Authority called you; then, in mist
And loom of jeopardy—­dismissed. 
But staring peril soon appalled;
You, the Discarded, she recalled—­
Recalled you, nor endured delay;
And forth you rode upon a blasted way,
Arrayed Pope’s rout, and routed Lee’s array,
        McClellan: 
Your tent was choked with captured flags that day,
        McClellan. 
Antietam was a telling fray.

Recalled you; and she heard your drum
Advancing through the glastly gloom. 
You manned the wall, you propped the Dome,
You stormed the powerful stormer home,
        McClellan: 
Antietam’s cannon long shall boom.

At Alexandria, left alone,
        McClellan—­
Your veterans sent from you, and thrown
To fields and fortunes all unknown—­
What thoughts were yours, revealed to none,
While faithful still you labored on—­
Hearing the far Manassas gun! 
        McClellan,
Only Antietam could atone.

You fought in the front (an evil day,
        McClellan)—­
The fore-front of the first assay;
The Cause went sounding, groped its way;
The leadsmen quarrelled in the bay;
Quills thwarted swords; divided sway;
The rebel flushed in his lusty May: 
You did your best, as in you lay,
        McClellan. 
Antietam’s sun-burst sheds a ray.

Your medalled soldiers love you well,
        McClellan: 
Name your name, their true hearts swell;
With you they shook dread Stonewall’s spell,[6]
With you they braved the blended yell
Of rebel and maligner fell;
With you in shame or fame they dwell,
        McClellan: 
Antietam-braves a brave can tell.

And when your comrades (now so few,
        McClellan—­
Such ravage in deep files they rue)
Meet round the board, and sadly view
The empty places; tribute due
They render to the dead—­and you! 
Absent and silent o’er the blue;
The one-armed lift the wine to you,
        McClellan,
And great Antietam’s cheers renew.

Battle of Stone River, Tennessee. 
A View from Oxford Cloisters. 
(January, 1863.)

With Tewksbury and Barnet heath
  In days to come the field shall blend,
The story dim and date obscure;
  In legend all shall end. 
Even now, involved in forest shade
  A Druid-dream the strife appears,
The fray of yesterday assumes
  The haziness of years. 
      In North and South still beats the vein
      Of Yorkist and Lancastrian.

Our rival Roses warred for Sway—­
  For Sway, but named the name of Right;
And Passion, scorning pain and death,
  Lent sacred fervor to the fight. 
Each lifted up a broidered cross,
  While crossing blades profaned the sign;
Monks blessed the fraticidal lance,
  And sisters scarfs could twine. 
      Do North and South the sin retain
      Of Yorkist and Lancastrian?