Herman Melville- Complete Poems Page 9

A watcher looked upon her low, and said—

  She sleeps, but sleeps, she is not dead.

  But in that sleep contortion showed

  The terror of the vision there—

  A silent vision unavowed,

  Revealing earth’s foundation bare,

  And Gorgon in her hidden place.

  It was a thing of fear to see

  So foul a dream upon so fair a face,

  And the dreamer lying in that starry shroud.

  IV

  But from the trance she sudden broke—

  The trance, or death into promoted life;

  At her feet a shivered yoke,

  And in her aspect turned to heaven

  No trace of passion or of strife—

  A clear calm look. It spake of pain,

  But such as purifies from stain—

  Sharp pangs that never come again—

  And triumph repressed by knowledge meet,

  Power dedicate, and hope grown wise,

  And youth matured for age’s seat—

  Law on her brow and empire in her eyes.

  So she, with graver air and lifted flag;

  While the shadow, chased by light,

  Fled along the far-drawn height,

  And left her on the crag.

  VERSES INSCRIPTIVE AND MEMORIAL

  On the Home Guards

  who perished in the Defense of Lexington, Missouri

  THE men who here in harness died

  Fell not in vain, though in defeat.

  They by their end well fortified

  The Cause, and built retreat

  (With memory of their valor tried)

  For emulous hearts in many an after fray—

  Hearts sore beset, which died at bay.

  Inscription

  for Graves at Pea Ridge, Arkansas

  LET none misgive we died amiss

  When here we strove in furious fight:

  Furious it was; nathless was this

  Better than tranquil plight,

  And tame surrender of the Cause

  Hallowed by hearts and by the laws.

  We here who warred for Man and Right,

  The choice of warring never laid with us.

  There we were ruled by the traitor’s choice.

  Nor long we stood to trim and poise,

  But marched, and fell—victorious!

  The Fortitude of the North

  under the Disaster of the Second Manassas

  NO shame they take for dark defeat

  While prizing yet each victory won,

  Who fight for the Right through all retreat,

  Nor pause until their work is done.

  The Cape-of-Storms is proof to every throe;

  Vainly against that foreland beat

  Wild winds aloft and wilder waves below:

  The black cliffs gleam through rents in sleet

  When the livid Antarctic storm-clouds glow.

  On the Men of Maine

  killed in the Victory of Baton Rouge, Louisiana

  AFAR they fell. It was the zone

  Of fig and orange, cane and lime

  (A land how all unlike their own,

  With the cold pine-grove overgrown),

  But still their Country’s clime.

  And there in youth they died for her—

  The Volunteers,

  For her went up their dying prayers:

  So vast the Nation, yet so strong the tie.

  What doubt shall come, then, to deter

  The Republic’s earnest faith and courage high.

  An Epitaph

  WHEN Sunday tidings from the front

  Made pale the priest and people,

  And heavily the blessing went,

  And bells were dumb in the steeple;

  The Soldier’s widow (summering sweetly here,

  In shade by waving beeches lent)

  Felt deep at heart her faith content,

  And priest and people borrowed of her cheer.

  Inscription

  for Marye’s Heights, Fredericksburg

  TO them who crossed the flood

  And climbed the hill, with eyes

  Upon the heavenly flag intent,

  And through the deathful tumult went

  Even unto death: to them this Stone—

  Erect, where they were overthrown—

  Of more than victory the monument.

  The Mound by the Lake

  THE grass shall never forget this grave.

  When homeward footing it in the sun

  After the weary ride by rail,

  The stripling soldiers passed her door,

  Wounded perchance, or wan and pale,

  She left her household work undone—

  Duly the wayside table spread,

  With evergreens shaded, to regale

  Each travel-spent and grateful one.

  So warm her heart—childless—unwed,

  Who like a mother comforted.

  On the Slain at Chickamauga

  HAPPY are they and charmed in life

  Who through long wars arrive unscarred

  At peace. To such the wreath be given,

  If they unfalteringly have striven—

  In honor, as in limb, unmarred.

  Let cheerful praise be rife,

  And let them live their years at ease,

  Musing on brothers who victorious died—

  Loved mates whose memory shall ever please.

  And yet mischance is honorable too—

  Seeming defeat in conflict justified

  Whose end to closing eyes is hid from view.

  The will, that never can relent—

  The aim, survivor of the bafflement,

  Make this memorial due.

  An uninscribed Monument

  on one of the Battle-fields of the Wilderness

  SILENCE and Solitude may hint

  (Whose home is in yon piny wood)

  What I, though tableted, could never tell—

  The din which here befell,

  And striving of the multitude.

  The iron cones and spheres of death

  Set round me in their rust,

  These, too, if just,

  Shall speak with more than animated breath.

  Thou who beholdest, if thy thought,

  Not narrowed down to personal cheer,

  Take in the import of the quiet here—

  The after-quiet—the calm full fraught;

  Thou too wilt silent stand—

  Silent as I, and lonesome as the land.

  On Sherman’s Men

  who fell in the Assault of Kenesaw Mountain, Georgia

  THEY said that Fame her clarion dropped

  Because great deeds were done no more—

  That even Duty knew no shining ends,

  And Glory—’twas a fallen star!

  But battle can heroes and bards restore.

  Nay, look at Kenesaw:

  Perils the mailed ones never knew

  Are lightly braved by the ragged coats of blue,

  And gentler hearts are bared to deadlier war.

  On the Grave

  of a young Cavalry Officer killed in the Valley of Virginia

  BEAUTY and yo
uth, with manners sweet, and friends—

  Gold, yet a mind not unenriched had he

  Whom here low violets veil from eyes.

  But all these gifts transcended be:

  His happier fortune in this mound you see.

  A Requiem

  for Soldiers lost in Ocean Transports

  WHEN, after storms that woodlands rue,

  To valleys comes atoning dawn,

  The robins blithe their orchard-sports renew;

  And meadow-larks, no more withdrawn,

  Caroling fly in the languid blue;

  The while, from many a hid recess,

  Alert to partake the blessedness,

  The pouring mites their airy dance pursue.

  So, after ocean’s ghastly gales,

  When laughing light of hoyden morning breaks,

  Every finny hider wakes—

  From vaults profound swims up with glittering scales;

  Through the delightsome sea he sails,

  With shoals of shining tiny things

  Frolic on every wave that flings

  Against the prow its showery spray;

  All creatures joying in the morn,

  Save them forever from joyance torn,

  Whose bark was lost where now the dolphins play;

  Save them that by the fabled shore,

  Down the pale stream are washed away,

  Far to the reef of bones are borne;

  And never revisits them the light,

  Nor sight of long-sought land and pilot more;

  Nor heed they now the lone bird’s flight

  Round the lone spar where mid-sea surges pour.

  On a natural Monument

  in a field of Georgia u

  NO trophy this—a Stone unhewn,

  And stands where here the field immures

  The nameless brave whose palms are won.

  Outcast they sleep; yet fame is nigh—

  Pure fame of deeds, not doers;

  Nor deeds of men who bleeding die

  In cheer of hymns that round them float:

  In happy dreams such close the eye.

  But withering famine slowly wore,

  And slowly fell disease did gloat.

  Even Nature’s self did aid deny;

  In horror they choked the pensive sigh.

  Yea, off from home sad Memory bore

  (Though anguished Yearning heaved that way),

  Lest wreck of reason might befall.

  As men in gales shun the lee shore,

  Though there the homestead be, and call,

  And thitherward winds and waters sway—

  As such lorn mariners, so fared they.

  But naught shall now their peace molest.

  Their fame is this: they did endure—

  Endure, when fortitude was vain

  To kindle any approving strain

  Which they might hear. To these who rest,

  This healing sleep alone was sure.

  Commemorative of a Naval Victory

  SAILORS there are of gentlest breed,

  Yet strong, like every goodly thing;

  The discipline of arms refines,

  And the wave gives tempering.

  The damasked blade its beam can fling;

  It lends the last grave grace:

  The hawk, the hound, and sworded nobleman

  In Titian’s picture for a king,

  Are of hunter or warrior race.

  In social halls a favored guest

  In years that follow victory won,

  How sweet to feel your festal fame

  In woman’s glance instinctive thrown:

  Repose is yours—your deed is known,

  It musks the amber wine;

  It lives, and sheds a light from storied days

  Rich as October sunsets brown,

  Which make the barren place to shine.

  But seldom the laurel wreath is seen

  Unmixed with pensive pansies dark;

  There’s a light and a shadow on every man

  Who at last attains his lifted mark—

  Nursing through night the ethereal spark.

  Elate he never can be;

  He feels that spirits which glad had hailed his worth,

  Sleep in oblivion.—The shark

  Glides white through the phosphorus sea.

  Presentation to the Authorities,

  by Privates, of Colors captured in Battles

  ending in the Surrender of Lee

  THESE flags of armies overthrown—

  Flags fallen beneath the sovereign one

  In end foredoomed which closes war;

  We here, the captors, lay before

  The altar which of right claims all—

  Our Country. And as freely we,

  Revering ever her sacred call,

  Could lay our lives down—though life be

  Thrice loved and precious to the sense

  Of such as reap the recompense

  Of life imperiled for just cause—

  Imperiled, and yet preserved;

  While comrades, whom Duty as strongly nerved,

  Whose wives were all as dear, lie low.

  But these flags given, glad we go

  To waiting homes with vindicated laws.

  The Returned Volunteer to his Rifle

  OVER this hearth—my father’s seat—

  Repose, to patriot-memory dear,

  Thou tried companion, whom at last I greet

  By steepy banks of Hudson here.

  How oft I told thee of this scene—

  The Highlands blue—the river’s narrowing sheen.

  Little at Gettysburg we thought

  To find such haven; but God kept it green.

  Long rest! with belt, and bayonet, and canteen.

  THE SCOUT TOWARD ALDIE

  The Scout toward Aldie

  THE cavalry-camp lies on the slope

  Of what was late a vernal hill,

  But now like a pavement bare—

  An outpost in the perilous wilds

  Which ever are lone and still;

  But Mosby’s men are there—

  Of Mosby best beware.

  Great trees the troopers felled, and leaned

  In antlered walls about their tents;

  Strict watch they kept; ’twas Hark! and Mark!

  Unarmed none cared to stir abroad

  For berries beyond their forest-fence:

  As glides in seas the shark,

  Rides Mosby through green dark.

  All spake of him, but few had seen

  Except the maimed ones or the low;

  Yet rumor made him every thing—

  A farmer—woodman—refugee—

  The man who crossed the field but now;

  A spell about his life did cling—

  Who to the ground shall Mosby bring?

  The morning-bugles lonely play,

  Lonely the evening-bugle calls—

  Unanswered voices in the wild;

  The settled hush of birds in nest

  Becharms, and all the wood enthralls:

  Memory’s self is so beguiled

  That Mosby seems a satyr’s child.

  They lived as in the Eerie Land—

  The fire-flies showed with fairy gleam;

  And yet from pine-tops one might ken

  The Capitol Dome—hazy—sublime—

&nbs
p; A vision breaking on a dream:

  So strange it was that Mosby’s men

  Should dare to prowl where the Dome was seen.

  A scout toward Aldie broke the spell.—

  The Leader lies before his tent

  Gazing at heaven’s all-cheering lamp

  Through blandness of a morning rare;

  His thoughts on bitter-sweets are bent:

  His sunny bride is in the camp—

  But Mosby—graves are beds of damp!

  The trumpet calls; he goes within;

  But none the prayer and sob may know:

  Her hero he, but bridegroom too.

  Ah, love in a tent is a queenly thing,

  And fame, be sure, refines the vow;

  But fame fond wives have lived to rue,

  And Mosby’s men fell deeds can do.

  Tan-tara! tan-tara! tan-tara!

  Mounted and armed he sits a king;

  For pride she smiles if now she peep—

  Elate he rides at the head of his men;

  He is young, and command is a boyish thing:

  They file out into the forest deep—

  Do Mosby and his rangers sleep?

  The sun is gold, and the world is green,

  Opal the vapors of morning roll;

  The champing horses lightly prance—

  Full of caprice, and the riders too

  Curving in many a caracole.

  But marshaled soon, by fours advance—

  Mosby had checked that airy dance.

  By the hospital-tent the cripples stand—

  Bandage, and crutch, and cane, and sling,

  And palely eye the brave array;

  The froth of the cup is gone for them

  (Caw! caw! the crows through the blueness wing):