SIR COPP.

A POEM FOR THE TIMES,
In Six Cantos.

By THOMAS CLARKE,
Author of “A Day in May,” “Donna Rosa,” “The Silent Village,”
“Life in the West,” &c.

“Truth—the highest poetry and the bitterest satire.”—The Author.

“Thus have they masked Hypocrisy,

And dubbed her ‘Young Democracy.’”—Sir Copp., Canto VI.

SIXTH THOUSAND.

CHICAGO:
GEO. W. CLARKE, PUBLISHER
1867.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865,
By THOS. CLARKE & CO.,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for the
Northern District of Illinois.

PREFACE.

The object of this Poem is two-fold; first, to photograph a phase of human depravity incredible, had we not witnessed it; and to hand down its subjects to eternal infamy: and, secondly, to paint the beauty and power of goodness and loyalty in the sacred cause of God and of Country. “Sir Copp” represents the element of mean servility exhibited in those whom duty called in vain to the support of their invaded liberties; the most venomous “copperheads” being those who, under a loyal mask, betrayed their trust, starved our soldiers, robbed their widows and orphans, and, like Benedict Arnold, sold themselves to the enemy. Contrasted with this dark side of the picture the patriotism of our loyal citizens stands out in bold relief. Our army, like a torrent, sweeps away the strongholds of the rebels and restores peace and happiness to the nation. But this glimpse of light is clouded by the murder of Mr. Lincoln, and, in “Abel Misraim,” the people bewail the irreparable loss of their martyred chief. A digression on certain British poets, and a severe criticism on “Enoch Arden,” are followed by a discussion demonstrating the impossibility of sustaining liberty, unless founded on the basis of popular virtue and intelligence; and that no man, whatever be his color, is entitled to the privileges, unless he be prepared to discharge the duties of a citizen. The abuse of this principle caused all our troubles in the past, and, unless a speedy and a radical reform shall be effected, we can expect nothing better for the future.

“Sir Copp,” having undergone a severe physical and moral dissection, is finally introduced into hell, whence Satan, unwilling to entertain him, sends him back to earth to be punished there according to his deserts.

This is the first of a series of works, chiefly on the war, by the same author, which will be issued in due course, if “home production” shall receive here, at the West, a sufficient patronage to justify the undertaking.

It is proposed, also, to republish here, from the London editions, the most popular of the author’s published works, to which the opinions of the best English critics will be appended, according to him a high rank amongst the first poets of our day.

Perhaps it may not be deemed out of place to give here a few brief extracts from those criticisms:

The London Athenæum says: “Mr. Clarke is highly successful in his management of blank verse, and the following passage from his “Day in May,” is worthy of praise for the happy arrangement of its cadences, and the pure and natural feelings contained in it.” [Here follows a quotation of over 40 lines.]

The London Spectator speaks of the same poem in the highest terms; so do the Court Journal, Indian Review, Morning Post, &c.

Blackwood says of “Donna Rosa,” that “it cannot be surpassed for elegance of style and correctness of metre.” Tait’s Edinburgh Magazine coincides, and Bell’s Messenger says: “This is the best and most musical poem which the present season has produced.”

Much more might be quoted, had we space. The above must suffice for the present.

With regard to this new poem, “Sir Copp,” the author relies entirely on the good sense and judgment of the people of the Great West, for an impartial decision of its claims to public favor; and he will rest satisfied with that decision, whatever it may be; for he cannot but believe, that those who have been able to appreciate the best political, military and legal talent in the country, will also be able to discriminate, and reward, literary merit, when it is fairly and candidly presented for their consideration.

Chicago, Illinois.

DEDICATION
TO THE
PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES.

Great Sov’reign, mightier far than king,

Accept this off’ring which I bring.

Thy humble servant would propose

A novel theme in rhyming prose;

Or, since my Muse flanks the sublime,

Then be it named prosaic rhyme.

No matter, if the thing shall please,

Concerning names I feel at ease.

INVOCATION TO THE MUSE.

Muse, if you ever condescend

To aid, in time of need, a friend,

If ever I have sung a lay

That charmed you on a happier day;

If, with the fat of spitted priests,

I have enriched your genial feasts;

Or politician’s sav’riest part,

Has warmed the “cockles” of your heart:

Oh, grant me, now, this precious boon,

(Again I may not ask you soon,)

May I before the lieges spread

The merits of the Copperhead!

It is, indeed, a boon you ask,

And mine will be an arduous task:

The reptile’s name is legion;

He every color can put on;

He is a blackleg all complete,

The people to delude and cheat;

Pretends to be their faithful hack,

Yet claps a saddle on their back

And rides them roughshod through the mire,

Not suffering them to lag or tire,

But whips and spurs the patient jade,

Which never can his yoke evade,

Until, from high official chair

He sees the gaping creatures stare

Upon the riches he has fobbed

From those he so adroitly robbed;

Or in the Senate or the House,

He sits with those who there carouse

At your expense, and laughs to scorn

The slaves who for his use were born.

But though the task is hard, yet still,

I owe you much for your good will;

Then come, together let us wing

Our upward flight, and boldly sing

The strains which from my lips shall flow,

I love to pay whate’er I owe.

SIR COPP.

CANTO I.

“To hell how easy the descent!

But to retrace your steps and to regain

The light of Heaven, alas, how difficult!”—Virgil.

Some orator hath lately said,

(And mark the speech each Copperhead,)

“Who martyrs out of rebels make,

Themselves are worthy of the stake,

And they shall have their full deserts,

When Justice all her rights asserts.”

I grant, the government was wrong,

In giving color to a throng

Of traitors so sublimely small,—

(The merest insects after all,)

Of raising martyrs from their ranks;

For this it scarce deserves our thanks,

Whilst bigger flies are left at large;

The only answer to this charge

That I can urge in its excuse,

It turned the barnacles all loose,

That bored the timbers of the ship,

And caused them drop their murderous grip;

And, like Ithuriel’s spear of yore,

It touched the toadies to the core,

And goaded them unmasked to spring,

At once to light and show their sting.

Soon may it send each tory sham

Hence hell-ward with Vallandigham!

All this was well: for now we see

Much that was veiled in mystery:

We now behold the secret springs

That worked the puppets with their strings,

And are prepared to circumscribe

The “Golden Circle’s” venal tribe,

The trappers in their net to mesh,

And try their flavor, fish or flesh;

Or whether they be bird or beast:

No neutral bat adorns our feast.

Come forth from that same magic ring,

And let us view that precious thing

You call a neutral, we, a drone,

Or rebel traitor—both in one.

If any “neuter” should be here,

Now is his time, let him appear.

(A nondescript Copperhead comes forward,

whom Scalpel addresses thus:)

Behold this scalpel and this probe,

To prove your heart beneath that robe;

And lo! this stethoscope to test

The inmost secrets of your breast,

Shrink not! for if your heart be sound,

Nor rottenness therein be found,

And you be loyal, as you say,

No cause have you for such dismay:

If conscience tells you, you are right,

Why shun the test of truth and light?

Sir Copp—

I dread the dungeon!

Scalpel—

Be you true,

The dungeon was not made for you.

Sir Copp—

The “habeas corpus” is suspended,

And with it liberty is ended.

Scalpel—

Suspended! yes, for those alone

Who’ve made the rebel cause their own,

Who ought to be suspended too,

If every dog should get his due.

You shake your head and still demur.

Sir Copp—

But, then, “the proclamation,” sir,

Can you excuse or palliate

An act so dreadful, so ingrate;

To rob three hundred thousand braves,

Of their best Samson locks, their slaves?

Oh, Lincoln false! we know thee now,

A perfect Delilah art thou,

To lull thy Samson, till the bands

Of Philistines tie down his hands:

Nor would it strike us with surprise,

If next you robbed him of his eyes;

And then!—

Scalpel—

What then?

Sir Copp—

Why, then, look out,

The temple falls your ears about

And sweeps!—

Scalpel—

How frightful, all at once,

Are those disasters you announce!

Like miracles exempt from laws,

They mark effects without a cause.

The “proclamation!” Why, ’twas fun

For you and yours, short time agone;

A mastiff’s bay against the moon,

The dish that scampered with the spoon,

With spoony grandam mounted on it,

Or the Pope’s bull against the comet;

A “brutum fulmen” which, at best,

Was meant to scare, and not divest;

And now, it has become at once

A stumbling block of great offense!

To dwell on this is poor pretext:

What grievance will you lug up next?

What, none! ’Tis well, then, bare your breast,

And yield to this unerring test.

Sir Copp—

Nay, stop one moment, let me ask

This question, then perform your task:

What right had Lincoln to suspend

The “habeas corpus,” or to lend

His sanction to the violation

Of that great bulwark of the nation,

The constitution of the land,

Beneath whose aegis all should stand

On equal footing in the sight

Of God and law, their manhood’s right?

Scalpel—

What! Lincoln make a revolution,

And violate the constitution;

The “habeas corpus” set aside,

That he might rule with regal pride!

What monstrous calumnies I hear!

What misconceptions strike mine ear!

How, if in ignorance you stand,

A stranger in this glorious land,

Nor yet have learnt the scope and worth

Of Freedom, hear, I set them forth.

But, if corruption clouds your soul,

Which your own conscience should control,

Of which the truth shall soon appear,

Then tremble for your fate, but hear;

So firmly have our fathers built

Fair Freedom’s temple, that, save guilt,

No power the fabric can tear down;

And then what falls strikes those alone

Who draw its terrors on their head,

And none need suffer in their stead:

This truth is often dearly bought

By those who set its laws at nought,

And chiefly in the traitor’s case,

For whom the temple keeps no place,

Save that whose dungeon walls secure

The good from him they cannot cure;

Or whence the gallows gives release,

That those behind may dwell in peace.

The “habeas corpus” gives no hope,

The constitution gives a rope,

To these and such as these. Yet, “why”

You ask, “should such in dungeons lie;

Why sink the power of men beneath,

Or suffer ignominious death?”

Because their own deliberate course

Draws on themselves the cross and curse;

Be theirs the blame, and not on those

Who for our safety interpose

Betwixt the murderer and our life,

To save us from the fire or knife.

Then why should parricides go free,

The murderers of Liberty?

Who with felonious hand would burn

The temple, and the sacred urn

Of him who to us did bequeath

The noblest gift the stars beneath?

Who Liberty and Washington

Betray, suspend all acts in one.

Nor needs there that, to suit such case,

A single stone should change its place;

Since self-protection still dictates,

That thieves should be debarred its gates;

And he who watcheth on the tower

Must never sleep in danger’s hour;

He would be recreant to his trust,

Did he admit the brood accurst.

What rights have such within the pale

Where Freedom and her sons prevail?

One only right, and that is flat,

The right to wear a hemp cravat!

Now, are you answered? Don’t you know

We all are masters here below;

And chiefly in this land, to be

Just what we will, or slave or free?

One truth is clear, the path of right

Will lead to joy, to peace, to light;

The wrong as surely lead astray,

As gloomy night succeeds to day.

No Lincoln for a single hour,

To blast our happiness has power,

Had he the will to do us wrong;

The law protects both weak and strong;

(Such is its object and its use,

When freed from partizan abuse;)

But who transgresses law invokes

On his own head its righteous strokes,

And for his suffering, sin and shame,

Has no one but himself to blame.

I laugh at those whose purblind eyes

See all things in a strange disguise;

Who tell us, that the President,

With his due powers not half content,

The constitution must suspend

That constitution to defend;

As if a man who is attacked,

Must first be all to pieces hacked,

And have his breath suspended too,

Before he anything can do,

To strike for life in self-defense;

Or dare to use what common sense

Dictates, and every man concedes,

“Necessity all law exceeds;”

And thus where danger is extreme,

Becomes itself the law supreme.

I ask, what kind of constitution

Were that, which fearing dissolution,

Assumes grotesque, protean shapes;

Or, like a garter-snake, escapes,

By breaking into numerous links,

While each to its own dungeon slinks,

Until, the danger overpast,

Their fragments reunite at last?

Such were a mockery, a sham,

The hope of freeborn souls to damn;