Complete Poetical Works - Bret Harte

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Came the sadder, fainter cry,

       "Help us, brothers, ere we die—

       Save us, Sanitary!"

       Such the work. The phantom flies,

       Wrapped in battle clouds that rise:

       But the brave—whose dying eyes,

       Veiled and visionary,

       See the jasper gates swung wide,

       See the parted throng outside—

       Hears the voice to those who ride:

       "Pass in, Sanitary!"

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      (MALVERN HILL, 1864)

      "After the men were ordered to lie down, a white rabbit, which had

       been hopping hither and thither over the field swept by grape and

       musketry, took refuge among the skirmishers, in the breast of a

       corporal."—Report of the Battle of Malvern Hill.

      Bunny, lying in the grass,

       Saw the shining column pass;

       Saw the starry banner fly,

       Saw the chargers fret and fume,

       Saw the flapping hat and plume—

       Saw them with his moist and shy

       Most unspeculative eye,

       Thinking only, in the dew,

       That it was a fine review.

       Till a flash, not all of steel,

       Where the rolling caissons wheel,

       Brought a rumble and a roar

       Rolling down that velvet floor,

       And like blows of autumn flail

       Sharply threshed the iron hail.

       Bunny, thrilled by unknown fears,

       Raised his soft and pointed ears,

       Mumbled his prehensile lip,

       Quivered his pulsating hip,

       As the sharp vindictive yell

       Rose above the screaming shell;

       Thought the world and all its men—

       All the charging squadrons meant—

       All were rabbit-hunters then,

       All to capture him intent.

       Bunny was not much to blame:

       Wiser folk have thought the same—

       Wiser folk who think they spy

       Every ill begins with "I."

       Wildly panting here and there,

       Bunny sought the freer air,

       Till he hopped below the hill,

       And saw, lying close and still,

       Men with muskets in their hands.

       (Never Bunny understands

       That hypocrisy of sleep,

       In the vigils grim they keep,

       As recumbent on that spot

       They elude the level shot.)

       One—a grave and quiet man,

       Thinking of his wife and child

       Far beyond the Rapidan,

       Where the Androscoggin smiled—

       Felt the little rabbit creep,

       Nestling by his arm and side,

       Wakened from strategic sleep,

       To that soft appeal replied,

       Drew him to his blackened breast,

       And—But you have guessed the rest.

       Softly o'er that chosen pair

       Omnipresent Love and Care

       Drew a mightier Hand and Arm,

       Shielding them from every harm;

       Right and left the bullets waved,

       Saved the saviour for the saved.

      ———

       Who believes that equal grace

       God extends in every place,

       Little difference he scans

       Twixt a rabbit's God and man's.

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      Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands,

       And of armed men the hum;

       Lo! a nation's hosts have gathered

       Round the quick alarming drum—

       Saying, "Come,

       Freemen, come!

       Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quick alarming drum.

       "Let me of my heart take counsel:

       War is not of life the sum;

       Who shall stay and reap the harvest

       When the autumn days shall come?"

       But the drum

       Echoed, "Come!

       Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the solemn-sounding drum.

       "But when won the coming battle,

       What of profit springs therefrom?

       What if conquest, subjugation,

       Even greater ills become?"

       But the drum

       Answered, "Come!

       You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yankee answering drum.

       "What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder,

       Whistling shot and bursting bomb,

       When my brothers fall around me,

       Should my heart grow cold and numb?"

       But the drum

       Answered, "Come!

       Better there in death united, than in life a recreant.—Come!"

       Thus they answered—hoping, fearing,

       Some in faith, and doubting some,

       Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming,

       Said, "My chosen people, come!"

       Then the drum,

       Lo! was dumb,

       For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered, "Lord, we come!"

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      Not ours, where battle smoke upcurls,

       And battle dews lie wet,

       To meet the charge that treason hurls

       By sword and bayonet.

       Not ours to guide the fatal scythe

       The fleshless Reaper wields;

       The harvest moon looks calmly down

      

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