In the Path of Destruction
(Apologies to Edgar Allan Poe)
The owl and raven did not sleep
but choose instead to hide and weep
in the frenzy of November
eighteen hundred, sixty-four.
A youngster's cry, a woman's stare,
the raven squawked, "Beware, beware,"
for those who knew the sad affair
of those who lived ungodly war.
In the midst that hinted morning,
we would know ungodly war;
greed and evil, nothing more.
The cheapest things were hate and faith,
but Sunday on the 28th,
Sherman's Bummers fed the flames
that led them to our door.
Slashing portraits on my wall,
they did not heed my cry and call;
so intent on Georgia's fall,
they robbed the rich and raked the poor.
I, who knew the pillared mansion
felt the pain of rich and poor
loosing things forever more.
They set the blaze to granary, barn,
burned my spinning wheel and yarn;
took the judge, not caring for
the blackened robes he wore.
They forced him to the Georgia slough,
hung him there when they were thru,
then dragged him back in all our view,
his robes begrimed and tore.
How often I have heard of things,
muddy, smudged and tore;
only things and nothing more.
Amid the shoutings of commands,
a negress rocked with folded hands,
moaning, groaning in between
the words she softly swore.
"Dead can't rest in little graves,
and I's just one of many slaves,
but dey's the one what misbehaves,
in de yank's ungodly war."
Gasping in the smoke around us,
we knew then, ungodly war,
cries will last forever more.
She told me of her night of grief,
how she watched in disbelief;
"I tole dem, dey's no treasure
in de floor.
All dem soldiers, drunk an vile,
de Captain man wid serpent smile,
dug de coffin, lef my chile,
my little Callydore."
Though the years pass slowly onward.
I can see dead Callydore,
bones exposed forevermore.
"Dey aimed dey guns, as if to shoot,
lef my chile fer hogs to root,
dat little chile,
so dead, dat I adore.
Den turnin', ridin',----I be hidin',
dey was drinkin', an collidin',
horses reared an some were slidin',
den was quiet as before."
As the building popped and crackled,
was it quiet as before?
The raven squawked, then nothing more.
Milledgeville, my burned estate,
destroyed by man and evil hate,
lies smoldering now
from mountains to the shore.
I think of it, the sad outline,
the ragged edge of war's design,
the day the sun refused to shine
in the torches of the war.
In the weary, always dreary
battle of the yankee war.
Sleep my Georgia, evermore.
LL
Another true story. Nora Canning's diary. Milledgeville, Ga.