Poem by Albery Allson Whitman

The End of the Whole Matter

A tall brave man of gray three score,
The sable columns rode before,
The knightliest of the knightly throng,
The bravest of the brave and strong
Who on the field of Nashville stood
Against the hosts of gallant Hood;
When noble Thomas, mild and brave,
Against the armed master, threw the former slave.

Rodney had left his home in foreign lands,
And laid his life into our country's hands,
His struggling kindred's conquests proud to share,
For he beheld acknowledged manhood there.
And this the grandest day that ever rose
Upon his life, at its eventful close
Was bringing with it recollections sweet,
That made his old heroic heart with youth's emotions be at

His country's banner, soiled and battle-torn,
In sable hands before the columns borne,
Streamed in the setting sun's deep golden light,
And rivaled Heaven in her blazon bright.
The drums of victory clamored on his ear;
The bugle's wail of rest was ringing clear,
Thunder of wheels was in the distance roaring,
And into camp the weary victors pouring.
He saw that Slav'ry's days were numbered now,
Far death's cold damp hung on her pallid brow.

And looking now upon his left and right,
Two proud sons who had ridden thro' the fight
With him, rode there with martial mien and brave,
The off'rings which Leeona's bosom gave
The country that had chased her as a slave.
He saw his sons, and prouder felt than he
Who took Rebellion's sword from famous Lee.

This was the day when Southern chivalry
Beheld black manhood clothed in liberty,
Step from the shadow of his centuries
Of bondage, shake dejection from his eyes,
And to the awful verge of valor rise.
The day that heard the negro, scarred and maimed,
On sovereign battle's lips a man proclaimed.

The hosts of Sherman marching to the sea,
Beneath Rebellion's trembling canopy
Swept like a thunder storm, whose lightnings catch
The shaking hills with hands of flame, and snatch
Their mighty forests down. The Nation then
Lifted her hands to Heaven and praised the men
Who cleaved their way by hard incessant blows,
From where the hills of Cumberland arose,
And at the Northern door of Slavedom held
Their watch, to where the Mexic Ocean swelled;
Wrenching fair victory from brave hands and true
As e'er on foe the steel of battle drew,
The Alpine strength of strongholds sweeping down,
And treading under foot each hostile town.
Then fair applause warmed her white hands with claps,
And bright-faced greetings at all doors gave raps,
Gray bearded gratitude bowed on his knees,
And cheering cities flamed with jubilees.

But soon a change came o'er the Nation's face,
The light of mirth to clouds of fear gave place.
The chiming bells that jubilantic rung,
Now hushed their throats or spoke with doleful tongue.
The mazy dance held her light-booted feet,
And music soft suppressed her murmurs sweet.
Sad-faced religion sought the church once more,
And faith went back to do her first works o'er.

The gallant Hood, intrepid Sherman knew
Would cleave the Slaveholder's domains in two,
So, as that military comet went
To Southward, he his swift flight Northward bent.
The Union struck at proud Rebellion's heart;
Rebellion aimed at her same vital part,
And doubtless had a wound most painful made,
Had not the Union's negro arm displayed
Such valiant strength in warding off the blow,
And striking down the strong and gallant foe.
As Rodney rode to camp this glorious day,
He heard a dying soldier by his way,
Half hidden 'mong his mangled comrades pray.
His tortured soul of ruin conscious cried,
Raved thro' its mansion dark from side to side,
Rose to the eyes and stood with dreadful glare,
Ran to the heart, and fluttered, groaning there,
And shuddering in the awful shades of woe,
Sank down in mortal dread and pleaded not to go.
As hope forever bade her host farewell,
Now mem'ry came into the soul's dark cell,
And with the wrongs of unrepented yore,
Manacled her, and chained her to the floor.
Remorse then followed with the criminal's scourge,
Her pris'ner seized, and dragged towards the verge
Of mis'ry bottomless, and 'mid the smoke
Of black torment, that rolled and spread and broke,
Laid on her lash of scorpions with heavy stroke.

"Oh, Lord!" the sufferer cries, "have mercy now!
I would pray right, Lord Jesus, teach me how!
Ah! I've insulted thee, I know, I own,
But Savior, make thy boundless mercies known;
Oh, life misspent, could I but now recall!
Leeona, Rodney, ah! forgive me all.
Help! water! water! water, or I die!"
"Who's here?" cries Rodney, quickly turning by,
The dying man stares on the speaker brave,
In ghastly silence, as the whisper "save!"
Falls from his lips; then like a madman yells,
And rolls his painful balls within their fevered cells.

Rodney forgets the wrongs of other years,
As wretchedness' bitter cry he hears;
The red wounds that with parched lips appeal
To heav'n he sees, and can't his tears conceal.
He kneels upon the ground where Aylor lies,
His canteen to his quiv'ring lips applies,
The sinking body in his arms doth rest,
And leans his throbing head against his breast.
Now stooping o'er, the hero hears the cry:
"Rodney, I know, forgive me ere I die!
Leeona tell" — he fixes here his eyes,
And still in death, on Rodney's bosom lies.

And now my country let us bury all
Our blunders sad beneath grim battle's pall.
Gathered beneath the storm's heroic folds,
While our dear land an aching bosom holds,
Let us forget the wrongs of blue and grey,
In gazing on the grandeur of the fray.
Now let the vanquished his repentant face
Lean in the victor's merciful embrace,
And let the victor, with his strong arm heal
The bleeding wounds that gape beneath his steel.
And may no partial hand attempt a lay
Of praise, as due alone to blue or grey.
The warrior's wreath may well by both be worn,
For braver man than either ne'er was born.
They both have marched to death and victory,
They both have shown heroic misery,
And won the soldier's immortality.
But scars of honor that they both yet wear,
The proudest testimonials of their valor are.

And where our sons their battle lances drew,
Fought not their sable comrades bravely too?
Let Wagner answer 'mid the reeking storm,
That mingles with black dead proud Shaw's fair form.
Ask it of Fisher, and a thousand more
Brave fields that answer with their lips of gore.
And while America's escutcheon bright,
Is bathed in war-won Freedom's glorious light,
Forget it not, the colored man will fight.
More patriotism Sparta never knew,
A lance more knightly Norman never threw,
More courage never armed the Roman coasts,
With blinder zeal ne'er rode the Moslem hosts,
And ne'er more stubborn stood the Muscovite,
Than stood the hated negro in the fight.

The war was God-sent, for the battle blade,
Around the seething gangrene, Slavery, laid,
By Heaven's arm, this side and that was prest,
Until the galling shame dropt from the Nation's breast.
War was inevitable, for the crimes
That stained our hands (and in the olden times
Engendered) now were Constitutional,
And spreading thro' the Nation's body all.
Deep rooted where the vital currents meet
Around the heart of government, their seat
Evaded Legislation's keenest skill,
Or bent the stoutest edge of human will.
'Twas then that God the raving Nation threw
Upon her own war lance and from her drew,
By accidental providence, a flood
Of old diseases that lurked in her blood.

Whom Moses witnessed 'mid old Sinai's smoke,
Whose arm from Judah's neck had torn the yoke,
And with it broken Egypt's bones of pride,
And with his chariots strown the Red Sea tide;
Who stripped the golden crimes from Babel's throne,
And made his pow'r to Baal's adorers known;
He stood among us and His right arm bared
To show His ways by seers of old declared.
While millions trembled at Oppression's nod,
Oppression sank beneath the finger touch of God.
Line upon line the centuries had wrought,
And precept upon precept vainly taught,
The prophets had of old been heard to cry,
While signs and wonders figured in the sky,
And then the Incarnation of all good,
By Jordan's wave and in the Mount had stood,
And with His hand of gentltness and love
Transcendent, that a heart of stone could move,
Had touched the ties of every human woe,
And loosing fettered mind, said: "Let him go."
And His great heart to patience ever moved,
And always gentle e'en if He reproved,
Bore this sweet sentence from his sinless Home:
"To preach deliv'rance to the bound I'm come."
But even then, our country shook her head,
Her eagle wings of independence spread,
One tipped with fires of the Tropic's glow,
The other lashing in the realms of snow,
And in her pride declared that God's own Son
Had licensed Slavery's dark crimes, every one.
And tho' we shackled Afric's sable hands,
And scourged her where the smoking altar stands,
And tho' we loaded down her captive feet
With iron chains, right by the mercy seat,
And tho' we laid her virgin bosom bare,
And forced her where the fires of off'ring glare;
We smote our conscience with a palm of ease,
And thanked God that his pure eye ever sees!
Who then can wonder that the Lord would smite
The haughty neck that did Him thus despite?

Now let us in the light of future years,
Forget our loss and sacrificial tears,
And thank kind heav'n that tho' we erred and strayed,
We to the good path our return have made.

Hail dawning Peace! Speed on thy glorious rise!
And with thy beams unseal the nation's eyes.
Let Islam in the blaze of scimitar
Proclaim his rites, and gorge the fangs of war,
But peace be unto thee, land of our sires,
Whose sacred altar flames with holier fires!
Let lawlessness no longer stagger forth
With his destructive torch, nor South nor North;
And let the humblest tenant of the fields,
Secured of what his honest labor yields,
Pursue his calling, ply his daily care,
His home adorn and helpless children rear,
Assured that while our flag above him flies,
No lawless hand can dare molest his joys.

Lo! from yon hights, land of the rising star,
The hands of Freedom beckon from afar,
And mid the glad acclaims of roused mankind
Fling her immortal standard to the wind;
Speed there thy flight, and lead the glorious train
That swell the lofty tributes of her reign.
Thy hands are wrested from the tyrant's hold,
Thy name on Time's illustrious page enrolled,
And thy escutcheon bright, embossed with gold.

From Erie's rock-watched shores to Mexic's sands,
No more the bondman wrings his fettered hands;
No more entreaty's sable face thro' tears,
Looks on for succor thro' the weary years;
For Freedom's holy dawn is now begun,
And earth rejoices 'neath her rising sun.
Requited toil content pursues his care,
Walks with bold strides as free as heaven's air;
The gen'rous fields put on their aspect sweet,
And forests blithe their hymns of God repeat.
Dear western woods! thou harbors of the free,
With youthful hearts we wander back to thee,
And ere these numbers hush, once more would lie
Beneath thee stretched and gaze upon the sky.
Thou art more proud than Windsor's lofty shade,
By poet sung, or by the sage portrayed.
No lordly despot o'er thy ample grounds,
Sways ancient titles and proclaims his bounds;
But each poor tenant owns his humble plot,
Tills his neat farm and rears his friendly cot.
The weary trav'ler 'long thy roads may lie,
As peaceful as the brook that rambles by,
From boughs that drop with plenty gather food,
And o'er his dear ones rear a shelter rude.
Thou noble seats! fit theme of bard or sage,
Beneath thy bow'rs leans venerable age,
While from the summit of his stalwart years,
His life's calm twilight slowly disappears,
And hope's sweet sunrise in the future nears.
And where smooth paths thy solemn shades divide,
Walks buoyant toil with young love at his side,
And charmed by songs that ev'ry zephyr shakes
From boughs around, his hopeful journey takes.
And flaxen childhood there the live-long day,
In blithe sports whirls and wanders far away.

Oh comrade freemen strike your hands to stand
Like walls of rock and guard our father-land!
Oh guard our homes and institutions free,
The price of blood and valor's legacy.
Awake to watch, ye sovereign sons of toil!
If despot feet e're touch our country's soil,
Fly to the standard that by freemen born,
The glory of a hundred years has worn,
Blood-stained, yet bright, streaming, but battle-torn,
And rally till the last drop from the veins
Of free America flows on our plains.
Eternal vigilance must light the tower,
Whose granite strength can bide the evil hour,
Whose wave-dashed base defies the tempest's shock,
Builded upon the everlasting rock.
At last, proud land, let potent wisdom write
Her name above thy brow in glorious light,
And suffer ne'er thy hands to idle rest
Till learning lights thy humblest subject's breast.
In cities tall, and in the hamlet rude,
Suffer no partial hand to e'er exclude
A single poor from fair instruction's halls,
But write Equality on all her walls.
An equal chance in life, and even start,
Give every one and let him play his part.
But who could, with complacence on his face,
First bind one's feet, then challenge for a race?
I would not own I was a thing so small,
I'd rather own I was no man at all,
Than show that I must some advantage take,
The race of life respectably to make.
Say my facilities must all be best,
Then write excelsior upon my crest?
Nay, rather let me weed the hardest row,
And rise above by toiling from below.

Free schools, free press, free speech and equal laws,
A common country and a common cause,
Are only worthy of a freeman's boasts —
Are Freedom's real and intrinsic costs.
Without these, Freedom is an empty name,
And war-worn glory is a glaring shame.
Soon where yon happy future now appears,
Where learning now her glorious temple rears,
Our country's hosts shall round one interest meet,
And her free heart with one proud impulse beat,
One common blood thro' her life's channels flow,
While one great speech her loyal tongue shall know.
And soon, whoever to our bourne shall come,
Jew, Greek or Goth, he here shall be at home.
Then Ign'rance shall forsake her crooked ways,
And poor old Caste there end her feeble days.

1. Morton
2. The Montenegrin
3. Saville
4. Custar's Last Ride
5. An Idyl of the South. Part II. THE SOUTHLAND'S CHARMS AND FREEDOM'S MAGNITUDE

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