For I lay among the dead In the cockpit of our foe, With a roar above my head,--Till a trampling to and fro, And a lantern showed my mate's face, and I knew what now you know!
CADET GREY
CANTO I
I
Act first, scene first. A study. Of a kind Half cell, half salon, opulent yet grave;
Rare books, low-shelved, yet far above the mind Of common man to compass or to crave;
Some slight relief of pamphlets that inclined The soul at first to trifling, till, dismayed By text and title, it drew back resigned, Nor cared with levity to vex a shade That to itself such perfect concord made.
II
Some thoughts like these perplexed the patriot brain Of Jones, Lawgiver to the Commonwealth, As on the threshold of this chaste domain He paused expectant, and looked up in stealth To darkened canvases that frowned amain, With stern-eyed Puritans, who first began To spread their roots in Georgius Primus' reign, Nor dropped till now, obedient to some plan, Their century fruit,--the perfect Boston man.
III
Somewhere within that Russia-scented gloom A voice catarrhal thrilled the Member's ear:
"Brief is our business, Jones. Look round this room!
Regard yon portraits! Read their meaning clear!
These much proclaim MY station. I presume YOU are our Congressman, before whose wit And sober judgment shall the youth appear Who for West Point is deemed most just and fit To serve his country and to honor it.
IV
"Such is my son! Elsewhere perhaps 'twere wise Trial competitive should guide your choice.
There are some people I can well surmise Themselves must show their merits. History's voice Spares me that trouble: all desert that lies In yonder ancestor of Queen Anne's day, Or yon grave Governor, is all my boy's,--Reverts to him; entailed, as one might say;
In brief, result in Winthrop Adams Grey!"
V
He turned and laid his well-bred hand, and smiled, On the cropped head of one who stood beside.
Ah me! in sooth it was no ruddy child Nor brawny youth that thrilled the father's pride;
'Twas but a Mind that somehow had beguiled From soulless Matter processes that served For speech and motion and digestion mild, Content if all one moral purpose nerved, Nor recked thereby its spine were somewhat curved.
VI
He was scarce eighteen. Yet ere he was eight He had despoiled the classics; much he knew Of Sanskrit; not that he placed undue weight On this, but that it helped him with Hebrew, His favorite tongue. He learned, alas! too late, One can't begin too early,--would regret That boyish whim to ascertain the state Of Venus' atmosphere made him forget That philologic goal on which his soul was set.
VII
He too had traveled; at the age of ten Found Paris empty, dull except for art And accent. "Mabille" with its glories then Less than Egyptian "Almees" touched a heart Nothing if not pure classic. If some men Thought him a prig, it vexed not his conceit, But moved his pity, and ofttimes his pen, The better to instruct them, through some sheet Published in Boston, and signed "Beacon Street."
VIII
From premises so plain the blind could see But one deduction, and it came next day.
"In times like these, the very name of G.
Speaks volumes," wrote the Honorable J.
"Inclosed please find appointment." Presently Came a reception to which Harvard lent Fourteen professors, and, to give esprit, The Liberal Club some eighteen ladies sent, Five that spoke Greek, and thirteen sentiment.
IX
Four poets came who loved each other's song, And two philosophers, who thought that they Were in most things impractical and wrong;
And two reformers, each in his own way Peculiar,--one who had waxed strong On herbs and water, and such simple fare;
Two foreign lions, "Ram See" and "Chy Long,"
And several artists claimed attention there, Based on the fact they had been snubbed elsewhere.
X
With this indorsement nothing now remained But counsel, Godspeed, and some calm adieux;
No foolish tear the father's eyelash stained, And Winthrop's cheek as guiltless shone of dew.
A slight publicity, such as obtained In classic Rome, these few last hours attended.
The day arrived, the train and depot gained, The mayor's own presence this last act commended The train moved off and here the first act ended.
CANTO II
I
Where West Point crouches, and with lifted shield Turns the whole river eastward through the pass;
Whose jutting crags, half silver, stand revealed Like bossy bucklers of Leonidas;
Where buttressed low against the storms that wield Their summer lightnings where her eaglets swarm, By Freedom's cradle Nature's self has steeled Her heart, like Winkelried, and to that storm Of leveled lances bares her bosom warm.
II
But not to-night. The air and woods are still, The faintest rustle in the trees below, The lowest tremor from the mountain rill, Come to the ear as but the trailing flow Of spirit robes that walk unseen the hill;
The moon low sailing o'er the upland farm, The moon low sailing where the waters fill The lozenge lake, beside the banks of balm, Gleams like a chevron on the river's arm.
III
All space breathes languor: from the hilltop high, Where Putnam's bastion crumbles in the past, To swooning depths where drowsy cannon lie And wide-mouthed mortars gape in slumbers vast;
Stroke upon stroke, the far oars glance and die On the hushed bosom of the sleeping stream;
Bright for one moment drifts a white sail by, Bright for one moment shows a bayonet gleam Far on the level plain, then passes as a dream.
IV
Soft down the line of darkened battlements, Bright on each lattice of the barrack walls, Where the low arching sallyport indents, Seen through its gloom beyond, the moonbeam falls.
All is repose save where the camping tents Mock the white gravestones farther on, where sound No morning guns for reveille, nor whence No drum-beat calls retreat, but still is ever found Waiting and present on each sentry's round.
V
Within the camp they lie, the young, the brave, Half knight, half schoolboy, acolytes of fame, Pledged to one altar, and perchance one grave;
