Poets of the South Part 12

"I'll write, if spared!" There was news of the fight; But none of Giffen.--He did not write. [6]

I sometimes fancy that, were I king Of the princely Knights of the Golden Ring, [7]

With the song of the minstrel in mine ear, And the tender legend that trembles here, I'd give the best on his bended knee, The whitest soul of my chivalry, For "Little Giffen," of Tennessee.

[Footnote 1: See sketch of Ticknor, page 22, for the occasion of this poem. In this poem the exact meaning and sequence of thought do not appear till after repeated readings.]

[Footnote 2: Alexander Spotswood (1676-1740) was governor of Virginia 1710-1723. He led an exploring expedition across the Blue Ridge and took possession of the Valley of Virginia "in the name of his Majesty King George of England." On his return to Williamsburg he presented to each of his companions a miniature golden horseshoe to be worn upon the breast.

Those who took part in the expedition, which was then regarded as a formidable undertaking, were subsequently known as the "Knights of the Golden Horseshoe."]

[Footnote 3: "The Old Dominion" is a popular name for Virginia. Its origin may be traced to acts of Parliament, in which it is designated as "the colony and dominion of Virginia." In his _History of Virginia_ (1629) Captain John Smith calls this colony and dominion _Old Virginia_ in contradistinction to _New England_.]

[Footnote 4: See page 23. Of this poem Maurice Thompson said: "If there is a finer lyric than this in the whole realm of poetry, I should be glad to read it."]

[Footnote 5: Probably the battle of Murfreesboro, which opened December 31, 1862, and lasted three days. Union loss 14,000; Confederate, 11,000.]

[Footnote 6: He was killed in some battle near Atlanta early in 1864.]

[Footnote 7: A reference to King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.]

With this poem should be compared Browning's _Incident of the French Camp_.

SELECTION FROM JOHN R. THOMPSON

MUSIC IN CAMP [1]

Two armies covered hill and plain, Where Rappahannock's waters [2]

Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain Of battle's recent slaughters.

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents In meads of heavenly azure; And each dread gun of the elements Slept in its hid embrasure.

The breeze so softly blew, it made No forest leaf to quiver, And the smoke of the random cannonade Rolled slowly from the river.

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 banks, 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 movement 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 trumpets 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 swarming Boys in Blue Defiance to the Rebels.

And yet once more the bugles sang Above the stormy riot; No shout upon the evening rang-- There reigned a holy quiet.

The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood Poured o'er the glistening pebbles; All silent now the Yankees stood, And silent stood the Rebels.

No unresponsive 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 cabin by the prairie.

Or cold or warm, his native skies Bend in their beauty o'er him; Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, His loved 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.

And 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.

[Footnote 1: See sketch of John R. Thompson, page 23.]

[Footnote 2: The incident on which the poem is based may have occurred in 1862 or 1863. In both years the Union and Confederate forces occupied opposite banks of the Rappahannock.]

SELECTIONS FROM MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTON

Grateful acknowledgment is here made to Dr. George J. Preston of Baltimore, for permission to use the two following poems.

A NOVEMBER NOCTURNE [1]

The autumn air sweeps faint and chill Across the maple-crested hill; And on my ear Falls, tingling clear, A strange, mysterious, woodland thrill.

From utmost twig, from scarlet crown Untouched with yet a tinct of brown, Reluctant, slow, As loath to go, The loosened leaves come wavering down;

And not a hectic trembler there, In its decadence, doomed to share The fate of all,-- But in its fall Flings something sob-like on the air.

No drift or dream of pa.s.sing bell, Dying afar in twilight dell, Hath any heard, Whose chimes have stirred More yearning pathos of farewell.

A silent s.h.i.+ver as of pain, Goes quivering through each sapless vein; And there are moans, Whose undertones Are sad as midnight autumn rain.

Ah, if without its dirge-like sigh, No lightest, clinging leaf can die,-- Let him who saith Decay and death Should bring no heart-break, tell me why.

Each graveyard gives the answer: there I read _Resurgam_[2] everywhere, So easy said Above the dead-- So weak to anodyne despair.