The conscious stream, with burnished glow,
Went proudly o'er its pebbles,
But thrilled throughout its deepest flow
With yelling of the Rebels.
Again a pause, and then again
The trumpet pealed sonorous,
And Yankee Doodle was the strain
To which the shore gave chorus.
The laughing ripple shoreward flew
To kiss the shining pebbles—
Loud shrieked the crowding Boys in Blue
Defiance to the Rebels.
And yet once more the bugle sang
Above the stormy riot;
No shout upon the evening rang
There reigned a holy quiet.
The sad, lone stream its noiseless tread
Spread o'er the glistening pebbles:
All silent now the Yankees stood;
All silent stood the Rebels:
For each responsive soul had heard
That plaintive note's appealing,
So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirred
The hidden founts of feeling.
Or blue or gray, the soldier sees,
As by the wand of fairy,
The cottage neath the live-oak trees,
The cottage by the prairie.
Or cold or warm, his native skies
Bend in their beauty o'er him:
Sending the tear-mist in his eyes—
The dear ones stand before him.
As fades the iris after rain
In April's tearful weather,
The vision vanished as the strain
And daylight died together.
But memory, waked by music's art
Expressed in simplest numbers,
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart,
Made light the Rebel's slumbers.