The Ancient of Days forever is young, Forever the scheme of Nature thrives; I know a wind in purpose strong— It spins _against_ the way it drives. What if the gulfs their slimed foundations bare? So deep must the stones be hurled Whereon the throes of ages rear The final empire and the happier world. Power unanointed may come— Dominion (unsought by the free) And the Iron Dome, Stronger for stress and strain, Fling her huge shadow athwart the main; But the Founders’ dream shall flee. Age after age has been, (From man’s changeless heart their way they win); And death be busy with all who strive— Death, with silent negative. _Yea and Nay—_ _Each hath his say;_ _But God He keeps the middle way._ _None was by_ _When He spread the sky;_ _Wisdom is vain, and prophecy._ THE MARCH INTO VIRGINIA _Ending in the First Manassas_ July, 1861 Did all the lets and bars appear To every just or larger end, Whence should come the trust and cheer? Youth must its ignorant impulse lend— Age finds place in the rear. All wars are boyish, and are fought by boys, The champions and enthusiasts of the state: Turbid ardors and vain joys Not barrenly abate— Stimulants to the power mature, Preparatives of fate. Who here forecasteth the event? What heart but spurns at precedent And warnings of the wise, Contemned foreclosures of surprise? The banners play, the bugles call, The air is blue and prodigal. No berrying party, pleasure-wooed, No picnic party in the May, Ever went less loth than they Into that leafy neighborhood. In Bacchic glee they file toward Fate, Moloch’s uninitiate; Expectancy, and glad surmise Of battle’s unknown mysteries. All they feel is this: ’t is glory, A rapture sharp, though transitory, Yet lasting in belaureled story. So they gayly go to fight, Chatting left and laughing right. But some who this blithe mood present, As on in lightsome files they fare, Shall die experienced ere three days are spent— Perish, enlightened by the vollied glare; Or shame survive, and, like to adamant, The throe of Second Manassas share. BALL’S BLUFF _A Reverie_ October, 1861 One noonday, at my window in the town, I saw a sight—saddest that eyes can see— Young soldiers marching lustily Unto the wars, With fifes, and flags in mottoed pageantry; While all the porches, walks, and doors Were rich with ladies cheering royally. They moved like Juny morning on the wave, Their hearts were fresh as clover in its prime (It was the breezy summer time), Life throbbed so strong, How should they dream that Death in a rosy clime Would come to thin their shining throng? Youth feels immortal, like the gods sublime.