Bret Harte - Complete Poetical Works стр 4.

     I read last night of the grand review
     In Washington's chiefest avenue,
     Two hundred thousand men in blue,
         I think they said was the number,
     Till I seemed to hear their trampling feet,
     The bugle blast and the drum's quick beat,
     The clatter of hoofs in the stony street,
     The cheers of people who came to greet,
     And the thousand details that to repeat
         Would only my verse encumber,
     Till I fell in a reverie, sad and sweet,
         And then to a fitful slumber.

     When, lo! in a vision I seemed to stand
     In the lonely Capitol.  On each hand
     Far stretched the portico, dim and grand
     Its columns ranged like a martial band
     Of sheeted spectres, whom some command
         Had called to a last reviewing.
     And the streets of the city were white and bare,
     No footfall echoed across the square;
     But out of the misty midnight air
     I heard in the distance a trumpet blare,
     And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear
         The sound of a far tattooing.

     Then I held my breath with fear and dread
     For into the square, with a brazen tread,
     There rode a figure whose stately head
         O'erlooked the review that morning,
     That never bowed from its firm-set seat
     When the living column passed its feet,
     Yet now rode steadily up the street
         To the phantom bugle's warning:

     Till it reached the Capitol square, and wheeled,
     And there in the moonlight stood revealed
     A well-known form that in State and field
         Had led our patriot sires:
     Whose face was turned to the sleeping camp,
     Afar through the river's fog and damp,
     That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp,
         Nor wasted bivouac fires.

     And I saw a phantom army come,
     With never a sound of fife or drum,
     But keeping time to a throbbing hum
         Of wailing and lamentation:
     The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill,
     Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville,
     The men whose wasted figures fill
         The patriot graves of the nation.

     And there came the nameless dead,the men
     Who perished in fever swamp and fen,
     The slowly-starved of the prison pen;
         And, marching beside the others,
     Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's fight,
     With limbs enfranchised and bearing bright;
     I thoughtperhaps 'twas the pale moonlight
         They looked as white as their brothers!

     And so all night marched the nation's dead,
     With never a banner above them spread,
     Nor a badge, nor a motto brandished;
     No marksave the bare uncovered head
         Of the silent bronze Reviewer;
     With never an arch save the vaulted sky;
     With never a flower save those that lie
     On the distant gravesfor love could buy
         No gift that was purer or truer.

     So all night long swept the strange array,
     So all night long till the morning gray
     I watched for one who had passed away;
         With a reverent awe and wonder,
     Till a blue cap waved in the length'ning line,
     And I knew that one who was kin of mine
     Had come; and I spakeand lo! that sign
         Awakened me from my slumber.

     There is peace in the swamp where the Copperhead sleeps,
     Where the waters are stagnant, the white vapor creeps,
     Where the musk of Magnolia hangs thick in the air,
     And the lilies' phylacteries broaden in prayer.
     There is peace in the swamp, though the quiet is death,
     Though the mist is miasma, the upas-tree's breath,
     Though no echo awakes to the cooing of doves,
     There is peace: yes, the peace that the Copperhead loves.

     Go seek him: he coils in the ooze and the drip,
     Like a thong idly flung from the slave-driver's whip;
     But beware the false footstep,the stumble that brings
     A deadlier lash than the overseer swings.
     Never arrow so true, never bullet so dread,
     As the straight steady stroke of that hammer-shaped head;
     Whether slave or proud planter, who braves that dull crest,
     Woe to him who shall trouble the Copperhead's rest!

     Then why waste your labors, brave hearts and strong men,
     In tracking a trail to the Copperhead's den?
     Lay your axe to the cypress, hew open the shade
     To the free sky and sunshine Jehovah has made;
     Let the breeze of the North sweep the vapors away,
     Till the stagnant lake ripples, the freed waters play;
     And then to your heel can you righteously doom
     The Copperhead born of its shadow and gloom!

     Last night, above the whistling wind,
       I heard the welcome rain,
     A fusillade upon the roof,
       A tattoo on the pane:
     The keyhole piped; the chimney-top
       A warlike trumpet blew;
     Yet, mingling with these sounds of strife,
       A softer voice stole through.

     "Give thanks, O brothers!" said the voice,
       "That He who sent the rains
     Hath spared your fields the scarlet dew
       That drips from patriot veins:
     I've seen the grass on Eastern graves
       In brighter verdure rise;
     But, oh! the rain that gave it life
       Sprang first from human eyes.

     "I come to wash away no stain
       Upon your wasted lea;
     I raise no banners, save the ones
       The forest waves to me:
     Upon the mountain side, where Spring
       Her farthest picket sets,
     My reveille awakes a host
       Of grassy bayonets.

     "I visit every humble roof;
       I mingle with the low:
     Only upon the highest peaks
       My blessings fall in snow;
     Until, in tricklings of the stream
       And drainings of the lea,
     My unspent bounty comes at last
       To mingle with the sea."

     And thus all night, above the wind,
       I heard the welcome rain,
     A fusillade upon the roof,
       A tattoo on the pane:
     The keyhole piped; the chimney-top
       A warlike trumpet blew;
     But, mingling with these sounds of strife,
       This hymn of peace stole through.