Classic Poem

UPTURNED BY A PLOWSHARE AFTER TWENTY-FOUR YEARS

Thy throat it was hoarse with the calling,
And the sweat it froze on thy side,
Congealed from the lips of the bugler,
Still soft from the kiss of his bride.

Ay! they charged! through the white mist uprising,
Cut the smoke of the battle array,
And the trumpet was dropped on his bosom,
And the bugler plunged into the fray.

Like the seething of waters tormented,
Broke the surge of the Gray on the Blue,
And the chalice of life poured its crimson
On fields where the wild-flowers grew;

Mingling Cavalier, Puritan, horsemen,
And ranks in the fearful onslaught;
And the victory fell to the Southland,
Though dearly the battle was bought.

And they lay in the lines where the reaper
Had mowed down the grain, — some ere bloom
Had smiled on the crest, still unbearded, —
But victory knelt in the gloom.

Blow bugle! sound trumpet! awaken
The shut ear of death — sound ye! speak!
But the bugler looked up in the starlight,
With one frozen tear on his cheek.

And thou? The swift years crowd about us —
These are mem'ries, traditions, maybe;
From the field blessed with peace and full harvest,
The plowshare has brought thee to me.

Poor throat, full of rust and of silence;
Poor heart, where the shrill voice was crushed,
In the din and confusion of battle,
Where the wheels of the cannon had rushed.

Sleep well! for thy dust is made holy,
Ay, rest! as the cycles drift by!
For thy voice was truth, and God-given,
The grandeur of truth cannot die!