No More Learning

The Ridge was wreathed with angry fire
As flames rise round a martyr's stake;
For many a hero on that pyre
Was offered for our dear land's sake,
What time in heaven the gray clouds flew
To mingle with the deathless blue;
While here, below, the blue and gray
Melted minglingly away,
Mirroring heaven, to make another day.
And we, who are Americans, we pray
The splendor of strength that Gettysburg knew
May light the long generations with glorious ray,
And keep us undyingly true!


X

Dear are the dead we weep for;
Dear are the strong hearts broken!
Proudly their memory we keep for
Our help and hope; a token
Of sacred thought too deep for
Words that leave it unspoken.
All that we know of fairest,
All that we have of meetest,
Here we lay down for the rarest
Doers whose souls rose fleetest
And in their homes of air rest,
Ranked with the truest and sweetest.
Days, with fiery-hearted, bold advances;
Nights in dim and shadowy, swift retreat;
Rains that rush with bright, embattled lances;
Thunder, booming round your stirless feet;--
Winds that set the orchard with sweet fancies
All abloom, or ripple the ripening wheat;
Moonlight, starlight, on your mute graves falling;
Dew, distilled as tears unbidden flow;--
Dust of drought in drifts and layers crawling;
Lulling dreams of softly whispering snow;
Happy birds, from leafy coverts calling;--
These go on, yet none of these you know:
Hearing not our human voices
Speaking to you all in vain,
Nor the psalm of a land that rejoices,
Ringing from churches and cities and foundries a mighty refrain!
But we, and the sun and the birds, and the breezes that blow
When tempests are striving and lightnings of heaven are spent,
With one consent
Make unto them
Who died for us eternal requiem.


XI

Lovely to look on, O South,
No longer stately-scornful
But beautiful still in pride,
Our hearts go out to you as toward a bride!
Garmented soft in white,
Haughty, and yet how love-imbuing and tender!
You stand before us with your gently mournful
Memory-haunted eyes and flower-like mouth,
Where clinging thoughts--as bees a-cluster
Murmur through the leafy gloom,
Musical in monotone--
Whisper sadly. Yet a lustre
As of glowing gold-gray light
Shines upon the orient bloom,
Sweet with orange-blossoms, thrown
Round the jasmine-starred, deep night
Crowning with dark hair your brow.
Ruthless, once, we came to slay,
And you met us then with hate.
Rough was the wooing of war: we won you,
Won you at last, though late!
Dear South, to-day,
As our country's altar made us
One forever, so we vow
Unto yours our love to render:
Strength with strength we here endow,
And we make your honor ours.
Happiness and hope shall sun you:
All the wiles that half betrayed us
Vanish from us like spent showers.
XII

Two hostile bullets in mid-air
Together shocked,
And swift were locked
Forever in a firm embrace.
Then let us men have so much grace
To take the bullets' place,
And learn that we are held
By laws that weld
Our hearts together!
As once we battled hand to hand,
So hand in hand to-day we stand,
Sworn to each other,
Brother and brother,
In storm and mist, or calm, translucent weather:
And Gettysburg's guns, with their death-giving roar,
Echoed from ocean to ocean, shall pour
Quickening life to the nation's core;
Filling our minds again
With the spirit of those who wrought in the
Field of the Flower of Men!







NOTES


[1] _Bride Brook_. --The colony of New London (now part of
Connecticut) was founded by John Winthrop, Jr. , under the jurisdiction
of Massachusetts. One of the boundary lines was a stream flowing into
Long Island Sound, between the present city of New London and the
Connecticut River. In the snowy winter of 1646, Jonathan Rudd, who dwelt
in the settlement of Saybrook Fort, at the mouth of the Connecticut,
sent for Winthrop to celebrate a marriage between himself and a certain
"Mary" of Saybrook, whose last name has been lost. Winthrop performed
the ceremony on the frozen surface of the streamlet, the farthest limit
of his magistracy; and thereupon bestowed the name "Bride Brook," which
it still bears.

[2] _The Bride of War_. --Jemima Warner, a Pennsylvania woman, was the
wife of one of Morgan's riflemen. She marched with the expedition; and,
when her husband perished of cold and exhaustion, she took his rifle and
equipments and herself carried them to Quebec, where she delivered them
to Arnold as a token of her husband's sacrifice, and proof that he was
not a deserter.

Colonel Enos of Connecticut abandoned the column while it was struggling
through the Dead River region, with his whole force, the rear-guard,
numbering eight hundred men. But for this defection Arnold might have
triumphed in his assault on Quebec. It is a curious circumstance that,
with this traitor at the rear, and with Benedict Arnold at its head, the
little army also counted in its ranks Aaron Burr, whose treason was to
ripen after the war ended.

[3] _The Sword Dham_.