MOURNFULLY listening to the waves' strange talk, And marking with a sad and moistened eye The summer days sink down behind the sea,— Sink down beneath the level brine, and fall Into the Hades of forgotten things,-
A mighty longing stealeth o'er the soul; As of a man who panteth to behold His idol in another land,-if yet
Her heart be treasured for him,—if her eyes Have yet the old love in them. Even so, With passion strong as love and deep as death, Yearneth the spirit after Wonderland.
Ah, happy, happy land! The busy soul Calls up in pictures of the half-shut eye Thy shores of splendor. As a fair blind girl, Who thinks the roses must be beautiful, But cannot see their beauty. Olden tones, Borne on the bosom of the breeze from far,— Angels that came to the young heart in dreams, And then like birds of passage flew away,- Return. The rugged steersman at the wheel Softens into a cloudy shape. The sails Move to a music of their own.
Speed well, and bear us unto Wonderland!
Leave far behind thee the vext earth, where men Spend their dark days in weaving their own shrouds And Fraud and Wrong are crowned kings; and Toil Hath chains for Hire; and all Creation groans, Crying, in its great bitterness, to God; And Love can never speak the thing it feels, Or save the thing it loves,-is succorless. For if one say, "I love thee," what poor words They are! Whilst they are spoken, the beloved Traveleth as a doomed lamb the road of death;
And sorrow blanches the fair hair, and pales The tinted cheek. Not so in Wonderland.
There larger natures sport themselves at ease 'Neath kindlier suns that nurture fairer flowers, And richer harvests billow in the vales, And passionate kisses fall on godlike brows As summer rain. And never know they there The passion that is desolation's prey; The bitter tears begotten of farewells; Endless renunciations, when the heart Loseth the all it lived for; vows forgot, Cold looks, estrangèd voices,-all the woes That poison earth's delight. For love endures, Nor fades nor changes, in the Wonderland.
Alas! the rugged steersman at the wheel Comes back again to vision. The hoarse sea Speaketh from its great heart of discontent, And in the misty distance dies away. The Wonderland!—'T is past and gone. O soul, Whilst yet unbodied thou didst summer there, God saw thee, led thee forth from thy green haunts, And bade thee know another world less fair, Less calm. Ambition, knowledge, and desire Drove from thee thy first worship. Live and learn, Believe and wait,—and it may be that he
Will guide thee back again to Wonderland.
To drum-beat and heart-beat, A soldier marches by:
There is color in his cheek,
There is courage in his eye,
Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat In a moment he must die.
By starlight and moonlight, He seeks the Briton's camp; He hears the rustling flag,
And the armed sentry's tramp; And the starlight and moonlight His silent wanderings lamp.
With slow tread and still tread, He scans the tented line; And he counts the battery guns
By the gaunt and shadowy pine; And his slow tread and still tread Gives no warning sign.
The dark wave, the plumed wave, It meets his eager glance; And it sparkles 'neath the stars, Like the glimmer of a lance— A dark wave, a plumed wave, On an emerald expanse.
A sharp clang, a steel clang, And terror in the sound! For the sentry, falcon-eyed,
In the camp a spy hath found; With a sharp clang, a steel clang, The patriot is bound.
With calm brow, steady brow,
He listens to his doom; In his look there is no fear,
Nor a shadow-trace of gloom; But with calm brow and steady brow He robes him for the tomb.
In the long night, the still night,
He kneels upon the sod;
And the brutal guards withhold
E'en the solemn Word of God! In the long night, the still night,
He walks where Christ hath trod.
'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn, He dies upon the tree;
And he mourns that he can lose
But one life for Liberty;
And in the blue morn, the sunny morn, His spirit-wings are free.
But his last words, his message-words, They burn, lest friendly eye Should read how proud and calm A patriot could die,
With his last words, his dying words, A soldier's battle-cry.
From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf, From monument and urn,
The sad of earth, the glad of heaven, His tragic fate shall learn; And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf
The name of HALE shall burn!
By the flow of the inland river,
Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
Asleep are the ranks of the dead;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the one, the Blue;
Under the other, the Gray.
These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat; All with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the laurel, the Blue;
Under the willow, the Gray.
From the silence of sorrowful hours, The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers,
Alike for the friend and the foe; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the roses, the Blue; Under the lilies, the Gray.
So, with an equal splendor, The morning sun-rays fall, With a touch impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Broidered with gold, the Blue; Mellowed with gold, the Gray.
So, when the Summer calleth, On forest and field of grain, With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Wet with the rain, the Blue;
Wet with the rain, the Gray.
Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done;
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