They buried it within a lonesome wood, With trembling hands, beneath a foreign stone. But there were some who said It moved its lips; And when they went away, the earth stirred And they heard it moan. Now it comes leaping down the tunnel roads Where the moss hangs like stalactites, Screaming out curses, snapping at the toads; Negroes who pass there on the moonless nights Behind them hear a sound that stops their breath. The keen wind whistles through its teeth, And the white skull goes bounding by Looking for Death. H.A. THE BLOCKADE RUNNER I Three years! Since I had seen the city, in the time We waited through the tenseness of the hours, While nerves were zither strings For fate to jar upon: All through that night we counted old St. Michael's chimes Now three o'clock-- The bells spoke as they had on marriage days, With high and silver-happy tongues Yet somehow they had gained an irony, For out across the quiet April bay Grim, new-built forts grinned at old Sumter Through the morning mist-- _One--two--three--four--_ And no sound yet! Then-- Thirty minutes like a life too long; A red flash dirked the night; I thought a voice cried, "DOOM"; That was the gun that killed a million men. God! How the city woke! With what a rush of wonder in her streets, "_Burr_" of strained voices, earthquakes of feet, Tramping to rolling drums, The crowd swept to the Battery. Roofs were black with gazing folk in knots, Leveling their spyglasses Like phalanx spears, From sea wall to the chimney tops. Over the rippling harbor came The growling, bull-dog bark of culverins, Red rockets curved and plunged Across the dawn. The world seemed drunk with confidence That day-- Some secret nervousness about the slaves; What they might think or say; But they did neither; The bugles shouted at the Citadel. Hours were punctuated by glad bells, Soon to be hid away, And gales of laughter came from gardens, Where bright tear-dashed eyes must weep farewells The braver lips refused to falter-- Mouths then seemed only made to kiss For men in gray, Who left the ancient houses of proud names, Through magic gates upon that magic day When the lost cause was still-born in its hope. II