Soldiers of the light

by Helen Gray Cone

VIII

But hark! as if some league-long barrier broke

To let wide waters in tumultuously,

I hear the voices of the outland folk

From sea to sea—yea, rolling over-sea:

“You shall not limit his large glory thus,

You shall not mete his greatness with a span!

This man belongs to us,

Gentile and Jew, Teuton and Celt and Russ

And whatso else we be!

This man belongs to Man!

And never, till a flood of love efface

The hard distrusts that sever race from race,

Comes his true jubilee!

Never, till all the wars,

Yea, even the noble wars that strive to peace,

With all the thunder of all the drums shall cease,

And all the booming guns on all the brother-shores;

Never, till that worst strife of every day,

More bitter-sordid than the clash of steel,

By some new solving word our lips may learn to say,

Be wholly done away,

Deep-drowned in brotherhood, quenched in the common weal,

Ah, never, till every spirit shall stand up free,

Comes the great Liberator’s jubilee!”

GREENCASTLE JENNY
A BALLAD OF ’SIXTY-THREE

Oh, Greencastle streets were a stream of steel

With the slanted muskets the soldiers bore,

And the scared earth muttered and shook to feel

The tramp and the rumble of Longstreet’s Corps;

The bands were blaring “The Bonny Blue Flag,”

And the banners borne were a motley many;

And watching the gray column wind and drag

Was a slip of a girl—we’ll call her Jenny.

A slip of a girl—what needs her name?—

With her cheeks aflame and her lips aquiver,

As she leaned and looked with a loyal shame

At the steady flow of the steely river:

Till a storm grew black in the hazel eyes

Time had not tamed, nor a lover sighed for;

And she ran and she girded her, apron-wise,

With the flag she loved and her brothers died for.

Out of the doorway they saw her start

(Pickett’s Virginians were marching through),

The hot little foolish hero-heart

Armored with stars and the sacred blue.

Clutching the folds of red and white

Stood she and bearded those ranks of theirs,

Shouting shrilly with all her might,

“Come and take it, the man that dares!”

Pickett’s Virginians were passing through;

Supple as steel and brown as leather,

Rusty and dusty of hat and shoe,

Wonted to hunger and war and weather;

Peerless, fearless, an army’s flower!

Sterner soldiers the world saw never,

Marching lightly, that summer hour,

To death and failure and fame forever.

Rose from the rippling ranks a cheer;

Pickett saluted, with bold eyes beaming,

Sweeping his hat like a cavalier,

With his lion locks in the warm wind streaming.

Fierce little Jenny! her courage fell,

As the firm lines flickered with friendly laughter,

And Greencastle streets gave back the yell

That Gettysburg slopes gave back soon after.

So they cheered for the flag they fought

With the generous glow of the stubborn fighter,

Loving the brave as the brave man ought,

And never a finger was raised to fright her:

So they marched, though they knew it not,

Through the fresh green June to the shock infernal,

To the hell of the shell and the plunging shot,

And the charge that has won them a name eternal.

And she felt at last, as she hid her face,

There had lain at the root of her childish daring

A trust in the men of her own brave race,

And a secret faith in the foe’s forbearing.

And she sobbed, till the roll of the rumbling gun

And the swinging tramp of the marching men

Were a memory only, and day was done,

And the stars in the fold of the blue again.

(Thank God that the day of the sword is done,

And the stars in the fold of the blue again!)

BY THE BLOCKHOUSE ON THE HILL
A Ballad of ’Ninety-Eight

The soul of the fair young man sprang up

From the earth where his body lay,

And he was aware of a grim dark soul

Companioning his way.

“Who are you, brother?” the fair soul said;

“We wing together still!”

And the soul replied, that was swart and red,

“The spirit of him who shot you dead

By the blockhouse on the hill.

“Your men and you on the crest were first,

And the last foe left was I;

In the crackle of rifles I dropped and cursed,

Lightning-struck as the cheer outburst

And the hot charge panted nigh.

“You saw me writhe at the side of the trench:

You bade—I know not what:

With one last gnash, with one last wrench,

I sped my last, sure shot.

“The thing that lies on the sodden ground

Like a wrack of the whirlwind’s track,

Your men have made of the body of me,—

But they could not call you back!

“In that black game I won, I won!

But had you worked your will,

Speak now the shame that you would have done

By the blockhouse on the hill!”

“God judge my men!” said the fair young soul;

“He knows you tried them sore.

Had He given me power to bide an hour

I had wrought that they forbore.

“I bade them, ere your bullet brought

This swift, this sweet release,

To bear your body out of the fire

That you might pass in peace.”

Said the grim dark soul, “Farewell, farewell,

Farewell ’twixt you and me,

Till they set red Judas loose from hell

To kneel at the Lord Christ’s knee!”

“Not so, not so,” said the fair young soul,

“But reach me out your hand:

We two will kneel at the Lord Christ’s knee,

And He that was hanged on the cruel tree

Will remember and understand.

“We two will pray at the Lord Christ’s knee

That never on earth again

The breath of the hot brute guns shall cloud

The sight in the eyes of men!”

The clean stars came into the sky;

The perfect night was still;

Yet rose to heaven the old blood-cry,

By the blockhouse on the hill.