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Stephen Vincent Benet - Army Of Northern Virginia
Work rating: Medium

Army of Northern Virginia, army of legend,
Who were your captains that you could trust them so surely? 
Who were your battle-flags?
                              Call the shapes from the mist, 
Call the dead men out of the mist and watch them ride. 
Tall the first rider, tall with a laughing mouth, 
His long black beard is combed like a beauty`s hair, 
His slouch hat plumed with a curled black ostrich-feather,
He wears gold spurs and sits his horse with the seat 
Of a horseman born.
                              It is Stuart of Laurel Hill, 
"Beauty" Stuart, the genius of cavalry,
Reckless, merry, religious, theatrical, 
Lover of gesture, lover of panache, 
With all the actor`s grace and the quick, light charm 
That makes the women adore him-a wild cavalier
Who worships as sober a God as Stonewall Jackson,
A Rupert who seldom drinks, very often prays,
Loves his children, singing, fighting spurs, and his wife. 
Sweeney his banjo-player follows him.
And after them troop the young Virginia counties,
Horses and men, Botetort, Halifax, 
Dinwiddie, Prince Edward, Cumberland, Nottoway,
Mecklenburg, Berkeley, Augusta, the Marylanders,
The horsemen never matched till Sheridan came.
Now the phantom guns creak by. They are Pelham`s guns. 
That quiet boy with the veteran mouth is Pelham.
He is twenty-two. He is to fight sixty battles 
And never lose a gun.
                             The cannon roll past,
The endless lines of the infantry begin.
A. P. Hill leads the van. He is small and spare,
His short, clipped beard is red as his battleshirt,
Jackson and Lee are to call him in their death-hours.
Dutch Longstreet follows, slow, pugnacious and stubborn,
Hard to beat and just as hard to convince,
Fine corps commander, good bulldog for holding on,
But dangerous when he tries to think for himself,
He thinks for himself too much at Gettysburg,
But before and after he grips with tenacious jaws.
There is D. H. Hill—there is Early and Fitzhugh Lee—
Yellow-haired Hood with his wounds and his empty sleeve,
Leading his Texans, a Viking shape of a man, 
With the thrust and lack of craft of a berserk sword,
All lion, none of the fox.
                              When he supersedes 
Joe Johnston, he is lost, and his army with him,
But he could lead forlorn hopes with the ghost of Ney. 
His bigboned Texans follow him into the mist. 
Who follows them?
                              These are the Virginia faces,   
The Virginia speech. It is Jackson`s footcavalry,
 The Army of the Valley, 
It is the Stonewall Brigade, it is the streams 
Of the Shenandoah, marching.
                               Ewell goes by,
The little woodpecker, bald and quaint of speech
With his wooden leg stuck stiffly out from his saddle,
He is muttering, "Sir, I`m a nervous Major-General,
And whenever an aide rides up from General Jackson
I fully expect an order to storm the North Pole."
He chuckles and passes, full of crotchets and courage,
Living on frumenty for imagined dyspepsia, 
And ready to storm the North Pole at a Jackson phrase.
Then the staff—then little Sorrel—and the plain 
Presbyterian figure in the flat cap, 
Throwing his left hand out in the awkward gesture
That caught the bullet out of the air at Bull Run,
Awkward, rugged and dour, the belated Ironside 
With the curious, brilliant streak of the cavalier
That made him quote Mercutio in staff instructions,
Love lancet windows, the color of passion-flowers,
Mexican sun and all fierce, tautlooking fine creatures;
Stonewall Jackson, wrapped in his beard and his silence,
Cromwell-eyed and ready with Cromwell`s short
Bleak remedy for doubters and fools and enemies,
Hard on his followers, harder on his foes, 
An iron sabre vowed to an iron Lord, 
And yet the only man of those men who pass 
With a strange, secretive grain of harsh poetry 
Hidden so deep in the stony sides of his heart 
That it shines by flashes only and then is gone.
It glitters in his last words.
                                He is deeply ambitious,
The skilled man, utterly sure of his own skill 
And taking no nonsense about it from the unskilled,
But God is the giver of victory and defeat, 
And Lee, on earth, vicegerent under the Lord. 
Sometimes he differs about the mortal plans 
But once the order is given, it is obeyed. 
We know what he thought about God. One would like to know 
What he thought of the two together, if he so mingled them. 
He said two things about Lee it is well to recall.
When he first beheld the man that he served so well,
"I have never seen such a fine-looking human creature."
Then, afterwards, at the height of his own fame,
The skilled man talking of skill, and something more.
"General Lee is a phenomenon, 
He is the only man I would follow blindfold."
Think of those two remarks and the man who made them
When you picture Lee as the rigid image in marble.
No man ever knew his own skill better than Jackson
Or was more ready to shatter an empty fame. 
He passes now in his dusty uniform. 
The Bible jostles a book of Napoleon`s Maxims 
And a magic lemon deep in his saddlebags.

And now at last, 
Comes Traveller and his master. Look at them well.
The horse is an iron-grey, sixteen hands high,
Short back, deep chest, strong haunch, flat legs, small head,
Delicate ear, quick eye, black mane and tail, 
Wise brain, obedient mouth.
                                  Such horses are 
The jewels of the horseman`s hands and thighs, 
They go by the word and hardly need the rein. 
They bred such horses in Virginia then,
Horses that were remembered after death 
And buried not so far from Christian ground 
That if their sleeping riders should arise 
They could not witch them from the earth again 
And ride a printless course along the grass 
With the old manage and light ease of hand. 
The rider, now.
                         He too, is iron-grey,
Though the thick hair and thick, blunt-pointed beard
Have frost in them.
Broad-foreheaded, deep-eyed,
Straight-nosed, sweet-mouthed, firmlipped, head cleanly set,
He and his horse are matches for the strong
Grace of proportion that inhabits both.
They carry nothing that is in excess
And nothing that is less than symmetry,
The strength of Jackson is a hammered strength,
Bearing the tool marks still. This strength was shaped
By as hard arts but does not show the toil
Except as justness, though the toil was there.
—And so we get the marble man again,
The head on the Greek coin, the idol image,
The shape who stands at Washington`s left hand,
Worshipped, uncomprehended and aloof,
A figure lost to flesh and blood and bones,
Frozen into a legend out of life,
A blank-verse statue—
                       How to humanize 
That solitary gentleness and strength 
Hidden behind the deadly oratory 
Of twenty thousand Lee Memorial days, 
How show, in spite of all the rhetoric, 
All the sick honey of the speechifiers,
Proportion, not as something calm congealed 
From lack of fire, but ruling such a fire 
As only such proportion could contain?

The man was loved, the man was idolized,
The man had every just and noble gift.
He took great burdens and he bore them well,
Believed in God but did not preach too much,
Believed and followed duty first and last
With marvellous consistency and force,
Was a great victor, in defeat as great,
No more, no less, always himself in both,
Could make men die for him but saved his men
Whenever he could save them-was most kind
But-was not disobeyed-was a good father,
A loving husband, a considerate friend:
Had litle humor, but enough to play
Mild jokes that never wounded but had charm,
Did not seek intimates, yet drew men to him, 
Did not seek fame, did not protest against it, 
Knew his own value without pomp or jealousy 
And died as he preferred to live—sans praise, 
With commonsense, tenacity and courage, 
A Greek proportion—and a riddle unread. 
And everything that we have said is true 
And nothing helps us yet to read the man, 
Nor will he help us while he has the strength 
To keep his heart his own.
                      For he will smile 
And give you, with unflinching courtesy, 
Prayers, trappings, letters, uniforms and orders,
Photographs, kindness, valor and advice, 
And do it with such grace and gentleness 
That you will know you have the whole of him 
Pinned down, mapped out, easy to understand— 
And so you have.
                      All things except the heart 
The heart he kept himself, that answers all. 
For here was someone who lived all his life 
In the most fierce and open light of the sun, 
Wrote letters freely, did not guard his speech, 
Listened and talked with every sort of man, 
And kept his heart a secret to the end 
From all the picklocks of biographers.

He was a man, and as a man he knew 
Love, separation, sorrow, joy and death. 
He was a master of the tricks of war, 
He gave great strokes and warded strokes as great.
He was the prop and pillar of a State, 
The incarnation of a national dream, 
And when the State fell and the dream dissolved 
He must have lived with bitterness itself- 
But what his sorrow was and what his joy, 
And how he felt in the expense of strength, 
And how his heart contained its bitterness, 
He will not tell us.
                       We can lie about him,
Dress up a dummy in his uniform
And put our words into the dummy`s mouth,
Say "Here Lee must have thought," and "There, no doubt, 
By what we know of him, we may suppose 
He felt—this pang or that—" but he remains 
Beyond our stagecraft, reticent as ice, 
Reticent as the fire within the stone.

Yet—look at the face again—look at it well— 
This man was not repose, this man was act. 
This man who murmured "It is well that war 
Should be so terrible, if it were not 
We might become too fond of it—" and showed 
Himself, for once, completely as he lived 
In the laconic balance of that phrase; 
This man could reason, but he was a fighter, 
Skilful in every weapon of defence 
But never defending when he could assault, 
Taking enormous risks again and again, 
Never retreating while he still could strike, 
Dividing a weak force on dangerous ground 
And joining it again to beat a strong, 
Mocking at chance and all the odds of war 
With acts that looked like hairbread`th recklessness -
We do not call them reckless, since they won. 
We do not see him reckless for the calm 
Proportion that controlled the recklessness— 
But that attacking quality was there. 
He was not mild with life or drugged with justice, 
He gripped life like a wrestler with a bull, 
Impetuously. It did not come to him 
While he stood waiting in a famous cloud, 
He went to it and took it by both horns 
And threw it down.
                         Oh, he could bear the shifts 
Of time and play the bitter loser`s game, 
The slow, unflinching chess of fortitude, 
But while he had an opening for attack 
He would attack with every ounce of strength. 
His heart was not a stone but trumpet-shaped 
And a long challenge blew an anger through it 
That was more dread for being musical 
First, last, and to the end.
                         Again he said
A curious thing to life. 
"I`m always wanting something."
                         The brief phrase
Slides past us, hardly grasped in the smooth flow
Of the well-balanced, mildly-humorous prose
That goes along to talk of cats and duties, 
Maxims of conduct, farming and poor bachelors, 
But for a second there, the marble cracked 
And a strange man we never saw before 
Showed us the face he never showed the world 
And wanted something—not the general 
Who wanted shoes and food for ragged men, 
Not the good father wanting for his children, 
The patriot wanting victory—all the Lees 
Whom all the world could see and recognize 
And hang with gilded laurels-but the man 
Who had, you`d say, all things that life can give
Except the last success-and had, for that, 
Such glamor as can wear sheer triumph out, 
Proportion`s son and Duty`s eldest sword 
And the calm mask who-wanted something still, 
Somewhere, somehow and always.
                          Picklock biographers,
What could he want that he had never had?

He only said it once—the marble closed— 
There was a man enclosed within that image. 
There was a force that tried Proportion`s rule 
And died without a legend or a cue 
To bring it back. The shadow-Lees still live.
But the first-person and the singular Lee?


The ant finds kingdoms in a foot of ground 
But earth`s too small for something in our earth,
We`ll make a new earth from the summer`s cloud, 
From the pure summer`s cloud.
                          It was not that, 
It was not God or love or mortal fame. 
It was not anything he left undone. 
—What does Proportion want that it can lack? 
—What does the ultimate hunger of the flesh 
Want from the sky more than a sky of air?

He wanted something. That must be enough.
Now he rides Traveller back into the mist.
Source
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