That action was, for me, the Rubicon, Which crossed, I had no choice but follow on. But what a change! The penalty was high, My childhood's friends now passed me coldly by. I, who had been a social favorite, Received no salutation when we met. Fair ones, who used to smile, now looked askance, Or eyed me with a cold indifference. My action seemed base cowardice in their eyes, They knowing not my secret sympathies. Though of a family rich and widely known, I stood in the community, alone, Like a pariah none would recognize, Inaction was enough to ostracize. I seemed to see, like Hagar's fated son, Against me raised the hand of every one. The time had come when I must make my choice, Defend one side with musket and with voice; Then I, to conscience and convictions true, Seemed an apostate,--for I chose the blue. There are inscriptions on the scrolls of fate Which seem too bitter even to relate. I waive the details,--better to conceal The secret skeletons, than to reveal. I shall not tell you how my brother stormed, When he of my intentions was informed. I pass the story, how my ringing ears Were filled with threats, entreaties and with sneers. And how with tear-stained face the maiden came, Who was to be my bride and bear my name; How she appealed to sentiment and pride, Plead, supplicated,--then forsook my side; And how one evening, in an angry burst, My sire pronounced his favorite son accurst; And how a mother, clinging to her child, Saw son and father still unreconciled; And how that father, pointing to the door, Forbade that son to cross the threshold more; 'Go, go!' said he, 'but never more return! Go, slay your neighbors, pillage, sack and burn! But never while the golden sun doth shine, Be welcomed home as son and heir of mine.' I state not what in anger I replied, For anger in my breast has long since died. Renounced, despised and disinherited, I trod the path of duty where it led, And ten days later, in the rain and damp, Stood as a sentry near a Union camp. * * * * * Fain from my recollections would I blot These images, which time erases not, And leave to history's undying page, The recitation of those acts of rage. Incarnadined with human blood appears The record of the four succeeding years. Black with the ruins of the vandal flame, A carnival of misery and shame. I must abridge, and if my hearers please, Confine myself to generalities.