A sturdy, sunburnt farmer, within his rustic home, Beside his blazing hearthstone, who never cares to roam Except where boon companions, with pipes and foaming beer, Tell tales of wild adventure, sing songs of hearty cheer.
But hark! the bugle calleth! Its clarions wake the farms,— “Your country is in danger! To arms, my sons, to arms!” The streets are black with soldiers; their bristling bayonets gleam, A hundred thousand marching, as flows a mountain stream.
The dreamer in his vision descries a battle-field; He hears the cannon echo, he sees battalions yield; He sees the blue-coats rally, he sees the gray-coats fall, The ghastly dead and dying, the “stars and bars” their pall
Along the queen of rivers, against her trembling shore, Volcanic flames are belching, and volleying thunders roar: Hot shot and shell are crashing, while lurid smoke and flame Are from a fortress leaping,—a fortress known to fame.
Again the picture changes! The Capitol is seen, Where rolls the broad Potomac through the banks of ever green: Not now fraternal kindness disports in festive garb, But brother, armed ’gainst brother, spurs on his fiery barb.
Brigades and solid squadrons are marching out of camp; He hears their stirring music, he hears their steady tramp: The Wilderness the arena, a nation’s life the prize, Their watchword, “On to Richmond!” He hears their battle-cries.
For days, for weeks together, repulsed, defeated, slain, As sands restrain old ocean, their ranks roll back again, Till rising higher, higher, with loud, exultant roar, The foaming, raging billows sweep o’er the crumbling shore.
Now he sees a planter’s dwelling in Appomattox vale: The earth is piled in breastworks, ’tis rent with iron hail; What villages of canvas for men in blue or gray, What lines of halting columns, in grave or grim array!
Within appear two chieftains, of heroes full a score, The victors and the vanquished: thank God, the war is o’er! “The olive-branch shall shield you, the sun of peace shall shine! This flag,” so says the leader, “this ægis still is thine!”
No lion mien and bearing, no eagle’s eye of pride; As modest as a schoolboy, the conqueror seeks to hide—, Hide his speechless joy of triumph by generous act and word,— He feeds the conquered army! The beggar seems the lord.