Oh, cursed for aye that traitor's hand,
And cursed that aim so deadly
Which smote the bravest of the land,
And dyed his bosom redly!
Serene he lay while past him pressed
The battle's furious billow,
As calmly as a babe may rest
Upon its mother's pillow.
So Lyon died! and well may flowers
His place of burial cover,
For never had this land of ours
A more devoted lover.
Living, his country was his bride,
His life he gave her dying,-
Life, fortune, love,-he naught denied
To her and to her sighing.
Rest, Patriot, in thy hill-side grave,
Beside her form who bore thee!
Long may the land thou died'st to save
Her bannered stars wave o'er thee!
Upon her history's brightest page,
And on Fame's glowing portal,
She'll write thy grand, heroic page,
And
grave thy name immortal!
WHAT is the threat? "Leave her out in the cold !" Loyal New England, too loyally bold:
Hater of treason,-ah! that is her crime !
Lover of Freedom,—too true for her time!
Out in the cold? Oh, she chooses the place,
Rather than share in a sheltered disgrace;
Rather than sit at a cannibal feast;
Rather than mate with the blood-reeking beast!
Leave out New England? And what will she do,
Stormy-browed sisters, forsaken by you?
Sit on her Rock, her desertion to weep?
Or, like a Sappho, plunge thence in the deep?
No; our New England can put on no airs,—
Nothing will change the calm look that she wears:
Life's a rough lesson she learned from the first,
Up into wisdom through poverty nursed.
Not more distinct on his tables of stone
Was the grand writing to Moses made known,
Than is engraven, in letters of light,
On her foundations the One Law of Right.
She is a Christian: she smothers her ire,
Trims up the candle, and stirs the home fire;
Thinking and working and waiting the day
When her wild sisters shall leave their mad play.
Out in the cold, where the free winds are blowing;
Out in the cold, where the strong oaks are growing;
Guards she all growths that are living and great,--
Growths to rebuild every tottering State.
"Notions" worth heeding to shape she has wrought,
Lifted and fixed on the granite of thought:
What she has done may the wide world behold!
What she is doing, too, out in the cold!
Out in the cold! she is glad to be there,
Breathing the north wind, the clear healthful air;
Saved from the hurricane passions that rend
Hearts that once named her a sister and friend.
There she will stay, while they bluster and foam,
Planning their comfort when they shall come home;
Building the Union an adamant wall,
Freedom-cemented, that never can fall.
Freedom,—dear-bought with the blood of her sons,—
See the red current! right nobly it runs!
Life of her life is not too much to give
For the dear Nation she taught how to live.
Vainly they shout to you, sturdy Northwest!
'Tis her own heart that beats warm in your breast;
Sisters in nature as well as in name;
Sisters in loyalty, true to that claim.
Freedom your breath is, O broad-shouldered North!
Turn from the subtle miasma gone forth
Out of the South land, from Slavery's fen,
Battening demons, but poisoning men!
Still on your Rock, my New England, sit sure,
Keeping the air for the great country pure!
There you the "wayward" ones yet shall enfold:
There they will come to you, out in the cold!
THE whip-poor-will is calling
From its perch on the splintered limb,
And the plaintive notes are echoing
Through the aisles of the forest dim:
The slanting threads of starlight
Are silvering shrub and tree,
And the spot where the loved are sleeping, In the woods of Tennessee.
The leaves are gently rustling,
But they're stained with a tinge of red— For they proved to many a soldier Their last and lonely bed. As they prayed in mortal agony To God to set them free, Death touched them with his finger, In the woods of Tennessee.
In the list of the killed and wounded,
Ah, me! alas! we saw
The name of our noble brother,
Who went to the Southern war.
He fell in the tide of battle,
On the banks of the old "Hatchie," And rests 'neath the wild grape arbors In the woods of Tennessee.
There's many still forms lying
In their forgotten graves,
On the green slope of the hill-sides
Along Potomac's waves;
But the memory will be ever sweet
Of him so dear to me,
On his country's altar offered,
In the woods of Tennessee.
BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
LISTEN, young heroes! your country is calling!
Time strikes the hour for the brave and the true!
Now, while the foremost are fighting and falling,
Fill up the ranks that have opened for you!
You whom the fathers made free and defended,
Stain not the scroll that emblazons their fame!
You whose fair heritage spotless descended,
Leave not your children a birthright of shame!
Stay not for questions while Freedom stands gasping! Wait not till Honor lies wrapped in his pall! Brief the lips' meeting be, swift the hands' clasping,— "Off for the wars!" is enough for them all.
Break from the arms that would fondly caress you? Hark! 'tis the bugle-blast, sabres are drawn! Mothers shall pray for you, fathers shall bless you, Maidens shall weep for you when you are gone!
Never or now! cries the blood of a nation,
Poured on the turf where the red rose should bloom;
Now is the day and the hour of salvation,—
Never or now! peals the trumpet of doom!
Never or now! roars the hoarse-throated cannon
Through the black canopy blotting the skies;
Never or now! flaps the shell-blasted pennon
O'er the deep ooze where the Cumberland lies!
From the foul dens where our brothers are dying,
Aliens and foes in the land of their birth,—
From the rank swamps where our martyrs are lying
Pleading in vain for a handful of earth,-
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