title: Hours of fancy:
text: o ^^ ^ ^.:t^^ ^jm^^\ ^^M^^ •''^ 'oK *k *• 4P ^ "^P^ :. ■'^^o* ^^ ' % . • > "^ aV ^^ ♦ » « r •• v< o *-^-V .^^^^^ "-^^^^ N^^ ^ J^ * HOURS OF FANCY: OR VIGIL AND VISION, ^5 BY ALDINE S. KIEFFER. :3e.x i,i^^ nj^ DAYTON, VA. : RUEBUSH, KIEFFER & CO., PRINTERS. 1881. f^ COPYRIGHT, RUEBUSH, KIEFFER & CO., 1881. DEDICATION. AS WHEN A CHILD WILD FLOWERS WERE GATHERED AMID THE WESTERN PRAIRIES AND TWINED INTO RUDE WREATHS FOR HIS mother's eye: SO NOW in later years, these strange wild flowers of thought gathered in the vales of memory and fancy, are laid as a garland at his mother's feet, p.y her child The Author. PRE FA CE. -K-W- Conscious within myself of the manner in which the following pages have been written, it is with some trepidation and not without feelings of regret that I make them public. The manner I refer to will become apparent to the reader who will soon perceive great haste, immaturity, "inexperience and every error denoting a feverish at- tempt, rather than a deed accomplished." The verses contained in the first and second divisions of these pages were written for the most part at odd moments, here and there, and with little premeditation or fore- thought. Some of them were written by the light of dying camp-fires; some in mountain hollows, after a 6 PREFACE. day's ramble ; and others again in tlie midnight soh- tude — and all hurriedly. This is not said with any purpose or design of forestalling criticism, or of evok- ing it. I am too well aware of my own imperfections to be wounded by others telling me of them, and there is no anguish so deep and poignant as that of the consciousness of a failure. I should not now make these verses public if I thought that the years to come would present time and opportunity to prune and cor- rect them for the better. Such as they are I send them out on the great sea of letters, to be blown hither and thither as ships without rudder or compass ; and yet, 1 believe, some of them at least, will find a safe anchor- age in the pleasant havens of warm hearts and sunny souls. There are verses relating to incidents of the late war published in the first department, not for hate's sake, but because their author lived and wrote and suf- fered during the years when Red war smote the land With shock of hattle and with flood of flame, and for their appearance in this volume he makes no apology. The Lyrics, comprising the fourth division of this PREFACE. 7 little book, now appear for the first time separated from the music to which they were originally wedded by such writers as Unseld, Meyer, Tenney and others. Many of them are familiar to the public. In a few cases the songs were written to the melody of the mu- sic, which will account for their unique and somewhat imperfect rhythm. The reader, however, will become his own critic ; will form his own judgment upon these verses; and with him I now desire to leave them to their fate. ALDINE S. KIEFFER. March i, i88i. CONTENTS. VIGIL AND VISION Three Vigils,. . 17 The Confederate Dead, 86 Sir Fontaine's Ride, 43^ The Phanton^. Bride, 51 A New Year's Vigil, 61^ An Old Man's Reverie, 64 Hagar and Ishinael, . 66 A Poet's Death, 70 Memories, .. 73 A Vision,. 76 Dej)arted Pays, 78 Faith, Hope and Charit;; 5 80 Hopes that Perish,. 81 A Picture, 83 A Rhapsody, 84 A Dream of Heaven, 86 Marye's Height, 88>^ Kissing by the Well, 91 In Memory, 93 lo CONTENTS. Lines to an Old Oak Tree, 9o Unbiiried, 97 Hades, 99 Dreams, . . 101 ]^ot all a Dream, 101 Our Fireside, 102 SONGS AND IDYLS. The Years Go By, 107 In the Gloaming, 108 I Walked Thro' Mystic  A Wasted Life, US Forevermore, 119 To Somebody, 121 An Autumn Idyl, 122^ — Alfalfa, 125 Faith's Logic, ........ 127 March Musings, 129 The Hills of Long Ago, 131 Diantha, 132 Primroses, 134 The Mountain Pine, Vdn^ Nameless Sorrows, . i 137 Name on the Tree, 138 A Lament, 140 A Prayer, . 141^^^ Longings, 142  Dreams, 149 CONTENTS. I i April, November, Songs of Love, Angel Guards,. Blow, BloAV, Blow, December,. An Allegory,. Resurgere, Life's December, The October Moon, Three Graves,. The Mystic Spring, Voice of the Winds, To Shenandoah River, By Babel's Stream, "When the Swallows Homewar To My Blanket, The Sentinel,. My Angel Love, A Tress of Hair, Cvnthia Fly," 151- 152 158 155 157 158 1(5(1 161^ 168 1()4 im 1(>7 170^ 171- 178 174 17(i 177 179 ISO ISl PERSONAL POEMS. To Joseph Salyards, To Rev. J. H. Barb, To My Wife,. To B. Blake,. 1S5 1S7 ISfl 191 LYRICS. Brightly Nom% Eden of Love, After While, Good Deeds, A Dirge, Shout for Gladness, 195 19() 197 19S 199 200 12 CONTENTS. Morning Light, 201 It Won't be Long, .... . 202 Gentle Spring, . 203 Twilight Whispers, . 204 Thinking of Thee, .... . 206 Heavenly Rest, .... . 207 Evergreen Shore, .... . 208 "Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, J J . 209 Banquet of Love, .... . 210 My Mountain Home, . 211 Nearer Home, . 212 Say, Are You Ready?. . 213^^ Jesus Will Let You In, . 214.^ Golden Plain, . 215 Twilight is Falling, . 216^^ A Pilgrim Song, . 217 My Treasure, .... . 218 Nellie, . 219 Look Beyond, .... . 220 City of Light, .... . 221 Home to My Mother in Heaven, . 222 Home of the Blest, . 223 Jacob's Well, .... . 224 Old Schoolhouse, . 225 Grave on the Green Hillside, . 226 Soul's Sweet Fatherland, . 227 By the Gate, .... . 228 Christmas Bells, . 229 The Savior Calls,. . 230 My Refuge, .... . 231 Tune the Lyre, . 232 Stanzas, . . .. . 233 Eventide, . 234 To Missouri River, . 235 To Erato, . . .. . . 236 AN INVOCATION. O POESY ! for thee I hold my pen, That am not yet a glorious denizen Of thy wide heaven — should I rather kneel Upon some mountain-top until I feel A glowing splendor round about me hung, And echo back the voice of thine own tongue? O Poesy ! for thee I grasp my pen, That am not yet a glorious denizen Of thy wide heaven ; yet, to my ardent prayer. Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, Smooth'd for intoxication by the breath Of flowering bays, that I may die a death Of luxury, and my young spirit follow The morning sunbeams to the great Apollo, Like a fresh sacrifice ; or, if I can bear The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring me to the fair Visions of all places : a bowery nook Will be elysium — an eternal book Whence I may copy many a lovely saying About the leaves, and flowers — about the playing Of nymphs in woods, and fountains ; and the shade Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid ; And many a verse from so strange influence That we must ever wonder how, and whence It came. Also imaginings will hover Round my fire-side, and haply there discover Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander. 14 AN INVOCATION. In happy silence, like the clear Meander Through its lone vales ; and where I found a spot Of awfuller sliade, or an enchanted grot, Or a green hill o'erspread with chequer'd dress Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness. Write on my tablets all that was permitted. All that was for our human senses fitted. Then the events of this wide world I'd seize Like a strong giant, and my spirit tease Till at its shoulders it should proudly see Wings to find out an immortality. — -John Keats. ^--^ "^^AigWg)/^-^^ g)-^ -IVIGIL AND VISIONlx- THREE VIGILS. A THOUSAND camp-fires streamed their light Along the chambers of the night, And flashing through the forest wide Illumined Rappahannock's tide ; Or glanced their baleful lights on high Against the cheerless winter sky, That redly glanced, or darkly frowned. As flashed or fell the fires around. Old Fredericksburg in darkness lay Between the lines of Blue and Gray, And friend and foe looked on her spires Lit with strange glamour by the fires : — While silent sentries walked their round. Or stopped to listen to the sound Of river's plash, or owlet's cry. That echoed to the dreary sky. South of the town among the pines Lay Lee's and Jackson's veteran lines ; Beneath their blankets worn and gray They slept the midnight hours away, — THREE VIGILS. While winter winds sang low and chill Among the pines on Marye's hill. Some dreamed of death, and coming doom — Of rifle-shot and cannon's boom — Of charging ranks that swayed or reel'd As shot and shell swept o'er the field. And others in sweet dreams did roam By youthful paths to childhood's home, Or saw the eyes of beauty shine In faces love had made divine. Alas ! how many a noble form Slept all unconscious of the storm So soon to break with sullen roar And drench the plain with human gore ; Nor heeded, as the hours swept by The wind's low, muffled, funeral cry. And others slept, nor recked their sleep Was but the prelude of that deep - And holy slumber of the grave, Round which Time's billows break and lave, And moan in vain, till Time shall be ' Engulfed in one eternal sea. Beside a glimmering fire, whose light Fought with the shadows of the night. Three soldiers stood and counted o'er Past pleasures — fled forevermore ; And breathed their hopes or told their fears THREE VIGILS. 19 Of coming days, and deeds, and years. These three were comrades, and had been In many a wild and fearful scene Of blood and carnage, since the day That valiant Blue and dauntless Gray Had shed their blood like summer's rain On drear Manassas' fated plain. These three had played in childhood's days Along the same old woodland ways, Had often wandered, hand in hand, Thro' mountain-path and meadow-land ; Read the same books and grew to youth Three souls of honor, filled with truth. But, scarce had Youth's sweet morning past. Ere borne upon the tempest's blast War's trumpet notes, and battle's tide Came surging by ; — and far and wide It smote our Sunny Southern land From mountain-peak to ocean's strand. And now, beside the fading light Of dying fires, this dreary night, These three brave spirits stood and kept Sad converse whilst the others slept. The first to speak was Denville Dold, Who, in brief words his story told. How he watched the night before And caught a glimpse of that far shore Where war's wild waves shall roll no more. 20 THREE VIGILS. "I stood," said he, "far out, alone, Where I could catch the river's moan. And watch the camp-fires fade and die Against the drear December sky. My post was underneath a pine That Time had wreathed with grace divine ; And through whose branches, bending low. Wind -spirits sang their wail of woe ; — And, by their dirges, full of gloom, I heard my own approaching doom. The constant stars of heaven above Looked down in ministry of love. But, O, so sad their pale light streamed ! Not like the nights when we three dreamed Of Fame and Glory whose bright beams Were to illume life's latest dreams." " Comrades," said he, " you know me well, Nor friend may say, nor foe may tell That ever, in the battle tide, I faltered, swerved, or turned aside At sight of any mortal foe, Or quailed before a foeman's blow — Nor shrank from duty, since the day, I donned this suit of Southern gray. And yet, last night, whilst all alone, I heard the river plash and moan. And heard the owlet's doleful cry, And the deep forest's mournful sigh — And watched the meteors in their flight THREE VIGILS. 21 Across the starlit plains of night : A deep fear fell upon my soul That wrapt me round as with a stole. In that lone hour of night and gloom I read of all my hopes, the doom ; And saw with vision strange, but clear, The wreck of all I once held dear. I kept my vigil — for, no foe Awaked my reverie of woe ; No rifle-shot hissed thro' the gloom To seal some lonely picket's doom ; But, deeper round my spirit fell The folds of that mysterious spell. Around me rose the glorious Past, Whose beauteous scenes are fading fast ; — The orchard lane, the meadow lawn. Where quails piped forth at early dawn, — The church, the school-house on the hill. The happy brook that turned the mill, The dim, old forest, where we played In boyish glee amid the shade — All these, and more ! And with these came The faces of those friends we name In holiest whispers in the ear Of God, who deigns to stoop and hear. I thought of her whose form, enshrined Within my heart and boding mind Seems fairer than the saintliest face 2 2 THREE VIGILS. That artist's pencil e'er did trace. I thought of her sweet face — so fair — And of the look of mute despair That told more deep than words could tell The anguish of our last farewell ! Aye, comrades, think you that the soul At times, may break from life's control, And read, with vision clear and free The records of eternity? I think she read this fateful hour When last we stood within her bower. And when the whispered word, Farewell ! Smote on our hearts like a funeral knell. But this is not an hour to read The outlines of a mystic creed ! Once, when the river hushed her moan, And brighter beamed the stars that shone On yonder wold and wooded hill. And Nature whispered, ' Peace be still,' I heard, or thought I heard, my name. Thrice syllabled in tones divine. As from the South a soft wind came That waked the dreaming, whispering pine. And then, a small hand clasped my own But, oh ! the touch was cold as stone : A moment, and it slipped away. Whilst denser darkness round me lay. That touch, so strange, so icy chill. THREE VIGILS. 23 Sent through my heart and soul a thrill Of silent awe, and holy dread Like that of watching with the dead. I felt my hand, and looked, but, lo ! The ring she gave me years ago Had left my finger— how, or where? Are questions idle as the air ! Tt was a token — and I know Her spirit freed from earthly woe Went up, last night, on wings of love To yonder heavenly courts above — But, ere she went, she passed me by. And breathed in death, life's last good-bye! Then sank my heart, as sinks the lead From plummet line to ocean's bed ; And from the sands of Hope's fair shore The tide ebbed out forevermore. But, when the Third Relief came round, To change the sentries, I was found At duty's post beneath my pine, A sentry on the outer line. All through the night, and through to-day— Where'er my footsteps wend their way, TSat vision of the night gone by Seems ever present to my eye. E'en now, in yonder coals, I trace The outlines of that one sweet face. And in the wind's voice murmuring by 24 THREE VIGILS. I catch the whisper of her sigh. It matters little now — we go With morning's dawn to meet the foe ; Perchance that doom, that soon or late Awaits us at the hand of Fate. I go to mine — but not a nerve With coward twitch shall flinch or swerve While our red -cross shall wave on high Outlined against the battle sky. But should I fall, pray, pledge me here — By all that memory holds dear — Tliat you will make 'neath yonder pine A tomb to hold this heart of mine." The next to speak was Ira Bee, In whose sharp features one could trace The fearless will, undaunted, free. That looks unblanched in danger's face. But now he seemed in thoughtful mood And weighed his words, in tones subdued. As thus he spake : " Last night I stood On picket -post in yonder wood, Where I could look adown the lines Of foes, encamped in yonder pines. Along the river's farther shore. I heard their voices break and roar Like ocean waves — far, far away. When gentle breezes wake the spray. I too, had visions, strange and wild ; THREE VIGILS. 25 My mind was like a restless child I'hat will not sleep, though mother tries Her softest, tend'rest lullabies. Sweet Mother Nature sang for me And sought to woo me to her breast. But wilder than the wildest sea, Thought's billows lashed in mad unrest — Until my soul in that brief hour Stood like a sentry on Time's tow'r. That, looking far beyond Life's sea Saw all the mystic Yet to be ! Once, when the cloud of fog and smoke. That hung above the river's face Was severed by the wind-wing's stroke, I saw along the open space Some demon's brow, whose visage dire Lit by the gleam of hellish fire Shine for a moment, and then fade Into the gloom that night had made. And, once, when watching toward the West, Above the distant mountain's crest, I saw long lines of spirits glide In a]l the pomp of martial pride. Their brilliant armor flashed and gleamed — Above them their bright banners streamed — And then they closed in mimic fight Along the starlit plains of Night ! Our red cross on its field of blue 26 THREE VIGILS. Smote on the heav'ns its lustrous hue ; And then the scene dissolving passed Into the darkness deep and vast ; And, sentry-like, alone I stood At picket -post in yonder wood. Can spirits of the mighty dead Whose hearts in these wild years have bled And ebbed away on battle -plain, Come back to this poor earth again ? Or do they, in the ambient air. Camp round about us everywhere ? Or march with us along the way. Or nerve us in the battle-fray? I know not what such visions mean. As Denville Dold and I have seen : But I have heard our grand-dames tell Of omens wild and what befel To those who, blest with second sight, Behold the mysteries of the night. But let us wait ; — lest I mistake, To-morrow's morn shall hear the roar Of battle -billows as they break Red -capped with foam of human gore ! And when the night again comes down Upon the spires of yonder town Our red -cross banner in her pride Shall on the breeze triumphant ride. But O, how sad to gaze around On those who slumber on the ground, THREE VIGILS. 27 To know that some of them now sleep Upon the bridge that spans the deep, Mysterious chasm that hes between These mortal shores and those unseen — And with the reveille shall wake Their latest look of morn to take. But I, if I have read aright My vision wild of yester-night, Have deeper doom to meet than they Who on the morrow pass away, For I shall march through all the years That war shall flood with blood and tears, Till white-winged Peace shall come to reign Once more, above our sunny land ; And then, upon the last red plain My life-blood shall bedew the sand. But let that be ! it matters not ! No love-lorn maid shall weep for me In silence o'er the lonely spot Where all my dreams shall cease to be." The last to speak was Sergeant Kay ; No braver ever wore the gray, Nor marched, nor fought, nor lay beside A camp-fire in the forest wide. He turned, and to his comrades said : " No vision wild hath crazed my head. Nor filled my heart with strange dismay At any time, through life's long day ! 28 THREE VIGILS. I have been told that I was born One August night, at midnight's hour ; And through that night until the morn A tempest raged with fearful power ; And that the vivid lightning's gleam Illumed my life's awaking dream ; And thunder's voice pealed loud and clear Its greeting on my infant ear. Was this an omen? tell me, pray, Or but the chance thing of a day? I neither know, nor care to know ! But this is true : where'er I go I see no scenes so passing fair As storm-clouds clashing in the air ; — No glance so fair as lightning's gleam. That flashes on the torrent's stream, Nor hear a sound so grandly sweet As thunder-peals that hills repeat. My life has been a wild delight Of revel with the storms of night — A blending with the scenes of strife Tliat wreck the battle-fields of life ; And yet, no token, dark or bright. Hath come to me by day or night ! But, comrades, see ! the morning gray, Climbs up the eastern skies away, — And underneath yon lustrous star Morn's rosy gates will soon unbar. Hush ! hark ! what's that ? a rifle shot ? THREE VIGILS. 29 Another, and another ! What? Our wily foes so soon awake, The stillness of this hour to break? Or is it but some picket's play, To warn us of approaching day ?" Scarce had he spoken, ere the clear Sharp crack of rifles ringing near, Along the sentry line revealed The storm now breaking o'er the field. Then beat the drums their wild alarms, — Then rose the cry : To arms ! To arms ! While veteran legions used to war Grasped for their rifles ! near and far The wild commands in tumult rang — As sabres from their scabbards sprang — And couriers hurrying to and fro Gave orders where to meet the foe. Great Jove ! it was a splendid sight, To see the morning flash her light Against the banners, and the sheen Of bayonets and sabres keen ! As rank on rank moved quick away To meet the onset of the fray ! Then rang the sharp, quick, rattling peal From every throat of burnished steel, And on the foe their terror pour'd — As volley after volley roar'd — 30 THREE VIGILS. And cannon echoing boom for boom Smote through the sulphurous clouds of doom In wild discordant notes of hell As trembling columns reeled or fell ! Now wilder and more darkly grand, Fresh legions sweep across the plain, And close in struggle hand to hand. Beneath the storm of leaden rain ! Then fiercer rang the battle cry That tingled to the farther sky — And redder flowed the crimson tide. From living fountains gushing wide That bayonet, and ball, and blade In many a human heart had made ! No pen may paint in colors well That fearful minature of hell ! Where mangled corses bathed in gore By neighing steeds are trampled o'er. And broken skulls, and many a form Torn by the crash of battle's storm. Lie heaped around each palisade. Where fiercest struggle had been made. Here lay Wear's ruins — heaped and pent — The dead and dying — friend and foe — With broken muskets — ensigns rent — And over all the pall of woe. Now, like old Ocean, when the roar Of tempest dies along the shore, And weary waves in sadness moan THREE VIGILS. '31 Along the surf-beat cliffs of stone — So ebbs the battle -tide away — So sinks the terror of the day. The fight is o'er, the day is done, The sulphurous clouds roll slow away ; Behind the Blue Ridge sinks the sun. And softly beams his parting ray. The purpling twilight, far and wide, Falls soft on Rappahannock's tide — And gathering deeper, fold on fold, Envelopes wood and open wold. Now hushed and sweet the holy night, Bends down from her imperial height, And folds her tender arms around Each form that decks the gory ground. Like some sweet Priestess at her shrine, She murmurs low her prayers divine. To soothe some sufferer in his moan, Whose life ebbs toward the Great Unknown ; Or points some dying eye, afar, Beyond the light of evening's star, Whose tender beams illume the West And beckon to the land of rest. • A thousand faces ghastly white, Upturned against the starry sky, Have all forgotten how to light The soul's quick fires within the eye. 32 THREE VIGILS. Here sleeps a boy whose forehead fair Should claim a mother's kiss and care ; But on whose brow and curls of gold The death-dew sparkles clear and cold ; And near his side a veteran lies, Whose hand in death yet feebly tries To touch the face of that fair boy — But death denies e'en this poor joy ! And heaped around, the wounded sigh, And moan, and groan, and long to die, Or whose glazed eyes, in mute appeal, Turn to the dead who cannot feel. Around these, guns and caissons piled, With human brains and blood defiled. But from whose brazen throats no more The sullen boom of War shall roar ; While steed and rider, friend and foe, Around them slumber cold and low. And over all Night's starry crown In regal splendor sparkles down. Across the field, at dead of night, The ambulances wend their way. Amid the ruins of the fight That glitter in the moonbeam's ray. And with the wounded — foe and friend- In Mercy's deeds united blend, To soothe the dying, or to save Some comrade from a soldier's grave ; THREE VIGILS. ^;^ While flags of truce stream soft and white Adown the silent halls of Night. Among the dead, so still and cold, In death's embrace slept Denville Dold ; Two gaping wounds adown his side Told where had ebbed life's crimson tide ; But to the last his Vision wild in peaceful beauty must have smiled, — For, lying on his tranquil breast, A portrait sweet his dead hands pressed — And floating proudly to the sky His red -cross banner waved on high. They bore him from the field away. Enshrouded in his blanket gray ; And Sergeant Kay and Ira Bee Laid him to sleep beneath the tree Where he had heard the river moan Along his picket-post — ^alone. Above his silent dust the pine Pours forth its mystic strains divine. As summer's breeze sighs o'er the plain, Or winter wails his wild refrain. And after days the fact revealed That, on the night his doom was sealed. His loved one's spirit passed away Thro' death's dark portals into day. Through all the thrilling, changeful years, 34 THREE VIGILS. Begrimed with blood, bedewed with tears, And filled with ashes — till the land Grew black beneath destruction's hand ; Until our flag, once proudly bright, Went down the stonriy vault of night : And then upon the last red plain Brave, dauntless Ira Bee, was slain. He fought — he died — he sleeps — 'tis well 1 But where he slumbers none may tell. No triend, no maiden comes to lave With silent tears his unknown grave ; But constant stars in beauty keep Their vigils o'er his holy sleep. But Sergeant Kay still walks the earth. And mingles with life's fateful storms ; The magic hour that gave him birth, Begirt him round with guardian forms Who, watching, shield his every way Through doubtful night or stormy day. He lives to see our banners furled — No more to flash along the world ; He lives to feel our dark defeat * With dreary woes and ills replete ; To feel the taunt, the gibe, the jeer. That tingle harshly on the ear. And tear afresh old wounds apart. That healing only scar the heart — And throw across the soul's broad plain THREE VIGILS. 35 The shadow of a mighty pain — All these he lives to feel and share, Yet bids defiance to despair ! Ah ! happier far those hearts that keep, In battle-trench a soldier's sleep ; And over whom sweet Nature weaves Her coronal of buds and leaves, To hallow through the summer hour The holy scene of fallen power. THE CONFEDERATE DEAD. " How sleep the t»rave who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blest." No marble statues in their voiceles woe, Keep mournful watch o'er those who slumber low, No lofty pyramids o'erawe the plain, Cephrenus-like, to guard the martyr'd slain ; No tumuli are reared to keep the dust, Which kept so faithfully a nation's trust ; Nor gilt mausoleum nor towering fane Record the valor of the mighty slain. Alone they sleep, their land too poor to weep In chiseled grief, for those her valleys keep ; Alone they moulder, but their graves' green sod Is loved by us, — who loved them, — next to God. But not alone their recompense I raise — Far better bards shall sing in loftier praise Of those before whose glorious deeds must pale The lustre of Thermopylae's bright tale. Tinseled with fame by thrice a thousand years, Nor as it then, but as it now, appears ; — CONFEDERATE DEAD. 37 Of those before whose deeds old Marathon, And Waterloo, when France was left undone. Must seem but mimic frays ere soldiers fought, Clad in the gray that Southern matrons wrought. These heroes sleep — their knightly deeds shall live. While gray-haired Time hath yet an hour to give To bards who sing, or those who ponder o'er The classic pages of a nation's lore. A sire shall tell his grandson on his knee. Of the immortal bands who fought with Lee ; An AsHBY — Stewart — legion is their name. Who stand empyreal in the lists of fame ; But brighter still stands one collective head. Fame writes it thus, "The Noble Unknown Dead," Who sleep, from Rio Grande's tortuous tide, To where Potomac rolls in classic pride : Who sleep a hundred well-fought fields upon. From Petersburg to fated Donelson— ~ From Gettysburg to Chickamauga's plain — From Fredericksburg to Charleston on the main ; By flood, by fell, in densest wold and glen, Slumber the ashes of these mighty men. How sleep these dead ? alas ! on many a plain. The drifting sleet and pelting wintry rain Beat on their tombless bones ; 01 it may be, The wild December winds in all their glee. Wail mournful dirges through the skulls that lie 38 CONFEDERATE DEAD. Unknelled and coffinless beneath the sky, Perhaps the field-mouse now a shelter finds In that grand temple which was once the mind's. Some sleep in earth with scarce enough of clay To hide from view the mold'ring blankets gray ; Nor stone, nor stake, to mark the lonely spot. Where slumber those whose names are now forgot By all save those who mourn a darling son, Or she who widowed weeps an absent one. Some calmly sleep whose only meed of fame. The simple cross, recording but the name. Reared by some comrade's hand, whose tender care, Thus placed affection's latest tribute there. Some in dense forests, where the pine-tree waves, With terebinthine fragrance o'er their graves. Keep slumber deep, whilst gentle winds that sigh. Strew shadows of the cloudlets passing by. Upon the "moldering tombs of moldering leaves," That Nature builds o'er those for whom she grieves. Some sleep, who gave themselves a sacrifice For Freedom's cause, where nature's altars rise. And o'er whose dust old Winter weaves a shroud Of whitest woof from out his ebon cloud. Some sleep by crystal rivers where bright waves Reflect the dancing sunbeams on their graves, Where sweet forget-me-nots with azure hue. And shining daffodils, weep pearly dew. Some sleep where limpid, babbling runnels crisp. CONFEDERATE DEAD. 39 Whose task from morn to morn seems but to lisp In liquid notes, mellifluently bland, The tender requiem of a mighty band. And many a form, alas ! whose lonely grave Is far beyond the land he fought to save, Sleeps on, forgetful of the solitude. Till dust once more with life shall be indued. Above their couch no mother's foot shall tread, Nor mother's tear shall ever there be shed ; No sister's voice with suppliant tone in prayer, Shall ever mingle with the evening air ; Nor maiden band, in happy summer hours. Shall strew their lonely graves with buds and flowers. Alone ! alone ! oh God ! and shall these sleep Without a shaft their memory to keep, That future nations, when this race is fled, May read thereon inscribed, "The Unknown Dead?" Some sleep in quiet, where the church-bell's sound. Peals sweetly o'er the consecrated ground ; Where gentle hands, each anniversary morn, With woven garlands every grave adorn. Thus through the land — in vale, and glen, and dell, On mountain, hill and plain, by flood and fell, By bubbling fount, by stream, and restless tide, Obscurely sleeps a nation's glorious pride. How mourns the land, thus widow'd of her might, 40 CONFEDERATE DEAD. Whose hopes have sunk in wretchedness and night ? To whose fair dime stem fate and conq'ring foe Bequeathed a gloomy heritage of woe ! No pious mockery with hollow show, Is passed as grief for those who slumber low ; Nor pompous pageantry in woe's disguise, Parades the streets to wonder-loving eyes. But through the land meek Sorrow sits resigned, By every hearth — enthroned in every mind. Beside her fire the widow sits alone, And ever on the night -wind breaks her moan ; The daughter once of affluence and pride. In mean attire, now weeps for those who died. While the long train of beggared orphans roam. Far from the shelter of their childhood's home ; And whose sad souls with wail of grief and woe. Rend heaven above o'er those who slumber low. In woe's habiliments the land is clad. And Nature weeps as though herself were sad. Well may she weep, for never yet were born. On earth's broad surface from Time's earliest morn, Such god -like men, whose souls, tho' quenched in night. Have writ in glorious deeds a record bright. Down through the tide of years that are to flow, With brighter lustre still their names shall glow, And time shall prove, whatever now is^aid, That not in vain their priceless blood was shed. CONFEDERATE DEAD. 41 Truth cannot die, although her glorious light, May for awhile be hid by Error's night. Yet time shall see her full effulgence shed, In radiant streams round the Confederate Dead. DIRGE. Sleep, sleep, sleep. And the April clouds shall ever Weep, weep, weep. Tears of grief o'er those who never Faltered when the storm of battle, Smote the hills with cannon's rattle. But with hearts as proud as free. Dared to die for liberty. Sleep, sleep, sleep. And the golden stars shall ever Keep, ke6p, keep. Through the night of time — forever. Watch above the slumbering legions. Who have found Elysian regions ; Watch above the sacred dust — Hearts that kept a nation's trust. Sleep, sleep, sleep. While the wailing winds sliall ever Keep, keep, keep. Chanting mournful dirges ever, O'er the dust of those whose glory 42 CONFEDERATE DEAD. Shall forever live in story, Lustrous, quenchless, deathless, bright, Until time shall end in night. Sleep, sleep, sleep. And the voice of time shall ever Keep, keep, keep, Breathing notes of praise forever, In a bold and martial measure. O'er a nation's slumbering treasure, — Hymning until hope be fled. Paeans for the "Unknown Dead." -W'-<»^3J <5v iT-^ "W- SIR FONTAINE'S RIDE; Or, The Knight of the Golden Horse-shoe. A NEW year's story. I. In those dim days so long gone by, When old Virginia lay A sylvan wilderness between . The Blue Ridge and the Bay, Sir Spotswood fresh from Blenheim came. With knightly scars and well-earned fame. He builded near Germanna Ford A little house of prayer ; A village, and a fortress, too. Sir Spotswood founded there ; In good King George's name, the land He ruled with firm, but knightly hand. He gathered round him noble men. Brave, daring, kind and true ; He dubbed them knight, and gave to each A badge — a. gold horse -shoe :* 44 SIR FONTAINE'S RIDE. And bound them with a mighty oath Liegemen to King and country both. No one upon his scarlet coat Might wear the golden shoe Till he could prove that he had crossed The Apalachian bluejf And drank, upon some rugged height, King George's health on New Year's night. And one John Fontaine,^ bless his name ! When he was made a knight Swore he would climb some mountain peak Each coming New Year's night. And through the tangled forests ride Seven days, each year, from Christmas-tide. <' So let it be ! " Sir Spotswood said, — " A fearful vow is thine ; Two golden shoes to thee I'll give, — One hath a charm divine : The very dead will own its sway When once pinned fast to blue and gray." These noble Knights Tramontane rode On many a wild foray. Did battle with the Indian tribes In fierce and bloody fray. SIR FONTAINE'S RIDE. 45 And year by year they slowly pressed The savage hordes toward the West. Near twice a hundred years have fled Since their wild deeds were done, And they have passed with all the dead Beyond life's setting sun ; — No chronicle is left to tell The fate unknown that each befel. 'Tis said that ere Sir Fontaine died His charmed horse -shoe was lost, And that upon his dying bed Uneasily he tossed And moaned aloud : "I dread the day When that shoe rests on blue and gray ! " But what he meant none ever knew, And so Sir Fontaine died — But it was held in after years That on the Christmas-tide His spirit on his coal-black steed Rode through the land with fearful speed. II. Long years went by, and near Mine Run Stern Stonewall's legions lay, In that wild time when battle's tide Rolled o'er the Blue and Gray ; 46 SIR FONTAINE'S RIDE. And filled our sunny land, in vain, With tears and blood, and heaps of slain. His weary legions lay and slept Upon the frozen ground, Whilst round the camp the sentries kept Their silent, watchful round. While winter winds sang slirill and clear A requiem o'er the dying year. Upon the morn of that strange day A trooper Gray had found A little casket made of steel, With copper linkets bound ; Safe in his cartridge-box he placed The trinket with foreboding haste. Upon the outposts of that camp. Beside a dying fire. The trooper broke that casket strange. Impatient with desire : — And lo ! within a small horse-shoe Pinned to a silken ribbon blue. He turned it round — behold his prize, With precious gems inwrought ; A three -month's furlough scarcely then That trinket would have bought ; Upon his breast he pinned it fast, — Then heard a fearful bugle blast. SIR FONTAINE'S RIDE. 47. It smote his ear but not with fear For he was bold and brave, And scarcely would have paled to see A dead man from his grave ; Yet once again upon the blast That bugle call went rushing past. Then like a Northern streamer shone That horse -shoe on his breast, Each separate gem a glory threw In lines towards the West ; — And near him now, with eyes aglare. Two chargers snuffed the wintry air. The one was black as death's dark plume, On whose broad back there sat An olden knight in scarlet clad, With spur and plume and hat ; — The other steed was white as snow That gleams beside the river's flow. "I am Sir Fontaine," spoke the knight, "Now mount in haste," said he, " For thou shalt ride this New Year-tide Across the land with me, And drink on yonder mountain height King George's health this New Year night." Impatient neighed the white steed then ; — The neigh prophetic rang, — 48 SIR FONTAINE'S RIDE. Into the saddle with a leap The startled trooper sprang, — And then the chargers quick as light Flashed through the chambers of the night. On, on they sped o'er hill and vale, Through flood and tangled fell, But Sir John Fontaine seemed to know His way most wondrous well ; Whilst now and then a meteor cast A glamour on the scenes they passed. Once by a ruined church they rode, Round which a churchyard lay : Strange spectres stood among the graves In judgment-like array ; But not a word Sir Fontaine said As wilder, faster on they sped. On, on they swept past Stanardsville, Along the turnpike way That leads through stony Swift Run Gap|| Since good King George's day, — And soon they gained the mountain's height. And paused them in their maddened flight. "Now right well ridden! " Fontaine said, " A royal, knightly thing ! Dismount thee here and drink with me SIR FONTAINE'S RIDE. 49 Of this old mountain spring ; Drink the King's health and there shall be A sight this world no more shall see," They drank the draught, — around them rose A cloud of roseate light ; Then Fontaine grasped the trooper's hand And cried, " Thou art a knight ! A royal knight for one brief day. Yon charm is pinned to Blue and Gray! " Then, like the summer's noonday sun, That golden horse -shoe shone : And over mountain, tow'r and cliff A flood of light was thrown ; — And, ringing on the wintry tide, Strange bugle blasts rang wild and wide. Old knights from graves of long ago Now gathered near the spring, And drank as spirits only may A health to George the King ; And turning on the trooper, cried : " This is a merry New Year's ride ! " But when Sir Fontaine raised his hand He broke the mystic spell. And forth from heaven's blue, starry vault. An awful meteor fell ; 50 SIR FONTAINE'S RIDE. It smote the spring — then far and wide Deep silence filled the midnight tide. Next morn, 'tis said, a mountaineer In chasing game that way. Chanced by the ebbing spring to find The dying trooper Gray, Who told his tale — then closed his eyes And passed beyond earth's wintry skies. And now Sir Fontaine rides no more, His soul at ease doth rest, Or, in the distant Aiden rides Upon some nobler quest ; — And with him passed, beyond the blue. The long-lost charm — his gold horse -shoe. * Sir Spotswood, during his expedition across the Blue Ridge, instituted an order known as Knights of the Golden Horse-shoe. The hadge of this Tramontane Order was a golden shoe. It is singular how these relics have disappeared from the Old Domin- ion. Dr. R. H. Tatum, of Virginia, remembers a memher of his family during the past generation to have seen one, supposed to l>e the last of these badges left. t A name given to the Blue Ridge range of mountains by Gov. Si>otswood in his famous expedition of 1716. X John Fontaine came from the mother country to Virginia iu 1713, for the purpose of exploring the country, and was made a member of this order. Vide Dr. Slaughter's History of St. Mark's Parish. II It is a historic fact that the first party of white men who ever crossed the Blue Ridge were these Knights of the Golden Horse- shoe, and that they passed through what is now known as Swift Run Gap. This highway was opened for public travel by ordei- of King George III, in 1764. Vide Acts of the Assembly of the Colo- ny of Virginia. THE PHANTOM BRIDE. A NEW year's story. The day had died ; the sacred night Was dark as Nile ; Dense clouds absorbed the moon's soft light, The star's sweet smile. Old Ocean, like a god in pain. Moaned in the bay, — And wild waves wailed a sad refrain To ruins gray. On this wild night, the last of all The failing year. The mirth-mad town kept festival With goodly cheer. But one there was among the throng Of that gay town. Who walked amid the mirth and song With half a frown. 52 THE PHANTOM BRIDE. By gilded hall and parlor door He hurries past ; Heeds not the mirthful song, the roar That fills the blast. He wanders onward, and the streets Grow still and cold, And further on the pathway greets The open wold. Across the barren, broken fields He winds his way, By memory's lamp that ever yields A faithful ray. And now he hears the splash of waves Beneath his feet ; And round the grave-stones and the graves The wild winds beat. For he had gained the surf-beat wall Where, long years gone, A good man reared a chapel hall Of polished stone; That it might prove a light -house for Some sin-tossed soul, Amid Life's elemental war When wild waves roll. THE PHANTOM BRIDE. 53 A moment, and he passes through The chapel door, And down the aisle, by vacant pew, He steps once more. What needed now the taper'$ light That well-known way ! Not darkness, storm, nor ebon night. Could check or stay ! He mounts the winding stair and gains The organ loft. Where erst in youth he heard refrains Wild, weird, and soft. And, joy ! the organ still is there, As when in youth, He waked its chords to praise, and prayer. And love, and truth. A truthful sexton, grave and old, Beside the sea. This weird and wondrous story told. One morn to me. Who added further, that the man Had loved, in youth. Strange, magic, mystic lore to scan For Occult truth ; 54 THE PHANTOM BRIDE. And that he loved in those glad days A maiden fair, Whose beauty was above all praise, Beyond compare. She was to have been made his bride One New Year's day ; But, just the eve before, Death's tide Bore her away. He said the shock of sudden grief Deranged the man — Who fled the place and sought relief In far Iran. He studied cabalistic lore By Nimrod's grave ; Slept in strange shrines along the shore Of Euxine wave ; Learned secret charms from magian sage In Persian lands; Knelt in old temples worn with age On Lybian sands ; Walked in the wilderness alone — Kept vigils deep ; Saw, like old Jacob on the stone, Strange things in sleep, — THE PHANTOM BRIDE. 55 Until, like Endor's witch, he found In some wild hour, A charm o'er Stygian sleep profound : Unearthly power ! Grown wise at last, in years, and all That man may be, He sought once more the chapel hall Beside the sea. Above the scenes and solitude Of that lone hour. His master spirit seemed to brood, With subtle power, As if to waken some high deed To glorious birth. In splendors that should far exceed The light of earth. But now his fingers tried the keys ! Low, sweet, profound, — Old harmonies that used to please, Came smiling round ; And, like some wonderful perfume. From spice -clad shore. They filled with fragrance all the room From ceil to floor. 56 THE PHANTOM BRIDE. And hark ! it must have been the blast That rang the bell, For in the belfry clear and fast It rose and fell ; — But suddenly the waves of sound Grew low and faint, And then a glory shone around Each pictured saint, — A glory streaming filled the hall With heavenly light ; Each window niche and frescoed wall Shone sweetly bright. Then wildly deep and nobly grand The anthem rolled : The organ knew the master's hand, His touch of old ! Responsive to the pulsing waves Of tuneful breath, The sainted sleepers from their graves Stepped out of death : — Through vestibule and chapel door The shadows glide. Like billows broken on the shore Of death's blue tide. THE PHANTOM BRIDE. 57 Some knelt beneath the pictured saints In lowly prayer ; Some made their melancholy plaints To Mary there. Old choristers long absent there Walked down the aisle, And clomb again the winding stair, Smile greeting smile. Amid the throng was one sweet face Of queenly mould. Clothed on with loveliness and grace, Fair as of old ! In samite robes of purest white — A lovely bride ; Rich gems and gold flashed out their light In dazzling tide. Fair as the angels that we see In holy dreams, When far beyond the mystic sea The Future gleams. By crucifix and virgin pale, And font of stone, She hurries to the chancel rail — There stands alone ! 5-8 THE PHANTOM BRIDE. A glory overflowed the room Till now unseen, While censers swinging shed perfume Amid the sheen. 