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Donelson By Herman Melville |
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(February, 1862.) The bitter cup Of that hard countermand Which gave the Envoys up, Still was wormwood in the mouth, And clouds involved the land, When, pelted by sleet in the icy street, About the bulletin-board a band Of eager, anxious people met, And every wakeful heart was set On latest news from West or South. "No seeing here," cries one—"don't crowd—" "You tall man, pray you, read aloud." Important. Washed by the storm till the paper grew Every shade of a streaky blue, That bulletin stood. The next day brought A second. Later from the Fort. Further. "Ugh! ugh! 'Twill drag along—drag along" Growled a cross patriot in the throng, His battered umbrella like an ambulance-cover Riddled with bullet-holes, spattered all over. "Hurrah for Grant!" cried a stripling shrill; Three urchins joined him with a will, And some of taller stature cheered. Meantime a Copperhead passed; he sneered. "Win or lose," he pausing said, "Caps fly the same; all boys, mere boys; Any thing to make a noise. Like to see the list of the dead; These ' Ay, ay, they'll give you many a bout" "We'll beat in the end, sir" Firmly said one in staid rebuke, A solid merchant, square and stout. "And do you think it? that way tend, sir" Asked the lean Cooperhead, with a look Of splenetic pity. "Yes, I do" His yellow death's head the croaker shook: "The country's ruined, that I know" A shower of broken ice and snow, In lieu of words, confuted him; They saw him hustled round the corner go, And each by-stander said—Well suited him. Next day another crowd was seen In the dark weather's sleety spleen. Bald-headed to the storm came out A man, who, 'mid a joyous shout, Silently posted this brief sheet: Glorious Victory of the Fleet! Friday's great event! The enemy's water-batteries beat! We silenced every gun! The old Commodore's compliments sent Plump into Donelson! "Well, well, go on!" exclaimed the crowd To him who thus much read aloud. "That's all," he said. "What! nothing more" "Enough for a cheer, though—hip, hurrah!" "But here's old Baldy come again— More news!—" And now a different strain. Later. The stillness stealing through the throng The silent thought and dismal fear revealed; They turned and went, Musing on right and wrong And mysteries dimly sealed— Breasting the storm in daring discontent; The storm, whose black flag showed in heaven, As if to say no quarter there was given To wounded men in wood, Or true hearts yearning for the good— All fatherless seemed the human soul. But next day brought a bitterer bowl— On the bulletin-board this stood; The reader ceased; the storm beat hard; 'Twas day, but the office-gas was lit; Nature retained her sulking-fit, In her hand the shard. Flitting faces took the hue Of that washed bulletin-board in view, And seemed to bear the public grief As private, and uncertain of relief; Yea, many an earnest heart was won, As broodingly he plodded on, To find in himself some bitter thing, Some hardness in his lot as harrowing As Donelson. That night the board stood barren there, Oft eyes by wistful people passing, Who nothing saw but the rain-beads chasing Each other down the wafered square, As down some storm-beat grave-yard stone. But next day showed— More news of last night. Story of Saturday afternoon. Vicissitudes of the war. 1 P.M. 3 P.M. Next day in large bold hand was seen The closing bulletin: Victory! Later and last. The Fort is ours. The man who read this to the crowd Shouted as the end he gained; And though the unflagging tempest rained, They answered him aloud. And hand grasped hand, and glances met In happy triumph; eyes grew wet. O, to the punches brewed that night Went little water. Windows bright Beamed rosy on the sleet without, And from the deep street came the frequent shout; While some in prayer, as these in glee, Blessed heaven for the winter-victory. But others were who wakeful laid In midnight beds, and early rose, And, feverish in the foggy snows, Snatched the damp paper—wife and maid. The death-list like a river flows Down the pale sheet, And there the whelming waters meet. Ah God! may Time with happy haste Bring wail and triumph to a waste, And war be done; The battle flag-staff fall athwart The curs'd ravine, and wither; naught Be left of trench or gun; The bastion, let it ebb away, Washed with the river bed; and Day In vain seek Donelson. | |||||||||||||
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