Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, OUR MARTYRS, by PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

OUR MARTYRS, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: I am sitting alone and weary
Last Line: May rise to the calm of thine.
Subject(s): American Civil War; Confederate States Of America; United States - History; Confederacy


I AM sitting alone and weary,
By the hearth of my darkened room,
And the low wind's miserere,
Makes sadder the midnight gloom.
"There's a nameless terror nigh me --
There's a phantom spell on the air,
And methinks, that the dead glide by me,
And the breath of the grave's in my hair!"

'Tis a vision of ghastly faces,
All pallid and worn with pain,
Where the splendor of manful graces
Shines dim thro' a scarlet rain: --
In a wild and weird procession
They sweep by my startled eyes,
And stern with their Fate's fruition,
Seem melting in blood-red skies.

Have they come from the shores supernal;
Have they passed from the spirit's goal,
'Neath the veil of the life eternal
To dawn on my shrinking soul?
Have they turned from the choiring angels,
Aghast at the woe and dearth,
That war with his dark evangels
Hath wrought in the loved of earth?

Vain dream! amid far-off mountains
They lie where the dew mists weep,
And the murmur of mournful fountains
Breathes over their painless sleep;
On the breast of the lonely meadows
Safe, safe, from the despot's will,
They rest in the starlit shadows,
And their brows are white and still,

Alas! for our heroes perished!
Cut down at their golden prime,
With the luminous hopes they cherished.
On the height of their faith sublime!
For them is the voice of wailing
And the sweet blush-rose departs.
From the cheeks of the maidens paling
O'er the wreck of their broken hearts.

And alas! for the vanished glory
Of a thousand household spells!
And alas! for the tearful story
Of the spirit's fond farewells!
By the flood, on the field, in the forest,
Our bravest have yielded breath,
Yet the shafts that have smitten the sorest,
Were launched by a viewless death.

Oh, Thou! that hast charms of healing,
Descend on a widowed land,
And bind o'er the wounds of feeling,
The balms of thy mystic hand;
Till the lives that lament and languish,
Renewed by a touch divine,
From the depths of their mortal anguish,
May rise to the calm of Thine.





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