The Southland Columbiad, and other poems

Preface

These poems are presented to the public not with a view of challenging criticism, at least not that kind of criticism that falls afoul of every imperfection and affirms its condemnation regardless of general merit. If the author is a poet, if he has any gift as poet, it has but recently been discovered — accidentally so — in a friendly correspondence in which he was caricatured in rime. This evoked from him a friendly reply; and since then, at odd times within the last two years, he has written this volume.

Having been in the late war from first to last, either as soldier or chaplain, the author's heart was in the " Lost Cause." Thinking, after this drama was over, that perhaps he was on the wrong side, he made an exhaustive study of the forefathers, and through that study became thoroughly convinced that the South had the Federal Constitution on its side. Hence the "Southland Columbiad."

The author desires fair play, and sees no reason why the name of the South should be odious in any quarter of the globe; nor why it should be held in execration for the course it pursued, and its honest, heroic vindication of constitutional principles. He hopes that the "Columbiad" will, in some degree, assist in maintaining the South's rightful standing in the eyes of all the world.

Most of the other poems are in rime, and this will make them more pleasing to many. readers. The Author.

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Contents

Part I. page

PART II. Other Poems 189

Smiles 193

Eve under the Tree of Forbidden Fruit 195

Helena, Napoleon's Grave 215

Poor Benjamin's Prayer 218

Seeing the Flowers Grow 222

Who Are Kings and Queens ? 224

Munsey — A Painting 227

Our Southern Lily Hands 229

Is There a God? 231

Man in the Image 234

To the Mother-Bird 236

The Young Mother's Lament 23S

How People See 2^9

The Orphan Boy 255

Winter 257

A Problem 258

The Discontented Boy 259

Wouldn't Pick Cotton 261

Uncle Phil Moss Visits the Old Homestead 270

PART I.

THE SOUTHLAND COLUMBIAD.

THE SOUTHLAND COLUMBIAD.

Chapter I

DRAMA of four years our thoughts engage 1 v. With scenes innumerable. A tale too long, If all the scenes were shown, or half the tale Were told, for one lifetime to pencil down. Four long, dreary years the drama lasted. While time moved slow, and crept as up some slope Whose rocks and steeps abated breath and action ; Such years, perhaps, as ne'er the world had seen. And such as God forbid shall come again. It is the tale of the Southland, whose sons, Like its tall pines, had tasted an upper air Where breathed a fragrant thought of liberty ; And on that lofty plain the hope indulged That not Juno, nor goddess less or greater. Would torment their country and chase them round. As did relentless Juno ancient Troy.

But hope was vain ; and since thrice told's the tale^ And o'er the world thrice told the tale has gone. The Southland feels, is pained with added grief ; For much that's told is so unfair, her cause She would again espouse ; not with her sword, For long ensheathed her honored sword must rest ; Nor would she raise her voice through will corrupt To circulate her tale of wrongs and woes. Nor would charge crimes where they do not belong. She would that all the wrongs should be forgot,

That she and those she fought had thus agreed. But with her voice, whate'er the wreath she wears, She will deal fair, for truth always behaves ; Her heroes and truth occupy twin graves.

If Mars has a weeping eye, though his tears May have been pent, restrained in all the past — If e'er he had been nigh to tears, these years Must have suffused his face, have satisfied His thirst for blood and tears, and made him bring That epoch in the world when gates of war. By his command, shall ne'er be found ajar.

In writing this drama, not I the pen Doth move, nor I with will the pen doth hold ; But rather would cover o'er all the scenes, And hide them from the children then unborn, That other eyes than those who bore a part. And were actors in the dreadful fray. Might see no page that tells the tale of wrongs. Better by far the tale should be untold, And all lie hid, e'en the right with the wrong. But something moves the hand, and brings afresh Those sad, dark years we would were now forgot. Call it a Muse, or else ; whate'er the name. Charge all to it ; what's writ we shall disclaim.

The gray-haired sires whose days had been prolonged.

Who ne'er had known to want, or felt a blast That chills, saw times they ne'er had thought or

dreamed.

And worse times grew, the less they said, till scarce A word they spoke. Deep-wrought hesitation Controlled their steps ; and voices, like their steps.

Had ceased ere curtain fell and closed the scenes. Like gray-haired statues, struck not dead but dumb, They stood amazed at what the times had wrought — Dumb, since life and treasure had gone for naught.

Gray-haired matrons stood beside gray-haired sires. Not as in youth, nor those marital days When the morning songs in the magnolias Were answered with the harp-string and the lute ; But with wondering look, as waiting Some fair speech or news or turn in events. Which would weaken the hand of Time, who wrought With rapid pace, and in his haste did touch The brow, and deeper, wider furrows made Than any age or country yet had known. They stood amazed, aghast, trembling, forlorn. The noon and evening news the same as morn.

All were fond brothers once, both North and South ; Comrades in former war, where, side by side. Through smoke and death, they gained their first victory.

The world looked on, and saw the dreadful fray. As, side by side, with friendly aid they fought. Nor eyes withdrew till Briton's strength had waned, And all Columbian shores shouted triumph. The struggle made, the losses of life, and all The common ruin and desolation Which was the price that gave to freedom birth. Increased the faith that naught could ever break The brotherhood who, arm in arm, had battled. And when the victory came, and shores were clear. When Britons left, and Columbia was free. With heart in heart they raised a brother's shout ;

For they had gained, through a dreadful carnage, A great free land as common heritage.

But rarest flowers oft have the tenderest blades. And sweet perfumes get mixed with bitter cups. Hence all rare tender things need guardian watch, Or else some evil tide may intervene. When rarest gems shall waste and go to naught. For once a brother stands no proof that ties Of fond affection shall forever last. Down his rapid slope Time leads to a bell. If love is not renewed each morning sun. That tolls the knell of fond old memories. When these grow dim and have a distant look They leave the world a meager chance to hold The love of to-day as strong on the morrow. Its decadence keeps pace with marching time, And time must stop or else the love will wane.

Love's a thing renewed, or, if not renewed. Time will perform its last sad obsequies. But how renewed and how refreshed each day Is the great task, and shows how love is kept, How keeps its pace the morrow as to-day, Unchanged in evening and the morning gray.

When passion is left free to rule the life, How oft the changes wrought in human thought Do bring a time that tries the strength of love. And make a harder task to guard its life Than the assent to open revolution. Than the consent to rupture, when the heart Is filled with hate, and anger glows with heat. Ofttimes the pain that's felt to guard friendship, And the sacrifice friendship oft demands.

So strain the tensions that the soul is chilled.

The cord, though strong, will break, as break it did ;

For the exactions grew such a burden

The South, though loath to take a step so dire,

Chose secession to love embraced with chains.

The step the South took showed a hand and heart. Displayed a thought and courage, such as when The fathers drove the Britons from their shores. And gained themselves names famous and renowned. If the South was wrong, the fathers were wrong. Charge crime on the South for the step she took. Pluck from her crown the right to love liberty, Rob her of the right that made her defense. Pull off her crown, and execrate her name ; Then turn the eyes, behold the fathers' heads : No honored chaplet wreath hangs o'er their brows. How bare their heads ! How lost to name and fame !

For scenes that followed, go ask the actors ; Go stand by the graves of the countless dead. Hallowed with good will and matchless valor ; Stir that sleeping dust, and ask the reason Why love that was so strong met with its death ; Why descendants of honored sires who loved Trampled the sacred threshold of friendship, And substituted hate for love, war for peace. Go to the sonless widows with aching hearts — If sorrow and tears have not found a grave — And hear the tale of the bereft, in more than Acadian accents, speak those dreadful times.

But why repeat? Why doth the thought so long Brood over the wrongs the Southland suffered ? Why so long look back again on shadows.

Whence all else is gone except living signs,

Which, as index fingers, will not decay ?

Why look on these signs and on these shadows

When every sign and shade doth stir again

The memory that brings back the olden pain ?

W^hy follow back this resounding echo

To fields of carnage, aching hearts, and tears?

To follow back is not the will ; had it The strength, it would roll back the evil tide Of memories which, the signs and shadows show. Would slay these signs and shadows, even as Southern heroes fell slain, nor leave a trace To follow back and see the blood again.

But why talk of what is impossible? Can the husband forget his loving wife. Or the mother the suckling on her breast? Nature must change that these may be forgot ; Or else, as long as signs and shadows walk. They will be traced where more than shadows dwelt. As well to try estop the rolling spheres. Or try to snatch the man from off the moon. As to rid the mind of signs and shadows. Or check the piercing thought of tracing back.

A stone is dead, and in itself inert ; And, while inert in all, not so with man : But like the stone, helpless, his thought runs back, His eyes behold the shadows and the signs, And then, inert, he follows back the way They point, and sees again the bloody fields ; Sees again the Southland in its struggle. Its marching soldiery, impoverished lands. And burnt cities ; sees again the stars and bars.

Powder-burned, ball-rent, and weather-stained ; Sees all the sacrifice of home and life. Which, without strong faith and honest purpose Deeply implanted on the Southland side. Could not have been ; and in the end he sees The loss, the tears, the widows, and the graves.

If they were all he sees, it could be borne. For honest hearts can bear all this and more ; But he sees his name, that sacred keystone Which is dearer than life, is placed beneath The slave, and kicked about and spit upon. Until he feels he's hated and outlawed. Without a country that is named his own ; Without rights except such as others give ; With naught around except a broken sword. On this he looks with fainting, bleeding heart ; His eyes then turn to other continents. If perchance on these or some far isle He may find air that's free, and have a chance To enjoy the liberty of one born free.

Chapter II

IN the early spring, when nature assumes An air of triumph over a withered world, The Southland heroes fought their last battle. But no buds of spring, nor the flowers gay. Could have effect or raise their drooping spirits. In strange contrast faced they and spring. Nature, as if in sympathy, raised her hand Some cheer to give, and kindly her voice spake. But when hope and cheer have been left behind. And, hovering o'er, clouds of gloom are gathered. Words of cheer go for naught, and more than naught ; For life may pass a gate where nothing cheers. Then seers may speak and prophets foretell. And set in music every cheering bell ; And spring, to cheer, may add her charming flowers. Clothe the fields and all the woodland bowers ; Yet not these outward notes, though all combined. Can yield the cheer the day, the hour, demands When the soul contains its own auguries, And gets its cheer, if cheer at all can rise. Not from the things that laugh with hearts aglee. But from the things which speak grief and sorrow, For these, akin, do make the best company.

When the Southland had fought its last battle. Since its courage and blood could not obtain The freedom for which the battles were fought. Confusion reigned mixed with disgust and tears. Standing alone in his thought, each soldier A conclusion reached, but not all the same.

Remaining in the lost and wasted land, Where principles for which the war was made Could never more reign, was a doubtful course, A gruesome task, a course that some did shun. Nor was it less heroic to spin life's thread, As otherwise they did, than to remain.

Southland eyes turned toward some other lands. Looked across the seas to isles far away. And hope indulged, if not an asylum Of liberty for which they yearned, that at least Some sacred spot might be gained, where the shades Of their ruined country would not intrude. Where these might not torment, harass the soul. The tale, what those endured who did return, Is long, nor will the pencil tell that tale. To tell the tale of those who fled away Would make in volumes e'en as those who fled. Only one shall be made to speak, and his voice. If found worthy, shall represent the whole.

Captain Drake, who endured for his country Heat, cold, and a thousand dangers escaped. Care-worn and scarred, stood by a little ship. A few comrades who had borne the battle fray, Who for the South had battled all they could, Now by his side stood round and viewed the sea. And looked the captain in the eye, to know What was his mind, his thought, his purpose all. Determined to follow as once in battle. Few words were spoke, as by the briny shore They stood and gazed upon the little ship. The captain's eye seemed turned across the brine, As though he saw a land of milk and wine ; 2

But scarce a word he spoke, but orders gave To lade the ship with supplies abundant.

The ship being laden as was commanded, The captain lay down on the Southland shore To rest and dream ; nor hoped another sleep Upon the land he loved, but the morrow To hoist sail in search of another shore. When morning came the sun smote the Southland With rarest beams. It was the Southland sun. Whatever else might escape the memory On the doubtful sea in life's wandering. That Southland sun, as it shone that morning, Did so impress, it could ne'er be forgotten. It would have held the ship fast moored to shore, For it did produce some hesitation. So strong its invitation to remain on land, So hard the task to bid the South farewell. But while it was kissing those Floridian shores It was smiting the hard-fought battle-fields. The graves on which so many tears were shed. The living and weeping, the penury and want, The whole field of Southland desolation. The captain took that sun as good omen. And, stepping from off the Southland shore. And standing aboard his little ship, said :

" Comrades, friends, first of all I cross the line 'Tween that behind and that which lies beyond. Sometimes a sea is all that's left to man, And on its fair bosom man may be free. Its moving waters wash down all false lines And leave no chance a sign or post to plant As mark or line to bar the rights of man.

The stubborn shores that break the rugged waves

Plant their hills and cliffs of rocks as a bound,

But leave the sea a heritage for all.

I look across these deep briny waters,

And while yonder brilliant sun doth look down

And kiss the land and sea with rays resplendent.

Though tears do consecrate these war-worn shores,

I kiss that sea, I kiss its rugged wave.

Kiss I this open way and friend of man.

And shake parting hand with this Southland clime.

" O'erthrown in war, I can not yield a slave ; Will not bear the taunts and jeers that follow When victors lose reason in shouts of triumph, A triumph dead to what the world has lost. Nor feels nor knows how long the time shall be Before the world again shall meet repairs. I will not bend the neck to bear the yoke. That fleeces life to pay the debts incurred Through war that overthrew the rights of man. I can not endure the land I once so lov'ed Unless lost hope should be regained, and light The heart again, forsooth, that by and by. The right spirit might seize the concpierors. When liberty, perchance, might rise again.

" What a somber look all things do present? Where are the songs that once regaled our thoughts? Where and what that country so dearly loved? Where that sweet impulse, that in former days. Mixed with siren songs of Southland love, Tuned the heart and set its key beyond The afflictions which now this day encroach? Ready to sail, I look back on the graves

Of heroes slain, that monumental pile, That tells the tale of struggling liberty.

" The world has oft gone wrong, and yet as oft Some guiding star hath led a meager few To seek a land and make it free, lest rights Should all be lost and the world left forlorn. Since now a glimmering hope leads the way. Is it not better far this to follow

Than dwell on these shores, where the odds against Rule after their will and have no mercy? Better far to seize a glimmering hope And pursue, with chances as to results. Than hopeless, with chance among the victors ; At least, chances taken with light and shade, Are better far than when there's naught but shade.

" Should no land be found, occupied and free. Where as welcome guests we may stay our feet, Or should no land be found, unoccupied. Where we might, in hope a colony plant. The sea is ours, and on its broad bosom We may follow the brightest star that guides Till Fortune, which doth not always forsake, Shall lead us to a port, or high sea friends, Who will rift the clouds that shall be hanging And bring to life again a joyous spirit.

" Our choice is made, we leave to friends behind Good will and cheer ; such cheer as they may find Amidst the graves of slaughtered knights who fell For the Constitution their fathers made, And which they tried to keep with guardian care ; Such cheer as their moldering cities bring, The cheer that military camps uphold,

And all the cheer that's found in poverty, In usurpation and degradation.

Naught else remains in all the Southland air To them who dwell and look and still remain ; They are the unfortunate of the times.

" But time doth show her hand, as ages prove, When powdered dust doth gather in mountains. And arrogant mountains melt down to dust ; And time doth turn a wheel, the dust to raise, When vain arrogancy to dust returns. Trusting to Him who guides the stars in course. Who oft to weakness brings some healthful breeze, Almost in faith we leave such cheer behind ; If true, there's hope for the children's children.

" Our ship standing here we name the ' Southland ; ' It is the christened name that she shall bear. Where'er she sails, upon her oaken walls The Southland name shall show, and while she lasts The Southland name and cause shall not be lost. She's built for the wave, the storm, built for time. How long she will ride the waves is unknown. What billowy heights and deep-cut channels Shall try her keel and shake her oaken frame ; What storms shall whistle and try her cordage, Or fiercely press her sails and strain her masts. Lies out on the paths her keel shall plow. A war-worn freight, with nerves that have been tried Bearing good will to mankind, form her crew."

Ere Captain Drake had finished, his comrades. Twelve in number, went aboard waiting orders. In statue form a while the captain stood. As one in short hesitation doth stand,

Ere first step in some great undertaking ; Stood long enough to photograph his form, His eyes, his mien, on those who stood on shore ; Stood long enough for those on shore to see His height six feet, erect, skin blondo-brunette. Brown hair and blue eyes, large nose and broad chin. Twenty-five years of age and college bred. Without fear, a typical Southerner.

At the word of command the sails unreel And catch the breeze and soon the Southland ship Began to leave, for long, the Southland shores. " Unreave, unreave, full sail ! " the captain cried ; " To the South Sea bend the prow. That sea, as yet Not full explored, may yield an island home, An island new, nor may it be too cold. Of such expanse in that unbounded waste, That ample room shall be to build a state On principles for which the Southland fought. Full sail, nor is the word a bantering cry, Nor doth with sea or wind or tide find fault. Nor doth it mean to haste our destiny. It's but the cry of that within which speaks, For man, when times extreme possess his soul. Finds help, nor should he question why or whence. Full sail, an all-helping Hand is in the cry, And though the South Sea may not yield the fruits On which a glimmering hope this hour is stayed, What of defeat? It's but the common lot. But why is defeat the common lot of man ? It must be so when numbers overwhelm. For this we learned in our Southland battles, Whence numbers drove us out upon the sea. It must be so when the all-higher Hand

Doth hedge the way with sword and cherubim. It must be so, though oft is hid from sight, When He who knows it all works with design ; Who thinks less upon an hour or one day, Than upon the compounded years, through which He sees, and brings to man the greatest good. But with such chance, this freedom of the sea. The hedgerows seem broken and gates seem open. Remains now only that we plow the sea, Plow it in calm and storm, by night and day. And with the rocking ship cast up the spray. Till that voice within crying ' Full sail,' Will bring some isle of refuge to the view, Or raise some friend in whom we'll find rescue."

Each heart the captain cheered, and all the crew, Each at his post, full sail the " Southland " kept. It was the Southland ship in search of home ; In search of home in the far southern sea. With glimmering hope in that far region. That a Southland new, a peer of the old. With time to found and build would rise resplendent. It was a search for home, a land as once ; A clime in hope, like unto the Southland Where again the tall poplars would blossom And fragrant magnolias perfume the air. While the morning catbird, straining his throat With his best songs, wovdd cheer each rising day ; And the whippoorwill, the Southern curfew. Facing the arched twilight, would toll a note Through gathering shades of each day's departure, Where man might give his soul to God and time. Enwrapped, morn and eve, with Nature's melody.

On the Southland ship rode Sergeant McClure, As once with Semmes on the Alabama ; Tall and brave, calm in battle and full of hope. Lieutenant Starke, who at Fortress Monroe Rode on the " Virginia," that ship which sent down The " Congress " and " Cumberland," nor withdrew Until she had frightened the " Ericsson," Now rode the " Southland " in calm quietness, As though with sound of war unacquainted. Heroes all, their spurs had won ; Jameson, Ralston and Tom Gossom, Jones and Riley, Hill, Grace and Tilley, Robey and Wiley, Are names who the Southland cause espoused. And now aboard, bound for the southern sea.

For days it was beautiful sail. The sun No clouds obscured. With good will shone the moon, And the stars in twinkling dance sang favor. Each rising day brought a new song of cheer And filled their hearts with seafaring melody. Captain Drake and his companions looked up And caught the humor of the sky, nor draped they Their thoughts with Southland shadows left behind, But talked of the South Sea, where dwelt their homes. There lay for them some island home or else. As sea of promise, some happy fate unknown. In this did all agree, to this consent. For auguries and voices did thus incline.

But when the Southland ship had reached a line Where its noon-hour shadow reached to southward, Threatening cirrus tails the sky besprinkled. And dark banks veiled the horizon around. Under this cirrus sky, pent in by these banks.

With her sails unpressed, the " Southland " rested,

As though by some Plutonian skill or art

The quiet zephyrs, with the fierce storm winds,

Had fled, rebuked, to their ^^olian caves.

As when in battle-line the South had stood

On many a battle-field ere fray began.

This hour, this calm, did token coming storm.

Robey had oft been o'er the tropic sea. And on its bosom fought for Southland home ; Had seen its fogs and clouds, what winds had borne, And mingled with it all the tones of war. Now on the deck he calmly stood, and viewing The thickening cirrus tails and rising banks, While all the crew awaited for his speech.

"A storm," said he, " is hovering round ; our ship Is central point, and like a Southland battle We shall be pressed, but like a Southland battle The first we'll gain ; and if not o'er and o'er. Like Southland battles which would never stop. Such storms repeated do not thickly come. We'll ride beyond these tails, beyond these banks, Until in view will come the southern sea."

" Reef sail," cried Captain Drake. " Leave just enough To tack the storm. Lash ye each at his post. On mast, on yard, and in rigging high. With hands and limbs unlaced and free to act. For the ' Southland's ' in center of a storm Which soon will strike and with tremendous wail. My brave comrades " —

But other words were vain.

The storm had struck. Old Neptune sank below.

Nor dared such storm to brave. Darkness gathered.

The day became a dreadful night that naught

Did rend to show one star or streak of light.

One continuous roar subdued the thunder's note.

Electric light came and went in blinding play,

And when gone left the darkness doubly thick.

With reeling frame the " Southland " rode the sea

With screeching cordage midst the whistling winds.

For hours waves and spray washed the heroes' frames,

While lashed each at his post, the ship to guide.

For hours, with panting breath and dripping hair,

They reached their arms the stays to hold.

Nor yielded courage as they fought the storm.

And while it blew no one a comrade saw,

Nor voice was heard except the howling wind ;

Yet each one, as though in dreadful battle.

When the fate of all on him depended,

Stood at his post to save the ship or die.

And when the storm was gone there each one stood.

And the day was gone, so long blew the storm ; But when unlaced from masts and rigging gear The comrades stood aboard the rocking ship. They combed their dripping locks 'neath smiling stars ; And while Captain Drake stood the ship to guard. They cast their weary frames on cots till day ; For the " Southland" bore well, nor lost a sail, Nor showed at any place a gaping wound.

The crew refreshed, the morning cry, " Full sail," Rang on the air, and soon the Southland ship Steered, " full sail," toward the southern sea ; Nor e'er did stop through storm, or change her course. Until o'er southern seas her sails were spread.

Thirty degrees east of Cape Horn, South Georgia, A land of small extent, far leeward rose. The name this island bore produced a pause : It had a name so dear, of Southland state, The hearts of all the crew ran out for it. And seemed that they would kiss its shores, its rocks, And all that it contained, so much they loved The name it bore ! So much fond affection. In the absence of the object dearly loved. Doth grasp a name, a painted form, a ring, A lock of hair, and all that lies between The heart that loves and objects far away.