. At early candle light and other poems. Cedar Creek, 82 COMRADE H7WES When, cinched with deadly musket-blaze,We fought with him,—our Comrade Hayes. He sleeps with us, for we are one, Beneath the sod, beneath the sun; We guard the rear while those who died Are bivouacked on the other side ; Some, in the springtime, deck the mounds, In Paradise some pace their rounds; But all are one, and aye shall be Bound in eternal comradery. You have no part or lot in this, Who gave him sneer, or stab, or hiss; He heeds not now your blame or praise. He sleeps with us,—our Comrade Hayes. Columbia, thou who h
. At early candle light and other poems. Cedar Creek, 82 COMRADE H7WES When, cinched with deadly musket-blaze,We fought with him,—our Comrade Hayes. He sleeps with us, for we are one, Beneath the sod, beneath the sun; We guard the rear while those who died Are bivouacked on the other side ; Some, in the springtime, deck the mounds, In Paradise some pace their rounds; But all are one, and aye shall be Bound in eternal comradery. You have no part or lot in this, Who gave him sneer, or stab, or hiss; He heeds not now your blame or praise. He sleeps with us,—our Comrade Hayes. Columbia, thou who hast, at need,Hearts of this high Homeric gray-haired legions weep to-day ;The flags are draped, the dirges play,The while each soul in sorrow bends ;This thrilling summons heaven sends:Lift up thy tear-stained face and hear,Blown oer the river, sweet and bugle-call that faints and swellsAcross the fadeless asphodels: Turn out! it sings ; ** each trump upraise!Turn out to welcome Comrade Hayes! THE OLD CIDER PRESS. THE old Cider Press, howits thin yellow thread Runs backward to-night tothe days that are dead,When it fell from the mill with mellifluous sound,Where the apples went in, and the oxen went round!O the great honest eyes of the slow-moving steersSeem to look at me now, like my own full of tears,As I smell the sweet odor, which must be, I guess,A breath of the past from the old Cider Press. O the old Cider Press on the old orchard hill!The brook was the hem and the forest the frillOf that outskirt of Eden we called the old farm,Where all knew the Lord and took hold of his Bellflower and Pippin, red Baldwin and Blush,All pressed into pulp, as the great cities crushThe sad human hearts with shame and distress,And Satan drinks the brew from the big Cider Press. 83 84 THE OLD CIDER PRESS O my boy, dreaming there by the dim pasture bars,With fields full of flowers and skies full of stars,Go not to the town, with its smoke and its grime;Dabbl
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