  By JOSEPH O’CONNOR. I It is a withered rose, That like a rose’s corpse, full dry and wan, Finds here its last repose, Its lustre dulled, its form and softness crushed, The tender life with which its petals flushed, And all its soul of subtle fragrance gone; A primal rose that bloomed Among the kindling brands, as white as frost, Where Zillah stood undoomed, Or from Mahomet’s forehead fluttered fair To earth, when Al Borak cleft through the air In flight to heaven, might leave so frail a ghost.The poet moralist Has ever taken sombre joy to sing Upon a theme so trist, And write in dust of roses lessons grim— That pleasures must be snatched ere they grow dim, For germs of death in folds of beauty cling; That since the roses die, No mortal loveliness may long endure; No joy outlast a sigh; No passion’s thrill, no labor’s work remain Beyond a season; that Decay doth reign;— Though in the tyrant’s very riot, sure, Some pledge of hope is found That all the universe is not a grave And life sits somewhere crowned. Not Tasso’s soft persuasion unto sin I find, dear rose, thy withered leaves within, Nor any precept Epicurus gave; To me thou dost not breathe A thought of festivals, or memory Of woven, wine-dipped wreath, Or kisses on ripe lips, or fond regret For bounds by time to fleeting pleasures set, Or wish to bring thy beauty back to thee. To kiss thy leaves I bend, And lo! The crash of cannon fills mine ears; I see the banners blend Into the battle smoke; and the long lines Of marching men where glint of bayonet shines Through clouds of dust; the hopes, the hates, the fears Of old thrill through my heart; Again the myriad ghosts of the great war From out their cerements start; What mystery of power To fill the mind with visions such as these Lies in this scentless flower? ’Tis three and twenty years this very June, Since first it opened to the southern noon And swung in languor to a southern breeze; And on the stalwart breast Of one that wore the blue, while yet in bloom, ’Twas set in gallant jest; In the long march’s dust it drooped its head And in the smoke of Gettysburg lay dead, With many a life more precious finding doom. Beside a farmer’s home In shade and shine this rose of battle grew, What time the rolling drum Announced the crisis of the war at hand, As Meade pressed swiftly north through Maryland, And ever closer to Lee’s columns drew; On that grim, weary march Rain seldom fell; the June sun fiercely glowed And seemed all things to parch; The winds grew still, nor in their motion swung The dust that round the lithe battalions clung For miles, on many a winding country road. The women stood in groups And watched with tear-wet eyes and smiling lips The marching of the troops; The smiles came at the sight of manhood stern Moving to sacrifice with unconcern; The tears were for the battle’s drear eclipse That was so soon to fall On many a home where then the sunshine slept— The shadow of a pall; And though their hopes went with the stripes and stars, Or lingered far away with stars and bars, Yet they were women still—and smiled and wept! And where this rosebud lush Had blossomed into innocence and peace Upon its modest bush, A column halted for a rest at noon And the tired soldiers, glad of such a boon, Flung knapsacks off, stacked arms, and took their ease. And there to one that quaffed From the deep farmhouse well, with careless zest, A luscious draught, A fair girl said, scorn lurking round her mouth: “Dare these men meet the veterans of the South?” Half earnestly she spoke, and half in jest. The soldier’s serious eyes An instant flashed, and then grew soft again, While yet the quick surprise It seems another age When things like these were done; the rose’s bloom He took as battle gage, And with his laughing comrades went his way, Well knowing that the columns wide astray Were fast converging for the day of doom! O streams of rippling steel That northward flowed with current ever true! In thought we watched you wheel Among the hills, a winding to and fro, The weapons sparkling o’er the men below Like glancing foam above the waves of blue! We knew your end and source, And that your torrents, crowned with portents dire, Would keep their onward course Till in the battle’s plunge, with thunder’s roar, And scorching flames, your cleansing tides should pour Abroad, and save the nation as by fire! The first day of July, Just north of Gettysburg, the fight began Whose memory will not die. There lay along the outskirts of a wood A regiment busy in the work of blood; And he that wore the rose watched every man, Alert, unvexed, intense, And kept the firing cool, and fierce, and fast; In front in column dense Stern Southern valor stormed, and would not flinch, Nor be denied, yet could not win an inch— Till far outflanked our lines gave way at last. Behind the frightened town, On Cemetery Hill the rout was stayed; And there the men lay down And slept content among the graves that night; And there this pallid rose, in soft moonlight, Upon its wearer’s heaving bosom swayed. The gathering armies clashed, And on the circling hills the second day, Incessant cannon crashed; And shot and shell tore up each reverent mound, And flung the tombstones’ shattered fragments round— Poor rose, that heard the din of such a fray! On the third day, behold! It saw the climax of the battle come; When calm, and stern, and bold Amid the eddied smoke, The groans of dying men, and the glad cheer Of victory that broke From hill to hill, this thing of beauty died; And he that wore and had forgot it, sighed And thought of it again as something dear; So from his breast he took The rose and sent it home to have it set Within this simple book, The favorite of a girl he loved and lost, And ’mid the leaves it lingers like a ghost— Though they be gone, the flower abideth yet! And often when I gaze Into its folds and see these visions fair, Mine eyes are filled with haze Of tears for him that wore it, true and brave; Almost I turn to fling it on his grave Beside the little flag that flutters there!— Then sigh for power to close Within the amber clear of poetry This pale and withered rose That else must pass and crumble into dust And squander in some wild and windy gust The essence I would set in melody— The feelings of the time When first it bloomed; the deeds of sacrifice, The thoughts and acts sublime, The scenes of battle with their woe and scaith, The courtesy and courage, love and faith— That I can read within it with mine eyes! Banner Banner
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