Ode (so-called) on a Lite Melancholy Accident in the Shenandoah Valley (so-called.)
John Esten Cooke.
My mug is broken, my heart is sad!
What woes can fate still hold in store!
The friend I cherished a thousand days
Is smashed to pieces on the floor!
Is shattered and to Limbo gone,
I'll see my Mug no more!
Relic it was of joyous hours
Whose golden memories still allure--
When coffee made of rye we drank,
And gray was all the dress we wore!
When we were paid some cents a month,
But never asked for more!
In marches long, by day and night,
In raids, hot charges, shocks of war,
Strapped on the saddle at my back
This faithful comrade still I bore--
This old companion, true and tried,
I'll never carry more!
From the Rapidan to Gettysburg--
"Hard bread" behind, "sour krout" before--
This friend went with the cavalry
And heard the jarring-cannon roar
In front of Cemetery Hill--
Good heavens! how they did roar!
Then back again, the foe behind,
Back to the "Old Virginia shore"--
Some dead and wounded left--some holes
In flags, the sullen graybacks bore;
This mug had made the great campaign,
And we'd have gone once more!
Alas! we never went again!
The red cross banner, slow but sure,
"Fell back"--we bade to sour krout
(Like the lover of Lenore)
A long, sad, lingering farewell--
To taste its joys no more.
But still we fought, and ate hard bread,
Or starved--good friend, our woes deplore!
And still this faithful friend remained--
Riding behind me as before--
The friend on march, in bivouac,
When others were no more.
How oft we drove the horsemen blue
In Summer bright or Winter frore!
How oft before the Southern charge
Through field and wood the blue-birds tore!
Im "harmonized," but long to hear
The bugles ring once more.
Oh yes! we're all "fraternal" now,
Purged of our sins, we're clean and pure,
Congress will "reconstruct" us soon--
But no gray people on that floor!
I'm harmonized--"so-called"--but long
To see those times once more!
Gay days! the sun was brighter then,
And we were happy, though so poor!
That past comes back as I behold
My shattered friend upon the floor,
My splintered, useless, ruined mug,
From which I'll drink no more.
How many lips I'll love for aye,
While heart and memory endure,
Have touched this broken cup and laughed--
How they did laugh!--in days of yore!
Those days we'd call "a beauteous dream,
If they had been no more!"
Dear comrades, dead this many a day,
I saw you weltering in your gore,
After those days, amid the pines
On the Rappahannock shore!
When the joy of life was much to me
But your warm hearts were more!
Yours was the grand heroic nerve
That laughs amid the storm of war--
Souls that "loved much" your native land,
Who fought and died therefor!
You gave your youth, your brains, your arms,
Your blood--you had no more!
You lived and died true to your flag!
And now your wounds are healed--but sore
Are many hearts that think of you
Where you have "gone before."
Peace, comrade! God bound up those forms,
They are "whole" forevermore!
Those lips this broken vessel touched,
His, too!--the man's we all adore--
That cavalier of cavaliers,
Whose voice will ring no more--
Whose plume will float amid the storm
Of battle never more!
Not on this idle page I write
That name of names, shrined in the core
Of every heart!--peace! foolish pen,
Hush! words so cold and poor!
His sword is rust; the blue eyes dust,
His bugle sounds no more!
Never was cavalier like ours!
Not Rupert in the years before!
And when his stern, hard work was done,
His griefs, joys, battles o'er--
His mighty spirit rode the storm,
And led his men once more!
He lies beneath his native sod,
Where violets spring, or frost is hoar:
He recks not--charging squadrons watch
His raven plume no more!
That smile we'll see, that voice we'll hear,
That hand we'll touch no more!
My foolish mirth is quenched in tears:
Poor fragments strewed upon the floor,
Ye are the types of nobler things
That find their use no more--
Things glorious once, now trodden down--
That makes us smile no more!
Of courage, pride, high hopes, stout hearts--
Hard, stubborn nerve, devotion pure,
Beating his wings against the bars,
The prisoned eagle tried to soar!
Outmatched, overwhelmed, we struggled still--
Bread failed--we fought no more!
Lies in the dust the shattered staff
That bore aloft on sea and shore,
That blazing flag, amid the storm!
And none are now so poor,
So poor to do it reverence,
Now when it flames no more!
But it is glorious in the dust,
Sacred till Time shall be no more:
Spare it, fierce editors! your scorn--
The dread "Rebellion's" o'er!
Furl the great flag--hide cross and star,
Thrust into darkness star and bar,
But look! across the ages far
It flames for evermore!
Carolina.
By Anna Peyre Dinnies.
In the hour of thy glory,
When thy name was far renowned,
When Sumter's glowing story
Thy bright escutcheon crowned;
Oh, noble Carolina! how proud a claim was mine,
That through homage and through duty, and birthright, I was thine.
Exulting as I heard thee,
Of every lip the theme,
Prophetic visions stirred me,
In a hope-illumined dream:
A dream of dauntless valor, of battles fought and won,
Where each field was but a triumph--a hero every son.
And now, when clouds arise,
And shadows round thee fall;
I lift to heaven my eyes,
Those visions to recall;
For I cannot dream that darkness will rest upon thee long,
Oh, lordly Carolina! with thine arms and hearts so strong.
Thy serried ranks of pine,
Thy live-oaks spreading wide,
Beneath the sunbeams shine,
In fadeless robes of pride;
Thus marshalled on their native soil their gallant sons stand forth,
As changeless as thy forests green, defiant of the North.
The deeds of other days,
Enacted by their sires,
Themes long of love and praise,
Have wakened high desires
In every heart that beats within thy proud domain,
To cherish their remembrance, and live those scenes again.
Each heart the home of daring,
Each hand the foe of wrong,
They'll meet with haughty bearing,
The war-ship's thunder song;
And though the base invader pollute thy sacred shore,
They'll greet him in their prowess as their fathers did of yore.
His feet may press their soil,
Or his numbers bear them down,
In his vandal raid for spoil,
His sordid soul to crown;
But his triumph will be fleeting, for the hour is drawing near,
When the war-cry of thy cavaliers shall strike his startled ear.
A fearful time shall come,
When thy gathering bands unite,
And the larum-sounding drum
Calls to struggle for the Right;
"Pro aris et pro focis," from rank to rank shall fly,
As they meet the cruel foeman, to conquer or to die.
Oh, then a tale of glory
Shall yet again be thine,
And the record of thy story
The Laurel shall entwine;
Oh, noble Carolina! oh, proud and lordly State!
Heroic deeds shall crown thee, and the Nations own thee great.