Benjamin Franklin Washington

The Waste of War

Give me the gold that war had cost,
Before this peace-expanding day,
The wasted skill, the labor lost-
The mental treasure thrown away,
And I will buy each rood of soil
In every yet discovered land;
Where hunters roam, Where peasants toil
Where many peopled cities stand.

I’ll clothe each shivering wretch on earth,
In needful, ay, in brave attire;
Venture befitting banquet mirth,
Which kings might envy and admire.
In every vale, on every plain,
A school shall glad the gazer’s sight,
Where every poor man’s child may gain
Pure knowledge, free as air and light.

I’ll build asylums for the poor,
By age or ailment make forlorn;
And none shall thrust them from the door
Or sting with looks or words of scorn.
I’ll link each alien hemisphere;
Help honest men to conquer wrong;
Art, science, Labor, nerve and cheer,
Reward the poet for his song.

In every free and peopled clime
A vast Walhalla hall shall stand:
A marble edifice sublime,
For the illustrious for the land:
A Pantheon fro the truly great,
The wise, the beneficent and just;
A place of wide and lofty state
To honor and to hold their dust.
                                                                        Benjamin Franklin Washington
                                                                        The Daily Examiner
                                                                        San Francisco, California
                                                                        July 16, 1870

Rosalie

B. F. Washington

Now twilight sits upon the hill
And lengthened shades the valleys fill,
The wild bird's song is hushed, and still
Is dreaming nature, Rosalie;

While here within this spot o’ergrown
With leaves and flowers, I sit alone,
To muse on thee and hours flown,
Love-winged and joyous, Rosalie.

To muse upon those happy times,
When first I won thee with my rhymes;
When sweet as music's vesper chimes,
Our hearts accord, Rosalie;

When life flow'd ever like the stream
Of sonic brain-pictured lovely dream
Where airy shapes and fancies gleam
Upon its bright waves, Rosalie.

Afar in memory’s misty light
As stars steal through the gloom of night--
The twinklings of a vision bright
Come gently o’er me, Rosalie;

A vine-clad cot beneath the hill—--
The gladsome wanderings of a rill--
A form which love’s bright beamings fill--
Are all before me, Rosalie.

Once more we walk this wildwood shade,
Where oft in “love’s young dream” we stray’d,
Again upon the flowery glade
We pick bright blossoms, Rosalie,

Once more I hear the wild bird’s song
That charmed us all the Summer long,
And with it comes a glorious throng
Of bright-winded visions, Rosalie.

And as the stars come out to-night,
All trembling on their lonely height,
Methinks amid their dewy light
Thine eyes smile on me, Rosalie;

Those soft, those gently speaking eyes,
Where hopes and pleasant memories,
Like silver waves, alternate rise
Upon bright sea, Rosalie.

Thy face to me was a tide,
Where barks, love-laden, ever glide,
With Hope, their pilot and their guide,
And I their haven, Rosalie;

But ah! a cloud on swift wings passed
And all the sky was overcast,
And then were wrecked, alas! too fast,
My freighted treasures, Rosalie.

I can not twine my fingers now
In thy soft hair, nor kiss thy brow,
Nor hear thy gentle accents flow
In murmured music, Rosalie.

I can not feel thy breath so warm
Upon my cheek, nor press thy form
Which, like a flow’ret in a storm,
Slept on my bosom, Rosalie.

And though each wild bird, sings of thee,
And in each Summer l see
Thy own eyes, bright exceedingly,
Look up and greet me, Rosalie’

I start and sigh to think that thou
Art but to me a memory now--
A star that gemmed life’s morning brow,
Then fled and left me, Rosalie.

A tall oak stricken in its pride--
The fierce red bolt has rent its side--
Scattered its seared leaves far and wide
Upon the cold heath, Rosalie;

So, too, my heart is sorely riven
By a stern fate, ’gainst which I’ve striven,
Till my poor thoughts like leaves are driven
Upon the rude world, Rosalie.

And I have sought to find, in vain,
This vision of my youth again;
And I have dreamed until my brain
Was wild with dreaming, Rosalie;

But, oh! to sit and muse alone,
Within the spot with flowers o’er grown,
Is all that's left me now, my own,
My lost, my lovely Rosalie.