AUTUMN sunset on Atlanta painting banners red of Mars— Twinkling campfires in the distance like ten thousand evening stars. For the foe had come upon her in the glory of his might, And his siege guns, like grim war dogs, waited for the morrow's fight. Down the valley in the moonlight lay the Gate-way of the South, Fruitful as a summer grain field when the east wind breaks the drought— Proud as harem queen, and heedless—sleeping 'neath the cannon's mouth. Sabbath sunrise on Atlanta, issuing in the steel-gray morn, Turning dark hills into silver as the crystal light is born; Wakes the beaming sky in beauty, sleeps the somber earth in shade— Only reveille and roll-call mock the peace that God has made! And the siege guns ceased their dreaming—ceased their dreaming of the fray, Turned their horrid fronts to eastward, where the quiet city lay— For the word had come from masters they must open on their prey! Far away through blue-domed morning rose the city's thread-like spires, Lifting up the southern banner to her heaven-kindling fires; And the foemen, seeing, wondered—knew they fought no battle wraith— For the finger of her worship was the flag-staff of her faith! Ay, they knew that in that banner, fluttering there without a flaw, Slept the nerve of Chickamauga and the heart of Kenesaw— Slumbered southern hope and glory, her religion and her law. "Aim for yonder cursed banner flouting from that tallest spire; Open with the hundred-pounders—let the batteries follow fire!" Thus spake Sherman, and his army, marshaled in the hilltop sun, Waited there in painful silence for the music of that gun. And those siege guns, huge, black-muzzled, show their demon, ghoulish lips, As they raise their necks to measure where the blue horizon dips— Where to spring across the valley when their leash the keeper slips. In a moment on the city there would rain a fire of hell; Solid shot would mingle thunder with the shriek of shrapnel shell! Like an eagle from his eyrie falling on the flock below, Death would scream across the valley lighted by the fuse's glow. Then the sergeant grasps the lanyard, while erect the gunners stand, As they wait in dumb obedience for the Colonel's stern command— For the word unloosing thunder on this heaven-basking land. Suddenly, far down the valley, came a faint yet tuneful sound, Floating from the tallest steeple spreading like God's halo 'round. And the sergeant dropped the lanyard as that sweet wave rose and fell, And the bristling ranks saluted—for they heard their own church bell: Softly, sweetly, rising, falling, Hark! 'tis thus the pæan ran— Gently chiding, calmly calling: "Peace on earth, good will to man!" Heralding to pale blue morning Till the echoing hilltops start— Shell and shot and cannon scorning: "Love thy God with all thy heart!" Out it pours, full heaven-throated, Caring naught for glory's pelf, Chiming, as it upward floated: "Love thy neighbor as thyself!" God's own skylark of His spirit!—sweeter than the songs of war, Grander than the bass of battle when the cannon boom afar— Mightier than the thunder-organs on the decks at Trafalgar! And the soldier as he listened saw New England's hilltops rise— Saw the plains of Indiana stretch beneath his misty eyes. Vanished now the flags of battle, gone were armèd host and gun, And his own sweet native village lay before him in the sun. It is Sabbath, and the church bells call him now to worship God; Sabbath there—yet here he standeth, ready with the chastening rod, Till a brother's blood shall mingle with his own, his southern sod. 'Tis enough—the flags are lowered and the blue-steel guns they stack— God has broken ranks where cannon never yet has turned them back. All day long the rebel banner, flirting while the winds caressed, Mocked the guns that, parked to westward, crowned the hilltop's bristling crest. All day long the Sabbath sunlight o'er the peaceful city spread, Blending blue and gray battalions in the soft clouds overhead— And the siege guns watched and wondered why their keepers all had fled! Ring, ye church bells of Atlanta! Ring till sin and hate shall cease! Ring, till nations hear thy pæans, and the founts of love release, And the notes of drums are drownèd in thy melodies of peace. |