A DREAM OF EREBUS.
Night’s shadows closed round me, I lay on my bed,
And visions of beauty encompassed my head;
The sweetest of melodies floated around,
The Muses and Graces kept time to the sound:
The scene was enchanting; but brief was its stay,
In mists and in clouds it soon melted away:
Then darkness succeeded, the horrors of death!
I struggled as one who was fighting for breath!
Till, in fancy, I passed through the last mortal throe,
And my spirit sought rest in the regions below.
My passport delayed me a while, but, at last,
Through the wide-yawning portals of Pluto I passed;
Then, warned by a goblin I met on the way,
My respects to the grim king of Hades I pay:
I advance to his throne, and, without falling prostrate,
I pay my devoirs to the great arch-apostate.
He rose up and told me to follow his wake,
And a walk through his kingdom, for pleasure, we’d take.
“I’ll show you,” said he, “how my quarters are crammed,
In their various regions, with ghosts of the damned.”
“I præ, sequar,” said I, “go ahead and I’ll follow;”
So he led me along, through a mighty big hollow;
On my right hand I saw what appeared to my sight
An iron-walled palace of towering height:
I scanned it with wonder, but as I drew nigher
I perceived that it was a huge furnace of fire:
Its apartments above, and its basement below
Were crowded with beings the image of woe;
“What is this?” was my query; the Devil replied,
“’Tis the place where my slave-holding children are fried;
As they said when on earth, that a white man must be
Above the vile nigger, it is so as you see:
The whites are above, and the niggers below,
The brimstone to stir and the bellows to blow;
But let us go on—you will see as you pass,
The punishment dire of a much meaner class;
That pit on the left is the dismal abode
Of a tribe who by thousands descend the broad road;
These are base hireling watchmen, who strove to increase
The size of the flock for the sake of the fleece,
No care had above for the souls of their charge,
But slept like dumb dogs while the wolf prowled at large.
There are priests of all classes, all creeds and all names
Condemned to be scorched in the sulphurous flames.
But the meanest by far of these groveling creatures
Are those factors of hell, the pro-slavery preachers,
Who insist that the Lord made the nigger’s skin black,
That the white man to Heaven might ride on his back;
They quote still from Scripture, and make it so plain,
To deny it were taking the Lord’s name in vain;
Disputing the fact were mere breath thrown away,
For is it not written, “Ye servants, obey?”
They drawl a long prayer, and a sermon comes next,
And “Cursed be Canaan,” they take for their text;
But here a new light on their vision has burst,
And they feel that themselves, not poor Canaan, are cursed.
Just a few steps ahead I will show you their station,
Close packed with those wretches who’d ruin your Nation.”
And soon, as we stood o’er a precipice dire,
I saw far beneath me the great Lake of Fire;
Like the sea in a tempest its surface was tossed,
While it swarmed with the pale, burning ghosts of the lost.
Rock-bounded on all sides, the deep, hollow roar
Of its surges resounded while lashing the shore,
The blackness of darkness—a sulphurous cloud,
Hung over the scene like a funeral shroud.
Yet plain by the glare of the red waves at play,
As they lashed the grim crags that flung back the hot spray,
Each wave in succession displayed on its crest
Some thousand pale ghosts who were riding abreast;
Till striking the crag they sank down from my sight,
And others rushed in, like to men in a fight;
Oh! wild were the shrieks and the wails that arose
From those as they sank, and from these as they rose;
So piercing and heart-rending was the sad strain,
That it thrilled me with horror—transfixed me with pain!
These words they ground out midst their dire suffocation:
“Oh God! from this hell grant us—emancipation,
Or else, in thy mercy, give annihilation!”
But hell bellowed back, “everlasting damnation!”
But, most frightful of all!—tiger-like and inhuman,
I hear the fierce howls of three men and one woman,
Whose necks, hung in halters right over the flood,
Are stretched by a wretch all bedabbled with blood!
All five call on “Lincoln” for mercy; when lo!
They are plunged, in a twinkling, to regions below;
Where long in the torrent they struggling remain,
Till the wave spews them up to its surface again;
There howling and writhing, unable to die,
Each visage distorted and bloodshot each eye,
For mercy in vain the assassins still cry!
Ah, Mercy they’ve slain!—Hope for them has no room,
Hell’s no longer a myth,—’tis the parricide’s doom!
The Devil here chuckled with joy and delight,
And seemed to be charmed with this horrible sight:
“This,” said he, “is the place where I demagogues throw
When they come here and ask for their lodgings below,
Since they never loved aught but loud brawling and strife,
And were true to no party or friend during life;
Ever turning and twisting, and dodging around,
No place more befitting for them could be found;
For here they’ll be tossing and dodging forever
Like drift-wood afloat on a rock-tortured river.
Here, too, let me point to you those wretched men
Who devote all their powers, both of tongue and of pen,
To prop the slave-holders, their code propagate,
Turn earth into hell through disunion and hate,
And to fan the fierce flames of your war have combined,
And, therefore, most justly have they been consigned
With the meanest of devils who dared to rebel,
To be scorched in the flames of the nethermost hell.
Here are lying reporters and editors, speakers,
And the old Union-savers and compromise shriekers,
With blood-sucking leeches and shoddy contractors,
Beneath loyal masks, much the worst malefactors,
Who smile, while your soldiers they starve and they rob,
More guilty, by far, than Buchanan or Cobb.
But a new class of sinners came not long ago,
And what to do with them I swear I don’t know;
I saw them, quite recently, stemming the Styx,
Sent here, I suppose, for their dastardly tricks:
(For of all who arrive here by night or by day,
There are none but the meanest who come by that way,)
Each floated down stream, at his ease, toward the lake,
A species of monster, half man and half snake;
Their heads crowned with copper, their bodies with scales,
Like scorpions they carried their stings in their tails;
And scarce had their feet touched the marl of our soil,
When hell, by their tricks, was thrown into a broil:
And now I am puzzled to know what to do
With this low-lived, this white-livered, COPPERHEAD crew.
It is true I would see the whole world come to hell,
I am fond of mean men, but these please me too well:
In their zeal for my cause and the good of this place,
They have brought my whole kingdom and cause to disgrace.
Though loyal to me and vile slaves to my throne,
While accepting their service, the tools I disown.
Since they serve without pay or a hope of reward,
I am bound by no bargain to show them regard:
I think I’ll just take them outside of the town,
Where the drainage, the filth and the offal are thrown,
And toss the whole pack of them into the ditch,
Then cover them over with sulphur and pitch;
Set fire to the mixture and leave them to cook,
To writhe in the flames, or to strangle with smoke;
And then I will drive them to earth back again,
To shiver in ice, howl in wind, hail and rain.
When Jefferson Davis and his rebel host
Shall arrive, by and by, at the gates of the lost,
I’ll meet, and assign them a place near my throne,
And Davis and Floyd shall be stars in my crown;
But this wretched crew to the ditch I’ll consign,
For, though true to my cause, I cannot call them mine.”
Just then came a messenger hastily down,
And called out, “Your Majesty’s wanted up town;
For another large batch of the peace-shrieking crew
Have come sneaking down here and are asking for you.”
His Majesty then grew quite black in the face;
“I’ll go and, by hell, kick them out of the place:
Their stench I detest, I cannot bear them near,
And I’ll soon let them know that they mustn’t stay here;
’Tis too much e’en for us, with our devilish natures,
To bear with such fallen, such cowardly, creatures.”
So saying, and wearing a terrible frown,
He seized a huge trident and hurried up town;
Then quickly I heard mingled whining and shrieking,
And, in thunder and wrath, old Beelzebub speaking:
“Get out of my court, you vile, dastardly crew,
You’re too mean to stay here where the common damned do.”
And then, like a man of his reason bereft,
He wielded his club and pitched in right and left.
They yelled, and shrieked “Peace, oh, pray, Satan, hold on,
We are loyal to you!”—cried Satan, “Begone!”
While the blows he dealt out made the peace-sneaks to scream;—
With their yells in my ears, I awoke from my dream!
My task is done, my work is ended;
Behold the Copperhead suspended
’Twixt Heaven and earth, in open air,
His whole anatomy laid bare;
Normal and morbid all made known,
In soul and body, nerve and bone!
Since Satan would not let him stay
In realms which shun the light of day;
(Where he in torture would abide,
If he his deep disgrace could hide,)
Here pilloried in sight of men,
Impaled on my steel-pointed pen,
Like Tantalus tormented ever,
Let vultures prey upon his liver,
Which, by some retributive power,
Still grows as fast as they devour,
Till passers-by shall point with scorn,
And cry, “’Twere better not be born,
Than thus to writhe in infamy,
As long as sun and stars shall be!”
And when, in some far future age,
The student of creation’s page
Shall dig his fossils from the ground,
And stand amazed, in doubt profound,
As to what species and what race
The monstrous reptile he can trace,
And wonder, with suspended breath,
His use or purpose on the earth;
These records all his doubts shall clear,
When he beholds him pictured here,
So fully, that who runs will read,
Then shudder, and increase his speed!
Thus much for science having won,
I take my leave, my task is done.
THE END.
Transcriber’s Note: It is not known what these letters/numbers were intended to represent. There are no footnotes in this or multiple other copies of the book.
“SIR COPP:”
A Book for the Times, in Six Cantos. By Thomas Clarke, Author of “A Day in May,” “Donna Rosa,” “The Silent Village,” “Life in the West,” &c., &c.
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.
From the Chicago Tribune
In this work we welcome another home production. It is written in Hudibrastic verse; but the genius of the author is by no means confined to this form of composition. The object of the author is praise-worthy, and he exhibits much talent for versification. We must, injustice, commend the work for many striking and some admirable passages. “Sir Copp,” is of course, Sir Copperhead; and the venomous creature is dissected by an artist who has a true scientific enthusiasm for so fine a specimen of morbid anatomy. The invocation to the muse is especially striking, (here it is quoted in full.) Mr. Clarke is not an untried poet. He has, in fact, produced a number of poems, for which the best English critics have accorded to him a high rank amongst the first poets of our day.
From the Chicago Evening Journal
Under the title of “Sir Copp,” is depicted the character of a copperhead, whose career closes at the gates of hell. The story is a contrast of patriotism with disloyalty; the theme growing out of the late rebellion. The poetry is lively in measure. The author’s former works drew down the encomiums of several good authorities in literary matters. The volume is highly creditable to the publishers.
From the Chicago Republican.
Mr. Clarke is favorably known to the reading public as the author of several poems published in England, which have received warm praise from the leading English reviews. The purpose of this effort of his muse is to contrast a dark phase of human depravity, as exhibited by the copperhead rebels of the northern states, with the beauty and power of loyalty to God and country. Incidentally, he satirises Tennyson, mourns over the grave of Lincoln, and celebrates the heroes of Murfreesboro, and many another bloody field. He writes with a sharp pen, and shows no mercy to the traitors. “Sir Copp,” having undergone a severe moral and physical dissection, is introduced by the author into hell, whence Satan, unwilling to entertain him, sends him back to earth to be punished according to his deserts.
From the Staats Zeitung (German.)
Mr. Thomas Clarke, a celebrated British Poet, who lives here in the West, has produced a poem under the title of “Sir Copp,” in which he shows forth the copperheads and their actions during the war. He is amongst the warmest friends of America, extols liberty and patriotism, and does ample justice to our German American citizens.
New Work, by the Author of “Sir Copp,”
(WILL BE READY IN THE SPRING, ’67,)
ENTITLED
THE TWO ANGELS
Or, LOVE-LED.
A POEM, IN SIX CANTOS.
The story is of Heaven and earth, and is one of the deepest interest. It is a book of great merit, and no doubt will be extensively read.
The volume will contain upwards of two hundred pages small octavo, printed with clear, readable type, on fine paper, and will be neatly bound.
GEO. W. CLARKE, Publisher,
215 ILLINOIS ST., CHICAGO.