Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.
III. WarLee to the Rear
John Randolph Thompson (18231873)
D
Broke through the Wilderness cool and gray;
While perched in the tallest tree-tops, the birds
Were carolling Mendelssohn’s “Songs without Words.”
The brook brawled on with a liquid note;
And Nature, all tranquil and lovely, wore
The smile of the spring, as in Eden of yore.
And deepened the roseate flush in the East—
Little by little did morning reveal
Two long glittering lines of steel;
Tipped with the light of the earliest beam,
And the faces are sullen and grim to see
In the hostile armies of Grant and Lee.
Pealed on the silence the opening gun—
A little white puff of smoke there came,
And anon the valley was wreathed in flame.
Where a breastwork stands in a copse of pines,
Before the Rebels their ranks can form,
The Yankees have carried the place by storm.
Where many a hero has found a grave,
And the gallant Confederates strive in vain
The ground they have drenched with their blood, to regain.
Yet a deadlier fire on the columns poured;
Slaughter infernal rode with Despair,
Furies twain, through the murky air.
A gray-bearded man in a black slouched hat;
Not much moved by the fire was he,
Calm and resolute Robert Lee.
On the bold Rebel brigades close by,—
Reserves that were standing (and dying) at ease,
While the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees.
The Yankee batteries blazed away,
And with every murderous second that sped
A dozen brave fellows, alas! fell dead.
Where Death and his victims stood face to face,
And silently waved his old slouched hat—
A world of meaning there was in that!
This was what he seemed to say;
And to the light of his glorious eye
The bold brigades thus made reply:
And they moved not an inch in the perilous track:
“Go to the rear, and we ’ll send them to hell!”
And the sound of the battle was lost in their yell.
Rode to the rear. Like waves of the sea,
Bursting the dikes in their overflow,
Madly his veterans dashed on the foe.
Their banners rent and their columns riven,
Wherever the tide of battle rolled
Over the Wilderness, wood and wold.
Streamed o’er a field of ruddier dye,
And the brook ran on with a purple stain,
From the blood of ten thousand foemen slain.
Again o’er its pebbles the brook runs clear,
And the field in a richer green is drest
Where the dead of a terrible conflict rest.
The sabres are sheathed, and the cannon are dumb;
And Fate, with his pitiless hand, has furled
The flag that once challenged the gaze of the world;
And down into history grandly rides,
Calm and unmoved as in battle he sat,
The gray-bearded man in the black slouched hat.