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In: US Civil War·Poetry·American Literature
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #12384.
Melville’s Battle‑Pieces and Aspects of the War is a sprawling poetic chronicle of the American Civil War, assembled from a series of numbered “pieces” that blend lyric meditation with battlefield reportage. The opening pages plunge the reader into a storm‑tossed landscape of dark mountains, rattling torrents and ominous bugle calls, then shift to a series of dated sketches, “The Conflict of Convictions” (1860‑1), “I O the clammy cold November,” and “The March into Virginia”, each offering vivid, often fragmentary, observations of early engagements such as First Manassas, the Battle of Springfield, and the Stone Fleet’s scuttling. The text interweaves mythic allusions, biblical imagery, and terse soldier’s dialogue, creating a mosaic that records both the physical clash and the philosophical turmoil of a nation at war.
The voice is unmistakably nineteenth‑century, a blend of Romantic grandeur and journalistic immediacy that mirrors Melville’s prose style while embracing the cadence of epic poetry. Its dense, allusive diction and frequent shifts between lofty metaphor and gritty detail will appeal to readers who relish historic poetry, Civil War scholars interested in contemporary perspectives, and admirers of Melville’s more experimental, lyrical ventures. Those comfortable with a non‑linear, richly textured narrative will find this work a compelling, if demanding, entry into the literary record of America’s bloodiest conflict.
The opening · free to read
Nature’s dark side is heeded now-- (Ah! optimist-cheer disheartened flown)-- A child may read the moody brow Of yon black mountain lone. With shouts the torrents down the gorges go, And storms are formed behind the storm we feel: The hemlock shakes in the rafter, the oak in the driving keel.
The Conflict of Convictions.[1] (1860-1.)
On starry heights A bugle wails the long recall; Derision stirs the deep abyss, Heaven’s ominous silence over all. Return, return, O eager Hope, And face man’s latter fall. Events, they make the dreamers quail; Satan’s old age is strong and hale, A disciplined captain, gray in skill, And Raphael a white enthusiast still; Dashed aims, at which Christ’s martyrs pale, Shall Mammon’s slaves fulfill?
(Dismantle the fort, Cut down the fleet-- Battle no more shall be! While the fields for fight in æons to come Congeal beneath the sea.)
The terrors of truth and dart of death To faith alike are vain; Though comets, gone a thousand years, Return again, Patient she stands--she can no more-- And waits, nor heeds she waxes hoar.
(At a stony gate, A statue of stone, Weed overgrown-- Long ’twill wait!)
But God his former mind retains, Confirms his old decree; The generations are inured to pains, And strong Necessity Surges, and heaps Time’s strand with wrecks. The People spread like a weedy grass, The thing they will they bring to pass, And prosper to the apoplex. The rout it herds around the heart, The ghost is yielded in the gloom; Kings wag their heads--Now save thyself Who wouldst rebuild the world in bloom.
(Tide-mark And top of the ages’ strike, Verge where they called the world to come, The last advance of life-- Ha ha, the rust on the Iron Dome!)
Nay, but revere the hid event; In the cloud a sword is girded on, I mark a twinkling in the tent Of Michael the warrior one. Senior wisdom suits not now, The light is on the youthful brow.
(Ay, in caves the miner see: His forehead bears a blinking light; Darkness so he feebly braves-- A meagre wight!)
But He who rules is old--is old; Ah! faith is warm, but heaven with age is cold.
(Ho ho, ho ho, The cloistered doubt Of olden times Is blurted out!)
The Ancient of Days forever is young, Forever the scheme of Nature thrives; I know a wind in purpose strong-- It spins against the way it drives. What if the gulfs their slimed foundations bare? So deep must the stones be hurled Whereon the throes of ages rear The final empire and the happier world.
(The poor old Past, The Future’s slave, She drudged through pain and crime To bring about the blissful Prime, Then--perished. There’s a grave!)
Power unanointed may come-- Dominion (unsought by the free) And the Iron Dome, Stronger for stress and strain, Fling her huge shadow athwart the main; But the Founders’ dream shall flee. Agee after age shall be As age after age has been, (From man’s changeless heart their way they win);
And death be busy with all who strive-- Death, with silent negative.
YEA, AND NAY-- EACH HATH HIS SAY; BUT GOD HE KEEPS THE MIDDLE WAY. NONE WAS BY WHEN HE SPREAD THE SKY; WISDOM IS VAIN, AND PROPHESY.
Apathy and Enthusiasm. (1860-1.)
O the clammy cold November, And the winter white and dead, And the terror dumb with stupor, And the sky a sheet of lead; And events that came resounding With the cry that All was lost, Like the thunder-cracks of massy ice In intensity of frost-- Bursting one upon another Through the horror of the calm. The paralysis of arm In the anguish of the heart; And the hollowness and dearth. The appealings of the mother To brother and to brother Not in hatred so to part-- And the fissure in the hearth Growing momently more wide. Then the glances ’tween the Fates, And the doubt on every side, And the patience under gloom In the stoniness that waits The finality of doom.
So the winter died despairing, And the weary weeks of Lent; And the ice-bound rivers melted, And the tomb of Faith was rent. O, the rising of the People Came with springing of the grass, They rebounded from dejection And Easter came to pass. And the young were all elation Hearing Sumter’s cannon roar, And they thought how tame the Nation In the age that went before. And Michael seemed gigantical, The Arch-fiend but a dwarf; And at the towers of Erebus Our striplings flung the scoff. But the elders with foreboding Mourned the days forever o’er, And re called the forest proverb, The Iroquois’ old saw: Grief to every graybeard When young Indians lead the war.
The March into Virginia, Ending in the First Manassas. (July, 1861.)
Did all the lets and bars appear To every just or larger end, Whence should come the trust and cheer? Youth must its ignorant impulse lend-- Age finds place in the rear. All wars are boyish, and are fought by boys, The champions and enthusiasts of the state: Turbid ardors and vain joys Not barrenly abate-- Stimulants to the power mature, Preparatives of fate.
Who here forecasteth the event? What heart but spurns at precedent And warnings of the wise, Contemned foreclosures of surprise?
The banners play, the bugles call, The air is blue and prodigal. No berrying party, pleasure-wooed, No picnic party in the May, Ever went less loth than they Into that leafy neighborhood. In Bacchic glee they file toward Fate, Moloch’s uninitiate; Expectancy, and glad surmise Of battle’s unknown mysteries. All they feel is this: ’tis glory, A rapture sharp, though transitory, Yet lasting in belaureled story. So they gayly go to fight, Chatting left and laughing right.
But some who this blithe mood present, As on in lightsome files they fare, Shall die experienced ere three days are spent-- Perish, enlightened by the vollied glare; Or shame survive, and, like to adamant, The throe of Second Manassas share.
Lyon. Battle of Springfield, Missouri. (August, 1861.)
Some hearts there are of deeper sort, Prophetic, sad, Which yet for cause are trebly clad; Known death they fly on: This wizard-heart and heart-of-oak had Lyon.
“They are more than twenty thousand strong, We less than five, Too few with such a host to strive” “Such counsel, fie on! ’Tis battle, or ’tis shame;” and firm stood Lyon.
“For help at need in van we wait-- Retreat or fight: Retreat the foe would take for flight, And each proud scion Feel more elate; the end must come,” said Lyon.
By candlelight he wrote the will, And left his all To Her for whom ’twas not enough to fall; Loud neighed Orion Without the tent; drums beat; we marched with Lyon.
The night-tramp done, we spied the Vale With guard-fires lit; Day broke, but trooping clouds made gloom of it: “A field to die on” Presaged in his unfaltering heart, brave Lyon.
We fought on the grass, we bled in the corn-- Fate seemed malign; His horse the Leader led along the line-- Star-browed Orion; Bitterly fearless, he rallied us there, brave Lyon.
There came a sound like the slitting of air By a swift sharp sword-- A rush of the sound; and the sleek chest broad Of black Orion Heaved, and was fixed; the dead mane waved toward Lyon.
“General, you’re hurt--this sleet of balls!” He seemed half spent; With moody and bloody brow, he lowly bent: “The field to die on; But not--not yet; the day is long,” breathed Lyon.
For a time becharmed there fell a lull In the heart of the fight; The tree-tops nod, the slain sleep light; Warm noon-winds sigh on, And thoughts which he never spake had Lyon.
Texans and Indians trim for a charge: “Stand ready, men! Let them come close, right up, and then After the lead, the iron; Fire, and charge back!” So strength returned to Lyon.
The Iowa men who held the van, Half drilled, were new To battle: “Some one lead us, then we’ll do” Said Corporal Tryon: “Men! I will lead,” and a light glared in Lyon.
On they came: they yelped, and fired; His spirit sped; We leveled right in, and the half-breeds fled, Nor stayed the iron, Nor captured the crimson corse of Lyon.
This seer foresaw his soldier-doom, Yet willed the fight. He never turned; his only flight Was up to Zion, Where prophets now and armies greet brave Lyon.
Ball’s Bluff. A Reverie. (October, 1861.)
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