James Barron Hope
We sat beneath tall waving trees that flung Their heavy shadows o'er the dewy grass. Over the waters, breaking at our feet,
Plain men have fitful moods and so have Kings, For Kings are only men, and often made Of clay as common as e'er stained a spade.
Oft when pacing thro' the long and dim Dark gallery of the Past, I pause before A picture of which this is a copy -
"I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done Than to be one of the twenty to follow my own teaching," - Merchant of Venice.
"He that giveth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord." The night-wind comes in sudden squalls: The ruddy fire-light starts and falls
High-perch'd upon the rocky way, Stands a Posada stern and grey; Which from the valley, seems as if,
He chastens us as nations and as men, He smites us sore until our pride doth yield, And hence our heroes, each with hearts for ten,
The Brave young Marquis, second but to one For whom he felt the reverence of a son, Rides at the head of his division proud -
Of their great names I may record but few; He who beholds the Ocean white with sails And copies each confuses all the view,
O'er town, and works, and waves amain Far fell grim Ruin's furious rain, O'er parapet and mast,
Superb in white and red, and white and gold, And white and violet, the French unfold Their blazoned banners on the Autumn air,
Achilles came from Homer's Jove-like brain, Pavilioned 'mid his ships where Thetis trod; But he whose image dominates this plain
Full-burnished through the long-revolving years The ploughshare of a Century to-day Runs peaceful furrows where a crop of Spears
On the night air there floating comes, hoarse, war-like, low and deep, A sound as tho' the dreaming drums were talking in their sleep. "Fall in! Fall in!" The stormers form, in silence, stern and grim,
And here France came one hundred years ago! Red, russet, purple glowed upon the trees, And sunset glories deepened in their glow
Brave was the foeman! well he held his ground! But here defeat at kindred hands he found! The shafts rained on him, in a righteous cause,
As some spent gladiator, struck by Death, Whose reeling vision scarce a foe defines, For one last effort gathers all his breath,
Behind the town the sun sinks down Gilding the vane upon the spire, While many a wall reels to its fall
The fountain of our story spreads no clouds Of mist above it rich in varied glows, None paint us Gods and Goddesses in crowds
In hunting shirts, or faded blue and buff, And many clad in simple, rustic stuff, Their ensigns torn but held by Freedom's hand,
I see his Shape who should have led these ranks - GARFIELD I see whose presence had evoked The stormy rapture of a Nation's thanks -
Before this thought the present hour recedes, As from the beach a billow backward rolls, And the great past, rich in heroic deeds
My harp soon ceases; but I here allege Its strings are in my heart and tremble there: My Song's last strain shall be a claim and pledge -
And as the allied hosts advance All the left wing is given to France, Is given to France and - Fame!
Troops late by Williamsburg's brave palace walls, With trump and drum had marched down Glo'ster street, And some with throb of oars, and loud sea-calls
At Plymouth Rock a handful of brave souls, Full-armed in faith, erected home and shrine, And flourished where the wild Atlantic rolls
Oaks multiplied apace, and o'er the seas Big rumors went in many a winding ring; And stories fabulous on every breeze
Midway between the orange and the snows As some fair planet rounds up from the sea, Eldest of all, the Central Power arose
This on the water: on the land a scene Whose Epic scope is far beyond my power, For on this spot a People's fate hath been
An ancient Chronicle has told That, in the famous days of old, In Antioch under ground
Then sweeping down below Virginia's Capes, From Chesapeake to where Savannah flows, We find the settlers laughing 'mid their grapes
Turned back my gaze, on Spain's romantic shore I see Gaul bending by the grave of Moore, And later, when the page of Fame I scan
Next came the closing scene: but shall I paint The scarlet column, sullen, slow, and faint, Which marched, with "colors cased" to yonder field,
Two chieftains watch the battle's tide and listen as it rolls And only HEAVEN above can tell the tumult of their souls! Cornwallis saw the British power struck down by one fell blow,
At last our Fathers saw the Treaty sealed, Victory unhelmed her broad, majestic brow, The Sword became a Sickle in the field,
But, in that fiery zone She upriseth not alone, Over all the bloody fields
A yeoman born, with patrimony small, He held the world at large as his estate; Found fit advices in the bugle's call
Fools laugh at dreamers, and the dreamers smile In answer, if they any answer make: They know that Saxon Alfred could not bake
My Lady's rest was calm and deep: She had been gazing at the moon; And thus it chanced she fell asleep
I turn aside; and, in the pause, might start As Mem'ry's elbow leans upon Time's Chart, Which shows, alas! how soon all men must glide
"In pace decus, in bello praesidium." - Tacitus. I. Your arms are stacked, your splendid colors furled,
I. A King once said of a Prince struck down, "Taller he seems in death."
Her story, sure, was fashioned out above, Ere 't was enacted on the scene below! For 't was a very miracle of love
Whether in velvet white, slashed, and be-pearled, And rich in knots of clustering gems a-glow: Or, in his rusted armor, he unfurled
The cock hath crow'd. I hear the doors unbarr'd; Down to the moss-grown porch my way I take, And hear, beside the well within the yard,
Over the farm is brooding silence now - No reaper's song - no raven's clangor harsh - No bleat of sheep - no distant low of cow -
That solitary cloud grows dark and wide, While distant thunder rumbles in the air, A fitful ripple breaks the river's tide -
Behind me purplish lines marked out the town, Before me stretched the noble Roadstead's tide: And there I saw the Evening sun go down
Their sleep is made glorious, And dead they're victorious Over defeat!
Nolan halted where the squadrons, Stood impatient of delay, Out he drew his brief dispatches,
In those vast forests dwelt a race of kings, Free as the eagle when he spreads his wings - His wings which never in their wild flight lag -
"Great Mother of great Commonwealths" Men call our Mother State: And she so well has earned this name
Oh the women of Old Portsmouth in their patience were sublime, As in working and in praying they abided GOD's own time! Marble saints in a stately Minster, in some land across the sea,
Two little children toddled up to me, Their faces fair as faces well could be, Roses and snow, but pale the roses were
Certain events, like architects, build up Viewless cathedrals, in whose aisles the cup Of some impressive sacrament is kist -
Virginia in her proud, Colonial days Boasts three great names which full of glory shine; Two glitter like the burnished heads of spears,
Alas! he's cold! Cold as the marble which his fingers wrought - Cold, but not dead; for each embodied thought
Himself I read beneath the words he writes ... I may come back and sing again. - RYAN. I.
The sun went down in flame and smoke, The cold night passed without alarms, And when the bitter morning broke
