CHAPTER VI
FOURTEEN YEARS OF PEACE
In his message to Congress at the opening of the December session of 1847, President Polk recommended, among other things, the construction of a ship canal across the Isthmus of Panama—a recommendation which was not to bear fruit for sixty years.
THE SHIP CANAL FROM THE ATLANTIC TO THE PACIFIC
AN ODE TO THE AMERICAN PEOPLE AND THEIR CONGRESS,
ON READING THE MESSAGE OF THE UNITED STATES PRESIDENT IN DECEMBER, 1847
Rend America asunder
And unite the Binding Sea
That emboldens man and tempers—
Make the ocean free.
Break the bolt that bars the passage,
That our River richly pours
Western wealth to western nations;
Let that sea be ours—
Ours by all the hardy whalers,
By the pointing Oregon,
By the west-impelled and working,
Unthralled Saxon son.
Long indeed they have been wooing,
The Pacific and his bride;
Now 'tis time for holy wedding—
Join them by the tide.
Have the snowy surfs not struggled
Many centuries in vain
That their lips might seal the Union?
Lock them main to main.
When the mighty God of nature
Made this favored continent,
He allowed it yet unsevered,
That a race be sent,
Able, mindful of his purpose,
Prone to people, to subdue,
And to bind the land with iron,
Or to force it through.
What the prophet-navigator,
Seeking straits to his Catais,
But began, now consummate it—
Make the strait and pass.
Blessed the eyes that shall behold it,
When the pointing boom shall veer,
Leading through the parted Andes,
While the nations cheer!
There at Suez, Europe's mattock
Cuts the briny road with skill,
And must Darien bid defiance
To the pilot still?
Do we breathe this breath of Knowledge
Purely to enjoy its zest?
Shall the iron arm of science
Like a sluggard rest?
Up then, at it! earnest people!
Bravely wrought thy scorning blade,
But there's fresher fame in store yet,
Glory for the spade.
What we want is naught in envy,
And for all we pioneer;
Let the keels of every nation
Through the isthmus steer.
Must the globe be always girded
Ere we get to Bramah's priest?
Take the tissues of your Lowells
Westward to the East.
Ye, that vanquish pain and distance,
Ye, enmeshing Time with wire,
Court ye patiently forever
Yon Antarctic ire?
Shall the mariner forever
Double the impending capes,
While his longsome and retracing
Needless course he shapes?
What was daring for our fathers,
To defy those billows fierce,
Is but tame for their descendants;
We are bid to pierce.
Ye that fight with printing armies,
Settle sons on forlorn track,
As the Romans flung their eagles,
But to win them back.
Who, undoubting, worship boldness,
And, if baffled, bolder rise,
Shall we lag when grandeur beckons
To this good emprize?
Let the vastness not appal us;
Greatness is thy destiny.
Let the doubters not recall us:
Venture suits the free.
Like a seer, I see her throning,
Winland strong in freedom's health,
Warding peace on both the waters,
Widest Commonwealth.
Crowned with wreaths that still grow greener,
Guerdon for untiring pain,
For the wise, the stout, and steadfast:
Rend the land in twain.
Cleave America asunder,
This is worthy work for thee.
Hark! The seas roll up imploring
"Make the ocean free."
Francis Lieber.
The famine in Ireland in 1847 awakened much sympathy in the United States, and the ship Jamestown, laden with food, was dispatched to Cork, making a remarkably quick passage.
THE WAR SHIP OF PEACE
[1847]
Sweet land of song, thy harp doth hang
Upon the willow now,
While famine's blight and fever's pang
Stamps mis'ry on thy brow;
Yet take thy harp and raise thy voice,
Though weak and low it be,
And let thy sinking heart rejoice
In friends still left to thee.
Look out! look out! across the sea
That girds thy em'rald shore,
A ship of war is bound to thee,
But with no war-like store.
Her thunders sleep; 'tis mercy's breath
That wafts her o'er the sea;
She goes not forth to deal out death,
But bears new life to thee.
Thy wasted hands can scarcely strike
The chords of grateful praise,
Thy plaintive tone is now unlike
The voice of prouder days;
Yet, e'en in sorrow, tuneful still,
Let Erin's voice proclaim
In bardic praise on ev'ry hill
Columbia's glorious name.
Samuel Lover.
On June 8, 1848, Henry Clay was defeated by Zachary Taylor for the Whig nomination for the presidency.
ON THE DEFEAT OF HENRY CLAY
[June 8, 1848]
Fallen? How fallen? States and empires fall;
O'er towers and rock-built walls,
And perished nations, floods to tempests call
With hollow sound along the sea of time:
The great man never falls.
He lives, he towers aloft, he stands sublime—
They fall who give him not
The honor here that suits his future name—
They die and are forgot.
O Giant loud and blind! the great man's fame
Is his own shadow and not cast by thee—
A shadow that shall grow
As down the heaven of time the sun descends,
And on the world shall throw
His god-like image, till it sinks where blends
Time's dim horizon with Eternity.
William Wilberforce Lord.
Margaret Fuller Ossoli, her husband, the Marquis Ossoli, and their child, were drowned off Fire Island, July 16, 1850, while returning from Europe in the ship Elizabeth. The ship was driven ashore in a storm, and broken up by the waves.
ON THE DEATH OF M. D'OSSOLI AND HIS WIFE, MARGARET FULLER
[July 16, 1850]
Over his millions Death has lawful power,
But over thee, brave D'Ossoli! none, none.
After a longer struggle, in a fight
Worthy of Italy, to youth restored,
Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the surge
Of the Atlantic; on its shore; in reach
Of help; in trust of refuge; sunk with all
Precious on earth to thee—a child, a wife!
Proud as thou wert of her, America
Is prouder, showing to her sons how high
Swells woman's courage in a virtuous breast.
She would not leave behind her those she loved;
Such solitary safety might become
Others; not her; not her who stood beside
The pallet of the wounded, when the worst
Of France and Perfidy assailed the walls
Of unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul,
Renowned for the strength of genius, Margaret!
Rest with the twain too dear! My words are few,
And shortly none will hear my failing voice,
But the same language with more full appeal
Shall hail thee. Many are the sons of song
Whom thou hast heard upon thy native plains
Worthy to sing of thee: the hour is come;
Take we our seats and let the dirge begin.
Walter Savage Landor.
The following verses from Punch describe various events of 1851—the winning of the international yacht race by the America; the project for a canal across the isthmus—and comment upon the ingenuity of some Yankee inventions.
THE LAST APPENDIX TO "YANKEE DOODLE"
[Punch, 1851]
Yankee Doodle sent to Town
His goods for exhibition;
Everybody ran him down,
And laugh'd at his position.
They thought him all the world behind;
A goney, muff, or noodle;
Laugh on, good people,—never mind—
Says quiet Yankee Doodle.
Chorus—Yankee Doodle, keep it up,
Yankee Doodle Dandy!
Mind the music and the step,
And with the girls be handy!
Yankee Doodle had a craft,
A rather tidy clipper,
And he challenged, while they laughed,
The Britishers to whip her.
Their whole yacht-squadron she outsped,
And that on their own water;
Of all the lot she went ahead,
And they came nowhere arter.
O'er Panamà there was a scheme
Long talked of, to pursue a
Short route—which many thought a dream—
By Lake Nicaragua.
John Bull discussed the plan on foot,
With slow irresolution,
While Yankee Doodle went and put
It into execution.
A steamer of the Collins line,
A Yankee Doodle's notion,
Has also quickest cut the brine
Across the Atlantic Ocean.
And British Agents, no ways slow
Her merits to discover,
Have been and bought her—just to tow
The Cunard packets over.
Your gunsmiths of their skill may crack,
But that again don't mention:
I guess that Colts' revolvers whack
Their very first invention.
By Yankee Doodle, too, you're beat
Downright in Agriculture,
With his machine for reaping wheat,
Chawed up as by a vulture.
You also fancied, in your pride,
Which truly is tarnation,
Them British locks of yourn defied
The rogues of all creation;
But Chubbs' and Bramah's Hobbs has picked,
And you must now be viewed all
As having been completely licked
By glorious Yankee Doodle.
DANIEL WEBSTER
[Died October 24, 1852]
When life hath run its largest round
Of toil and triumph, joy and woe,
How brief a storied page is found
To compass all its outward show!
The world-tried sailor tires and droops;
His flag is rent, his keel forgot;
His farthest voyages seem but loops
That float from life's entangled knot.
But when within the narrow space
Some larger soul hath lived and wrought,
Whose sight was open to embrace
The boundless realms of deed and thought,—
When, stricken by the freezing blast,
A nation's living pillars fall,
How rich the storied page, how vast,
A word, a whisper, can recall!
No medal lifts its fretted face,
Nor speaking marble cheats your eye;
Yet, while these pictured lines I trace,
A living image passes by:
A roof beneath the mountain pines;
The cloisters of a hill-girt plain;
The front of life's embattled lines;
A mound beside the heaving main.
These are the scenes: a boy appears;
Set life's round dial in the sun.
Count the swift arc of seventy years,
His frame is dust; his task is done.
Yet pause upon the noontide hour,
Ere the declining sun has laid
His bleaching rays on manhood's power,
And look upon the mighty shade.
No gloom that stately shape can hide,
No change uncrown his brow: behold!
Dark, calm, large-fronted, lightning-eyed,
Earth has no double from its mould!
Ere from the fields by valor won
The battle-smoke had rolled away,
And bared the blood-red setting sun,
His eyes were opened on the day.
His land was but a shelving strip,
Black with the strife that made it free;
He lived to see its banners dip
Their fringes in the Western sea.
The boundless prairies learned his name,
His words the mountain echoes knew;
The Northern breezes swept his fame
From icy lake to warm bayou.
In toil he lived; in peace he died;
When life's full cycle was complete,
Put off his robes of power and pride,
And laid them at his Master's feet.
His rest is by the storm-swept waves
Whom life's wild tempests roughly tried,
Whose heart was like the streaming caves
Of ocean, throbbing at his side.
Death's cold white hand is like the snow
Laid softly on the furrowed hill,
It hides the broken seams below,
And leaves the summit brighter still.
In vain the envious tongue upbraids;
His name a nation's heart shall keep
Till morning's latest sunlight fades
On the blue tablet of the deep!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
In 1854 a survey was ordered of the Isthmus of Darien, and Lieutenant Isaac G. Strain was placed in charge of the work. His party was reduced to great extremities in crossing the isthmus, but bore their sufferings with a heroism seldom surpassed.
THE FLAG
AN INCIDENT OF STRAIN'S EXPEDITION
[1854]
I never have got the bearings quite,
Though I've followed the course for many a year,
If he was crazy, clean outright,
Or only what you might say was "queer."
He was just a simple sailor man.
I mind it as well as yisterday,
When we messed aboard of the old Cyane.
Lord! how the time does slip away!
That was five and thirty year ago,
And I never expect such times again,
For sailors wasn't afraid to stow
Themselves on a Yankee vessel then.
He was only a sort of bosun's mate,
But every inch of him taut and trim;
Stars and anchors and togs of state
Tailors don't build for the like of him.
He flew a no-account sort of name,
A reg'lar fo'castle "Jim" or "Jack,"
With a plain "McGinnis" abaft the same,
Giner'ly reefed to simple "Mack."
Mack, we allowed, was sorter queer,—
Ballast or compass wasn't right.
Till he licked four Juicers one day, a fear
Prevailed that he hadn't larned to fight.
But I reckon the Captain knowed his man,
When he put the flag in his hand the day
That we went ashore from the old Cyane,
On a madman's cruise for Darien Bay.
Forty days in the wilderness
We toiled and suffered and starved with Strain,
Losing the number of many a mess
In the Devil's swamps of the Spanish Main.
All of us starved, and many died.
One laid down, in his dull despair;
His stronger messmate went to his side—
We left them both in the jungle there.
It was hard to part with shipmates so;
But standing by would have done no good.
We heard them moaning all day, so slow
We dragged along through the weary wood.
McGinnis, he suffered the worst of all;
Not that he ever piped his eye
Or wouldn't have answered to the call
If they'd sounded it for "All hands to die."
I guess 'twould have sounded for him before,
But the grit inside of him kept him strong,
Till we met relief on the river shore;
And we all broke down when it came along.
All but McGinnis. Gaunt and tall,
Touching his hat, and standing square:
"Captain, the Flag."—And that was all;
He just keeled over and foundered there.
"The Flag?" We thought he had lost his head—
It mightn't be much to lose at best—
Till we came, by and by, to dig his bed,
And we found it folded around his breast.
He laid so calm and smiling there,
With the flag wrapped tight about his heart;
Maybe he saw his course all fair,
Only—we couldn't read the chart.
James Jeffrey Roche.
On February 16, 1857, Elisha Kent Kane, explorer of the Arctic, died at Havana, Cuba, whither he had gone in the hope of regaining a health shattered by his sufferings in the north.
KANE
Aloft upon an old basaltic crag,
Which, scalp'd by keen winds that defend the Pole,
Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll
Around the secret of the mystic zone,
A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag
Flutters alone,
And underneath, upon the lifeless front
Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced;
Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt,
But with a rocky purpose in his soul,
Breasted the gathering snows,
Clung to the drifting floes,
By want beleaguer'd, and by winter chased,
Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste.
Not many months ago we greeted him,
Crown'd with the icy honors of the North,
Across the land his hard-won fame went forth,
And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb;
His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim,
Burst from decorous quiet as he came;
Hot Southern lips with eloquence aflame
Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim,
Proffer'd its horny hand. The large-lung'd West,
From out its giant breast,
Yell'd its frank welcome. And from main to main,
Jubilant to the sky,
Thunder'd the mighty cry,
Honor to Kane!
In vain, in vain beneath his feet we flung
The reddening roses! All in vain we pour'd
The golden wine, and round the shining board
Sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung
With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast!
Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased
Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes,
Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies,
Faded and faded! And the brave young heart
That the relentless Arctic winds had robb'd
Of all its vital heat, in that long quest
For the lost captain, now within his breast
More and more faintly throbb'd.
His was the victory; but as his grasp
Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp,
Death launch'd a whistling dart;
And ere the thunders of applause were done
His bright eyes closed forever on the sun!
Too late, too late the splendid prize he won
In the Olympic race of Science and of Art!
Like to some shatter'd berg that, pale and lone,
Drifts from the white North to a tropic zone,
And in the burning day
Wastes peak by peak away,
Till on some rosy even
It dies with sunlight blessing it; so he
Tranquilly floated to a Southern sea,
And melted into heaven.
He needs no tears, who lived a noble life;
We will not weep for him who died so well,
But we will gather round the hearth, and tell
The story of his strife;
Such homage suits him well,
Better than funeral pomp or passing bell.
What tale of peril and self-sacrifice!
Prison'd amid the fastnesses of ice,
With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow!
Night lengthening into months, the ravenous floe
Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear
Crunches his prey. The insufficient share
Of loathsome food,
The lethargy of famine, the despair
Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued,
Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued
Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind
Glimmer'd the fading embers of a mind!
That awful hour, when through the prostrate band
Delirium stalk'd, laying his burning hand
Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew.
The whispers of rebellion, faint and few
At first, but deepening ever till they grew
Into black thoughts of murder; such the throng
Of horrors bound the hero. High the song
Should be that hymns the noble part he play'd!
Sinking himself, yet ministering aid
To all around him. By a mighty will
Living defiant of the wants that kill,
Because his death would seal his comrades' fate;
Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill
Those Polar waters, dark and desolate.
Equal to every trial, every fate,
He stands, until Spring, tardy with relief,
Unlocks the icy gate,
And the pale prisoners thread the world once more,
To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shore
Bearing their dying chief.
Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold
From royal hands, who woo'd the knightly state;
The knell of old formalities is toll'd,
And the world's knights are now self-consecrate.
No grander episode doth chivalry hold
In all its annals, back to Charlemagne,
Than that lone vigil of unceasing pain,
Faithfully kept through hunger and through cold,
By the good Christian knight, Elisha Kane!
Fitz-James O'Brien.
On September 12, 1857, the Central America was lost at sea in a great storm off Cape Hatteras. Captain William Lewis Herndon, of the navy, was in command. His tranquil courage preserved discipline up to the last, and until his passengers, officers, and crew were all in the boats. Seeing that the last boat was already overloaded, Captain Herndon refused to add to its danger, and, ordering it off, went down with his ship.
HERNDON
[September 12, 1857]
Ay, shout and rave, thou cruel sea,
In triumph o'er that fated deck,
Grown holy by another grave—
Thou hast the captain of the wreck.
No prayer was said, no lesson read,
O'er him; the soldier of the sea:
And yet for him, through all the land,
A thousand thoughts to-night shall be.
And many an eye shall dim with tears,
And many a cheek be flushed with pride;
And men shall say, There died a man,
And boys shall learn how well he died.
Ay, weep for him, whose noble soul
Is with the God who made it great;
But weep not for so proud a death,—
We could not spare so grand a fate.
Nor could Humanity resign
That hour which bade her heart beat high,
And blazoned Duty's stainless shield,
And set a star in Honor's sky.
O dreary night! O grave of hope!
O sea, and dark, unpitying sky!
Full many a wreck these waves shall claim
Ere such another heart shall die.
Alas, how can we help but mourn
When hero bosoms yield their breath!
A century itself may bear
But once the flower of such a death;
So full of manliness, so sweet
With utmost duty nobly done;
So thronged with deeds, so filled with life,
As though with death that life begun.
It has begun, true gentleman!
No better life we ask for thee;
Thy Viking soul and woman heart
Forever shall a beacon be,—
A starry thought to veering souls,
To teach it is not best to live;
To show that life has naught to match
Such knighthood as the grave can give.
S. Weir Mitchell.
In 1857 Commodore Josiah Tattnall was appointed flag-officer of the Asiatic station, and, finding China at war with the allied English and French fleets, went to the scene of operations at Pei-ho. Just before an engagement, his flagship grounded and was towed off by the English boats; and when he saw the English in trouble shortly afterwards, he sailed in to their assistance, exclaiming, "Blood is thicker than water!"
BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER
[June 25, 1859]
Ebbed and flowed the muddy Pei-Ho by the gulf of Pechili,
Near its waters swung the yellow dragon-flag;
Past the batteries of China, looking westward we could see
Lazy junks along the lazy river lag;
Villagers in near-by Ta-Kou toiled beneath their humble star,
On the flats the ugly mud fort lay and dreamed;
While the Powhatan swung slowly at her station by the bar,
While the Toey-Wan with Tattnall onward steamed.
Lazy East and lazy river, fort of mud in lazy June,
English gunboats through the waters slowly fare,
With the dragon-flag scarce moving in the lazy afternoon
O'er the mud-heap storing venom in the glare.
We were on our way to Peking, to the Son of Heaven's throne,
White with peace was all our mission to his court,
Peaceful, too, the English vessels on the turbid stream bestrown
Seeking passage up the Pei-Ho past the fort.
By the bar lay half the English, while the rest, with gallant Hope,
Wrestled with the slipping ebb-tide up the stream;
They had cleared the Chinese irons, reached the double chain and rope,
Where the ugly mud fort scowled upon their beam—
Boom! the heavens split asunder with the thunder of the fight
As the hateful dragon made its faith a mock;
Every cannon spat its perfidy, each casemate blazed its spite,
Crashing down upon the English, shock on shock.
In his courage Rason perished, brave McKenna fought and fell;
Scores were dying as they'd lived, like valiant men;
And the meteor flag that upward prayed to Heaven from that hell,
Wept below for those who ne'er should weep again.
Far away the English launches near the Powhatan swung slow,
All despairing, useless, out of reach of war,
Knew their comrades in the battle, felt them reel beneath the blow,
Lying helpless 'gainst the ebb-tide by the bar.
On the Toey-Wan stood Tattnall, Stephen Trenchard by his side—
"Old Man" Tattnall, he who dared at Vera Cruz,—
Saw here, crippled by the cannon; saw there, throttled by the tide,
Men of English blood and speech—could he refuse?
I'll be damned, says he to Trenchard, if old Tattnall's standing by,
Seeing white men butchered here by such a foe.
Where's my barge? No side-arms, mind you! See those English fight and die—
Blood is thicker, sir, than water. Let us go.
Quick we man the boat, and quicker plunge into that devil's brew—
"An official call," and Tattnall went in state.
Trenchard's hurt, our flag in ribbons, and the rocking barge shot through,
Hart, our coxswain, dies beneath the Chinese hate;
But the cheers those English give us as we gain their Admiral's ship
Make the shattered boat and weary arms seem light—
Then the rare smile from "Old" Tattnall, and Hope's hearty word and grip,
Lying wounded, bleeding, brave in hell's despite.
Tattnall nods, and we go forward, find a gun no longer fought—
What is peace to us when all its crew lie dead?
One bright English lad brings powder and a wounded man the shot,
And we scotch that Chinese dragon, tail and head.
Hands are shaken, faith is plighted, sounds our Captain's cheery call,
In a British boat we speed us fast and far;
And the Toey-Wan and Tattnall down the ebb-tide slide and fall
To the launches lying moaning by the bar.
Eager for an English vengeance, battle-light on every face,
See the Clustered Stars lead on the Triple Cross!
Cheering, swinging into action, valiant Hope takes heart of grace
From the cannon's cloudy roar, the lanyards' toss
How they fought, those fighting English! How they cheered the Toey-Wan,
Cheered our sailors, cheered "Old" Tattnall, grim and gray!
And their cheers ring down the ages as they rang beneath the sun
O'er those bubbling, troubled waters far away.
Ebbs and flows the muddy Pei-Ho by the gulf of Pechili,
Idly floats beside the stream the dragon-flag;
Past the batteries of China, looking westward still you see
Lazy junks along the lazy river lag.
Let the long, long years drip slowly on that lost and ancient land,
Ever dear one scene to hearts of gallant men;
There's a hand-clasp and a heart-throb, there's a word we understand:
Blood is thicker, sir, than water, now as then.
Wallace Rice.
In the fall of 1860 the Prince of Wales, travelling as Baron Renfrew, paid a visit to the United States, lasting from September 21 to October 20. He was the recipient of many attentions, and a great ball was given in his honor at the Academy of Music in New York city. While the ball was in progress, a portion of the floor gave way, but no one was injured.
BARON RENFREW'S BALL
[October, 1860]
'Twas a grand display was the prince's ball,
A pageant or fête, or what you may call
A brilliant coruscation,
Where ladies and knights of noble worth
Enchanted a prince of royal birth
By a royal demonstration.
Like queens arrayed in their regal guise,
They charmed the prince with dazzling eyes,
Fair ladies of rank and station,
Till the floor gave way, and down they sprawled,
In a tableaux style, which the artists called
A floor-all decoration.
At the prince's feet like flowers they were laid,
In the brightest bouquet ever made,
For a prince's choice to falter—
Perplexed to find, where all were rare,
Which was the fairest of the fair
To cull for a queenly altar.
But soon the floor was set aright,
And Peter Cooper's face grew bright,
When, like the swell of an organ,
All hearts beat time to the first quadrille,
And the prince confessed to a joyous thrill
As he danced with Mrs. Morgan.
Then came the waltz—the Prince's Own—
And every bar and brilliant tone
Had music's sweetest grace on;
But the prince himself ne'er felt its charm
Till he slightly clasped, with circling arm,
That lovely girl, Miss Mason.
But ah! the work went bravely on,
And meek-eyed Peace a trophy won
By the magic art of the dancers;
For the daring prince's next exploit
Was to league with Scott's Camilla Hoyt,
And overcome the Lancers.
Besides these three, he deigned to yield
His hand to Mrs. M. B. Field,
Miss Jay and Miss Van Buren;
Miss Russell, too, was given a place—
All beauties famous for their grace
From Texas to Lake Huron.
With Mrs. Kernochan he "lanced,"
With Mrs. Edward Cooper danced,
With Mrs. Belmont capered;
With fair Miss Fish, in fairy rig,
He tripped a sort of royal jig,
And next Miss Butler favored.
And thus, 'mid many hopes and fears,
By the brilliant light of the chandeliers,
Did they gayly quaff and revel;
Well pleased to charm a royal prince—
The only one from old England since
George Washington was a rebel.
And so the fleeting hours went by,
And watches stopped—lest Time should fly—
Or that they winding wanted;
Old matrons dozed, and papas smiled,
And many a fair one was beguiled
As the prince danced on, undaunted.
'Tis now a dream—the prince's ball,
Its vanished glories, one and all,
The scenes of the fairy tales;
For Cinderella herself was there,
And Barnum keeps for trial fair
The beautiful slipper deposited there
By his highness, the Prince of Wales.
Charles Graham Halpine.
PART IV
THE CIVIL WAR
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps.
His day is marching on.
I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
Since God is marching on."
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat:
Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.
Julia Ward Howe.