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قراءة كتاب Publications of the Mississippi Historical Society, Volume I (of 14)
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
Publications of the Mississippi Historical Society, Volume I (of 14)
eyes of his—-
And I would like to know
How Bettie Jones can condescend
To take him for a beau!"
Quoth Mary, "What you say is true;
He's awkward and he's plain;
But then, you know, he's rich;
And wealth with some will gain."—
"Indeed, I never heard of that,"
Said pretty Martha Jane.
"I only got a glance at him
At Mrs. Jenkins' ball;
And on acquaintance he may not look
So ugly after all.
I wonder if young Charley Smith
Will ask his friend to call!"
Even in parody the isolated sufferer would at times seek self-forgetfulness or diversion. A short one is here inserted from the author's scrap-book. To a Southerner, the faithfulness and humor of the selection will be manifest:
Day through the west had fled,
And the silver light of the rising moon
Shone on his bare bald head.
Firm as an Alp the old mule stood—
An Alp with its crest of snow—
The darkey thumped, the darkey kicked,
And swore he'd make it go.
The night wore on, it would not budge
Till it had changed its mind;
And the darkey cursed, the darkey swore
Till he was hoarse and blind.
At last he saw its big ears twitch,
Its eyes cast back the while;
And felt the skin beneath him writhe
Like a serpent in its coil.
Then came a yell of wild despair;
The man—oh! where was he?—
When the clouds unveil the hidden moon
I think perhaps we'll see.
In the patriotic poems, chiefly war lyrics, notes louder, harsher, and even bitter in their tone as the cause seems lost, strike clear and full upon the ear, disclosing their author as one of the "fire eaters" of the South, loth to accept the verdict of the sword and submit to reconstruction. In this gathering, apart from their connection with the author, two or three of these poems no doubt will be interesting for their historical value alone. "The Storm," written April 15, 1861, expresses in borrowed form but with graphic power the terrible suspense that then prevailed:
For our hearts with grief are bowed;
Breaks no gleam of silver light
Through the dark and angry cloud?
Lightnings leap and thunders roll;
Hist! the tempest draweth nigh,—
Christ, have mercy on our souls!
Whence the tempest issued forth,
Are the clouds not breaking there?
Watchman, tell us of the North.
Where the wicked storm-fiends dwell;
From their seething caldrons rise
Clouds as black as smoke from hell.
Can you see no rosy streak?
Will the long night never end?
Day—oh will it never break?
Streaks the black horizon there:
But the angry face of night
Doth its fiercest aspect wear.
Cease to tear my bleeding breast;
Turn you where the clouds are broke;
Watchman, tell us of the West.
Stands the cloud which hides the West;
Storm-lights tinge its base with fire,
Lightnings play upon its crest.
Is there not one star in sight?
Search with anxious, careful eye—
Watchman, tell us of the night.
Cease your groans and dry your tears:
Lo! the sable cloud doth ope
And the clear gray sky appears.
Wider grows the field of light
As the rent clouds backward fly,
And a starry circle bright
Silvers all the Southern sky.
"The Vision of Blood" written in 1864 is too long, and even if not, too lurid in its imagery to justify reproduction now. Instead let us take this glimpse into those days of death and disaster to the South:
A widowed mother stands,
And lifts the glasses from her eyes
With trembling withered hands.
"Fresh tidings from the battle field!"
"Your only son is slain;
He fell with victory on his lips,
And a bullet in his brain."
The stricken mother staggers back,
And falls upon the floor:
And the wailing shriek of a broken heart
Comes from the cottage door.
"Fresh tidings from the battle field!"
The wife her needle plies,
While in the cradle at her feet
Her sleeping infant lies.
"Fresh tidings from the battle field!"
"Your husband is no more,
But he died as soldiers love to die,
His wounds were all before."
Her work was dropped—"O God" she moans,
And lifts her aching eyes;
The orphaned babe in the cradle wakes,
And joins its mother's cries.
"Fresh tidings from the battle field!"
A maid with pensive eye
Sits musing near the sacred spot
Where she heard his last good-bye.
"Fresh tidings from the battle-field!"
"Your lover's cold in death;
But he breathed the name of her he loved
With his expiring breath."
With hands pressed to her snowy brow,
She strives her grief to hide;
She shrinks from friendly sympathy—
A widow ere a bride.
"Fresh tidings from the battle field!"
O, what a weight of woe
Is borne upon their blood-stained wings
As onward still they go!
War! eldest child of Death and Hell!
When shall thy horrors cease?
When shall the Gospel usher in
The reign of love and peace?
Speed, speed, the blissful time, O Lord!—