Rhythmic ramblings in battle scarred Manassas

Rhythmic Ramblings
in Battle Scarred ffiM

Manassas ?m 2SH

"By DOUGLAS CLARK

(This 600^ has been
digitized through
the generosity of

Robert O. Blissard
Class of 1957

1

University of Illinois Library at Urbana-Champaign

Digitized by the Internet Archive

in 2011 with funding from

University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign

http://www.archive.org/details/rhythmicramblingOOilclar

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Rhythmic Ramblings
in Battle Scarred $
Manassas HM

By DOUGLAS CLARK

COPYRIGHT, 1905
BY T. D. D. CLARK

PRESS OF

HARPER & BROTHER COMPANY

20O SOUTH TENTH STREET

PH [LADELPHLA

Stonewall Jackson

( >ur Samson meddled not with self ndulgent dalli-
ance—
Nor shamed the uses of his God-given strength—
( >ur champion schooled his will to humble self reli-
ance—
And followed duty to its utmost length.
Not hound and blinded or the sport of fools-
Did he at last the dart of death defy —
Resigned he bowed to Him who overrules —
And strengthened angels by his victory.

Ube "Xost Cause" tfouufc

The soil baptized in patriot blood

Becomes a patriot shrine

The purging tide of war's red strife

The sacrificial flow of life

Is kin to the divine.

Our national escutcheon gleams
Like Aaron's breastplate now ;
The tribes are one,
And freedom's lamp
Shines on a reunited camp
While peace renews her vow.

For mark it well that freedom's cause

Is served by free intent,

That battles lost and battles won

Are not the last criterion

( )f noble sentiment.

And they who freely give their all
For cherished ideal's sake
May see their banners furled for aye,
Their veteran armies melt away
With sob of hearts that break:.

But freedom's hope will not be lost,

Its light can never wane.

The blood and tears

The long dark years

Shall not have been in vain.

The cause that calls to its defence
The might of faith filled men
That cause tho humbled in the dust
By virtue of its nature must
Transformed live again.

fll>t. IHebron Gemeterg, UHlincbester, Da.

A MEDITATION.

Sweet sylvan refuge from the stir and strife,
That wears and tears the spirit of a man,

Thou silent prophet of immortal life,

How soul refreshing is thy brooding calm.

Oh, surely if on this sad earth there be
A spot we truly may call holy ground

'Tis found where dear but frail mortality

In hushed retirement, rests in sleep profound.

High over all the mildew and decay,

That plows relentless through the sacred dust,

Hope's banner waves a welcome to the day
That waits to wake the slumber of the just.

Oh wondrous grace that swings the portals wide,
Where sense would teach us life is lost in death.

Oh ! faith that brings a Saviour to our side,

Who makes it plain that life is more than breath.

Sweet sylvan refuge, as I turn to go,

Where present duty claims its share of time,

Thy sheltering confines to the dead we owe ;
For Christian hope makes death itself sublime.

ZTo fm\? flnfant Son

You squeal too much, my little man;

You wabble when you walk.
You nine-months-old American ;

You "Goo-Goo" when you talk.

But older folks are "Squealers," too.

They wobble in their moral walk;
Their speech is just grown-up "Goo-Goo,"

Though words flow freely when they talk.

So squeal away, my little man,

Do all that's natural to a baby,
But quit it all, as soon's you can,

And life's best prize you'll win — maybe.

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We do not worship idols in this enlightened land ;

We leave all that to pagan sin and folly.
Here business and religion walk sweetly hand in hand,

And the watch- word of the nation is — be jolly.

For our faith is found expressed on the silver dollar's
breast,
And it grandly, proudly reads : "In God we trust ;"
Surely, that should place forever our name among the
blest,
And free our nation's commerce from the greedy
gain of lust.

Oh, we all may safely join the scramble for the coin
Which carries far and near this pious phrase ;

Its pursuit will never move or tempt us to purloin,
Or take a mean advantage by sharp or crooked wavs.

Alas, the phrase means little on the dollar's shining-
face.
Trust in God is not a product of the mint.
As a medium of exchange, gold and silver have their
place,
They save the nation's credit, and from famine's
cruel stint.

But it is a false confessor of man's supreme belief.
And trust in God the Maker of us all ;

The living not the molten word gives burdened souls
relief,
And ministers sufficiency alike to great and small.

The dollar is a servant, a quick, obedient slave ;

Its place is on the footstool, not the throne.
It is worse than pagan folly to call on it to save,

For 'tis naught but dust returning to its own.

Do we not worship idols in this enlightened land,
When we cringe and bow and fawn upon the dollar?

The god we trust is silver, enshrined within the hand,
And our poor, starved souls grow smaller, ever
smaller.

Oh, let not pride and arrogance and greed's seductive
sway

Blind our eves to idol worship here at home.
By freedom's holy energy let us rise and put away

The cursed love of monev from all we call our own.

Ube Mouse of tbe Interpreter

(The grave of Mrs. Henry, who was killed in her own
house on the battlefield of ist Manassas.)

The house of the interpreter is silent, cold and dark

It crowns the summit of a lonely hill,

Its tenant, heedless of the hurrying years,

Ceased long ago to balance good and ill ;

Its lowly roof scarce tops the neighboring sod.

No summons brings an answer to the door

That door was sealed by war's unpitying hand.

And sealed remains till war shall be no more.

A wife, a mother rests within this house —

An aged woman fourscore years and five.

Wife, mother, woman, names of priceless grace

The trinity that keeps fair virtue's cause alive.

Beneath her own roof tree, this helpless matron fell —

Killed by the wandering bolts of battle's frenzied

strife.
When brother sought to pierce a brother's heart
And stop the pulsing current of its life.
For States once joined in wedlock's holy bonds.
Through sore misunderstanding broke their solemn

vow.
And sons well nourished at the self-same breast
In deadly feud are fiercely wrestling now.
This long, sad chapter in the nation's life,
Written in blood, yet sanctified by tears,
Xeeds an interpreter free from passion's sway
To teach its lesson to the coming years.
Where else shall such interpreter be found
If not within that lone grave on the hill.
Which marks the savage crest of war's fierce wave.
And by its pathos whispers. "Peace be still"?
Oh grave of helpless age. dug by the dragon claws
Of Satan's host who scatter sparks of hell
In the dry stubble of our wayward minds.
And weave around us hate's infernal spell,
Sneak to the veteran eye of North and South
That reads her fate whose form thy clods embrace,
S*v to the nation and her warrior sons,
"Your cnnntrv's Horv shines in mercv's face."

FEDERAL MONUMENT, ON LAWN EAST OF HENRY HOUSE. ERECTED-

BY A DETAIL FROM THE 5TH PENN. H. A. BY ORDER OF GEN.

GAMBLE. DEDICATED JUNE 10, '65.

Bm>il anfc Manimer

Who has not heard the music of the anvil ringing clear,
At dawn or dusk, or through the heat of day?

What a cheery voice of honest thrift it lends to all
around ;
A tonic to the sweat and grime of labor's busy way.

You would think to hear it chiming 'neath the black-
smith's sturdy blow,
As he hammers, hammers, hammers hour by hour,
That rack and ruin soon would signalize its doom,
And cast it out disabled, by the brawny striker's
power.

But, no. It still keeps singing when other strikers
rise,
And hammer after hammer has gone its worn-out
way.
'Tis because it is an anvil made to shape and not be
shaped
That it still rings out a welcome to the labors of the
day.

So does the Word Eternal keep singing in the soul,
While blow on blow is raining hard upon its mail-
clad breast.
It bears it all, it suffers all, but while it bears it shapes
Creation's groans and tears and curse into creation's
rest.

Maooai, 2: 8

Yea, Lord ! the silver and the gold are Thine,

But not to hoard secure;
Thou art the mint of love divine,

Thy riches bless the poor.

The "poor in spirit," Lord, not those

Who needy still deny Thee,
Who charge Thee with their bitter woes

And gaunt impiety.

Such are not straightened. Lord, in Thee,

Thy hands for all are full.
And bountiful sufficiency

Rewards the trusting soul.

We lay our sordid margins by

To meet the "rainy day"
That never yet obscured the sky

Of saints who work and pray.

For prayer and work mean trust in God.

And trust no cloud can see ;
Light shines supernal on the road

Where faith and works agree.

Yea, Lord ! the silver and the gold are Thine,

For righteous distribution ;
Thou art the mint of love divine —

Relieve our destitution.

Hre Jflou HHitcb, Xittle Bop?

Are you Dutch, little boy? Are you Dutch?

If not, why is it, you rogue,
You squander your pennies for pretzels

And talk with a quaint German brogue ?

Are you Dutch, little boy? Are you Dutch?

Very well, let us see what that means;
Take my hand, let us journey together

Through grim and heart-stirring scenes.

Far away and long, long ago

In a city called Amsterdam,
There was room for the priest and the courtier,

But little room for the man.

For human creed and greed combined

Had opened wide their maw
To swallow down men of renown.

Who reverenced God's law.

These men were Hollanders, my boy,

Of spirit stern and tried ;
They truly sought their country's good,

For her they would have died.

But they were loyal, first of all,

To Him who speaks from Heaven,

From whom all blessing first proceeds,
Through whom all grace is given.

And when their country sold herself

To work the will of man,
These noble Dutch preserved their faith

And fell beneath the ban.

The cruel, shameful, spiteful ban,

Designed to cow the soul
And subject every Heaven-born hope

To priest-craft's dread control.

Their native land they had to flee ;

Hard-pressed by those they sought to save,
The wilderness became their home,

Far distant o'er the tossing wave.

To this new world these exiles came ;

With others thev were joined in heart.
Whose dauntless faith and energy,

This land to freedom set apart.

Are you glad, little boy, you are Dutch?

Then may you be worthy, mv lad.
Of those who left Holland behind them

For the vision of freedom thev had.

TLbcix 1Rest is Sweet

We miss them here at every turn;

The sad hours o'er time's dial creep.
They come not to our hearts forlorn,

But, O thank God their rest is sweet.

Above their dust the wild flowers bloom
And wreathe the low mounds at our feet.

They speak of triumph o'er the tomb
And rest with Him, whose rest is sweet.

And yet the scalding tear will flow,
When screened in solitude's retreat.

Love cannot love's last right forego,
Although 'tis true their rest is sweet.

O! Jesus, Lord of life and death,
Didst thou not over Lazarus weep?

And is it not thy word, that saith,
"He giveth His beloved sleep"?

We lift our heavy hands to Thee :
We cry aloud from out the deep ;

Grief's burden drops, its shadows flee.
We trust Thy word — their rest is sweet.

Oh ! sorely missed at every turn,

In God's good time we'll surely meet.

The grave is no unyielding bourne ;

God loves, Christ lives, your rest is sweet.

10

Stonewall anfc 36ee

'Rally behind the Virginians,

There Jackson stands like a stone wall
Follow me, we fall back no farther
Tho' the last gallant comrade should fall.'

Well spoken, brave General Bee ;

Well done, peerless Jackson, well done.
Word and deed of such valorous blend

Perish not with the light of the sun.

With his face to the bellowing storm

Of war, in its angriest mood,
The fearless Bee valiantly fell,

And "Stonewall" took root in his blood.

And wherever the prowess of arms
Is sung by the brave and the free,

There chivalrous hearts will respond
To the names of Stonewall and Bee.

1 1

Ube lament ot tbe ©It) Gburcb Carpet

The end has come, and here I stand

In rolls against the wall
A strong but faded second-hand,

And lightly prized by all.

I should have known 'twould come to this,

And made due preparation ;
Earth's fairest fabrics cannot miss

The day of visitation.

But men and carpets are alike

So far as I'm aware ;
The evil day they both will slight

In spite of wear and tear.

Ah me! I've kissed the feet of saints

For many blessed years
Who here to God made their complaints

And triumphed o'er their fears.

My bosom hushed the heavy tread

Of manhood in its prime,
Bearing to rest the sainted dead

Beyond the bourne of time.

My blended hues bright greeting gave

To bridegroom and to bride ;
But now I'm going to my grave,

I'm old and laid aside.

Oh, is there not some modest floor

Where romping children play,
Where I might stretch my length once more

Before I end my day?

I'm sure there is, so come along

And end my isolation.
It's true I'm faded, but I'm strong.

So heed my exhortation.

I'll suit the darlings to a dot;

They love what is "off color."
I'll spend my old age with the tots —

Yard ! quarter of a dollar.

12

Z\x>o tflags

Above the gray horizon
A black sail looms in view,
Driving a rakish, sullen hull
Manned by a murderous crew.
Aloft with sinuous menace
The black flag flutters free,
With skull and cross bones heralding
The outlaws of the sea.
Like vultures swooping to the prey
With glint of hungry eye,
Like creeping panther stealing near
The fawn that soon must die.
So with grim spread of canvas
The pirate crew sweeps on,
To glut its greed with bloody deed
And glory in the wrong.
But might by might must perish
So truth proclaims abroad,
Unless transformed by justice
And the mercy of our God.
And deep the pirates find a grave
Beneath the trackless sea.
Fierce flame and sword their sure reward
For ruthless robbery.
The staunch old ship of Zion
Hoists white sail to the breeze,
Her stately prow cleaves progress
Through calm or stormy seas.
No fear has she of prowling craft
Athwart her heavenly course,
While all the crew pay what is due
Without demand or force.
But when the black flag debt
Liangs fluttering from the peak,
Her ploughing keel the quicksands feel
Her stout frame springs a leak.
The pirate crew has found her out,
The end is close at hand,
And soon a lone dismantled hulk-
Lies rotting on the sand.
Alas! the pirates are on board
Tho' saints they are called, too,
Thev make mad shipwreck of their faith
Withholding what is due.
Ahoy ! pay up and so pull down
This heaven-affronting' rag.
Ahoy! Man ship!! unfurl aloft
Tmmanuel's debt! ess flag.

13

1Rei\ IRosling (5- Hewlett

AUTHOR OF ANGLO-ISRAEL, AND ONE TIME PASTOR OF
CALVARY BAPTIST CHURCH, WASHINGTON, D. C.

A man of God has passed beyond our gaze
Mis message spoken and his work well done.

Indifferent now to human blame or praise
He walks in light more glorious than the sun.

He stood among us for the ancient faith

That thrilled and moved the seed of Abraham ;

The flush of fire prophetic touched his face

When pleading Israel's hope against the Gentile ban.

The glow and heat that warmed his rugged speech
Flung back the pall of cold phlegmatic thinking

He stood a prophet, called of God to preach

The Rock of Israel — faithful, true, unshrinking.

Alas, my brother tho' the time is short

For waiting, working in this maze of years

Your brave, strong presence in the "upper court'*
bequeaths to us a legacy of tears.

We look, we listen for some champion tongue
To plead the cause of Zion's desolation,

Whose songs are mute, whose harps are all unstrung,
Who clothed in sackcloth cries for consolation.

We look, we listen, but, alas, in vain

Lips touched with fire for Israel's hope are few.

Many who love and laud the Saviour's name
Strangely forget that Jesus was a Jew.

We do not blame, we only long to hear
A pleading voice for Israel, like your own.

We miss the accent of the Hebrew seer,

Vibrant with promise for King David's throne.

Farewell, brave heart, until the day spring rise
To flood with glory earth's low, barren waste.

Farewell till outcast Israel ends her sighs

Upon Messiah's breast — the time makes haste.

M

IRefcemption Drawetb IRicjb

The saints abide the coming of their now rejected
King,
The darkest night of trial, with its splendor is
agleam ;
By faith's unclouded vision its stately march is seen.
Lift up your heads, Redemption draweth nigh.

The passing generations with this hope have beer.
Aflame,
While death's exultant chuckle rang through Hades'
dark domain.
But death itself bears witness that Jesus comes to
reign.
Praise the Lord, Redemption draweth nigh.

Every sleeper in Christ Jesus only waits the trumpet's
sound
To rise to life immortal from slumber in the ground.
They will see Creation's enemy cast out dethroned,
uncrowned.
Hallelujah ! Redemption draweth nigh.

O grave, where is thy victory ! O death, where is thy
sting!
Soon dragging at the chariot wheels of our descend-
ing King,
Your proud dominion broken while earth and heaven
ring.
TTosanna ! Redemption draweth nigh.

Blma HHater

DEDICATED TO THE CROZER THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY.

Alma Mater, queenly spouse,

Helpmeet to the word of truth;
Thoughts of thee within us rouse

All the glowing hopes of youth,
As when nurtured at thy knee,

Subject to thy fond command,
Plucking leaves from wisdom's tree,

Thence to scatter through the land.

Alma Mater, we thy sons

Own the charm that still enthralls,
And from year to year becomes

Deeper reverence for thy walls —
Walls that strong in virtue stand,

Fair with truth's proportion just,
Reared by love's most generous hand

They shall not return *to dust.

Alma Mater, in our veins

Flows the current of thy heart,
Thine our knowledge, thine our aims

As thou didst thyself impart.
God, the spirit, brought thee forth

Richly dowered with learning's store ;
Thou hast proved thy Heaven-born worth ;

God be with thee evermore.

16

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No humble spot of earth by human deeds exalted —

Can vie with thee in issues of such moral weight —

And far-extending influence.

For here the red and angry brow of war —

Was tamed and tranquilized by winsome face and

gentle voice of peace.
And such a peace !
Xo shade nor shred of compromise with valor nor

with honor —
But manhood's noblest, bravest, best.
Crushed but unconquered Lee, the good and great —
Tendered his sword to Grant, the strong and true —
In mercy's name and for his country's sake.
And while these two within their hands —
Held fluttering the nation's bleeding heart —
The tide of battle halted till the verdict came.
That verdict, as we know, was peace,
Peace that exalted manhood Xorth and South —
And on its forehead wrote —
''Thev twain are one."

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firh: Country ! 'tis of ITbee

S. F. Smith.

New Music by Rev. T. D. D. CLARK.

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1. My country! 'tis of thee, Sweet land of lib-er-ty,

2. My na- tive country, thee, Land of the no- ble, free,

3. Let inu- sic swell the breeze, And ring from all the. trees

4. Our father's God, to thee, Au - thor of lib-er-ty,

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Of thee I sing : Land where my fathers died ! Land of the
Thy name I love: I love thy rocks and rills, Thy woods and
Let mortal tongues awake, Let all that
Longmay our land be bright,With freedom's-

Sweet freedom's song :
To thee we sing :

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pilgrim's pride! From ev'ry mountain side Let freedom ring-,
templed hills ; My heart with rapture thrills, Like that a - bove.
breathe partake, Let rocks their silence break, The sound prolong,
ho - ly light ; Pro - tect us by thy might, Great God, our King.

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1

Comfort IRever Comes too Xatc

Comfort never comes too late.

Laggard tho' she often seems,
Drowsy priestess of blind fate,

Mumbling crone of fevered dreams.

So she seems when lowering clouds

Usher in affliction's night,
When despair the soul enshrouds

And escape is out of sight.

But in truth, sweet comfort dwells
Hard by sorrow's jungle path,

And her pitying bosom swells
Eager to give all she hath.

Girded she awaits the word

That awakes the heart to song-
Waits with patience on her Lord,
Even tho' He tarry long.

For this truth she ponders well
That the night precedes the day,

And from sorrow's darkened cell
Breaks at last serenest ray.

Comfort never comes too late ;

Tis redemption's side of sorrow.
Soul, to-day in patience wait,

Thou shalt shout and sing to-morrow.

19

Zo rmp jfosfcr*/n>otber

Among the faces age can never fade,
Among the memories time can never dim

One has a special, a peculiar charm,
A face, a memory eloquent of Him.

Of Him who is the radiant door of hope
Who smiles a welcome to contrition's knock.

The sure foundation of the trusting soul
Secure, abiding, Jesus Christ the Rock.

A face, a memory eloquent of Him

My roving feet unconscious long had sought
When found at last it took within my heart

A place akin to that His precious blood has bought.

O quiet, strong and restful face

That smiled its welconte at the open door,

Thrice blessed memory of maternal love

That saved my youth from wandering more and
more.

Not many years remain to either now,
Soon for us both the bell of time will toll,

But e'er its muffled tongue shall sound the last fare-
well—
I offer thee this tribute of my soul.

TlMe TlWorfcs

We scorn the shiftless vagabond
Who whines but will not work,

Whose influence on other men
Disposes them to shirk.

We justly chide the idler

And grudge him time and place.

Where God, the Spirit, is at work
Redeeming our lost race.

To have no purpose, plan nor part
In life's industrial school

Defeats creation's righteous aim
And stamps the man a fool.

All true, dear friend. I freelv grant,

Rut if we seek we'll find
All unsuspected close at home

The loungers of the mind.

An aimless, heedless, vicious mob,

Bold vagrants of the soul
Intent on seeking self to please,

Who sneer at wise control.

Such are the idle words we speak.
The worthless spawn of mental riot,

The swaggering rowdies of the tongue
Who dare Jehovah's righteous fiat.

For Christ declares, and He must know.

Our words shall justify or else condemn
And answer loudly to our names

When God shall judge the ways of men.

Each heart gives character to speech,

And each at last will find
That words are things not passing sounds ;

They are the image of the mind.

Let plan and purpose then have sway

In every recess of the soul.
Yoke language with the Saviour's thought

And yield your tongue to its control.

Let fashion, custom, social form

Follow, not lead your mode of speech ;

Remember this, your words are you,
And you must give account of each.

©om lpaul

I'm glad the end has come, Oom Paul.

Your brave, old heart is still ;
You battled for the right, Oom Paul ;

No man can wish you ill.

What, though you learned the patriot's part

From Israelitish story,
And trusted more the martial art

Than faith in winning glory.

I would not judge you by the rule.
To which our minds are trained ;

Yours was a hard and rugged school,
In which faith's eye was strained.

And yet you magnified The Book, Oom Paul,
And gave to God the place supreme ;

We honor you for this, Oom Paul,
Now' that earth's glory is a dream.

The name of Dutchman, from this hour,
Is blazoned high in memory's hall.

Oom Paul, its latest, greatest dower,
"The noblest Roman of them all."

©ur H)tfrcas

MISS I. N., MANASSAS, VA.

S^* V^* V^

i^N noiseless hinge the gate of Paradise
swings back, and she we loved is
gone. Gone with the throng of blood-
washed saints who press her hand and guide
her willing feet up to His presence, who,
enthroned in light, waits to extend the Elder
Brother's welcome. Oh blessed close of
life's tumultuous round, oh restful silence
that brings end to pain, rebuke our tears
and nerve our heavy hands for purer ser-
vice as we breathe her name. On noiseless
hinge the gate of Paradise swings back
and she we loved is gone, but in the
shining track by which she went to God,
we, by His grace, shall one day follow and
meet her there where partings are unknown.

22

©riQtnal Xiues Defcicatefc to tbe Society of
Ube Brmp oi tbe (Potomac

ON THE OCCASION OF ITS VISIT TO MANASSAS, VA., MAY

IO AND II, I905.

Comrades of Potomac's pride who in valor's name
Turn from the winsome present to the war-worn
past,

Neighbors and friends, we hail your presence now
With song and prayer, and not with bugle blast.

May thrilling memories spread a hallowing shade
On any rankling wound the years have failed to heal.

May echoing fame dispel the haunting gloom
As shafts of light the dawn of day reveal.

We yield to none in friendship's honest welcome,
We shun with scorn aversion's grudging way.

Our common sorrow and our common pain
Have long since ushered in the better day.

Our hearts and hands are one to brush away

The blinding cobwebs of misunderstanding's snare ;

Our doors swing wide, we bid you enter freely,
And of our portion claim a brother's share.

Comrades of Potomac's pride who in valor's name
Turn from the winsome present to the war-worn
past

Its shadows dwindle for the sun is high,
And we each other understand at last.

23

farewell

Kind reader, though unknown to me

By face or yet by name,
In spirit we have shaken hands,

And we shall meet again.

For minds congenial meet and greet,
With scant respect for social form,

Known or unknown by name or sight,

Twin thoughts are intimate as sons twin born.

My simple lines make light demand
On wisdom's vast and varied lore;

The utmost bound of their intent
Is oil on human woes to pour.

If gnawing memories' maddening pain

Has by my word obtained relief;
If hopeless hearts have been inspired,

If solace has been found for grief —

I know the word was His, not mine,
And to Him let the praise redound ;

I only held the pen while He

Did guide it by His love profound.

Kind reader, though unknown to me

By face or yet by name,
In spirit we have shaken hands ;

Good-by, we'll meet again.

24

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