Classic Poem

At Rocketts' pier the bugles blow,
The clattering horsemen ride,
And squadrons wheel with naked steel
By James's peaceful tide,
And up the stones of Richmond town
The column files at will,
As if a traitor rode to die
Up Tower or Tyburn hill.

A poor old man, grey-haired and bent,
Amongst the troopers rides;
He sees the captured capital
O'erlooking floods and tides,
Where, in his power, the standards blew,
Unfurled at his command,
That waved in sight of Washington,
And dyed the Rio Grande.

Now silently the people peer
Who used to cheer his name,
As if it were a time of fear,
And his were all the blame;
They soon forget both fame and power
Who but disaster win,
And he who ruled, an Empire's chief,
Must make his jail an inn.

They bring him to the traitor's court,—
This old and broken man;
And e'en the judge looks down in grudge,
Like any partisan.
The lawyers wait to tell his crimes,
The jury hate, forewarned,—
By heaven! it is a fearful thing
To see a strong man scorned!

Then one stepped out from all the throng,
And said: “This must not be!
My pen which wrote his cause unjust,
Shall write his liberty.
On yonder hill the grass is green—
With pleasant spring's increase,
So green be all the fields of war,
And all our duty Peace.

“Ye dare not test him lest he 'scape;
Ye shall not keep him pent;
Each foe stands now a citizen,
A flock for every tent;
Let kindly law again prevail,
And victory do no crime,
For hand in hand we twain must walk
Down all the paths of time!”

They marvelled much who loved him not,
This quaint old man to see,
Whose name the planters' children knew,
An ancient enemy;
And though some mocked his loving zeal
With many a coarse retort,
He made the rebel chieftain feel
The North had still a heart!