Thus when the sun of victory sheared Its gory way o’er clouds of war, This flower’s tow’ring crest appeared A beacon star. And in its gorgeous, glorious rays, This flower basked, and only bowed When coming conquest’s bloody haze That sun did shroud. Crushed flower, with thy broken stem, I’ll keep thee near to typify The fallen form; the hero’s fame Can never die. _June 19th, 1867._ AN ELEGY WRITTEN ON THE ROTUNDA STEPS, UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA, 1868 The bell the knell of evening lecture tolls, The thronging students pour from every door; The tutor gathers up his notes and rolls, And homeward wends his weary way once more. The noisy crowd is gone, there is a pause, And hushed is all the busy hum and whirl, Save where from yonder room breaks loud applause That welcomes some professor’s parting “curl.” Save that from yonder plain, the lower lawn, Some base-ball novice makes harsh rhyms to _psalm_, Because a veteran, with his hands of horn, Has “pitched” too “hot” a ball for his soft palm. Beneath those balconies, along those rows, Where sinks the wall in many a jail-like cell, Each wrapped in silence now and in repose, The minstrels of the “Calathump” do dwell. The whispered call of evil-masking night, The signal whistle of the well-known crew, The bumping bang of “blowers” beat with might, Will often rouse the “Nippers of Peru.” For them in vain for hours their hearts will burn, While busy housewives tremble at their noise, And frightened children to their fathers turn, Too badly scared to think of play or toys. Oft has th’ rotunda echoed to their songs, In dulcet strains that on the still air broke; Oft has the lawn resounded with their gongs, That roared and rattled ’neath their sturdy stroke. Let not their victims mock th’ infernal din, Coal-scuttle drums, and clarion paper trump; But let them hear with a sardonic “grin,” The hideous clamor of a “Calathump.” The boast of Mozart, or Beethoven’s pride, The sweetest notes Von Weber ever gave, Alike would prove harsh dissonance beside The gushing concord of one college stave. To-night upon their pillows will be laid Heads that are pregnant with some secret plan; Hands that a “poker” often may have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy an old tin pan. In vain grave study holds before their gaze Her ample page and honor’s glittering roll; The fire of “frolic” in their bosom plays, And warms the devilish current of their soul. Full many a mind that might have nations hurled About as toys, has hid its talents rare; And many a voice that might have moved a world, Has cracked in shoutings on the midnight air.