Part 14 (1/2)

And now where circling hills looked down With cannon grimly planted, O'er listless camp and silent town The golden sunset slanted;

When on the fervid air there came A strain, now rich, now tender, The music seemed itself aflame With day's departing splendor.

A Federal band, which eve and morn Played measures brave and nimble, Had just struck up with flute and horn And lively clash of cymbal.

Down flocked the soldiers to the bank; Till margined by its pebbles, One wooded sh.o.r.e was blue with ”Yanks,”

And one was gray with ”Rebels.”

Then all was still; and then the band With movements light and tricksy, Made stream and forest, hill and strand, Reverberate with ”Dixie.”

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 sh.o.r.e gave chorus.

The laughing ripple sh.o.r.eward flew To kiss the s.h.i.+ning 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.

And fair the form of Music s.h.i.+nes, That bright, celestial creature, Who still 'mid war's embattled lines Gave this one touch of nature.

KEENAN'S CHARGE

GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP

[Sidenote: May 2, 1863]

_During the second day of the battle of Chancellorsville, General Pleasonton was trying to get twenty-two guns into a vital position as Stonewall Jackson made a sudden advance. Time had to be bought; so Pleasanton ordered Major Peter Keenan, commanding the Eighth Pennsylvania Cavalry (four hundred strong), to charge the advancing ten thousand of the enemy. An introduction to the poem, setting forth these facts, is omitted._

By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, Brave Keenan looked in Pleasonton's eyes For an instant--clear, and cool, and still; Then, with a smile, he said: ”I will.”

”Cavalry, charge!” Not a man of them shrank.

Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, Rose joyously, with a willing breath-- Rose like a greeting hail to death.

Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed; Shouted the officers, crimson-sash'd; Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow, In their faded coats of the blue and yellow; And above in the air, with an instinct true, Like a bird of war their pennon flew.

With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds, And blades that s.h.i.+ne like sunlit reeds, And strong brown faces bravely pale For fear their proud attempt shall fail, Three hundred Pennsylvanians close On twice ten thousand gallant foes.

Line after line the troopers came To the edge of the wood that was ring'd with flame; Rode in and sabred and shot--and fell; Nor came one back his wounds to tell.