General Lee And Traveller
by Rev. Robert Tuttle
Behold that horse! A dappled gray!
I saw him in the month of May,
When wild flowers bloomed about his feet,
And sunshine was his mantle meet.
The shapely head he held up high,
And fire seemed flashing from his eye;
Arched grandly, too, his neck and mane,
And on them fell the slackened rein.
Down from the withers to the tail
The curve was perfect in detail,
While depth of chest, and haunch, and side,
Showed where his strength did most reside.
With limb, and hoof, and pastern small,
The body round and plump withal,
No pattern could be perfecter
Than was the form of "Traveller."
Rare model for an artist's skill!
For brush, or chisel, or for quill!
For there, with muscles strained and tense,
His mould was sheer magnificence.
Bucephalus was not more gay
In ancient battle's stern array,
Than was that grand Virginia gray,
That mutely champed his bits that day.
A day of battle, truly, then!
A day of death to many men!
For war a gory drama played
But "Traveller" was undismayed.
Dismounted, and quite near his head,
The right hand to the halter wed,
His rider stood, bold leader he!
The great, the gallant-Robert Lee.
Broad shouldered, tall, stout, and straight,
The left hand down, his look sedate,
He wore a cap and suit of gray
And gazed, but nothing had to say.
What courtliness in him was seen!
Aye, what nobility of mien!
As there, Horatius-like, he stood
The honored, wise, and great, and good.
Great Chieftains had preceded him
With cups of glory to the brim,
But he among them all was Prince,
Unrivalled in the past, or since.
The battle raged around him near;
The clash of arms he saw, could hear,
But, dauntless, he stood out to view,
Though deadly missiles round him flew.
Brave Chief and Charger! Such were they.
In Dixie's hue of martial gray,
And such they will in memory be,
While time and sense remain to me.
Immortal Spottsylvania!!
Twas on that sacred hill of thine,
'Mid shouts of victory and huzzah,
We saw this picture from the line.
Ye artists! paint the signal scene
Or fashion it in bronze, or stone,
That generations, yet unseen,
In all our Southland's sunny zone,
May look upon Lee's noble form,
As there he stood amid the storm,
And did our Dixie Boys command,
Who fought for rights, and home, and land.
No need have we for Northern foe,
Living, or dead, above, below;
We honor those who wore the gray,
And weave for them our last bouquet.
We War's arbitrament accept,
And foemen leave in peace to rest,
But, when their graves are decked and wept.
The North must do it, and Northwest.
Away with sickly sentiment!
True Southrons never will repent;
For "Chartered Rights," they fought the fight,
And still they know their cause was right.
Had I but one, or even grant
That I'd ten thousand flowers to plant,
I'd put them all on Dixie's graves,
My Comrades, and our Southern braves.
