TWENTY YEARS AGO.
WRITTEN FOR MEMORIAL DAY IN 1885.
For twenty years the snowy wings of Peace
Over the land have brooded; flocks increase
Upon the fields, now blessed by smiling stars,
Where drave the reeking chariot-wheels of Mars.
How like a falcon’s flight the years have flown,
Since Appomattox rang the curtain down;
And listening to my voice are tall young men,
And women fair who were but children then.
Our young Republic, freed from all his chains,
For peaceful conquest girds his lusty reins.
The smiling Mississippi to the sea
Rolls as in days of old, unvexed and free,
And East and West in one grand commonweal
Are bound by triple bands of shining steel.
The apple tree historic rots away;
Our gunboats all have crumbled to decay;
The rifle-pits that scarred the Southern plains
Are washed away by twenty winters’ rains;
The impetuous onset of the bayonet line
Tramples no more the growing corn and vine,
And nesting birds pour forth their raptures where
The thunder-bolts of battle rent the air.
But still remain in many hearts we know
The ghastly scars of twenty years ago.
How many a comrade’s widow treads alone
A narrow path by cruel thorns o’ergrown!
’Tis long since song of mating bird has thrilled
That lonely heart, with tender memories filled,—
Memories still speeding backward to the time
When, brave and beautiful in manhood’s prime,
Her bridegroom more than twenty years ago
Sprang at the bugle call to meet the foe.
Strong men for other women dig the gold,
Tread out the wine, and weave the silken fold;
Her wine of Life in forests dark and dank
The thirsty soil of Mississippi drank;
Her daily lot for more than twenty years
Has been the widow’s toil, and widow’s tears.
Comrades, we’re growing old; upon our hairs
Gather the frosts of more than twenty years,
Since in the trench at Petersburg we lay,
Or, gayly holding our triumphal way,
Unto the sea we swept with Sherman’s pennon,
Or heard the roar of Stonewall Jackson’s cannon,
Waking the echoes of the Rapidan,
Or through the valley whirled with Sheridan.
Still surges up as though of yesterday
The memory of those that passed away;
Still floating down the vista of the years,
We hear their voices, see their smiles and tears.
In each successive strife how fast they fell—
The tried companions that we knew so well.
Some, fleeing from the ghastly prison pen,
By bloodhounds tracked were slain in swamp and fen;
Some ashes mingle with the sounding tide,
And some enrich the rugged mountain side,
Where the tall pines of frowning Kenesaw
Quivered like reeds before the blast of war;
Now looming up in shadowy ranks they stand
Like guardian phantoms brooding o’er the land.
No higher impulse thrilled the knights of old
Who to the crusades like a torrent rolled,
To pour for the dear cross their blood like wine
Upon the plains of Holy Palestine,
And feed on desert sands in the far East
The jackals ravening for their glorious feast.
They reck not where their scattered ashes rest
Who speed to the reunion of the blest;
As eaglets soaring to the gates of light
Spurn the dull shells that long confined their flight.
For you the amaranthine wreath we twine,
Raise the high song, and pour the ruddy wine;
For you the rhythmic beat of martial feet,
As the long lines go swaying down the street;
For you the plaintive reed’s subduing moan
Commingles with the hautboy’s rapturous tone,
The rolling drum, the thrilling trumpet blare,
And silken banners float upon the air
Like bright ethereal drapery trailing there.
The noblest sons of Earth, of every clime,
Welcome you to their galaxy sublime;
And flowers, by maidens fairer still than they,
Are offered to your sacred shades to-day;
Roses and dittany—and lilies fair,
Mingle their breath upon the vernal air;
But sweeter than the fleeting gifts we bring
Your memory perennial shall spring,
And loving tears each spring-time shall bedew
The flowers that loving hands shall here renew;
And younger bards, with truer touch than mine,
Will pour for you the flood of song divine,
While millions yet unborn, with quickening breath,
Will hear the tale heroic of your death.
O host of gallant comrades sweeping by,
Up the red track of glory to the sky—
Reynolds, McPherson, Dahlgren, Garesché,
And all the unknown names as brave as they,—
Great hearts and souls as those of song and story,
Whose only guerdon was a deathbed gory;
As youthful as of yore we see you now,
The flush of victory on each radiant brow,
And youthful in our withering hearts shall glow
Your generous valor in the Long Ago.