Classic Poem

How few remember now the days,
The peddling days, before the war,
When life was like a one-horse chaise
And " thirty cents " a morning star,
When Bunker Hill " descended down "
If cotton planters deigned to frown!

We washed them clean, those scrolls of shame,
In seas of blood. We crossed them off
With powder stain and scorch of flame.
The kings no longer grin and scoff
At Freedom throned on hosts of slaves
We balanced that with hosts of graves.

O comrades, render thanks to God
For Bull Run's day of panic terrors.
That overthrow was Yahveh's rod
To scourge afar the groveling errors
That trade is manhood's loftiest pride,
And man's most precious part, his hide.

Our fight was nobler for disaster,
No easy stroke were half so grand.
The nation's genius rose the vaster
Because of trial. Our spacious land
Gave narrow scope for such events
As trode its vast circumference.

Glorious braves those rebels were,
As gallant ranks as ever dashed
Up smoking steeps with bayonets bare,
While volleys whizzed and cannon crashed
Athwart the swarms of grey-clad men, —
The memory makes me drop the pen.

I think it might be fine to hear
Their whoop again, — their panther yell:
No trained hurrah, no classic cheer;
But savage yelps of wold and fell;
A cry of wolves in hunting bout;
And yet a stirring, martial shout.

At Gettysburg how swift they came,
Right-shoulder-shift, quick-step, guide right,
Defying all our roar and flame
With yell on yell as they clomb the height,
The fighting blood of a hero race
Ablaze in every swarthy face!

The future of a country reeled
When Longstreet crowned the deadly hill;
One more brigade had gained the field,
Perchance for centuries of ill;
And never yet were statues run
For worthier men than those who won.