Poets of the South Part 11

[Footnote 2: "My meaning, I suppose," the poet wrote an inquiring friend, "was that Florence did not want the capacity to love, but directed her love to no object. Her pa.s.sions went flowing like a lost river. Byron has a kindred idea expressed by the same figure. Perhaps his verses were in my mind when I wrote my own:--

'She was the ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all.'--_The Dream_.

But no verse ought to require to be interpreted, and if I were composing Florence Vane now, I would avoid the over concentrated expression in the two lines, and make the idea clearer."--_Southern Literary Messenger_, 1850, p. 370.]

SELECTION FROM THEODORE O'HARA

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD [1]

The m.u.f.fled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo: No more op Life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few.

On Fame's eternal camping-ground Their silent tents are spread, And Glory guards, with solemn round, The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms; No braying horn nor screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms.

Their s.h.i.+vered swords are red with rust, Their plumed heads are bowed; Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud.

And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow, And the proud forms, by battle gashed, Are free from anguish now.

The neighboring troop, the flas.h.i.+ng blade, The bugle's stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout, are past; Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal Shall thrill with fierce delight Those b.r.e.a.s.t.s that nevermore may feel The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe. [2]

Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was "Victory or Death."

Long had the doubtful conflict raged O'er all that stricken plain, For never fiercer fight had waged The vengeful blood of Spain; [3]

And still the storm of battle blew, Still swelled the gory tide; Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, Such odds his strength could bide.

'Twas in that hour his stern command Called to a martyr's grave The flower of his beloved land, The nation's flag to save.

By rivers of their fathers' gore His first-born laurels grew, [4]

And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory too.

Full many a norther's breath has swept O'er Angostura's plain, [5]

And long the pitying sky has wept Above its moldered slain.

The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, Or shepherd's pensive lay, Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the Dark and b.l.o.o.d.y Ground, Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air.

Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave: She claims from war his richest spoil-- The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a b.l.o.o.d.y s.h.i.+eld; [6]

The suns.h.i.+ne of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulcher.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!

Dear as the blood ye gave; No impious footstep here shall tread The herbage of your grave; Nor shall your glory be forgot While Fame her record keeps, Or Honor points the hallowed spot Where valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished age hath flown, The story how ye fell; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Nor Time's remorseless doom, Shall dim one ray of glory's light That gilds your deathless tomb.

[Footnote 1: See sketch of O'Hara, page 21, for the occasion of this poem.]

[Footnote 2: The American force numbered 4769 men; the Mexican force under Santa Anna, 21,000. The latter was confident of victory, and sent a flag of truce to demand surrender. "You are surrounded by 20,000 men,"

wrote the Mexican general, "and cannot, in any human probability, avoid suffering a rout, and being cut to pieces with your troops." Gen. Taylor replied, "I beg leave to say that I decline acceding to your request."]

[Footnote 3: The battle raged for ten hours with varying success. There was great determination on both sides, as is shown by the heavy losses.

The Americans lost 267 killed and 456 wounded; Santa Anna stated his loss at 1500, which was probably an underestimate. He left 500 dead on the field. The battle was a decisive one, and left northeastern Mexico in the hands of the Americans.]

[Footnote 4: The reference is to Zachary Taylor, who was in command of the American forces. Though born in Virginia, he was brought up in Kentucky, and won his first laurels in command of Kentuckians in the War of 1812, during which he was engaged in fighting the Indian allies of Great Britain. His victory at Buena Vista aroused great enthusiasm in the United States, and more than any other event led to his election as President.]

[Footnote 5: The plateau on which the battle was fought, so called from the mountain pa.s.s of Angostura (the narrows) leading to it from the South.]

[Footnote 6: Kentucky is here beautifully likened to a Spartan mother who was accustomed to say, as she handed a s.h.i.+eld to her son departing for war, "Come back with this or upon this."]

SELECTIONS FROM FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR

THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY [1]

The knightliest of the knightly race That, since the days of old, Have kept the lamp of chivalry Alight in hearts of gold; The kindliest of the kindly band That, rarely hating ease, Yet rode with Spotswood [2] round the land, With Raleigh round the seas;

Who climbed the blue Virginian hills Against embattled foes, And planted there, in valleys fair, The lily and the rose; Whose fragrance lives in many lands, Whose beauty stars the earth, And lights the hearths of happy homes With loveliness and worth.

We thought they slept!--the sons who kept The names of n.o.ble sires, And slumbered while the darkness crept Around their vigil fires; But aye the "Golden Horseshoe" knights Their Old Dominion [3] keep, Whose foes have found enchanted ground.

But not a knight asleep.

LITTLE GIFFEN [4]

Out of the focal and foremost fire, Out of the hospital walls as dire; Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene, (Eighteenth battle [5] and _he_ sixteen!) Specter! such as you seldom see, Little Giffen, of Tennessee!

"Take him and welcome!" the surgeons said; Little the doctor can help the dead!

So we took him; and brought him where The balm was sweet in the summer air; And we laid him down on a wholesome bed,-- Utter Lazarus, heel to head!

And we watched the war with abated breath,-- Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death.

Months of torture, how many such?

Weary weeks of the stick and crutch; And still a glint of the steel-blue eye Told of a spirit that wouldn't die,

And didn't. Nay, more! in death's despite The crippled skeleton "learned to write."

"Dear Mother," at first, of course; and then "Dear captain," inquiring about the men.

Captain's answer: "Of eighty-and-five, Giffen and I are left alive."

Word of gloom from the war, one day; Johnston pressed at the front, they say.

Little Giffen was up and away; A tear--his first--as he bade good-by, Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye.