Than ever taxed the lips of ancient story;
And in our dream we wove the thread
Of principles for which had bled
And suffered long our own immortal dead,
In the land where we were dreaming.
. . . . . . .
Our sleep grew troubled, and our dreams grew wild;
Red meteors flashed across our heaven's field,
Crimson the moon, between the Twins
Barbed arrows flew in circling lanes
Of light, red comets tossed their fiery manes
O'er the land where we were dreaming.
. . . . . . .
A figure came among us as we slept--
At first he knelt, then slowly rose and wept;
Then gathering up a thousand spears,
He swept across the field of Mars,
Then bowed farewell, and walked among the start,
From the land where we were dreaming.
[Illustration: [Handwriting: T. J. Jackson, LtGnrl.]]
We looked again--another figure still
Gave hope, and nerved each individual will;
Erect he stood, as clothed with power,
Self-poised, he seemed to rule the hour
With firm, majestic sway--of strength a tower--
In the land where we were dreaming.
As, while great Jove, in bronze, a warder god,
Gazed eastward from the Forum where he stood,
Rome felt herself secure and free--
So, Richmond! we on guard for thee,
Beheld a bronzèd hero, god-like Lee,
In the land where we were dreaming.
. . . . . . .
Woe! woe is us! the startled mothers cried;
While we have slept, our noble sons have died.
Woe! woe is us! how strange and sad,
That all our glorious visions fled
Have left us nothing real but our dead
In the land where we were dreaming.
"And are they really dead, our martyred slain?"
No, dreamers! Morn shall bid them rise again
From every plain, from every height
On which they seemed to die for right;
Their gallant spirits shall renew the fight
In the land where we were dreaming.
. . . . . . .
FOOTNOTE:
[37] By permission of the author.
JAMES RYDER RANDALL.
~1839=----.~
JAMES RYDER RANDALL was born in Baltimore, and his fame rests upon his
stirring war-song, "Maryland, my Maryland," which has been called the
"Marseillaise of the Confederacy." It was written in 1861 and set by
Mrs. Burton Harrison to the tune of the old college song "Lauriger
Horatius," on the wings of which it quickly flew all over the South.
His profession is that of an editor, and his delicate health has
compelled his residence in a warmer latitude than his native city, in
Louisiana and Georgia.
WORKS.
Fugitive Poems:
Maryland, My Maryland,
Sole Sentry,
Arlington,
Cameo Bracelet, and others.
MY MARYLAND.
The despot's heel is on thy shore,
Maryland!
His torch is at thy temple door,
Maryland!
Avenge the patriotic gore
That flecked the streets of Baltimore,
And be the battle-queen of yore,
Maryland, my Maryland!
Hark to an exiled son's appeal,
Maryland!
My Mother-State, to thee I kneel,
Maryland!
For life and death, for woe and weal,
Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,
Maryland, my Maryland!
Thou wilt not cower in the dust,
Maryland!
Thy beaming sword shall never rust,
Maryland!
Remember Carroll's sacred trust,
Remember Howard's warlike thrust,
And all thy slumberers with the just,
Maryland, my Maryland!
Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day,
Maryland!
Come with thy panoplied array,
Maryland!
With Ringgold's spirit for the fray,
With Watson's blood at Monterey,
With fearless Lowe and dashing May,
Maryland, my Maryland!
Dear Mother! burst the tyrant's chain,
Maryland!
Virginia should not call in vain,
Maryland!
She meets her sisters on the plain,--
"_Sic semper!_" 'tis the proud refrain,
That baffles minions back amain,
Maryland!
Arise in majesty again,
Maryland, my Maryland!
Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,
Maryland!
Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,
Maryland!
Come to thine own heroic throng
Walking with Liberty along,
And chant thy dauntless slogan-song,
Maryland, my Maryland!
I see the blush upon thy cheek,
Maryland!
For thou wast ever bravely meek,
Maryland!
But lo! there surges forth a shriek,
From hill to hill, from creek to creek,
Potomac calls to Chesapeake,
Maryland, my Maryland!
Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll,
Maryland!
Thou wilt not crook to his control,
Maryland!
Better the fire upon thee roll,
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,
Than crucifixion of the soul,
Maryland, my Maryland!
I hear the distant thunder hum,
Maryland!
The Old Line's bugle, fife, and drum,
Maryland!
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb;
Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum,--
She breathes! She burns! She'll come! She'll Come!
Maryland, my Maryland!
Written 1861.
ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN.
~1839=1886.~
FATHER RYAN, "the poet-priest," was born in Norfolk, Virginia, but
passed most of his life farther south. He lived in New Orleans,
Knoxville, Augusta, and Mobile. His death occurred in Louisville,
Kentucky. His patriotic poems are among the best known and most
admired that the South has produced; his religious poems evince a sad
view of human life together with an exalted adoration of the Divine
Will.
WORKS.
Poems.
Life of Christ, [unfinished].
Some Aspects of Modern Civilization, [a lecture].
To our great regret, we have not been permitted by the publishers to
copy any of Father Ryan's poems. Every one is familiar with his
"Conquered Banner," and "Sword of Lee"; the "Song of the Mystic" is
one of his most beautiful productions.
WILLIAM GORDON McCABE.
~1841=----.~
WILLIAM GORDON MCCABE was born near Richmond, and educated at the
University of Virginia. He was a captain in the Confederate service;
and since the war he has had at Petersburg one of the best schools
preparatory to the University. He is a poet, and has also edited
several Latin authors for school use.
WORKS.
Ballads of Battle and Bravery.
Defence of Petersburg.
DREAMING IN THE TRENCHES.[38]
I picture her there in the quaint old room,
Where the fading fire-light starts and falls,
Alone in the twilight's tender gloom
With the shadows that dance on the dim-lit walls.
Alone, while those faces look silently down
From their antique frames in a grim repose--
Slight scholarly Ralph in his Oxford gown,
And stanch Sir Alan, who died for Montrose.
There are gallants gay in crimson and gold,
There are smiling beauties with powdered hair,
But she sits there, fairer a thousand-fold,
Leaning dreamily back in her low arm-chair.
And the roseate shadows of fading light
Softly clear steal over the sweet young face,
Where a woman's tenderness blends to-night
With the guileless pride of a haughty race.
Her hands lie clasped in a listless way
On the old _Romance_--which she holds on her knee--
_Of Tristram_, the bravest of knights in the fray,
_And Iseult_, who waits by the sounding sea.
And her proud, dark eyes wear a softened look
As she watches the dying embers fall--
Perhaps she dreams of the knight in the book,
Perhaps of the pictures that smile on the wall.
What fancies I wonder are thronging her brain,
For her cheeks flush warm with a crimson glow!
Perhaps--ah! me, how foolish and vain!
But I'd give my life to believe it so!
Well, whether I ever march home again
To offer my love and a stainless name,
Or whether I die at the head of my men,--
I'll be true to the end all the same.
_Petersburg Trenches, 1864._
FOOTNOTE:
[38] By permission of the author.
SIDNEY LANIER.
~1842=1881.~
SIDNEY LANIER was born in Macon, Georgia, descended from a line of
artist ancestors, through whom he inherited great musical ability. He
was educated at Oglethorpe College, being graduated in 1860. He and
his brother Clifford entered the Confederate Army together in 1861 and
served through the war; but the exposure and hardships and
imprisonment developed consumption which finally caused his death.
After the war he lived for two years in Alabama as a clerk and a
teacher; but his health failed and he was forced to return home where
he practised law with his father till 1873. Then deciding to devote
himself to music and poetry, he went to Baltimore where he was engaged
as first flute in the Peabody Symphony Concerts and in 1879 as
lecturer on English Literature in Johns Hopkins University. His dread
disease never relaxed and he was often obliged to quit work and go to
Florida, North Carolina, Georgia, and Pennsylvania in search of
strength. His death occurred at Lynn, Polk County, North Carolina, on
his last quest for strength and life with which to continue the work
he so much loved.
His "Science of English Verse" is said to be a new and valuable
addition to the study of poetry. His poems belong to the new order of
thought and life. His "Tiger-Lilies" is a prose-poem, written in three
weeks just after the war and laid in the mountains of Tennessee and on
the eastern shore of Virginia where he was stationed. "Beauty is
holiness, and holiness is beauty," was his favorite remark on the
subject of Art. His work and influence are growing in importance in
the regard of students.
In 1876 he was invited to write the poem for the Centennial
Exposition; and the "Meditation of Columbia," composed with the
musical expression always in mind,--and so too it should be read,--was
the grand Ode that graced the opening day at Philadelphia. See under
_Waitman Barbe_.
WORKS.
POEMS:
Edited by his wife, Mary Day Lanier, with a Memorial by William Hayes
Ward.
Tiger Lilies, [novel].
Florida: its Scenery, Climate, and History.
English Novel and Principles of Its Development.
Science of English Verse.
Boy's Froissart.
Boy's King Arthur.
Boy's Mabinogion.
Boy's Percy.
SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE.
(_From Poems._[39])
Out of the hills of Habersham,
Down the valleys of Hall,
I hurry amain to reach the plain,
Run the rapid and leap the fall,
Split at the rock and together again,
Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,
And flee from folly on every side
With a lover's pain to attain the plain
Far from the hills of Habersham,
Far from the valleys of Hall.
All down the hills of Habersham,
All though the valleys of Hall,
The rushes cried, _Abide, abide_,
The willful waterweeds held me thrall,
The laving laurel turned my tide,
The ferns and the fondling grass said _Stay_,
The dewberry dipped for to work delay,
And the little reeds sighed _Abide, abide,
Here in the hills of Habersham,
Here in the valleys of Hall_.
High o'er the hills of Habersham,
Veiling the valleys of Hall,
The hickory told me manifold
Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall
Wrought me her shadowy self to hold,
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,
Said, _Pass not, so cold, these manifold
Deep shades of the hills of Habersham,
These glades in the valleys of Hall_.
And oft in the hills of Habersham,
And oft in the valleys of Hall,
The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl,
And many a luminous jewel lone,
--Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,
Ruby, garnet, and amethyst--
Made lures with the lights of streaming stone
In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,
In the beds of the valleys of Hall.
But oh, not the hills of Habersham,
And oh, not the valleys of Hall
Avail: I am fain for to water the plain,
Downward the voices of Duty call--
Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main,
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,
And the lordly main from beyond the plain
Calls o'er the hills of Habersham,
Calls through the valleys of Hall.
1877.
WHAT IS MUSIC?
Music is Love in search of a word.
THE TIDE RISING IN THE MARSHES.
(_From The Marshes of Glynn._[40])
Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free
Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea!
Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun,
Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won
God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain
And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain.
As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod,
Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God;
I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies
In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and the skies:
By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod
I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God:
Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within
The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn.
And the sea lends large, as the marsh: and lo, out of his plenty,
the sea
Pours fast: full soon the time of the flood-tide must be:
Look how the grace of the sea doth go
About and about through the intricate channels that flow
Here and there,
Everywhere,
Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low-lying
lanes,
And the marsh is meshed with a million veins,
That like as with rosy and silvery essences flow
In the rose-and-silver evening glow.
Farewell, my lord Sun!
The creeks overflow: a thousand rivulets run
'Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of the marsh-grass stir;
Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr;
Passeth, and all is still; and the currents cease to run;
And the sea and the marsh are one.
How still the plains of the waters be!
The tide is in his ecstasy.
The tide is at his highest height:
And it is night.
And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters of sleep
Roll in on the souls of men,
But who will reveal to our waking ken
The forms that swim and the shapes that creep
Under the waters of sleep?
And I would I could know what swimmeth below when the tide comes in
On the length and the breadth of the marvellous marshes of Glynn.
1878.
FOOTNOTES:
[39] By permission of Mrs. Lanier, and Charles Scribner's Sons, N. Y.
[40] By permission of Mrs. Lanier, and Charles Scribner's Sons, N. Y.
JAMES LANE ALLEN.
JAMES LANE ALLEN is one of the best and most successful of the living
writers of the South. He is a Kentuckian, and his sketches and stories
have so far all dealt with life in his native State.
WORKS.
Life in the Blue Grass.
White Cowl.
Flute and Violin, and other stories.
John Gray.
Sister Dolorosa.
A Kentucky Cardinal (1895).
SPORTS OF A KENTUCKY SCHOOL IN 1795.
(_From John Gray, a Kentucky Tale of the Olden Time._[41])
A strange mixture of human life there was in Gray's school. There were
the native little Kentuckians, born in the wilderness--the first wild,
hardy generation of new people; and there were the little folk from
Virginia, from Tennessee, from North Carolina, and from Pennsylvania
and other sources, huddled together, some rude, some gentle, and
starting out now to be formed into the men and women of the Kentucky
that was to be.
They had their strange, sad, heroic games and pastimes, those
primitive children under his guidance. Two little girls would be
driving the cows home about dusk; three little boys would play Indian
and capture them and carry them off; the husbands of the little girls
would form a party to the rescue; the prisoners would drop pieces of
their dresses along the way; and then at a certain point of the
woods--it being the dead of night now, and the little girls being
bound to a tree, and the Indians having fallen asleep beside their
smouldering camp-fires--the rescuers would rush in, and there would be
whoops and shrieks, and the taking of scalps, and a happy return.
Or, some settlement would be shut up in a fort besieged. Days would
pass. The only water was a spring outside the walls, and around this
the enemy skulked in the corn and grass. But the warriors must not
perish of thirst. So, with a prayer, a tear, a final embrace, the
little women marched out through the gates to the spring, in the very
teeth of death, and brought back water in their wooden dinner-buckets.
Or, when the boys would become men with contests of running, and
pitching quoits, and wrestling, the girls would play wives and have a
quilting in a house of green alder-bushes, or be capped and wrinkled
grandmothers sitting beside imaginary spinning-wheels and smoking
imaginary pipes.
Sometimes it was not Indian warfare, but civil strife. For one morning
as many as three Daniel Boones appeared on the playground at the same
moment; and at once there was a fierce battle to ascertain which was
the genuine Daniel. This being decided, the spurious Daniels submitted
to be the one Simon Kenton, the other General George Rogers Clarke.
This was to be a great day for what he called his class in history.
Thirteen years before, and forty miles away, had occurred the most
dreadful of all the battles--the disaster of the Blue Licks; and in
town were many mothers who yet wept for sons, widows who yet dreamed
of young husbands, fallen that beautiful August day beneath the oaks
and cedars, or floating down the red-dyed river.
It was this that he had promised to tell them at noon; and a little
after twelve o'clock he was standing with them on the bank of the Town
Fork, in order to give vividness to his description. This stream flows
unseen beneath the streets of the city [Lexington] now, and with
scarce current enough to wash out its grimy channels; but then it
flashed broad and clear through the long valley which formed the town
common--a valley of scattered houses with orchards and corn-fields and
patches of cane.
A fine poetic picture he formed as he stood there amid their eager
upturned faces, bare-headed under the cool brilliant sky of May, and
reciting to them, as a prose-minstrel of the wilderness, the deeds of
their fathers.
This Town Fork of the Elkhorn, he said, must represent the Licking
River. On that side were the Indians; on this, the pioneers, a crowd
of foot and horse. There stretched the ridge of rocks, made bare by
the stamping of the buffalo; here was the clay they licked for salt.
In that direction headed the two ravines in which Boone had feared an
ambuscade. And thus variously having made ready for battle, and
looking down for a moment into the eyes of a freckly impetuous little
soul who was the Hotspur of the playground, he repeated the cry of
McGary, which had been the signal for attack:
"Let all who are not cowards follow me!"
[Hereupon the soldiers plunged through the river, not seeing the
Indians nor even knowing where they were; and in a few minutes they
were attacked and completely routed by the Indians who were concealed
in the woods and ravines of the other bank, as Boone had feared.
Boone's son was killed, and he himself narrowly escaped by dashing
through one of the ravines and swimming the river lower down. The
slaughter in the river was great, and the pursuit was continued for
twenty miles. Never had Kentucky experienced so fatal a blow as that
at the Blue Licks.--L. M.]
FOOTNOTE:
[41] By permission of J. B. Lippincott Co., Philadelphia.
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.
~1848=----.~
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS was born in Eatonton, Georgia, and is a lawyer:
but he has devoted much time of late years to literature, and is now
one of the editors of the "Atlanta Constitution."
[Illustration: ~Arkansas Industrial University, Fayetteville,
Washington County, Ark.~]
His dialect stories of "Uncle Remus" are a faithful reproduction of
the popular tales of the old negroes of South Carolina, Georgia, and
Alabama; for the negro dialect varies in the different States. Mr.
Harris' books have made these tales known in England.
"On the Plantation" is said to be autobiographical; it is a story of a
boy's life during the war, well and simply told.
WORKS.
Uncle Remus: His Songs and His Sayings.
Nights with Uncle Remus.
On the Plantation.
Little Mr. Thimblefinger.
Mingo, and other Sketches.
Free Joe, and other Georgian Sketches.
Daddy Jake, the Runaway, and Short Stories Told after Dark.
THE TAR-BABY.
(_From Uncle Remus, His Songs and His Sayings._[42])
"Didn't the fox _never_ catch the rabbit, Uncle Remus?" asked the
little boy the next evening.
"He come mighty nigh it, honey, sho's you bawn--Brer Fox did. One day
atter Brer Rabbit fool 'im wid dat calamus root, Brer Fox went ter wuk
en got 'im some tar, en mix it wid some turkentine, en fix up a
contrapshun w'at he call a Tar-Baby, en he tuk dish yer Tar-Baby en he
sot 'er in de big road, en den he lay off in de bushes fer to see w'at
de news wuz gwineter be. En he didn't hatter wait long, nudder, kaze
bimeby here come Brer Rabbit pacin' down de road--lippity-clippity,
clippity-lippity--dez ez sassy ez a jay-bird. Brer Fox, he lay low.
Brer Rabbit come prancin' 'long twel he spy de Tar-Baby, en den he
fotch up on his behine legs like he wuz 'stonished. De Tar-Baby, she
sot dar, she did, en Brer Fox, he lay low.
"'Mawnin'!' says Brer Rabbit, sezee--'nice wedder dis mawnin',' sezee.
"Tar-Baby ain't sayin' nuthin', en Brer Fox, he lay low.
"'How duz yo' sym'tums seem ter segashuate?' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.
"Brer Fox, he wink his eye slow, en lay low, en de Tar-Baby, she ain't
sayin' nuthin'.
"'How you come on, den? Is you deaf?' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. 'Kaze if
you is, I kin holler louder,' sezee.
"Tar-Baby stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low.
"'Youer stuck up, dat's w'at you is,' says Brer Rabbit, sezee, 'en I'm
gwineter kyore you, dat's w'at I'm a gwineter do,' sezee.
"Brer Fox, he sorter chuckle in his stummuck, he did, but Tar-Baby
ain't sayin' nuthin'.
"'I'm gwineter larn you howter talk ter 'specttubble fokes ef hit's de
las' ack,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. 'Ef you don't take off dat hat en
tell me howdy, I'm gwineter bus' you wide open,' sezee.
"Tar-Baby stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low.
"Brer Rabbit keep on axin' 'im, en de Tar-Baby, she keep on sayin'
nuthin', twel present'y Brer Rabbit draw back wid his fis', he did, en
blip he tuck 'er side er de head. Right dar's where he broke his
merlasses jug. His fis' stuck, en he can't pull loose. De tar hilt
'im. But Tar-Baby, she stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low.
"'Ef you don't lemme loose, I'll knock you agin,' sez Brer Rabbit,
sezee, en wid dat he fotch 'er a wipe wid de udder han', en dat stuck.
Tar-Baby, she ain't sayin' nuthin', en Brer Fox, he lay low.
"'Tu'n me loose, fo' I kick de nat'al stuffin' outen you,' sez Brer
Rabbit, sezee, but de Tar-Baby, she ain't sayin' nuthin'. She des hilt
on, en den Brer Rabbit lose de use er his feet in de same way. Brer
Fox, he lay low. Den Brer Rabbit squall out dat ef de Tar-Baby don't
tu'n 'im loose he butt 'er cranksided. En den he butted, en his head
got stuck. Den Brer Fox, he sa'ntered fort', lookin' dez ez innercent
ez wunner yo' mammy's mockin'-birds.
"'Howdy, Brer Rabbit,' sez Brer Fox, sezee. 'You look sorter stuck up
dis mawnin',' sezee, en den he rolled on de groun', en laft en laft
twel he couldn't laff no mo'. 'I speck you'll take dinner wid me dis
time, Brer Rabbit. I done laid in some calamus root, en I ain't
gwineter take no skuse,' sez Brer Fox, sezee."
Here Uncle Remus paused, and drew a two-pound yam out of the ashes.
"Did the fox eat the rabbit?" asked the little boy to whom the story
had been told.
"Dat's all de fur de tale goes," replied the old man. "He mout, en den
agin he moutent. Some say Jedge B'ar come 'long en loosed 'im,--some
say he didn't. I hear Miss Sally callin'. You better run 'long."
FOOTNOTE:
[42] By permission of D. Appleton & Co, N. Y.
ROBERT BURNS WILSON.
~1850=----.~
ROBERT BURNS WILSON was born in Washington County, Pennsylvania, but
removed early to Frankfort, Kentucky, where he devoted himself to
landscape painting. Some of his pictures attracted attention at the
New Orleans Exposition, 1884. His poems have appeared in magazines and
have been much admired for their musical flow of deep feeling and
fancy.
WORKS.
Life And Love: Poems.
FAIR DAUGHTER OF THE SUN.
(_From Life and Love._[43])
Hail! daughter of the sun!
White-robed and fair to see, where goest thou now
In haste from thy spiced garden? Hath thy brow,
Crowned with white blooms, begun
To grow a-weary of its flagrant wreath,
And do thy temples long to ache beneath
A gilded, iron crown?
Tak'st thou the glint of Mammon's glittering car
To be the gleam of some new-risen star--
Yond clamor, for renown?
Stay, lovely one, oh stay!
Within thy gates, love-garlanded, remain:
For love this Mammon seeks not, but for gain--
He is the same alway.
This god in burnished tinsel, as of old,
Cares for no music save of clinking gold--
All else to him is vain:
His heart is flint, his ears are dull as lead;
A crown of care he bringeth for thy head,
And for thy wrists a chain.