Poems

by S. C. Mercer

THE TWO KENTUCKIANS.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN—Fourteenth President of the United States; born in Hardin County, Ky., February 12, 1809; assassinated in Ford’s Theater, April 16, 1865.

JEFFERSON DAVIS—First and last President of the Southern Confederacy; born in Christian County, Ky., June 3, 1808; died in New Orleans, December 6, 1889.

The sky of the Southland with grief is o’ercast;
Bitter tears down the cheeks of the brave trickle fast;
The moss-streamered oaks of Beauvoir bow their head—
Their Master is fallen, their Chieftain is dead.
Wake, soldier, who liest outstretched on thy bier:
Does the warwhoop of Black Hawk not startle thy ear?
Seest thou not the long Mexican lancers’ array
At dark Buena Vista rush fierce to the fray?

Hapless Mexican Cavalry! great was your scath
As you fearlessly charged down that Angel of Death.
The manes of the chargers like meteors streamed,
Like rainbows far-flashing the gay pennons gleamed;
Like lightning from Heaven Davis brandished his sword
And fierce was the volley his riflemen poured;
They reel in their saddles, they topple and fall,
The flag of the cavalcade turns to a pall,
Its ghostly Commander is the skeleton Death—
The fair rose of Mexico shrinks in his breath.
They halt—they retreat—in wild tumult they run,
The eagle soars victor—Buena Vista is won.

Hearken, O spangled Cavaliers, to that dread warning cry
Which like the trump of Judgment is sounding from the sky—
“Remember cruel Alamo’s foul massacre and die!”
Lo her avengers, Taylor, Davis, Hardin, McKee, and Clay!
Abundant sacrifice went up in smoke of battle gray,
So were thy Manes appeased, brave Crockett, on that day,
Thy phantom sped from Alamo to cheer that bloody fray.
Our troops on that field by their valor and scars
Added stars to our flag’s constellation of stars,
And Buena Vista’s immaculate name
Like a beacon-fire burns in the temple of fame.
Weep, daughters of Mexico, for lover and spouse,
Hang crepe on the door of each desolate house,
Long, long shall the maidens of Anahuac mourn
For their fallen defenders who shall never return.

Once, in Senate encounter, in battle’s fierce brunt,
Thy plume, like Navarre’s, streamed full high in the front.
Thou wast once, like Scotch Bruce, of inflexible will,
Unyielding, though conquered, and resolute still.
In field or in council, with sword, tongue or pen,
The molder of ideas, the leader of men.
Clay—Webster—Oh, Chief, are thy pulses unstirred
When the mighty debate in the Senate is heard?
Hark, Sumter’s loud tocsin! Saw the world e’er the like?
For Freedom and Union and Southland they strike.
Grant, Meade, Lee and Thomas like Titans engage,
And the Lost Cause departs like a ghost from the stage.

’Tis past, like a dream of the dawning in air,
For thee, the world’s pageant of Vanity Fair.
All faded—those phantoms and dreams of the past,
And crepe ties the flag as it falls to the mast.
The dirge wails its sorrow to dead ears in vain;
The pallbearers’ flag is the flag of the train,
The traveler’s baggage lies all in one chest,
Whose check is a coffin plate lettered “At Rest.”
And Metairie’s vault opes its dark, narrow berth
For the cold, pallid earth which returns to the earth.

As I rode o’er the mountain I saw not how high
Its pine-covered summit ascended the sky.
’Twas a mere undulation that rose from the plain—
But, as journeying on, I beheld it again,
The veil of Omnipotence spread like a shroud
On its brow, that looked down on the loftiest cloud.
So our lives were too near to those lives which expired
When the battle of freedom our continent fired.
To measure their valor and virtue aright—
Our vision is dim when too close to the light.

Thou, Lincoln, sad martyr, just, generous, brave;
A hero of heroes Omnipotence gave
To mortals in molding thy gaunt, rugged face;
Like Cromwell, no smooth dilettante in grace;
But counting all power, glory, life itself, naught,
Till the duty assigned thee by Heaven was wrought.

O voice of humanity whose exquisite tone
Like the moan of the sea breathed a sadness its own—
As the sea mourns the infinite dead ’neath its waves,
So mourned his great soul for war’s infinite graves—
How oft did the widow and orphan rejoice
In the counsel and sympathy toned in that voice;
Where sorrow abounded did his love more abound,
Like the hand of a woman who nurses a wound,
Like the lullaby sung to a babe at the breast
Till singer and sufferer sink to sweet rest;
It cheered the bruised hearts of the children of toil
Like the summer-night-dew which refreshes the soil;
Like the Lamb of Redemption he went to the cross
And our infinite gain was secured by his loss.

No vision of conquest could lead him astray
No sectional bias waved false lights in his way.
Stem duty, as he saw it, confronted his eyes;
And the future passed judgment at its solemn assize:
“The Union which Washington won by his sword
“I have sworn to preserve, ’tis my vow to the Lord.
“Should the temple he built by my treachery burn,
“My name would all ages indignantly spurn,
“My honor be scorned, my oath be forsworn,
“And my name from the roster of Patriots be torn.
“This Union so fair asunder to rend,
“No patriot has sworn—I’ve an oath to defend,
“‘The Last Sigh of the Moor’ is a voice not in vain,
“For the mother who bore him scorned Boabdil of Spain.”

The ages have brought forth no kinder than he
His soul, like the broad, irresistible sea,
Was a blending of majesty, sweetness and grace,
Himself he forgot in his love for his race.
The truths which he uttered all time will applaud,
For his lips caught their flame from the altar of God.

Who can love in this life, and yet truly be wise?
Who can hate, and still see with unprejudiced eyes?
Our passions envelop our visions with mist;
Their whirlwinds transport us wherever they list.
To tenderly love and judge all hearts aright
Belongs to One only—the Father of Light,
Who sits on the throne with white radiance burning—
In whom is no variableness nor shadow of turning.

Fallen, fallen, is the storm-shattered oak of the South;
Fallen, fallen, is the strong, stately pine of the North;
One combatant loses, another one wins—
God have mercy on both and forgive them their sins.
And if a man conquer, or if he should lose,
’Tis naught if the Great Judge His mercy refuse.

And now, all unheeding earth’s praises or blame,
Thy two sons, Kentucky, repose in their fame.
The victor struck down while the jubilant cheer
Of honor and victory rang in his ear;
The vanquished, who suffered in silence his lot,
When the empire and glory he dreamed of were not.
New Orleans and Springfield have taken to rest
Two children, Kentucky, who nursed at thy breast.

Oh, Hardin and Christian, the homes of the great,
Forgetfulness veils, through the satire of fate,
While fame blazons far to the ends of the earth
The log huts which gave to your progeny birth.
The leaders of millions lie helpless and lone
As the soldiers who perished unnoticed, unknown.
Take them tenderly, dear Mother Earth, to thy breast,
To sleep in their “windowless palace of rest.”

I hear, as I stand, pressed with grief, by your graves,
A murmur, soft, strong, as of waves upon waves;
And memory’s harp, with its mystical strings,
Recalls, with the sweeping of infinite wings,
How precious that flag by our fathers unfurled—
White flower of charity, light of the world,
Float ever, proud banner of freedom sublime,
Till the judgment’s last trump sounds the ending of time.

The Christmas Eve bells were all ringing aloud,
When I dreamed that I saw on God’s bow in the cloud—
Its red like the rose dawn of Easter’s bright day;
Its blue like the love that abideth for aye;
Its gold the reflection of Paradise street;
Its white the effulgence of God’s mercy seat—
An Angel, calm, radiant, of presence august,
The great, golden balance of mercy adjust;
And millions of martyrs on battlefields slain,
Like the voice of the ocean, repeated the strain:

“O, States of the Union, all warfare shall cease;
Christ lifts o’er the nation the banner of peace,
As the prism-banded bow of the sky stanched the flood
Its earth-child, the flag, ends the deluge of blood.
War’s death-dealing cloud has forever rolled by,
And Peace, with her olive branch, smiles from the sky
Forever is silenced dissension’s wild roar;
The demon of hate rends the Union no more.”
And, lo! the bells answered from valley and hill:
“Peace, peace upon earth, to all men of good-will!”

THE HUNTER’S LAST RIDE.

[We rode for hours, the day following, in the track of the fire which had swept the vast prairies as far as the eye could reach with utter desolation, finding on several occasions the charred remains of animals which had perished in the flames, and in one instance those of an unfortunate hunter and his horse.—Brissot’s Western Travels, Vol. II.]

One autumn eve, when clouds unfurled
Swept down the west in bannered splendor,
And dying sunset bathed the world
In dolphin rainbows, mild and tender,
As if the sun in heaven afar
Lingered to greet the Evening Star,
Mingling his glance of clearer light
With the first radiance of the night,
And in the twilight, tarrying late,
Unwilling passed the western gate;
A hunter, wearied with the chase,
With his spent steed was slowly turning
Unto his far-off resting place,
Where his lone campfire light was burning—
For many a mile his steed had gone
O’er the wide prairie since the dawn.

The choice bits from the saddle hung,
The deer’s fat haunch, the buffalo’s tongue,
A simple but a sweet repast
To cheer his long and painful fast.
Slow paced the strong but weary steed
Of spacious chest and lightning speed,
A coal black of the Norman breed
Who ne’er had failed in time of need;
A creature full of strength and grace,
The noblest of his noble race
In toil, in battle, or the chase,
To hunt the bear on mountain side,
To chase the deer o’er prairie wide,
Or dash upon the ambuscade
Of wily Indian foe arrayed,
Or plunge through winter’s deepest snow,
Or breast the torrent’s swiftest flow.

To huntsman who has borne the toil,
Welcome the rest, and sweet the spoil;
So mused McGregor in his mind,
Leading his steed, when far behind,
Upon his startled ears there came
A rushing sound of distant flame—
A long, hoarse murmuring, sullen sound,
As when an earthquake shakes the ground.
Or the volcano’s voice of wrath
Warns all to leave the lava’s path.
A moment scarce he turned his head,
Too well he knew that sound of dread,
A moment—and McGregor saw
A sight to chill his soul with awe;
Behind him, hastening onward came
A long, red serpent line of flame,
Which, hissing, shot its tongues of light
Upward into the gathering night,
While midway ’twixt the earth and sky
Like a death-angel hovering by,
The smoke pall rolled in volumes dread,
The awful banner of the dead.
Quickly the burden was untied—
“Now, Saladin!” the huntsman cried,
“Now, Saladin, my gallant steed,
Attest thyself of noble breed,
For never yet thy matchless speed
Has served us in so sore a need,
And never in the fiercest chase
Hast thou e’er made so dread a race
As this wild fight for life or death
From yon fire-demon’s scorching breath.”

With nostrils spread and pointed ear,
And eye of fierceness, not of fear,
A moment brief, Saladin halted,
While to his seat his rider vaulted,
A moment snuffed the hot flame’s breath,
The stifling atmosphere of death;
A moment shook his streaming mane,
Then sped like lightning o’er the plain—
Fly! Not for one brief moment stay—
Fly, for thy life—away, away!

Stretch every muscle—sinew—fly!
To pause one moment is to die!
Weary and worn and spent with pain,
The struggling steed bounds o’er the plain
Each iron sinew vainly straining;
The fire upon his path is gaining;
The mad flame brighter and brighter glows,
The fatal circle smaller grows,
And hotter, fiercer, wilder, higher,
Leap the red demons of the fire.

The wild-eyed herd of buffaloes came
Impetuous plunging through the flame;
The antelopes in terror flying,
On fleetest limbs in vain relying;
The grouse fly round on whirring wings,
Then blindly seek their funeral fires;
The rattlesnake in anguish springs,
Pierced with its own fang—writhes—expires.
Long howls the wolf in dismal yell,
Such as might shake the caves of hell,
And many a wild, despairing cry
Of brutes in mortal agony
Falls thickly on McGregor’s ear,
In wailings ominous and drear.

’Tis on him—now at last,
Encircled by the fiery blast,
McGregor stands
With folded hands,
Firm as a martyr when he braves
The rack, the faggot, or the waves.
Exhausted, panting, foaming, gasping,
As though an iron band were clasping
His laboring chest, Saladin sank
With quivering side and streaming flank,
While his pale rider rent the air
With one sad groan of deep despair.
Red rose the fire-cave’s crackling arch,
Red rose the lurid walls around him,
The hungry flames his pulses parch,
And like a boa’s coils have bound him.

The buffalo
In dying throe,
With furious hoof the hunter paws;
The wolf with howl
And shriek and growl
In his red life’s blood bathes his jaws,
And rends his limbs apart,
And the expiring panther gnaws
His palpitating heart,
As if the long revenge they cherish
Were eased if their old foe might perish.

By the red moon’s ghostly light,
Struggling through the murky vail,
Dripping and dank with tears of night,
And chill mist casting shadows pale,
A voice of sorrow seems to wail,
A fitful, sobbing, plaintive tone,
Thrilling the pained air with its moan,
As if some Ariel unsleeping,
A death watch in the sky was keeping,
His harp of tears in pity sweeping:
“Rest, huntsman! from thy final chase,
Rest, Saladin! from thy last, long race,
Horseman and horse they both have gone;
Dying with all their armor on,
And slumbering in their last repose
Together, circled by their foes.”

THE OLD ROCK SPRING.

I know not what of sadness strange,
Comes over my soul to-day,
As I think of Time’s unceasing change,
And the friends he has snatched away;
For Time has turned those locks to gray,
Which were black as a raven’s wing,
Of the boys and girls who used to play,
Around the Old Rock Spring.