Palely intent, he urged his keel Full on the guns, and touched the spring; Himself involved in the bolt he drove Timed with the armed hull’s shot that stove His shallop--die or do! Into the flood his life he threw, Yet lives--unscathed--a breathing thing To marvel at. He has his fame; But that mad dash at death, how name? Had Earth no charm to stay the Boy From the martyr-passion? Could he dare Disdain the Paradise of opening joy Which beckons the fresh heart every where? Life has more lures than any girl For youth and strength; puts forth a share Of beauty, hinting of yet rarer store; And ever with unfathomable eyes, Which baffingly entice, Still strangely does Adonis draw. And life once over, who shall tell the rest? Life is, of all we know, God’s best. What imps these eagles then, that they Fling disrespect on life by that proud way In which they soar above our lower clay. Pretense of wonderment and doubt unblest: In Cushing’s eager deed was shown A spirit which brave poets own-- That scorn of life which earns life’s crown; Earns, but not always wins; but he-- The star ascended in his nativity. The March to the Sea. (December, 1864.) Not Kenesaw high-arching, Nor Allatoona’s glen-- Though there the graves lie parching-- Stayed Sherman’s miles of men; From charred Atlanta marching They launched the sword again. The columns streamed like rivers Which in their course agree, And they streamed until their flashing Met the flashing of the sea: It was glorious glad marching, That marching to the sea. They brushed the foe before them (Shall gnats impede the bull?); Their own good bridges bore them Over swamps or torrents full, And the grand pines waving o’er them Bowed to axes keen and cool. The columns grooved their channels. Enforced their own decree, And their power met nothing larger Until it met the sea: It was glorious glad marching, A marching glad and free. Kilpatrick’s snare of riders In zigzags mazed the land, Perplexed the pale Southsiders With feints on every hand; Vague menace awed the hiders In forts beyond command. To Sherman’s shifting problem No foeman knew the key; But onward went the marching Unpausing to the sea: It was glorious glad marching, The swinging step was free. The flankers ranged like pigeons In clouds through field or wood; The flocks of all those regions, The herds and horses good, Poured in and swelled the legions, For they caught the marching mood. A volley ahead! They hear it; And they hear the repartee: Fighting was but frolic In that marching to the sea: It was glorious glad marching, A marching bold and free.