Collier, Thomas J. (fl. ca. 1861-1865) "Grant" A manuscript poem by Thos. J. Collier.

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Grant.
1861.

Down through the sweep of the wonderous valley, where the silent waters
are rolled,
There the soldiers to battle rally, close to the old flag 'o
blazoned gold;
Farmers just from the harvest mowing, delvers just from
the dusky mine,
Ah, who shall plant the next years sowing? who shall
work where the hard one's shine?

Out from the wheat fields, wide and golden, out
from the shops where the hammers beat,
[Moved] by the fire so bright, get olden, comes the sound
of the marching feet;
Hard are the hands that swords are holding, stern
and set are the faces there,
Stern with the love the years are moulding where homes
are glad, and the long days fair.

Far to the south great armies glisten, bright with the steel, that
soon will show,
Red stains won where the broad lands listen to shouts
of conflict, and smiting blow;
For one shall lead where the guns are thirsting for the
swift, hot kiss of withering flame,
Shall lead, while the screaming shells are bursting, on, on
to the heights that shine with fame.

[2]
Soon where the seeds in masses shiver, below the banks
where the cassetted corn
Grows rank and strong by the listless river, the bellowing
cannon woke the morn,
And death ran riot for years of waiting, and hearts
were severed that once had met
Together the blows and the bitter hating, of desperate
battle against their set.
The keen steel smites, and the muskets rattle, and the leaden
kiss of the bullet, stings;
And the thick and sulphurous cloud of battle, close
down to the earth in grayness clings;
And eyes close there in the endless sleeping, that hold
within their the light of home;
And war's dread harvest grows rife for reaping, and
the sun shines red on the crimson foam.

And through it all, with a soul made ready to meet disaster,
and stem retreat,
With a glance by danger made quick and [struck: ready] steady, the chief
sits firm where the mad waves beat,
The waves of conflict, that onward ongoing, roll back the hopes
that had grown so high,
And there where the fierce, wild storm is surfing, his
blows to the smiting blows reply.

[3]
1864-1865

The flame and the fierceness of war grow deeper where
ramparts rise with their [frowning] guns,
Yet fail to waken the weary sleeper, whose life's stream
out to the red earth runs;
The land is loud with the sound of smiting, as sword
blades cross where the foemen meet,
And swift and keen is the short steel biting, where the
fields are hot with the tramp of feet.

With lips made silent by stress of labor, with eyes that search,
for, and win their goal,
One moves untouched through the clash of [illegible], and the
[illegible] that answers the muskets roll;
Moves on, where the river sweeps are winding, beneath
hot suns or broadening moons,
[The] ocean roadway resistless finding through tangled
mazes, and wide lagoons.

And slowly backward we see the glimmer of steel re-
heating through marshes low,
And farther southward our camp fires [shimmer], as he holds
us close to our watchful foe;
The rivers echo the deep intoning, of guns that never
are tired of strife,
And the fragrant pines are forever moaning, and battle
harvests the sheaves of life.

[4]
The graves increase to a countless number, and love
grows weary as days go by
And bring no word from the men who slumber, beneath the
arch of the southern sky;
Yet firm we follow where he is leading, our silent
chieftain, and cherished friend,
For we knew that he with haste is speeding, toward the
distance where this must end,

Yes, firm we follow his lead, and faster our blows fall
hard as the foe shrinks back;
We crush defeat, and we flank disaster, and keep our
hold on the beaten track;
Where the Mississippi its way is holding, where the mountain
summits' grew less and less
Till their top-most peaks see our flag unfolding, and on through
the maze of the wilderness,

We feel that soon will the great strife perish, and onward
press while the cannons boom,
And higher, higher the flag we cherish, floats over the
buds that burst in bloom;
And we see the light of the future, breaking in radiant
glory through falling tears,
And follow our chief, with the wide land waking to the
swelling rush of our triumph cheers,

[5]
1885.

The long days gather and troop before us, and years grow fast
in the flight of time,
And the high, swift wind with its ringing chorus, grows
loud with the song of deeds sublime;
And one who listens with face upturning, as the gathering
shadows slowly move,
With a kindly light in his clear eyes burning, is the silent
chieftain we learned to love.

Does he hear again the bellowing thunder of guns that
thirst for the flame of death?
Does he lead the charge where-at men wonder, and
wait its breaking with bated breath?
Ah, who shall know while the days are waning, how
hard the battle whose strong waves beat,
Will their crimson flow the green sward staining, unseen,
unfelt, close up to our feet?
Serene, when strong men bent in sorrow, he felt life ebbing
toward its close,
Yet forward looked to the rearing morrow, with the patient
calm of a grand repose;
And we-we waited, and watched him making that silent
struggle with death and then
The great, strong love of our souls [out-breaking], won to our chieftain
the hearts of men.

[6]
He who had led us beneath the arches of southern pines, till
our flag, out-blown,
Went sweeping along victorious marches, and over the
fields we made our own,
Now lying there with the earth-life fading slowly and
surely to deepening gloom,
Was leading us on to the light, pervading that land whose
portal we call the tomb.

Our silent chieftain, whose brightest glory was wrought with
ours like the stars and sun,
Whose fame was a part of our own life-story, who had
led in the conflict we all had won,
Our chieftain, ours, though the [bugle's] calling should
find no answer within his breast,
But Ah, we, too, like the leaves are falling, and
our narrowing lines now stand at rest.

We hear the drums with their voices hollow, the muffled
drums as the ranks decrease
And slowly, slowly the sound we follow, and leave
behind us the joy of peace,
The distance burns with a light supernal, and gladness
[breaks] through the gloom of grief,
For there, where the wide lands are eternal, we
shall march again with our silent chief.

Thos. J. Collier

[7]
WR Benjamin
28 W 23
NYC