Again I looked at the snow-fall,
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o'er our first great sorrow, When that mound was heaped so high.
I remembered the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar of our deep-plunged woe.
And again to the child I whispered, "The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall!"
_James Russell Lowell._
The Concord Hymn
_Sung at the completion of the Concord Monument, April 19, 1836_.
By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone,
That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made these heroes dare To die, to leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee.
Casey at the Bat
It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day; The score stood two to four with but an inning left to play; So, when Cooney died at second, and Burrows did the same, A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest, With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast, For they thought: "If only Casey could get a whack at that," They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat. But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake, And the former was a puddin', and the latter was a fake; So on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat. For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat,
But Flynn let drive a "single," to the wonderment of all, And the much-despised Blakey "tore the cover off the ball"; And when the dust had lifted and they saw what had occurred, There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a-huggin' third.
Then, from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell, It rumbled in the mountain-tops, it rattled in the dell; It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat; For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place, There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on Casey's face. And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt, Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt; Then while the New York pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of great storm waves on a stern and distant shore. "Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand. And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised a hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone; He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on; He signaled to Sir Timothy, once more the spheroid flew; But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."
"Fraud," cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!" But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed. They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate; He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate; And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow. Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright; The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light; And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout: But there is no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has struck out.
_Phineas Thayer._Casey's Revenge
_(Being a reply to "Casey at the Bat.")_
There were saddened hearts in Mudville for a week or even more; There were muttered oaths and curses--every fan in town was sore. "Just think," said one, "how soft it looked with Casey at the bat! And then to think he'd go and spring a bush league trick like that."
All his past fame was forgotten; he was now a hopeless "shine." They called him "Strike-out Casey" from the mayor down the line. And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh, While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey's eye.
The lane is long, someone has said, that never turns again, And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men. And Casey smiled--his rugged face no longer wore a frown; The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town.
All Mudville has assembled; ten thousand fans had come To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum; And when he stepped into the box the multitude went wild. He doffed his cap in proud disdain--but Casey only smiled.
"Play ball!" the umpire's voice rang out, and then the game began; But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan Who thought that Mudville had a chance; and with the setting sun Their hopes sank low--the rival team was leading "four to one."
The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score; But when the first man up hit safe the crowd began to roar. The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard When the pitcher hit the second and gave "four balls" to the third.
Three men on base--nobody out--three runs to tie the game! A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville's hall of fame. But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night When the fourth one "fouled to catcher," and the fifth "flew out to right." A dismal groan in chorus came--a scowl was on each face-- When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place; His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed; his teeth were clinched in hate; He gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate.
But fame is fleeting as the wind, and glory fades away;
There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day. They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored, "Strike him out!" But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard the shout.
The pitcher smiled and cut one loose; across the plate it spread; Another hiss, another groan--"Strike one!" the umpire said. Zip! Like a shot, the second curve broke just below his knee-- "Strike two!" the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea.
No roasting for the umpire now--his was an easy lot. But here the pitcher twirled again--was that a rifle shot? A whack; a crack; and out through space the leather pellet flew-- A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue.
Above the fence in center field, in rapid whirling flight The sphere sailed on; the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight. Ten thousand hats were thrown in air, ten thousand threw a fit; But no one ever found the ball that mighty Casey hit!
Oh, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun, And somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun; And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall, But Mudville hearts are happy now--for Casey hit the ball!
_James Wilson._Rock Me to Sleep
Backward, turn backward, O time, in your flight, Make me a child again just for tonight!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years! I am so weary of toil and of tears,--
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,-- Take them, and give me my childhood again! I have grown weary of dust and decay,-- Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away; Weary of sowing for others to reap;-- Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you! Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossomed and faded, our faces between; Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain Long I to-night for your presence again. Come from the silence so long and so deep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.
Over my heart, in the days that are flown, No love like mother-love ever has shone; No other worship abides and endures-- Faithful, unselfish and patient, like yours; None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light; For with its sunny-edged shadows once more Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Since I last listened your lullaby song; Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem Womanhood's years have been only a dream. Clasped to your breast in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep;--
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.
An Answer to "Rock Me to Sleep" My child, ah, my child; thou art weary to-night, Thy spirit is sad, and dim is the light;
Thou wouldst call me back from the echoless shore To the trials of life, to thy heart as of yore; Thou longest again for my fond loving care, For my kiss on thy cheek, for my hand on thy hair; But angels around thee their loving watch keep, And angels, my darling, will rock thee to sleep.
"Backward?" Nay, onward, ye swift rolling years! Gird on thy armor, keep back thy tears; Count not thy trials nor efforts in vain,
They'll bring thee the light of thy childhood again. Thou shouldst not weary, my child, by the way, But watch for the light of that brighter day; Not tired of "Sowing for others to reap,"
For angels, my darling, will rock thee to sleep.
Tired, my child, of the "base, the untrue!" I have tasted the cup they have given to you; I've felt the deep sorrow in the living green Of a low mossy grave by the silvery stream. But the dear mother I then sought for in vain Is an angel presence and with me again; And in the still night, from the silence deep, Come the bright angels to rock me to sleep.
Nearer thee now than in days that are flown, Purer the love-light encircling thy home;
Far more enduring the watch for tonight
Than ever earth worship away from the light; Soon the dark shadows will linger no more. Nor come to thy call from the opening door; But know thou, my child, that the angels watch keep, And soon, very soon, they'll rock thee to sleep.
They'll sing thee to sleep with a soothing song;
And, waking, thou'lt be with a heavenly throng;
And thy life, with its toil and its tears and pain,
Thou wilt then see has not been in vain.
Thou wilt meet those in bliss whom on earth thou didst love, And whom thou hast taught of the "Mansions above." "Never hereafter to suffer or weep,"
The angels, my darling, will rock thee to sleep.
'Twas the last fight at Fredericksburg,-- Perhaps the day you reck,
Our boys, the Twenty-second Maine, Kept Early's men in check.
Just where Wade Hampton boomed away The fight went neck and neck.
All day the weaker wing we held, And held it with a will.
Five several stubborn times we charged The battery on the hill,
And five times beaten back, re-formed, And kept our column still.
At last from out the center fight Spurred up a general's aide,
"That battery must silenced be!" He cried, as past he sped.
Our colonel simply touched his cap, And then, with measured tread,
To lead the crouching line once more, The grand old fellow came.
No wounded man but raised his head And strove to gasp his name,
And those who could not speak nor stir, "God blessed him" just the same.
For he was all the world to us,
That hero gray and grim;
Right well we knew that fearful slope We'd climb with none but him,
Though while his white head led the way We'd charge hell's portals in.
This time we were not half way up When, midst the storm of shell,
Our leader, with his sword upraised, Beneath our bayonets fell,
And as we bore him back, the foe Set up a joyous yell.
Our hearts went with him. Back we swept, And when the bugle said,
"Up, charge again!" no man was there But hung his dogged head.
"We've no one left to lead us now," The sullen soldiers said.
Just then before the laggard line The colonel's horse we spied-
Bay Billy, with his trappings on, His nostrils swelling wide,
As though still on his gallant back The master sat astride.
Right royally he took the place That was of old his wont,
And with a neigh that seemed to say, Above the battle's brunt,
"How can the Twenty-second charge If I am not in front?"
Like statues rooted there we stood, And gazed a little space;
Above that floating mane we missed The dear familiar face,
But we saw Bay Billy's eye of fire, And it gave us heart of grace.
No bugle-call could rouse us all As that brave sight had done.
Down all the battered line we felt A lightning impulse run.
Up, up the hill we followed Bill,-- And we captured every gun!
And when upon the conquered height Died out the battle's hum,
Vainly 'mid living and the dead We sought our leader dumb.
It seemed as if a spectre steed To win that day had come.
And then the dusk and dew of night Fell softly o'er the plain,
As though o'er man's dread work of death The angels wept again,
And drew night's curtain gently round A thousand beds of pain.
All night the surgeons' torches went The ghastly rows between,--
All night with solemn step I paced The torn and bloody green.
But who that fought in the big war Such dread sights have not seen?
At last the morning broke. The lark Sang in the merry skies,
As if to e'en the sleepers there
It said "Awake, arise!"
Though naught but that last trump of all Could ope their heavy eyes.
And then once more, with banners gay, Stretched out the long brigade.
Trimly upon the furrowed field
The troops stood on parade,
And bravely 'mid the ranks were closed The gaps the fight had made.
Not half the Twenty-second's men Were in their place that morn;
And Corporal Dick, who yester-noon Stood six brave fellows on,
Now touched my elbow in the ranks, For all between were gone.
When, as with misty eyes,
To call the old familiar roll
The solemn sergeant tries,-- One feels that thumping of the heart
As no prompt voice replies.
And as in faltering tone and slow The last few names were said,
Across the field some missing horse Toiled up with weary tread.
It caught the sergeant's eye, and quick Bay Billy's name he read.
Yes! there the old bay hero stood, All safe from battle's harms,
And ere an order could be heard, Or the bugle's quick alarms,
Down all the front, from end to end, The troops presented arms!
Not all the shoulder-straps on earth Could still our mighty cheer;
And ever from that famous day, When rang the roll-call clear,
Bay Billy's name was read, and then The whole line answered, "Here!" _Frank H. Gassaway._
Day by day the Organ-builder in his lonely chamber wrought; Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his thought; Till at last the work was ended; and no organ voice so grand Ever yet had soared responsive to the master's magic hand.
Ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom and bride, Who, in God's sight were well-pleasing, in the church stood side by side, Without touch or breath the organ of itself began to play,
And the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom seemed to stray.
He was young, the Organ-builder, and o'er all the land his fame Ran with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly rushing flame. All the maidens heard the story; all the maidens blushed and smiled, By his youth and wondrous beauty and his great renown beguiled.
So he sought and won the fairest, and the wedding-day was set Happy day--the brightest jewel in the glad year's coronet! But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely bride-- Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled high with pride.
"Ah!" thought he, "how great a master am I! When the organ plays, How the vast cathedral-arches will re-echo with my praise!" Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar, With every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star.
But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought of love or prayer, For the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing there. All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest's low monotone, And the bride's robe trailing softly o'er the floor of fretted stone.
Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely God was pleased with him, Who had built the wondrous organ for His temple vast and dim! Whose the fault then? Hers--the maiden standing meekly at his side! Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to him--his bride.
Vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence and truth; On that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth. Far he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his name: For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and shame.
Then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought by night and day Of the bride he had deserted, till he hardly dared to pray; Thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful and good; Thought of his relentless anger, that had cursed her womanhood;
Till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all complete, And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her feet. Ah! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary day and night, Rose his native towers before him, with the sunset glow alight!
Through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread; There he met a long procession--mourners following the dead. "Now why weep ye so, good people? And whom bury ye today? Why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers along the way?
"Has some saint gone up to heaven?" "Yes," they answered, weeping sore; "For the Organ-builder's saintly wife our eyes shall see no more; And because her days were given to the service of God's poor, From His church we mean to bury her. See! yonder is the door."
No one knew him; no one wondered when he cried out, white with pain; No one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like rain. "'Tis someone she has comforted, who mourns with us," they said, As he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin's head;
Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing aisle, Let it down before the altar, where the lights burned clear the while. When, oh, hark; the wondrous organ of itself began to play Strains of rare, unearthly sweetness never heard until that day!
All the vaulted arches rang with music sweet and clear; All the air was filled with glory, as of angels hovering near; And ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the coffin's head, With the smile of one forgiven, gently sank beside it--dead.
They who raised the body knew him, and they laid him by his bride; Down the aisle and o'er the threshold they were carried, side by side; While the organ played a dirge that no man ever heard before, And then softly sank to silence--silence kept forevermore.
_Julia C. R. Dorr._Our Folks
"Hi! Harry Holly! Halt; and tell A fellow just a thing or two;
You've had a furlough, been to see How all the folks in Jersey do.
It's months ago since I was there-- I, and a bullet from Fair Oaks.
When you were home, old comrade, say, Did you see any of our folks?
"You did? Shake hands--Oh, ain't I glad! For if I do look grim and rough,
I've got some feelin'-
People think
A soldier's heart is mighty tough;
But, Harry, when the bullets fly,
And hot saltpetre flames and smokes,
While whole battalions lie afield, One's apt to think about his folks.
"And so you saw them--when? and where? The old man--is he hearty yet?
And mother--does she fade at all?
Or does she seem to pine and fret
For me? And Sis?--has she grown tall? And did you see her friend--you know--
That Annie Moss-
(How this pipe chokes!) Where did you see her?--Tell: me, Hal,
A lot of news about our folks,
"You saw them in the church--you say, It's likely, for they're always there.
Not Sunday? No? A funeral? Who? Who, Harry? how you shake and stare!
All well, you say, and all were out. What ails you, Hal? Is this a hoax?
Why don't you tell me like a man: What is the matter with our folks?"
"I said all well, old comrade, true; I say all well, for He knows best
Who takes the young ones in his arms, Before the sun goes to the west.
The axe-man Death deals right and left, And flowers fall as well as oaks;
And so-
Fair Annie blooms no more! And that's the matter with your folks.
"See, this long curl was kept for you; And this white blossom from her breast;
And here--your sister Bessie wrote A letter telling all the rest.
Bear up, old friend."
Nobody speaks;
Only the old camp-raven croaks,
And soldiers whisper, "Boys, be still;
There's some bad news from Granger's folks."
He turns his back--the only foe
That ever saw it--on this grief,
And, as men will, keeps down the tears Kind nature sends to woe's relief.
Then answers he: "Ah, Hal, I'll try;
But in my throat there's something chokes,
Because, you see, I've thought so long To count her in among our folks.
"I s'pose she must be happy now,
But still I will keep thinking, too,
I could have kept all trouble off,
By being tender, kind and true.
But maybe not.
She's safe up there,
And when the Hand deals other strokes,
She'll stand by Heaven's gate, I know, And wait to welcome in our folks."
The Face upon the Floor
'Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there, Which well-nigh filled Joe's bar-room on the corner of the square; And as songs and witty stories came through the open door, A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.
"Where did it come from?" someone said. "The wind has blown it in." "What does it want?" another cried. "Some whisky, rum or gin?" "Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach's equal to the work-I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's as filthy as a Turk."
This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical, good grace; In fact, he smiled as though he thought he'd struck the proper place. "Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd-- To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.
"Give me a drink--that's what I want--I'm out of funds, you know;When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow. What? You laugh as though you thought this pocket never held a sou; I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.
"There, thanks; that's braced me nicely; God bless you one and all; Next time I pass this good saloon, I'll make another call.
_Give you a song?_ No, I can't do that, my singing days are past; My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast.
"Say! give me another whisky, and I'll tell you what I'll do-- I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too.
That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think; But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink.
"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame-- Such little drinks, to a bum like me, are miserably tame; Five fingers--there, that's the scheme--and corking whisky, too. Well, here's luck, boys; and landlord, my best regards to you.
"You've treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you how I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now.
As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health, And but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth.
"I was a painter--not one that daubed on bricks and wood, But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good. I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise, For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.
"I made a picture, perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the 'Chase of Fame.' It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name. And then I met a woman--now comes the funny part--
With eyes that petrified my brain and sunk into my heart.
"Why don't you laugh? 'Tis funny that the vagabond you see Could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me; But 'twas so, and for a month or two her smiles were freely given, And when her loving lips touched mine it carried me to heaven.
"Did you ever see a woman for whom your soul you'd give,
With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live;
With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-noor, and a wealth of chestnut hair? If so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair.
"I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May,
Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way; And Madeline admired it, and, much to my surprise, Said that she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.
My friend had stolen my darling, and I was left alone; And ere a year of misery had passed above my head, The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished, and was dead.
"That's why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never saw you smile,-- I thought you'd be amused, and laughing all the while. Why, what's the mattter, friend? There's a teardrop in your eye, Come, laugh, like me; 'tis only babes and women that should cry.
"Say, boys, if you give me just another whisky, I'll be glad, And I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad. Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score-- You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the bar-room floor."
Another drink, and, with chalk in hand, the vagabond began To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man. Then as he placed another lock upon the shapely head, With a fearful shriek, he leaped, and fell across the picture dead.
_H. Antoine D'Arcy._The Calf Path
One day through the primeval wood, A calf walked home, as good calves should; But made a trail all bent askew,