Complete Poetical Works - Bret Harte

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When, lo! in a vision I seemed to stand

       In the lonely Capitol. On each hand

       Far stretched the portico, dim and grand

       Its columns ranged like a martial band

       Of sheeted spectres, whom some command

       Had called to a last reviewing.

       And the streets of the city were white and bare,

       No footfall echoed across the square;

       But out of the misty midnight air

       I heard in the distance a trumpet blare,

       And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear

       The sound of a far tattooing.

       Then I held my breath with fear and dread

       For into the square, with a brazen tread,

       There rode a figure whose stately head

       O'erlooked the review that morning,

       That never bowed from its firm-set seat

       When the living column passed its feet,

       Yet now rode steadily up the street

       To the phantom bugle's warning:

       Till it reached the Capitol square, and wheeled,

       And there in the moonlight stood revealed

       A well-known form that in State and field

       Had led our patriot sires:

       Whose face was turned to the sleeping camp,

       Afar through the river's fog and damp,

       That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp,

       Nor wasted bivouac fires.

       And I saw a phantom army come,

       With never a sound of fife or drum,

       But keeping time to a throbbing hum

       Of wailing and lamentation:

       The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill,

       Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville,

       The men whose wasted figures fill

       The patriot graves of the nation.

       And there came the nameless dead—the men

       Who perished in fever swamp and fen,

       The slowly-starved of the prison pen;

       And, marching beside the others,

       Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's fight,

       With limbs enfranchised and bearing bright;

       I thought—perhaps 'twas the pale moonlight—

       They looked as white as their brothers!

       And so all night marched the nation's dead,

       With never a banner above them spread,

       Nor a badge, nor a motto brandished;

       No mark—save the bare uncovered head

       Of the silent bronze Reviewer;

       With never an arch save the vaulted sky;

       With never a flower save those that lie

       On the distant graves—for love could buy

       No gift that was purer or truer.

       So all night long swept the strange array,

       So all night long till the morning gray

       I watched for one who had passed away;

       With a reverent awe and wonder—

       Till a blue cap waved in the length'ning line,

       And I knew that one who was kin of mine

       Had come; and I spake—and lo! that sign

       Awakened me from my slumber.

       Table of Contents

      (1864)

       There is peace in the swamp where the Copperhead sleeps,

       Where the waters are stagnant, the white vapor creeps,

       Where the musk of Magnolia hangs thick in the air,

       And the lilies' phylacteries broaden in prayer.

       There is peace in the swamp, though the quiet is death,

       Though the mist is miasma, the upas-tree's breath,

       Though no echo awakes to the cooing of doves—

       There is peace: yes, the peace that the Copperhead loves.

       Go seek him: he coils in the ooze and the drip,

       Like a thong idly flung from the slave-driver's whip;

       But beware the false footstep—the stumble that brings

       A deadlier lash than the overseer swings.

       Never arrow so true, never bullet so dread,

       As the straight steady stroke of that hammer-shaped head;

       Whether slave or proud planter, who braves that dull crest,

       Woe to him who shall trouble the Copperhead's rest!

       Then why waste your labors, brave hearts and strong men,

       In tracking a trail to the Copperhead's den?

       Lay your axe to the cypress, hew open the shade

       To the free sky and sunshine Jehovah has made;

       Let the breeze of the North sweep the vapors away,

       Till the stagnant lake ripples, the freed waters play;

       And then to your heel can you righteously doom

       The Copperhead born of its shadow and gloom!

       Table of Contents

      Last night, above the whistling wind,

       I heard the welcome rain—

       A fusillade upon the roof,

       A tattoo on the pane:

       The keyhole piped; the chimney-top

       A warlike trumpet blew;

       Yet, mingling with these sounds of strife,

       A softer voice stole through.

       "Give thanks, O brothers!" said the voice,

       "That He who sent the rains

       Hath spared your fields the scarlet dew

       That drips from patriot veins:

       I've seen the grass on Eastern graves

       In brighter verdure rise;

       But, oh! the rain that gave it life

       Sprang first from human eyes.

       "I come to wash away no stain

       Upon your wasted lea;

       I raise no banners, save the ones

       The forest waves to me:

       Upon the mountain side, where Spring

       Her farthest picket sets,

       My reveille awakes a host

       Of grassy bayonets.

       "I visit every humble roof;

       I mingle with the low:

      

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