Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, Or where, like those strange semblances we find That age to childhood bind, The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, The brown of Autumn corn. As yet the turf is dark, although you know That, not a span below, A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, And soon will burst their tomb. Already, here and there, on frailest stems Appear some azure gems, Small as might deck, upon a gala day, The forehead of a fay. In gardens you may see, amid the dearth, The crocus breaking earth ; And near the snowdrop's tender white and green, But many gleams and shadows needs must pass And weeks go by, before the enamored South Shall kiss the rose's mouth. Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn In the sweet airs of morn; One almost looks to see the very street Grow purple at his feet. At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, And brings, you know not why, A feeling as when eager crowds await Before a palace gate Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start, If from a beech's heart A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say— "Behold me! I am May!" Ah, who would couple thoughts of war and crime With such a blessed time! Who in the west-wind's aromatic breath Could hear the call of Death! Yet not more surely shall the Spring awake The voice of wood and brake, Than she shall rouse, for all her tranquil charms A million men to arms. There shall be deeper hues upon her plains Than all her sunlight rains, And every gladdening influence around Can summon from the ground. Oh! standing on this desecrated mould, Lifting her bloody daisies up to God, And calling with the voice of all her rills To fall and crush the tyrants and the slaves Who turn her meads to graves. HENRY TIMROD. SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. THE poplar drops beside the way Its tasselled plumes of silver gray; The chestnut points its great brown buds, impatient for the laggard May. The honeysuckles lace the wall; And mellow sun and pleasant wind and odorous bees are over all. Down-looking in this snow-white bud, How distant seems the war's red flood! How far remote the streaming wounds, the sickening scent of human blood! For Nature does not recognize This strife that rends the earth and skies; No war-dreams vex the winter sleep of cloverheads and daisy-eyes. She holds her even way the same, A snow-drop is a snow-drop still, despite the Nation's joy or shame. When blood her grassy altar wets, To heal the outrage with their bloom, and cover it with soft regrets. O crocuses with rain-wet eyes, What do you know of agony, and death, and bloodwon victories? No shudder breaks your sunshine trance, Though near you rolls, with slow advance, Clouding your shining leaves with dust, the anguishladen ambulance. Yonder a white encampment hums; And now your startled stems are all a-tremble with the jar of drums. Whether it lessen or increase, Or whether trumpets shout or cease, Still deep within your tranquil hearts the happy bees are humming “Peace !” O flowers! the soul that faints or grieves New comfort from your lips receives; Sweet confidence and patient faith are hidden in your healing leaves. Help us to trust, still on and on, That this dark night will soon be gone, And that these battle-stains are but the blood-red trouble of the dawn Dawn of a broader, whiter day Than ever blessed us with its ray A dawn beneath whose purer light all guilt and wrong shall fade away. Then shall our nation break its bands, Stand in the searching light unshamed, with spotless robe and clean white hands. ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN. AT PORT ROYAL. [1862.] THE tent-lights glimmer on the land, The night-wind smooths with drifting sand At last our grating keels outslide, Our good boats forward swing; And while we ride the land-locked tide, Our negroes row and sing. For dear the bondman holds his gifts Of music and of song: The gold that kindly Nature sifts The power to make his toiling days Another glow than sunset's fire The land is wild with fear and hate, The lurid glow falls strong across With oar-strokes timing to their song, The triumph-note that Miriam sung, SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN. Oh, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come To set de people free; An' massa tink it day ob doom, An' we ob jubilee. |