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Page 161
When lo! on the cloud, a miraculous thing!
Broke in beauty the rainbow our host to enfold!
The centre o'erspread by its arch, and each wing
Suffused with its azure and crimson and gold.
Blest omen of victory, symbol divine
Of peace after tumult, repose after pain;
How sweet and how glowing with promise the sign,
To eyes that should never behold it again!
For the fierce flame of war on the morrow flashed out,
And its thunder-peals filled all the tremulous air:
Over slippery intrenchment and reddened redoubt,
Rang the wild cheer of triumph, the cry of despair.
Then a long week of glory and agony came--
Of mute supplication, and yearning, and dread;
When day unto day gave the record of fame,
And night unto night gave the list of its dead.
We had triumphed--the foe had fled back to his ships--
His standard in rags and his legions a wreck--
But alas! the stark faces and colorless lips
Of our loved ones, gave triumph's rejoicing a check.
Not yet, oh not yet, as a sign of release,
Had the Lord set in mercy his bow in the cloud;
Not yet had the Comforter whispered of peace
To the hearts that around us lay bleeding and bowed.
But the promise was given--the beautiful arc,
With its brilliant profusion of colors, that spanned
The sky on that exquisite eve, was the mark
Of the Infinite Love overarching the land:
And that Love, shining richly and full as the day,
Through the tear-drops that moisten each martyr's proud pall,
On the gloom of the past the bright bow shall display
Of Freedom, Peace, Victory, bent over all.
Stonewall Jackson.
Mortally wounded--"_The Brigade must not know, sir._"
"Who've ye got there?"--"Only a dying brother,
Hurt in the front just now."
"Good boy! he'll do. Somebody tell his mother
Where he was killed, and how."
"Whom have you there?"--"A crippled courier, major,
Shot by mistake, we hear.
He was with Stonewall." "Cruel work they've made here:
Quick with him to the rear!"
"Well, who comes next?"--"Doctor, speak low, speak low, sir;
Don't let the men find out.
It's STONEWALL!" "God!" "The brigade must not know, sir,
While there's a foe about."
Whom have we _here_--shrouded in martial manner,
Crowned with a martyr's charm?
A grand dead hero, in a living banner,
Born of his heart and arm:
The heart whereon his cause hung--see how clingeth
That banner to his bier!
The arm wherewith his cause struck--hark! how ringeth
His trumpet in their rear!
What have we left? His glorious inspiration,
His prayers in council met.
Living, he laid the first stones of a nation;
And dead, he builds it yet.
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