The Game Of Fate.
Ever above this earthly ball,
There sit two forms, unseen by all,
Playing, with fearful earnestness,
Through life and death, a game of chess.
Feather of pride and wolfish eye,
Judas-bearded, glancing sly;
Many a pawn you have gathered in,
Through circling ages of shame and sin!
Fair as an angel, tender and true,
Is he who measures his might with you;
Oft he has lost, in times long gone,
But ever the terrible game goes on.
But where are the chessmen to be found?—
Where the picket paces his dangerous round;
Where the general sits, with chart and map;
Where the scout is scrawling his hurried scrap.
Where the Cabinet weigh the chances dread;
Where the soldier sleeps with the stars o'erhead;
Where rifles are ringing the peal of death,
And the dying hero yields his breath.
Where the mother and sister in silence sit,
And far into midnight sew and knit,
And pray for the soldier-brother or son,—
God's blessing on all that the four have done!
Where the traitors plot, in foul debate,
To war with God and strive with fate;
Digging pitfalls to catch them slaves,—
Pitfalls, to serve for their own deep graves.
Where the Bishop-General proves that the rod
Which lashes women is blest of God.
There's a rod to come, ere the red leaves fall,
Which will swallow your rattlesnake, scales and all.
Where the wretched Northern renegade
On a Southern journal plies his trade,
Swearing and writing, with scowl or smile,
That all that is Yankee is low and vile.
Where the cowardly dough-face talks of war
But fears we are going a little too far;—
Hoping the North may win the fight,
But thinking the South is 'partially right.'
Where the trembling, panting contraband
Makes tracks in haste from the happy land;
And where the officer-gentlemen
Catch him and order him home again!
Where the sutler acts like an arrant scamp,
And aids the contractor to rob the camp;
Both of them serving the South in its sin,
And all of them helping the devil to win.
So the game goes on from day to day,
But there's ONE behind all who watches the play;
Well he knows who at last must beat,
And well he will reckon up every cheat.
Wolfish dark player, do your best!
There's a reckoning for you as well as the rest;
Eastward or westward your glance may wend,
But the devil always trips up in the end.