The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 14, No. 84, October, 1864. VariousЧитать онлайн книгу.

      'Lo, this is slow, laborious Fame,

      Who cares for what has passed away,'—

      My twin-born brother, meek and tame,

      Who troops along with crippled Time,

      And shrinks at every cry of shame,

      And halts at every stain and crime;

      While I, through tears and blood and guilt,

      Stride on, remorseless and sublime.

      War with his offspring as thou wilt;

      Lay thy cold lips against their cheek.

      The poison or the dagger-hilt

      Is what my desperate children seek.

      Their dust is rubbish on the hills;

      Beyond the grave they would not speak.

      Shall man surround his days with ills,

      And live as if his only care

      Were how to die, while full life thrills

      His bounding blood? To plan and dare,

      To use life is life's proper end:

      Let death come when it will, and where!"—

      "You prattle on, as babes that spend

      Their morning half within the brink

      Of the bright heaven from which they wend;

      But what I am you dare not think.

      Thick, brooding shadow round me lies;

      You stare till terror makes you wink;

      I go not, though you shut your eyes.

      Unclose again the loathful lid,

      And lo, I sit beneath the skies,

      As Sphinx beside the pyramid!"

      So Death, with solemn rise and fall

      Of voice, his sombre mind undid.

      He paused; resuming,—"I am all;

      I am the refuge and the rest;

      The heart aches not beneath my pall.

      O soldier, thou art young, unpressed

      By snarling grief's increasing swarm;

      While joy is dancing in thy breast,

      Fly from the future's fated harm;

      Rush where the fronts of battle meet,

      And let me take thee on my arm!"

      Said Glory,—"Warrior, fear deceit,

      Where Death gives counsel. Run thy race;

      Bring the world cringing to thy feet!

      Surely no better time nor place

      Than this, where all the Nation calls

      For help, and weakness and disgrace

      Lag in her tents and council-halls,

      And down on aching heart and brain

      Blow after blow unbroken falls.

      Her strength flows out through every vein;

      Mere time consumes her to the core;

      Her stubborn pride becomes her bane.

      In vain she names her children o'er;

      They fail her in her hour of need;

      She mourns at desperation's door.

      Be thine the hand to do the deed,

      To seize the sword, to mount the throne,

      And wear the purple as thy meed!

      No heart shall grudge it; not a groan

      Shall shame thee. Ponder what it were

      To save a land thus twice thy own!"

      Use gave a more familiar air

      To my companions; and I spoke

      My heart out to the ethereal pair:—

      "When in her wrath the Nation broke

      Her easy rest of love and peace,

      I was the latest who awoke.

      I sighed at passion's mad increase.

      I strained the traitors to my heart.

      I said, 'We vex them; let us cease.'

      I would not play the common part.

      Tamely I heard the Southrons' brag:

      I said, 'Their wrongs have made them smart.'

      At length they struck our ancient flag,—

      Their flag as ours, the traitors damned!—

      And braved it with their patchwork-rag.

      I rose, when other men had calmed

      Their anger in the marching throng;

      I rose, as might a corpse embalmed,

      Who hears God's mandate, 'Right my wrong!'

      I rose and set me to His deed,

      With His great Spirit fixed and strong.

      I swear, that, when I drew this sword,

      And joined the ranks, and sought the strife,

      I drew it in Thy name, O Lord!

      I drew against my brother's life,

      Even as Abraham on his child

      Drew slowly forth his priestly knife.

      No thought of selfish ends defiled

      The holy fire that burned in me;

      No gnawing care was thus beguiled.

      My children clustered at my knee;

      Upon my braided soldier's coat

      My wife looked,—ah, so wearily!—

      It made her tender blue eyes float.

      And when my wheeling rowels rang,

      Or on the floor my sabre smote,

      The sound went through her like a pang.

      I saw this; and the days to come

      Forewarned me with an iron clang,

      That drowned the music of the drum,

      That made the rousing bugle faint;

      And yet I sternly left my home,—

      Haply to fall by noisome taint

      Of foul disease, without a deed

      To sound in rhyme or shine in paint;

      But, oh, at least, to drop a seed,

      Humble, but faithful to the last,

      Sown by my Country in her need!

      O Death, come to me, slow or fast;

      I'll do my duty while I may!

      Though sorrow burdens every blast,

      And want and hardship on me lay

      Their bony gripes, my life is pledged,

      And to my Country given away!

      Nor feel I any hope, new-fledged,

      Arise, strong Glory, at thy voice.

      Our sword the people's will has edged,

      Our rule stands on the people's choice.

      This land would mourn beneath a crown,

      Where