The Poetical Works of Jonathan E. Hoag/To Some Old Revolutionary Earthworks
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To Some Old Revolutionary Earthworks Now to Be Seen Near Scuylerville, N. Y.
What mean these grassy mounds that deck the mead?
What mortals built them, and for what strange need?
All nature smiles; of joy there seems no dearth?
Why then these giant upthrown clods of earth?
The azure sky, green fields, the brilliant flowers,
All these delights eternally are ours;
The slanting sunbeams gild the spreading trees,
Whilst each glad leaf hangs quivering in the breeze;
Yet, as we feel the bliss, a downcast head
Recalls the scenes so many ages dead.
From out these clods there once in splendor grew
Great oaks, whose branches screened the fields of dew;
Yet which no more engage the curious eye
That scans the mounds and dumbly question why.
But hark! a murmur from a passing wind
Arrests the fancy and absorbs the mind,
And through the silence that the sound succeeds
Sends chilling hints of half-forgotten deeds.
Death! As the thought in ghastly menace comes,
We hear the rush of steeds and roll of drums;
A bugle blares, and o'er the troubled plain
Flies cavalry in arms—a lethal train.
The horses froth, the riders rage and roar,
And scarlet coats grow redder still with gore;
The tramped turf is torn with shot and shell,
The splintering trees behold a flaming hell;
Blade falls on blade, command succeeds command,
The colors fall, new colors waving stand;
Till soon 'mid slithering steel and darting lead,
The legions vanish from the field of dread.
A hush of death now settles from on high,
As side by side the friend and foeman lie;
O'er crimsoned grass we softly tread around
Where sleep the brave on consecrated ground.
Here, sightless eyes stare glassily and cold,
While pulseless hands a cherished locket hold!
We bend o'er lips which yet appear to move,
And seem to catch the lingering whisper—love!
Now rolls the cloud of sickening smoke away;
As the broad Hudson sparkles bright and gay;
Yon granite shaft from peaceful heights beholds
The useful wheels of trade, and fertile wolds.
On wooded hills the birds harmonious sing;
With answering joy the plowman's carols ring:
So with a reverent thought for what hath been,
We bend our heads, and leave the storied scene!
What mortals built them, and for what strange need?
All nature smiles; of joy there seems no dearth?
Why then these giant upthrown clods of earth?
The azure sky, green fields, the brilliant flowers,
All these delights eternally are ours;
The slanting sunbeams gild the spreading trees,
Whilst each glad leaf hangs quivering in the breeze;
Yet, as we feel the bliss, a downcast head
Recalls the scenes so many ages dead.
From out these clods there once in splendor grew
Great oaks, whose branches screened the fields of dew;
Yet which no more engage the curious eye
That scans the mounds and dumbly question why.
But hark! a murmur from a passing wind
Arrests the fancy and absorbs the mind,
And through the silence that the sound succeeds
Sends chilling hints of half-forgotten deeds.
Death! As the thought in ghastly menace comes,
We hear the rush of steeds and roll of drums;
A bugle blares, and o'er the troubled plain
Flies cavalry in arms—a lethal train.
The horses froth, the riders rage and roar,
And scarlet coats grow redder still with gore;
The tramped turf is torn with shot and shell,
The splintering trees behold a flaming hell;
Blade falls on blade, command succeeds command,
The colors fall, new colors waving stand;
Till soon 'mid slithering steel and darting lead,
The legions vanish from the field of dread.
A hush of death now settles from on high,
As side by side the friend and foeman lie;
O'er crimsoned grass we softly tread around
Where sleep the brave on consecrated ground.
Here, sightless eyes stare glassily and cold,
While pulseless hands a cherished locket hold!
We bend o'er lips which yet appear to move,
And seem to catch the lingering whisper—love!
Now rolls the cloud of sickening smoke away;
As the broad Hudson sparkles bright and gay;
Yon granite shaft from peaceful heights beholds
The useful wheels of trade, and fertile wolds.
On wooded hills the birds harmonious sing;
With answering joy the plowman's carols ring:
So with a reverent thought for what hath been,
We bend our heads, and leave the storied scene!
1920