- end_line
- 4799
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:47:58.829Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 4736
- text
- “Does the sad South still cherish hate?
Freely will Southen men with Northern mate?
The blacks--should we our arm withdraw,
Would that betray them? some distrust your law.
And how if foreign fleets should come--
Would the South then drive her wedges home”
And more hereof. The Virginian sees--
Replies to such anxieties.
Discreet his answers run--appear
Briefly straightforward, coldly clear.
“If now,” the Senators, closing, say,
“Aught else remain, speak out, we pray”
Hereat he paused; his better heart
Strove strongly then; prompted a worthier part
Than coldly to endure his doom.
Speak out? Ay, speak, and for the brave,
Who else no voice or proxy have;
Frankly their spokesman here become,
And the flushed North from her own victory save.
That inspiration overrode--
Hardly it quelled the galling load
Of personal ill. The inner feud
He, self-contained, a while withstood;
They waiting. In his troubled eye
Shadows from clouds unseen they spy;
They could not mark within his breast
The pang which pleading thought oppressed:
He spoke, nor felt the bitterness die.
“My word is given--it ties my sword;
Even were banners still abroad,
Never could I strive in arms again
While you, as fit, that pledge retain.
Our cause I followed, stood in field and gate--
All’s over now, and now I follow Fate.
But this is naught. A People call--
A desolted land, and all
The brood of ills that press so sore,
The natural offspring of this civil war,
Which ending not in fame, such as might rear
Fitly its sculptured trophy here,
Yields harvest large of doubt and dread
To all who have the heart and head
To feel and know. How shall I speak?
Thoughts knot with thoughts, and utterance check.
Before my eyes there swims a haze,
Through mists departed comrades gaze--
First to encourage, last that shall upbraid!
How shall I speak? The South would fain
Feel peace, have quiet law again--
Replant the trees for homestead-shade.
You ask if she recants: she yields.
Nay, and would more; would blend anew,
As the bones of the slain in her forests do,
Bewailed alike by us and you.
A voice comes out from these charnel-fields,
A plaintive yet unheeded one:
_‘Died all in vain? both sides undone’_
Push not your triumph; do not urge
Submissiveness beyond the verge.
Intestine rancor would you bide,
Nursing eleven sliding daggers in your side?
- title
- Chunk 2