The Two Villages

Over the river, on the hill,

Lieth a village white and still;
All around it the forest-trees
Shiver and whisper in the breeze;
Over it sailing shadows go

Of soaring hawk and screaming crow,
And mountain grasses, low and sweet,
Grow in the middle of every street.

Over the river, under the hill,
Another village lieth still;

There I see in the cloudy night

Twinkling stars of household light,

Fires that gleam from the smithy's door,
Mists that curl on the river-shore;

And in the roads no grasses grow,
For the wheels that hasten to and fro.

In that village on the hill

Never is sound of smithy or mill;

The houses are thatched with grass and flowers;

Never a clock to toll the hours;

The marble doors are always shut,

You cannot enter in hall or hut;

All the villagers lie asleep;

Never a grain to sow or reap;
Never in dreams to moan or sigh;

Silent and idle and low they lie.

In that village under the hill,
When the night is starry and still,
Many a weary soul in prayer
Looks to the other village there,
And weeping and sighing, longs to go
Up to that home from this below;
Longs to sleep in the forest wild,
Whither have vanished wife and child,
And heareth, praying, this answer fall:
"Patience! that village shall hold ye all!"

Carmen Bellicosum

In their ragged regimentals,
Stood the old Continentals,

Yielding not,

While the grenadiers were lunging,
And like hail fell the plunging

Cannon-shot;

When the files

Of the isles,

From the smoky night-encampment, bore the banner of

the rampant

Unicorn;

And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the drummer

Through the morn!

Then with eyes to the front all,
And with guns horizontal,

Stood our sires;

While the balls whistled deadly,
And in streams flashing redly

Blazed the fires:

As the roar

On the shore

Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded

acres

Of the plain;

And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder,

Cracking amain!

Now like smiths at their forges
Worked the red St. George's

Cannoneers,

And the villainous saltpetre

Rang a fierce, discordant metre
Round our ears:

As the swift

Storm-drift,

With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangor On our flanks.

Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire Through the ranks!

Then the bare-headed Colonel
Galloped through the white infernal
Powder-cloud;

And his broadsword was swinging,
And his brazen throat was ringing

Trumpet-loud;

Then the blue

Bullets flew,

And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden

Rifle-breath;

And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six

pounder,

Hurling death!

The Thousand and Thirty-Seven

Three years ago, to-day,

We raised our hands to Heaven,
And, on the rolls of muster,

Our names were thirty-seven;
There were just a thousand bayonets,
And the swords were thirty-seven,

As we took our oath of service

With our right hands raised to Heaven.

Oh, 't was a gallant day,

In memory still adored.

That day of our sun-bright nuptials
With the musket and the sword!
Shrill rang the fifes, the bugles blared,
And beneath a cloudless heaven
Far flashed a thousand bayonets,
And the swords were thirty-seven.

Of the thousand stalwart bayonets
Two hundred march to-day;
Hundreds lie in Virginia swamps,
And hundreds in Maryland clay;
While other hundreds-less happy-drag
Their mangled limbs around,

And envy the deep, calm, blessed sleep

Of the battle-field's holy ground.