Poems (Dorr)/Gettysburg
GETTYSBURG
1863-1889
I.
Brothers, is this the spot?Let the drums cease to beat;Let the tread of marching feet,With the clash and clang of steelAnd the trumpet's long appeal(Cry of joy and sob of painIn its passionate refrain) Cease awhile, Nor beguileThoughts that would rehearse the storyOf the past's remembered glory;Thoughts that would revive to-dayStern War's rude, imperious sway;Waken battle's fiery glowWith its ardor and its woe,With its wild, exulting thrills,With the rush of mighty wills,And the strength to do and dare—Born of passion and of prayer!
II.
Let the present fade away,And the splendors of to-day;For our hearts within us burnAs our glances backward turn. What rare memories awakenAs the tree of life is shaken,And its storied branches blowIn the winds of long ago!Do ye not remember, brothers,Ere the war-days how 'twas saidGrand, heroic days were overAnd proud chivalry was dead?Still we saw the glittering lancesGleaming through the old romances,Still beheld the watch-fires burningOn the cloudy heights of Time; And from fields that they had won, When the stormy fight was done,Saw victorious knights returningFlushed with triumph's joy sublime! For the light of song and story Kindled with supernal gloryPlains where ancient heroes fought;And illumined, with a splendorRare and magical and tender,All the mighty deeds they wrought.But we thought the sword of battle,Long unused, had lost its glow,And the sullen war-gods slumberedWhere their altar-fires burned low!
III.
Was the nation dull and sodden, Buried in material things?'Twas the chrysalis, awaitingThe sure stirring of its wings!For when rang the thrilling war-cry Over all the startled land, And the fiery cross of battle, Flaming, sped from hand to hand,Then how fared it, O my brothers? Were men false or craven then? Did they falter? Did they palter?Did they question why or when?Oh, the story shall be toldUntil earth itself is old,How, from mountain and from glen,More than thrice ten thousand menHeard the challenge of the foe,Heard the nation's cry of woe,Heard the summoning to arms,And the battle's loud alarms!In tumultuous surprise,Lo, their answer rent the skies;And its quick and strong heart-thrillsRocked the everlasting hills!Forth from blossoming fields they spedTo the fields with carnage red!Left the plowshare standing still;Left the bench, the forge, the mill;Left the quiet walks of tradeAnd the quarry's marble shade;Left the pulpit and the court,Careless ease and idle sport;Left the student's cloistered hallsIn the old, gray college walls;Left young love-dreams, dear and sweet,War's stern front, unblenched, to meet!Oh, the strange and sad amazeOf those unforgotten days,When the boys whom we had guided,Nursed and loved, caressed and chided, Suddenly, as in a night,Sprang to manhood's proudest height;And with calmly smiling lips,As who life's rarest goblet sips,Dauntless, with unhurried breath,Marched to danger and to death!
IV.
Soldiers, is this the spot?Fair the scene is, calm and fair,In this still October air;Far blue hills look gently downOn the happy, tranquil town,And the ridges nearer bySteeped in autumn sunshine lie.Laden orchards, smiling fields,Rich in all that nature yields;Bright streams winding in and outFertile meadows round about,Lowing herds and hum of bee,Birds that flit from tree to tree,Children's voices ringing clear,All we touch or see or hear—Fruit of gold in silver set—Tell of joy and peace. And yet— Soldiers, is this the spot That can never be forgot?Was it here that shot and shellPoured as from the mouth of hell,Drenched the shrinking, trembling plainWith a flood of fiery rain?Was it here the awful wonderOf the cannon's crashing thunderShook the affrighted hills, and madeEven the stolid rocks afraid? Was it here an armed host, Like two clouds where lightnings play,Or two oceans, tempest tost, Clashed and mingled in the fray?Here that, 'mid the din and smoke,Roar of guns and sabre stroke,Tramp of furious steeds, where moanHorse and rider, both o'erthrown,Lurid fires and battle yell, Forty thousand brave men fell?
V.
O brothers, words are weak!What tongue shall dare to speak?Even song itself grows dumbIn this high presence.—ComeForth, ye whose ashes lieUnder this arching sky!Speak ye in accents clearWords that we fain would hear!Tell us when your dim eyes,Holy with sacrifice,Looked through the battle smoke Up to the skies;Tell us, ye valiant dead,When your souls starward fled,How from the portals farWhere the immortals are,Chieftains and vikings old,Heroes and warriors bold,Men whom old Homer sung,Men of each age and tongue,Knights from a thousand fieldsBearing their blazoned shields Thronged forth to meet ye! Tell us how, floating down,Each with a martyr's crown,They who had kept the faith,Grandly defying death;They who for conscience' sakeFelt their firm heartstrings break;They who for truth and rightUnshrinking fought the fight;They who through fire and flamePassed on to deathless fame, Hastened to greet ye!Tell how they welcomed ye,Hailed and applauded ye,Claimed ye as comrades true,Brave as the world e'er knew;Led your triumphant feetUp to the highest seat,Crowned ye with amaranth, Laurel and palm.
VI.
Alas, alas! They speak not!The silence deep they break not!Heaven keeps its martyred onesBeyond or moon or suns;And Valhalla keeps its braves,Leaving to us their graves!Then let these graves speak for themAs long as the wind sweeps o'er them!As long as the sentinel ridgesKeep guard on either hand;As long as the hills they fought forLike silent watch-towers stand!
VII.
Yet not of them alone Round each memorial stoneShall the proud breezes whisper as they pass, Rustling the faded leaves On chilly autumn eves,And swaying tenderly the sheltering grass! O ye who on this field Knew not the joy to yieldYour young, glad; lives in glorious conflict up; Ye who as bravely fought, Ye who as grandly wrought,Draining with them war's darkly bitter cup, As long as stars endure And God and Truth are sure; While Love still claims its own, While Honor holds its throne And Valor hath a name, Still shall these stony pages Repeat to all the ages The story of your fame!
VIII.
O beautiful one, my Country,Thou fairest daughter of Time,To-day are thine eyes uncloudedIn the light of a faith sublime!No thunder of battle appals thee;From thy woe thou hast found release;From the graves of thy sons steals onlyThis one soft whisper,—"Peace!"