Within a green and shadowy wood,
Circled with spring, alone I stood:
The nook was peaceful, fair, and good.
The wild-plum blossoms lured the bees,
The birds sang madly in the trees,
Magnolia-scents were on the breeze.
All else was silent; but the ear
Caught sounds of distant bugle clear,
And heard the bullets whistle near,--
When from the winding river's shore
The Rebel guns began to roar,
And ours to answer, thundering o'er;
And echoed from the wooded hill,
Repeated and repeated still,
Through all my soul they seemed to thrill.
For, as their rattling storm awoke,
And loud and fast the discord broke,
In rude and trenchant _words_ they spoke.
"_We hate!_" boomed fiercely o'er the tide;
"We fear not!" from the other side;
"_We strike!_" the Rebel guns replied.
Quick roared our answer, "We defend!"
"_Our rights!_" the battle-sounds contend;
"The rights of _all_!" we answer send.
"_We conquer!_" rolled across the wave;
"We persevere!" our answer gave;
"_Our chivalry!_" they wildly rave.
"Ours _are the brave_!" "Be _ours_ the free!"
"_Be ours the slave, the masters we_!"
"On us their blood no more shall be!"
As when some magic word is spoken,
By which a wizard spell is broken,
There was a silence at that token.
The wild birds dared once more to sing,
I heard the pine-bough's whispering,
And trickling of a silver spring.
Then, crashing forth with smoke and din,
Once more the rattling sounds begin,
Our iron lips roll forth, "We win!"
And dull and wavering in the gale
That rushed in gusts across the vale
Came back the faint reply, "_We fail_!"
And then a word, both stern and sad,
From throat of huge Columbiad,--
"Blind fools and traitors! ye are mad!"
Again the Rebel answer came,
Muffled and slow, as if in shame,--
"_All, all is lost_!" in smoke and flame.
Now bold and strong and stern as Fate
The Union guns sound forth, "We wait!"
Faint comes the distant cry, "_Too late_!"
"Return! return!" our cannon said;
And, as the smoke rolled overhead,
"_We dare not_!" was the answer dread.
Then came a sound, both loud and clear,
A godlike word of hope and cheer,--
"Forgiveness!" echoed far and near;
As when beside some death-bed still
We watch, and wait God's solemn will,
A blue-bird warbles his soft trill.
I clenched my teeth at that blest word,
And, angry, muttered, "Not so, Lord!
The only answer is the sword!"
I thought of Shiloh's tainted air,
Of Richmond's prisons, foul and bare,
And murdered heroes, young and fair,--
Of block and lash and overseer,
And dark, mild faces pale with fear,
Of baying hell-hounds panting near.
But then the gentle story told
My childhood, in the days of old,
Rang out its lessons manifold.
O prodigal, and lost! arise
And read the welcome blest that lies
In a kind Father's patient eyes!
Thy elder brother grudges not
The lost and found should share his lot,
And wrong in concord be forgot.
Thus mused I, as the hours went by,
Till the relieving guard drew nigh,
And then was challenge and reply.
And as I hastened back to line,
It seemed an omen half divine
That "Concord" was the countersign.
* * * * *