Classic Poem

Death of Cleburne

I

The gray war-horse, impatient, champs his bit,
His spreading nostrils sniff the coming fight,
But still as stone his rider's eagle eye
Looks on the serried lines that meet his sight.

Each feature tells a tale they may not know —
A volume may be spoken in each breath;
But grave and stern, with silence on his lips,
The gallant Cleburne waits the charge of Death.

Behind their works loom up the lines of Blue,
Before, the timber felled by cautious hands
To break the ranks of Gray; 'twixt these a floor
To thresh with leaden flail the Southern bands.

" Charge! " Wildly with the ringing Rebel yell,
That flings its piercing echo on the breeze,
The men, like gray stars on a sombre field,
Crash through the crackling limbs of fallen trees.

" Charge! " and the horse no longer paws the earth,
For in the front, with Cleburne at their head,
His men advance, to sternly do or die,
Their death-march sounding in the rattling lead.

Again they move; above the deafening roar
Of belching guns, the weird yell rings again;
And in the flash it seems the gates of hell
Had yawned wide as they gain the open plain.

There was no time for parleying or fear.
What though the men were grain before the flail?
What though their works were only bloody dead?
'Twas victory or death — they could not quail!

The storm of shot, and bursting of the shell,
And sweep of hurtling grape with burning breath,
Pour on the Southern host, undaunted yet,
Still facing close the horrid hail of death!

And in the storm the stern form and his horse
Gleam like an upraised statue through the cloud;
The flying bullets, whizzing, pass him by;
Ay, even death seems loath to weave his shroud!

The outer works are carried! on and on!
For victory smiles. On, with the Rebel yell!
Scale now the inner works, or let the guns
Of foes shout out a glorious funeral-knell!

They knew not how it was — a rift revealed
The horse and rider, then the scene was dim;
But on the inner works the death hail rang,
In dying Cleburne's ears a battle-hymn!

II

'T is midnight's hour, and through the lifting clouds
The struggling moonbeams gaze on Franklin's field,
Upon the war-stained corse of friend and foe,
And weirdly kiss the lips forever sealed.

The ghastly calm seems steeped in human gore,
The ditch bears in its depth the bloody tide;
The cold December winds mourn 'round the spot
Where Cleburne, with his charger, nobly died.

No more for him rings out the battle-cry,
No more the stern lips echo back its tone;
And as in life he led the Irish bands,
In death his life-blood mingled with his own.

III

The hand of Time plows deep the battlefield,
For at his voice the thundering cannons cease;
The sword is rusting, — from its unused sheath
The spider swings the gauzy flag of peace.

Throughout, the city wears a sable pall,
Remembering in love her silent guest;
Just at the water's edge the steamer waits
To bear lamented Cleburne to his rest.

In reverence, grouped around the hero's corse,
The honored and the humble silent grieve,
When through the throng a brawny arm makes way,
Its useless mate a ragged, empty sleeve.

No sound breaks rudely on the solemn hush;
The crowd falls back, and at the coffin's head
The grim form kneels to make the sacred cross
Above the cold heart of the hallowed dead.

The upraised eyes are hard with harder life,
Unused to weep; but as the prayer was done
One big tear splashed upon the coffin-lid, —
Loved Erin's tribute to her hero son!English