Music In Camp
By John R. Thompson (1834
- 1894) |
 |
|
Two armies covered hill and
plain
Where Rappahannock's waters
Ran deeply crimsoned
with the stain
Of battle's recent slaughters.
The
summer clouds lay pitched like tents
In meads of heavenly
azure;
And each dread gun of the elements
Slept in its
hid embrasure.
The breeze so softly blew, it made
No forest leaf to quiver,
And the smoke of the random
cannonade
Rolled slowly from the river.
And now
where circling hills looked down
With cannon grimly
planted,
O'er listless camp and silent town
The golden
sunset slanted;
When on the fervid air there came
A strain, now rich, now tender,
The music seemed itself
aflame
With day's departing splendor.
A Federal
band, which eve and morn
Played measures brave and
nimble,
Had just struck up with flute and horn
And
lively clash of cymbal.
Down flocked the soldiers to
the bank;
Till margined by its pebbles,
One wooded
shore was blue with "Yanks,"
And one was gray with
"Rebels."
Then all was still; and then the band
With movements light and tricksy,
Made stream and forest,
hill and strand,
Reverberate with "Dixie."
The
conscious stream, with burnished glow,
Went proudly o'er
its pebbles,
But thrilled throughout its deepest flow
With yelling of the Rebels.
Again a pause, and then
again
The trumpet pealed sonorous,
And Yankee Doodle
was the strain
To which the shore gave chorus.
The
laughing ripple shoreward flew
To kiss the shining
pebbles--
Loud shrieked the crowding Boys in Blue
Defiance to the Rebels.
And yet once more the bugle
sang
Above the stormy riot;
No shout upon the evening
rang
There reigned a holy quiet.
The sad, lone
stream its noiseless tread
Spread o'er the glistening
pebbles:
All silent now the Yankees stood;
All silent
stood the Rebels:
For each responsive soul had heard
That plaintive note's appealing,
So deeply "Home, Sweet
Home" had stirred
The hidden founts of feeling.
Or
blue or gray, the soldier sees,
As by the wand of fairy,
The cottage neath the live-oak trees,
The cottage by the
prairie.
Or cold or warm, his native skies
Bend in
their beauty o'er him:
Sending the tear-mist in his
eyes--
The dear ones stand before him.
As fades
the iris after rain
In April's tearful weather,
The
vision vanished as the strain
And daylight died together.
But memory, waked by music's art
Expressed in
simplest numbers,
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart,
Made light the Rebel's slumbers.
And fair the form of
Music shines,
That bright, celestial creature,
Who
still 'mid war's embattled lines
Gave this one touch of
nature. |
|
By
John R. Thompson (1834 - 1894)
Listed August 14, 2012
This poem is a reflection of what occurred when
a
federal band started to play music during an
American
Civil War battle in Virginia.
|
|
Poem Use Permission Request
USA Patriotism! cannot
provide use permission for a poem or an author's email address
if not listed below the poem. Only the author or a legal
representative can grant permission. Try a search engine to find the
author's contact information for a use permission request or if
it is available for public use.
Note: Poems authored in the
1700s and 1800s can be used with reference to the author. |
Comment on this poem |
|
| | |
|
| War and Tragedy Poems | Poem Categories |
|
