The old church bell will peal with joy, To welcome home our darling boy, The village lads and lasses say, When Johnny comes marching home. We'll give the hero three times three, The laurel-wreath is ready now And we'll all feel gay, When Johnny comes marching home. Let love and friendship on that day, Hurrah! hurrah! Their choicest treasures then display, And let each one perform some part, 10 20 30 1865. THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE REV. ABRAM J. RYAN Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright, Flashed the sword of Lee! Far in the front of the deadly fight, High o'er the brave in the cause of right, Its stainless sheen like a beacon light, Led us to victory. Out of its scabbard, where full long It slumbered peacefully Roused from its rest by the battle song, Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong, 10 Guarding the right, and avenging the wrong, Gleamed the sword of Lee. Forth from its scabbard, high in air, And they who saw it gleaming there, Than ever taxed tradition's ancient story; In the land where we were dreaming. Though in our land we had both bond and free, Both were content; and so God let them 'Till envy coveted our land, And those fair fields our valor won: But little recked we, for we still slept on, In the land where we were dreaming. The gray barns looking from their hazy hills, O'er the dun waters widening in the vales, Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, Of the dull thunder of alternate flails. All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued, The hills seemed further and the stream sang low 10 As in a dream the distant woodman hewed His winter log, with many a muffled blow. The embattled forests, erewhile armed with gold, Their banners bright with every martial hue, Now stood, like some sad, beaten host of old, Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. On sombre wings the vulture tried his flight; The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint; And, like a star slowly drowning in the light, The village church vane seemed to pale and faint. 20 "Sometimes-could it be fancy?-I have felt The presence of a spirit who might speak; As down in lowly reverence I knelt, Its very breath hath kissed my burning cheek; But I in vain have hushed my own to hear A wing or whisper stir the silent air!" 1 The most elaborate performance in the edition of 1860, indeed the longest poem Timrod ever wrote, is called "A Vision of Poesy." Its purpose is to show, in the subtle development of a highly gifted imaginative nature, the true laws which underlie and determine the noblest uses of the poetical faculty. (P. H. Hayne's Introduction to the edition of 1873.) Is not the breeze articulate? Hark! Oh, hark! A distant murmur, like a voice of floods; And onward sweeping slowly through the dark, Bursts like a call the night-wind from the woods! 10 Low bow the flowers, the trees fling loose their dreams, And through the waving roof a fresher moonlight streams. XXXIV "Mortal!"—the word crept slowly round the place As if that wind had breathed it! From no star Streams that soft lustre on the dreamer's face. Again a hushing calm! while faint and far The breeze goes calling onward through the night. Dear God! what vision chains that widestrained sight? XXXV Over the grass and flowers, and up the slope Glides a white cloud of mist, self-moved and slow, 20 That, pausing at the hillock's moonlit cope, Swayed like a flame of silver; from below The breathless youth with beating heart beholds A mystic motion in its argent folds. |