience;” and another,“Give thanks, thou Jacques, to this most gracious DukeThat rids thee of the life-long dread of lossOf thy two ears, by cropping them at once;And now henceforth full safely thou may’st dareThe powerfullest Lord in France to touchAn ear of thine;” and now the knave o’ the knifeSeizes the handle to commence again, and sawsAnd . . ha! Lift up thine head, O Henry! Friend!’Tis Marie, walking midway of the street,As she had just stepped forth from out the gateOf the very, very Heaven where God is,Still glittering with the God-shine on her! Look!And there right suddenly the fool looked upAnd saw the crowd divided in two ranks.Raoul pale-stricken as a man that waitsGod’s first remark when he hath died intoGod’s sudden presence, saw the cropping knaveA-pause with knife in hand, the wondering folkAll straining forward with round-ringed eyes,And Gris Grillon calm smiling while he prayedThe Holy Virgin’s blessing.Down the laneBetwixt the hedging bodies of the crowd,[Part of line lost.] . . . . majesty[Part of line lost.] . . a spirit pacing on the topOf springy clouds, and bore straight on towardThe Duke. On him her eyes burned steadilyWith such gray fires of heaven-hot commandAs Dawn burns Night away with, and she heldHer white forefinger quivering aloftAt greatest arm’s-length of her dainty arm,In menace sweeter than a kiss could beAnd terribler than sudden whispers areThat come from lips unseen, in sunlit room.So with the spell of all the Powers of SenseThat e’er have swayed the savagery of hot bloodRaying from her whole body beautiful,She held the eyes and wills of all the crowd.Then from the numbed hand of him that cut,The knife dropped down, and the quick fool stole inAnd snatched and deftly severed all the withesUnseen, and Jacques burst forth into the crowd,And then the mass completed the long breathThey had forgot to draw, and surged uponThe centre where the maiden stood with soundOf multitudes of blessings, and Lord RaoulRode homeward, silent and most pale and strange,Deep-wrapt in moody fits of hot and cold.(End of Chapter V.). . . . . . .
Macon, Georgia, 1868.
Song for “The Jacquerie”.
May the maiden,Violet-ladenOut of the violet sea,Comes and hoversOver lovers,Over thee, Marie, and me,Over me and thee.
Day the stately,Sunken latelyInto the violet sea,Backward hoversOver lovers,Over thee, Marie, and me,Over me and thee.
Night the holy,Sailing slowlyOver the violet sea,Stars uncoversOver lovers,Stars for thee, Marie, and me,Stars for me and thee.
Macon, Georgia, 1868.
Song for “The Jacquerie”.
Betrayal.
The sun has kissed the violet sea,And burned the violet to a rose.O Sea! wouldst thou not better beMere violet still? Who knows? who knows?Well hides the violet in the wood:The dead leaf wrinkles her a hood,And winter’s ill is violet’s good;But the bold glory of the rose,It quickly comes and quickly goes—Red petals whirling in white snows,Ah me!
The sun has burnt the rose-red sea:The rose is turned to ashes gray.O Sea, O Sea, mightst thou but beThe violet thou hast been to-day!The sun is brave, the sun is bright,The sun is lord of love and light;But after him it cometh night.Dim anguish of the lonesome dark!—Once a girl’s body, stiff and stark,Was laid in a tomb without a mark,Ah me!
Macon, Georgia, 1868.
Song for “The Jacquerie”.
The hound was cuffed, the hound was kicked,O’ the ears was cropped, o’ the tail was nicked,(All.) Oo-hoo-o, howled the hound.The hound into his kennel crept;He rarely wept, he never slept.His mouth he always open keptLicking his bitter wound,The hound,(All.) U-lu-lo, HOWLED THE HOUND.
A star upon his kennel shoneThat showed the hound a meat-bare bone.(All.) O hungry was the hound!The hound had but a churlish wit.He seized the bone, he crunched, he bit.“An thou wert Master, I had slitThy throat with a huge wound,”Quo’ hound.(All.) O, angry was the hound.
The star in castle-window shone,The Master lay abed, alone.(All.) Oh ho, why not? quo’ hound.He leapt, he seized the throat, he toreThe Master, head from neck, to floor,And rolled the head i’ the kennel door,And fled and salved his wound,Good hound!(All.) U-lu-lo, HOWLED THE HOUND.
Macon, Georgia, 1868.
The Golden Wedding of Sterling and Sarah Lanier, September 27, 1868.
By the Eldest Grandson.
A rainbow span of fifty years,Painted upon a cloud of tears,In blue for hopes and red for fears,Finds end in a golden hour to-day.Ah, YOU to our childhood the legend told,“At the end of the rainbow lies the gold,”And now in our thrilling hearts we holdThe gold that never will pass away.
Gold crushed from the quartz of a crystal life,Gold hammered with blows of human strife,Gold burnt in the love of man and wife,Till it is pure as the very flame:Gold that the miser will not have,Gold that is good beyond the grave,Gold that the patient and the braveAmass, neglecting praise and blame.
O golden hour that caps the timeSince, heart to heart like rhyme to rhyme,You stood and listened to the chimeOf inner bells by spirits rung,That tinkled many a secret sweetConcerning how two souls should meet,And whispered of Time’s flying feetWith a most piquant silver tongue.
O golden day,—a golden crownFor the kingly heads that bowed not downTo win a smile or ’scape a frown,Except the smile and frown of Heaven!Dear heads, still dark with raven hair;Dear hearts, still white in spite of care;Dear eyes, still black and bright and fairAs any eyes to mortals given!
Old parents of a restless race,You miss full many a bonny faceThat would have smiled a filial graceAround your Golden Wedding wine.But God is good and God is great.His will be done, if soon or late.Your dead stand happy in yon GateAnd call you blessed while they shine.
So, drop the tear and dry the eyes.Your rainbow glitters in the skies.Here’s golden wine: young, old, arise:With cups as full as our souls, we say:“Two Hearts, that wrought with smiles through tearsThis rainbow span of fifty years,Behold how true, true love appearsTrue gold for your Golden Wedding day!”
Macon, Georgia, September, 1868.
Strange Jokes.
Well: Death is a huge omnivorous ToadGrim squatting on a twilight road.He catcheth all that CircumstanceHath tossed to him.He curseth all who upward glanceAs lost to him.
Once in a whimsey mood he satAnd talked of life, in proverbs pat,To Eve in Eden,—“Death, on Life”—As if he knew!And so he toadied Adam’s wifeThere, in the dew.
O dainty dew, O morning dewThat gleamed in the world’s first dawn, did youAnd the sweet grass and manful oaksGive lair and restTo him who toadwise sits and croaksHis death-behest?
Who fears the hungry Toad? Not I!He but unfetters me to fly.The German still, when one is dead,Cries out “Der Tod!”But, pilgrims, Christ will walk aheadAnd clear the road.
Macon, Georgia, July, 1867.
Nirvana.
Through seas of dreams and seas of phantasies,Through seas of solitudes and vacancies,And through my Self, the deepest of the seas,I strive to thee, Nirvana.
Oh long ago the billow-flow of sense,Aroused by passion’s windy vehemence,Upbore me out of depths to heights intense,But not to thee, Nirvana.
By waves swept on, I learned to ride the waves.I served my masters till I made them slaves.I baffled Death by hiding in his graves,His watery graves, Nirvana.
And once I clomb a mountain’s stony crownAnd stood, and smiled no smile and frowned no frown,Nor ate, nor drank, nor slept, nor faltered down,Five days and nights, Nirvana.
Sunrise and noon and sunset and strange nightAnd shadow of large clouds and faint starlightAnd lonesome Terror stalking round the height,I minded not, Nirvana.
The silence ground my soul keen like a spear.My bare thought, whetted as a sword, cut sheerThrough time and life and flesh and death, to clearMy way unto Nirvana.
I slew gross bodies of old ethnic hatesThat stirred long race-wars betwixt States and States.I stood and scorned these foolish dead debates,Calmly, calmly, Nirvana.
I smote away the filmy base of Caste.I thrust through antique blood and riches vast,And all big claims of the pretentious PastThat hindered my Nirvana.
Then all fair types, of form and sound and hue,Up-floated round my sense and charmed anew.—I waved them back into the void blue:I love them not, Nirvana.
And all outrageous ugliness of time,Excess and Blasphemy and squinting CrimeBeset me, but I kept my calm sublime:I hate them not, Nirvana.
High on the topmost thrilling of the surgeI saw, afar, two hosts to battle urge.The widows of the victors sang a dirge,But I wept not, Nirvana.
I saw two lovers sitting on a star.He kissed her lip, she kissed his battle-scar.They quarrelled soon, and went two ways, afar.O Life! I laughed, Nirvana.
And never a king but had some king above,And never a law to right the wrongs of Love,And ever a fanged snake beneath a dove,Saw I on earth, Nirvana.
But I, with kingship over kings, am free.I love not, hate not: right and wrong agree:And fangs of snakes and lures of doves to meAre vain, are vain, Nirvana.
So by mine inner contemplation long,By thoughts that need no speech nor oath nor song,My spirit soars above the motley throngOf days and nights, Nirvana.
O Suns, O Rains, O Day and Night, O Chance,O Time besprent with seven-hued circumstance,I float above ye all into the tranceThat draws me nigh Nirvana.
Gods of small worlds, ye little DeitiesOf humble Heavens under my large skies,And Governor-Spirits, all, I rise, I rise,I rise into Nirvana.
The storms of Self below me rage and die.On the still bosom of mine ecstasy,A lotus on a lake of balm, I lieForever in Nirvana.
Macon, Georgia, 1869.
The two poems which follow “The Raven Days” have not been included in earlier editions. All three are calls from those desperate years for the South just after the Civil War. The reader of to-day, seeing that forlorn period in the just perspective of half a century, will not wonder at the tone of anguished remonstrance; but, rather, that so few notes of mourning have come from a poet who missed nothing of what the days of Reconstruction brought to his people.
The Raven Days.
Our hearths are gone out and our hearts are broken,And but the ghosts of homes to us remain,And ghastly eyes and hollow sighs give tokenFrom friend to friend of an unspoken pain.
O Raven days, dark Raven days of sorrow,Bring to us in your whetted ivory beaksSome sign out of the far land of To-morrow,Some strip of sea-green dawn, some orange streaks.
Ye float in dusky files, forever croaking.Ye chill our manhood with your dreary shade.Dumb in the dark, not even God invoking,We lie in chains, too weak to be afraid.
O Raven days, dark Raven days of sorrow,Will ever any warm light come again?Will ever the lit mountains of To-morrowBegin to gleam athwart the mournful plain?
Prattville, Alabama, February, 1868.
Our Hills.
Dear Mother-EarthOf Titan birth,Yon hills are your large breasts, and often IHave climbed to their top-nipples, fain and dryTo drink my mother’s-milk so near the sky.
O ye hill-stains,Red, for all rains!The blood that made you has all bled for us,The hearts that paid you are all dead for us,The trees that shade you groan with lead, for us!
And O, hill-sides,Like giants’ bridesYe sleep in ravine-rumpled draperies,And weep your springs in tearful memoriesOf days that stained your robes with stains like these!
Sleep on, ye hills!Weep on, ye rills!The stainers have decreed the stains shall stay.They chain the hands might wash the stains away.They wait with cold hearts till we “rue the day”.
O Mother-EarthOf Titan birth,Thy mother’s-milk is curdled with aloe.—Like hills, Men, lift calm heads through any woe,And weep, but bow not an inch, for any foe!
Thou Sorrow-heightWe climb by night,Thou hast no hell-deep chasm save Disgrace.To stoop, will fling us down its fouled space:Stand proud! The Dawn will meet us, face to face,For down steep hills the Dawn loves best to race!
Laughter in the Senate.
In the South lies a lonesome, hungry Land;He huddles his rags with a cripple’s hand;He mutters, prone on the barren sand,What time his heart is breaking.
He lifts his bare head from the ground;He listens through the gloom around:The winds have brought him a strange soundOf distant merrymaking.
Comes now the Peace so long delayed?Is it the cheerful voice of Aid?Begins the time his heart has prayed,When men may reap and sow?
Ah, God! Back to the cold earth’s breast!The sages chuckle o’er their jest;Must they, to give a people rest,Their dainty wit forego?
The tyrants sit in a stately hall;They jibe at a wretched people’s fall;The tyrants forget how fresh is the pallOver their dead and ours.
Look how the senators ape the clown,And don the motley and hide the gown,But yonder a fast-rising frownOn the people’s forehead lowers.
1868.
Baby Charley.
He’s fast asleep. See how, O Wife,Night’s finger on the lip of lifeBids whist the tongue, so prattle-rife,Of busy Baby Charley.
One arm stretched backward round his head,Five little toes from out the bedJust showing, like five rosebuds red,—So slumbers Baby Charley.
Heaven-lights, I know, are beaming throughThose lucent eyelids, veined with blue,That shut away from mortal viewLarge eyes of Baby Charley.
O sweet Sleep-Angel, throned nowOn the round glory of his brow,Wave thy wing and waft my vowBreathed over Baby Charley.
I vow that my heart, when death is nigh,Shall never shiver with a sighFor act of hand or tongue or eyeThat wronged my Baby Charley!
Macon, Georgia, December, 1869.
A Sea-Shore Grave. To M. J. L.
By Sidney and Clifford Lanier.
O wish that’s vainer than the plashOf these wave-whimsies on the shore:“Give us a pearl to fill the gash—God, let our dead friend live once more!”
O wish that’s stronger than the strokeOf yelling wave and snapping levin;“God, lift us o’er the Last Day’s smoke,All white, to Thee and her in Heaven!”
O wish that’s swifter than the raceOf wave and wind in sea and sky;Let’s take the grave-cloth from her faceAnd fall in the grave, and kiss, and die!
Look! High above a glittering calmOf sea and sky and kingly sun,She shines and smiles, and waves a palm—And now we wish—Thy will be done!
Montgomery, Alabama, 1866.
Souls and Rain-Drops.
Light rain-drops fall and wrinkle the sea,Then vanish, and die utterly.One would not know that rain-drops fellIf the round sea-wrinkles did not tell.
So souls come down and wrinkle lifeAnd vanish in the flesh-sea strife.One might not know that souls had placeWere’t not for the wrinkles in life’s face.
Nilsson.
A rose of perfect red, embossedWith silver sheens of crystal frost,Yet warm, nor life nor fragrance lost.
High passion throbbing in a sphereThat Art hath wrought of diamond clear,—A great heart beating in a tear.
The listening soul is full of dreamsThat shape the wondrous-varying themesAs cries of men or plash of streams.
Or noise of summer rain-drops roundThat patter daintily a-groundWith hints of heaven in the sound.
Or noble wind-tones chanting freeThrough morning-skies across the seaWild hymns to some strange majesty.
O, if one trope, clear-cut and keen,May type the art of Song’s best queen,White-hot of soul, white-chaste of mien,
On Music’s heart doth Nilsson dwellAs if a Swedish snow-flake fellInto a glowing flower-bell.
New York, 1871.
Night and Day.
The innocent, sweet Day is dead.Dark Night hath slain her in her bed.O, Moors are as fierce to kill as to wed!—Put out the light, said he.
A sweeter light than ever rayedFrom star of heaven or eye of maidHas vanished in the unknown Shade.—She’s dead, she’s dead, said he.
Now, in a wild, sad after-moodThe tawny Night sits still to broodUpon the dawn-time when he wooed.—I would she lived, said he.
Star-memories of happier times,Of loving deeds and lovers’ rhymes,Throng forth in silvery pantomimes.—Come back, O Day! said he.
Montgomery, Alabama, 1866.
A Birthday Song. To S. G.
For ever wave, for ever float and shineBefore my yearning eyes, oh! dream of mineWherein I dreamed that time was like a vine,
A creeping rose, that clomb a height of dreadOut of the sea of Birth, all filled with dead,Up to the brilliant cloud of Death o’erhead.
This vine bore many blossoms, which were years.Their petals, red with joy, or bleached by tears,Waved to and fro i’ the winds of hopes and fears.
Here all men clung, each hanging by his spray.Anon, one dropped; his neighbor ‘gan to pray;And so they clung and dropped and prayed, alway.
But I did mark one lately-opened bloom,Wherefrom arose a visible perfumeThat wrapped me in a cloud of dainty gloom.
And rose—an odor by a spirit haunted—And drew me upward with a speed enchanted,Swift floating, by wild sea or sky undaunted,
Straight through the cloud of death, where men are free. I gained a height, and stayed and bent my knee. Then glowed my cloud, and broke and unveiled thee.
“O flower-born and flower-souled!” I said,“Be the year-bloom that breathed thee ever red,Nor wither, yellow, down among the dead.
“May all that cling to sprays of time, like me,Be sweetly wafted over sky and seaBy rose-breaths shrining maidens like to thee!”
Then while we sat upon the height afarCame twilight, like a lover late from war,With soft winds fluting to his evening star.
And the shy stars grew bold and scattered gold,And chanting voices ancient secrets told,And an acclaim of angels earthward rolled.
Montgomery, Alabama, October, 1866.
Resurrection.
Sometimes in morning sunlights by the riverWhere in the early fall long grasses wave,Light winds from over the moorland sink and shiverAnd sigh as if just blown across a grave.
And then I pause and listen to this sighing.I look with strange eyes on the well-known stream.I hear wild birth-cries uttered by the dying.I know men waking who appear to dream.
Then from the water-lilies slow uprisesThe still vast face of all the life I know,Changed now, and full of wonders and surprises,With fire in eyes that once were glazed with snow.
Fair now the brows old Pain had erewhile wrinkled,And peace and strength about the calm mouth dwell.Clean of the ashes that Repentance sprinkled,The meek head poises like a flower-bell.
All the old scars of wanton wars are vanished;And what blue bruises grappling Sense had leftAnd sad remains of redder stains are banished,And the dim blotch of heart-committed theft.
O still vast vision of transfigured featuresUnvisited by secret crimes or dooms,Remain, remain amid these water-creatures,Stand, shine among yon water-lily blooms.
For eighteen centuries ripple down the river,And windy times the stalks of empires wave,—Let the winds come from the moor and sigh and shiver,Fain, fain am I, O Christ, to pass the grave.
To—.
The Day was dying; his breathWavered away in a hectic gleam;And I said, if Life’s a dream, and DeathAnd Love and all are dreams—I’ll dream.
A mist came over the bayLike as a dream would over an eye.The mist was white and the dream was greyAnd both contained a human cry,
The burthen whereof was “Love”,And it filled both mist and dream with pain,And the hills below and the skies aboveWere touched and uttered it back again.
The mist broke: down the riftA kind ray shot from a holy star.Then my dream did waver and break and lift—Through it, O Love, shone thy face, afar.
So Boyhood sets: comes Youth,A painful night of mists and dreams;That broods till Love’s exquisite truth,The star of a morn-clear manhood, beams.
Boykin’s Bluff, Virginia, 1863.
The Wedding.
O marriage-bells, your clamor tellsTwo weddings in one breath.SHE marries whom her love compels:—And I wed Goodman Death!My brain is blank, my tears are red;Listen, O God:—“I will,” he said:—And I would that I were dead.Come groomsman Grief and bridesmaid PainCome and stand with a ghastly twain.My Bridegroom Death is come o’er the meresTo wed a bride with bloody tears.Ring, ring, O bells, full merrily:Life-bells to her, death-bells to me:O Death, I am true wife to thee!
Macon, Georgia, 1865.
The Palm and the Pine.
From the German of Heine.
In the far North stands a Pine-tree, lone,Upon a wintry height;It sleeps: around it snows have thrownA covering of white.
It dreams forever of a PalmThat, far i’ the Morning-land,Stands silent in a most sad calmMidst of the burning sand.
Point Lookout Prison, 1864.
Spring Greeting.
From the German of Herder.
All faintly through my soul to-day,As from a bell that far awayIs tinkled by some frolic fay,Floateth a lovely chiming.Thou magic bell, to many a fellAnd many a winter-saddened dellThy tongue a tale of Spring doth tell,Too passionate-sweet for rhyming.
Chime out, thou little song of Spring,Float in the blue skies ravishing.Thy song-of-life a joy doth bringThat’s sweet, albeit fleeting.Float on the Spring-winds e’en to my home:And when thou to a rose shalt comeThat hath begun to show her bloom,Say, I send her greeting!
Point Lookout Prison, 1864.
The Tournament.
Joust First.
I
Bright shone the lists, blue bent the skies,And the knights still hurried amainTo the tournament under the ladies’ eyes,Where the jousters were Heart and Brain.
II
Flourished the trumpets: entered Heart,A youth in crimson and gold.Flourished again: Brain stood apart,Steel-armored, dark and cold.
III
Heart’s palfrey caracoled gayly round,Heart tra-li-ra’d merrily;But Brain sat still, with never a sound,So cynical-calm was he.
IV
Heart’s helmet-crest bore favors threeFrom his lady’s white hand caught;While Brain wore a plumeless casque; not heOr favor gave or sought.
V
The herald blew; Heart shot a glanceTo find his lady’s eye,But Brain gazed straight ahead his lanceTo aim more faithfully.
VI
They charged, they struck; both fell, both bled.Brain rose again, ungloved,Heart, dying, smiled and faintly said,“My love to my beloved!”
Camp French, Wilmington, N.C., May, 1862.
Joust Second.
I
A-many sweet eyes wept and wept,A-many bosoms heaved again;A-many dainty dead hopes sleptWith yonder Heart-knight prone o’ the plain.
II
Yet stars will burn through any mists,And the ladies’ eyes, through rains of fate,Still beamed upon the bloody listsAnd lit the joust of Love and Hate.
III
O strange! or ere a trumpet blew,Or ere a challenge-word was given,A knight leapt down i’ the lists; none knewWhether he sprang from earth or heaven.
IV
His cheek was soft as a lily-bud,His grey eyes calmed his youth’s alarm;Nor helm nor hauberk nor even a hoodHad he to shield his life from harm.
V
No falchion from his baldric swung,He wore a white rose in its place.No dagger at his girdle hung,But only an olive-branch, for grace.
VI
And “Come, thou poor mistaken knight,”Cried Love, unarmed, yet dauntless there,“Come on, God pity thee!—I fightSans sword, sans shield; yet, Hate, beware!”
VII
Spurred furious Hate; he foamed at mouth,His breath was hot upon the air,His breath scorched souls, as a dry droughtWithers green trees and burns them bare.
VIII
Straight drives he at his enemy,His hairy hands grip lance in rest,His lance it gleams full bitterly,God!—gleams, true-point, on Love’s bare breast!
IX
Love’s grey eyes glow with a heaven-heat,Love lifts his hand in a saintly prayer;Look! Hate hath fallen at his feet!Look! Hate hath vanished in the air!
X
Then all the throng looked kind on all;Eyes yearned, lips kissed, dumb souls were freed;Two magic maids’ hands lifted a pallAnd the dead knight, Heart, sprang on his steed.
XI
Then Love cried, “Break me his lance, each knight!Ye shall fight for blood-athirst Fame no more!”And the knights all doffed their mailed mightAnd dealt out dole on dole to the poor.
XII
Then dove-flights sanctified the plain,And hawk and sparrow shared a nest.And the great sea opened and swallowed Pain,And out of this water-grave floated Rest!
Macon, Georgia, 1865.
The Dying Words of Stonewall Jackson.
“Order A. P. Hill to prepare for battle.”“Tell Major Hawks to advance the Commissary train.”“Let us cross the river and rest in the shade.”
The stars of Night contain the glittering DayAnd rain his glory down with sweeter graceUpon the dark World’s grand, enchanted face—All loth to turn away.
And so the Day, about to yield his breath,Utters the stars unto the listening Night,To stand for burning fare-thee-wells of lightSaid on the verge of death.
O hero-life that lit us like the sun!O hero-words that glittered like the starsAnd stood and shone above the gloomy warsWhen the hero-life was done!
The phantoms of a battle came to dwellI’ the fitful vision of his dying eyes—Yet even in battle-dreams, he sends suppliesTo those he loved so well.
His army stands in battle-line arrayed:His couriers fly: all’s done: now God decide!—And not till then saw he the Other SideOr would accept the shade.
Thou Land whose sun is gone, thy stars remain!Still shine the words that miniature his deeds.O thrice-beloved, where’er thy great heart bleeds,Solace hast thou for pain!
Georgia, September, 1865.
To Wilhelmina.
A white face, drooping, on a bending neck:A tube-rose that with heavy petal curvesHer stem: a foam-bell on a wave that swervesBack from the undulating vessel’s deck.
From out the whitest cloud of summer stealsThe wildest lightning: from this face of thineThy soul, a fire-of-heaven, warm and fine,In marvellous flashes its fair self reveals.
As when one gazes from the summer seaOn some far gossamer cloud, with straining eye,Fearing to see it vanish in the sky,So, floating, wandering Cloud-Soul, I watch thee.
Montgomery, Alabama, 1866.
Wedding-Hymn.
Thou God, whose high, eternal LoveIs the only blue sky of our life,Clear all the Heaven that bends aboveThe life-road of this man and wife.
May these two lives be but one noteIn the world’s strange-sounding harmony,Whose sacred music e’er shall floatThrough every discord up to Thee.
As when from separate stars two beamsUnite to form one tender ray:As when two sweet but shadowy dreamsExplain each other in the day:
So may these two dear hearts one lightEmit, and each interpret each.Let an angel come and dwell to-nightIn this dear double-heart, and teach!
Macon, Georgia, September, 1865.
In the Foam.
Life swelleth in a whitening wave,And dasheth thee and me apart.I sweep out seaward:—be thou brave.And reach the shore, Sweetheart.
Beat back the backward-thrusting sea.Thy weak white arm his blows may thwart,Christ buffet the wild surge for theeTill thou’rt ashore, Sweetheart.
Ah, now thy face grows dim apace,And seems of yon white foam a part.Canst hear me through the water-bass,Cry: “To the Shore, Sweetheart?”
Now Christ thee soothe upon the Shore,My lissome-armed sea-Britomart.I sweep out seaward, never moreTo find the Shore, Sweetheart.
Prattville, Alabama, December, 1867.
Barnacles.
My soul is sailing through the sea,But the Past is heavy and hindereth me.The Past hath crusted cumbrous shellsThat hold the flesh of cold sea-mellsAbout my soul.The huge waves wash, the high waves roll,Each barnacle clingeth and worketh doleAnd hindereth me from sailing!
Old Past let go, and drop i’ the seaTill fathomless waters cover thee!For I am living but thou art dead;Thou drawest back, I strive aheadThe Day to find.Thy shells unbind! Night comes behind,I needs must hurry with the windAnd trim me best for sailing.
Macon, Georgia, 1867.
Night.
Fair is the wedded reign of Night and Day.Each rules a half of earth with different sway,Exchanging kingdoms, East and West, alway.
Like the round pearl that Egypt drunk in wine,The sun half sinks i’ the brimming, rosy brine:The wild Night drinks all up: how her eyes shine!
Now the swift sail of straining life is furled,And through the stillness of my soul is whirledThe throbbing of the hearts of half the world.
I hear the cries that follow Birth and Death.I hear huge Pestilence draw his vaporous breath:“Beware, prepare, or else ye die,” he saith.
I hear a haggard student turn and sigh:I hear men begging Heaven to let them die:And, drowning all, a wild-eyed woman’s cry.
So Night takes toll of Wisdom as of Sin.The student’s and the drunkard’s cheek is thin:But flesh is not the prize we strive to win.
Now airy swarms of fluttering dreams descendOn souls, like birds on trees, and have no end.O God, from vulture-dreams my soul defend!
Let fall on Her a rose-leaf rain of dreams,All passionate-sweet, as are the loving beamsOf starlight on the glimmering woods and streams.
Montgomery, Alabama, April, 1866.
June Dreams, in January.
“So pulse, and pulse, thou rhythmic-hearted NoonThat liest, large-limbed, curved along the hills,In languid palpitation, half a-swoonWith ardors and sun-loves and subtle thrills;
“Throb, Beautiful! while the fervent hours exhaleAs kisses faint-blown from thy finger-tipsUp to the sun, that turn him passion-paleAnd then as red as any virgin’s lips.
“O tender Darkness, when June-day hath ceased,—Faint Odor from the day-flower’s crushing born,—Dim, visible Sigh out of the mournful EastThat cannot see her lord again till morn:
“And many leaves, broad-palmed towards the skyTo catch the sacred raining of star-light:And pallid petals, fain, all fain to die,Soul-stung by too keen passion of the night:
“And short-breath’d winds, under yon gracious moonDoing mild errands for mild violets,Or carrying sighs from the red lips of JuneWhat aimless way the odor-current sets:
“And stars, ringed glittering in whorls and bells,Or bent along the sky in looped star-sprays,Or vine-wound, with bright grapes in panicles,Or bramble-tangled in a sweetest maze,
“Or lying like young lilies in a lakeAbout the great white Lotus of the moon,Or blown and drifted, as if winds should shakeStar blossoms down from silver stems too soon,
“Or budding thick about full open stars,Or clambering shyly up cloud-lattices,Or trampled pale in the red path of Mars,Or trim-set in quaint gardener’s fantasies:
“And long June night-sounds crooned among the leaves,And whispered confidence of dark and green,And murmurs in old moss about old eaves,And tinklings floating over water-sheen!”
Then he that wrote laid down his pen and sighed;And straightway came old Scorn and Bitterness,Like Hunnish kings out of the barbarous land,And camped upon the transient ItalyThat he had dreamed to blossom in his soul.“I’ll date this dream,” he said; “so: `Given, these,On this, the coldest night in all the year,From this, the meanest garret in the world,In this, the greatest city in the land,To you, the richest folk this side of death,By one, the hungriest poet under heaven,—Writ while his candle sputtered in the gust,And while his last, last ember died of cold,And while the mortal ice i’ the air made freeOf all his bones and bit and shrunk his heart,And while soft Luxury made show to strikeHer gloved hands together and to smileWhat time her weary feet unconsciouslyTrode wheels that lifted Avarice to power,—And while, moreover,—O thou God, thou God—His worshipful sweet wife sat still, afar,Within the village whence she sent him forthInto the town to make his name and fame,Waiting, all confident and proud and calm,Till he should make for her his name and fame,Waiting—O Christ, how keen this cuts!—large-eyed,With Baby Charley till her husband makeFor her and him a poet’s name and fame.’—Read me,” he cried, and rose, and stamped his footImpatiently at Heaven, “read me this,”(Putting th’ inquiry full in the face of God)“Why can we poets dream us beauty, so,But cannot dream us bread? Why, now, can IMake, aye, create this fervid throbbing JuneOut of the chill, chill matter of my soul,Yet cannot make a poorest penny-loafOut of this same chill matter, no, not oneFor Mary though she starved upon my breast?”And then he fell upon his couch, and sobbed,And, late, just when his heart leaned o’erThe very edge of breaking, fain to fall,God sent him sleep.There came his room-fellow,Stout Dick, the painter, saw the written dream,Read, scratched his curly pate, smiled, winked, fell onThe poem in big-hearted comic rage,Quick folded, thrust in envelope, addressedTo him, the critic-god, that sitteth grimAnd giant-grisly on the stone causewayThat leadeth to his magazine and fame.Him, by due mail, the little Dream of JuneEncountered growling, and at unawaresStole in upon his poem-battered soulSo that he smiled,—then shook his head upon ‘t—Then growled, then smiled again, till at the last,As one that deadly sinned against his will,He writ upon the margin of the DreamA wondrous, wondrous word that in a dayDid turn the fleeting song to very bread,—Whereat Dick Painter leapt, the poet wept,And Mary slept with happy drops a-gleamUpon long lashes of her serene eyesFrom twentieth reading of her poet’s newsQuick-sent, “O sweet my Sweet, to dream is power,And I can dream thee bread and dream thee wine,And I will dream thee robes and gems, dear Love,To clothe thy holy loveliness withal,And I will dream thee here to live by me,Thee and my little man thou hold’st at breast,—Come, Name, come, Fame, and kiss my Sweetheart’s feet!”
Georgia, 1869.