What then the Great Republic's fate?

Albert Pike's poem, one of many simply titled "Ode," is dated July 4, 1853:

When shall the nations all be free,
     And Force no longer reign;
None bend to brutal Power the knee,
     None hug the gilded chain?
No longer rule the ancient Wrong,
The Weak be trampled by the Strong?—
How long, dear God in heaven! how long,
     The people wail in vain?

Do not th' Archangels on their thrones,
     Turn piteous looks to Thee,
When round them thickly swarm the groans
     Of those that would be free?
Of those that know they have the right
To Freedom, though crushed down by Might,
As all the world hath to the light
     And air which Thou mad'st free?

The ancient Empires staggering drift
     Along Time's mighty tide,
Whose waters, running broad and swift,
     Eternity divide:
How many years shall pass, before
Over their bones the sea shall roar,
The salt sand drift, the fresh rains pour,
     The stars mock fallen Pride?

What then the Great Republic's fate?
     To founder far from land,
And sink with all her glorious freight,
     Smitten by God's right hand?
Or shall she still her helm obey
In calm or storm, by night or day,
No sail rent, no spar cut away,
     Exultant, proud and grand?

The issues are with God. To do,
     Of right belongs to us:
May we be ever just and true,
     For nations flourish thus!—
JUSTICE is mightier than ships;
RIGHT, than the cannon's brazen lips;
And TRUTH, averting dark eclipse,
     Makes fortunes prosperous.

At the time that Albert Pike was writing this poem, many in the nation were beginning to rise against the injustice of slavery.  Though born in the North, Pike became an adopted Southerner in Arkansas and fought on behalf of the Confederacy during the Civil War. Exactly who he addressed his "Ode" to on Independence Day in 1853 is unclear, considering his later involvement with oppressing enslaved people.

Pike: A life amid the wild

Albert Pike was born in Boston, Massachusetts but, by 1831, he began traveling south and west. Finally, in 1833, he settled in the Arkansas Territory, the place that would define his life and career. He began submitting poems to the local newspaper while he worked as a teacher. On May 25, 1833, he wrote "Lines," a poem about his new lifestyle in the desert (in a subheadline, he noted "In one month I shall be in the prairie, and under the mountains in another"):

Once more unto the desert! who
         Would live a slave, when he can free
His heart from thraldom thus? O who?
                  Slave let him be.

Once more unto the desert! now
         The world's hard bonds have grown too hard.
No more, oh heart! in dungeons bow,
                  And caves unstarred.

Heart! bid the world farewell: thy task
         Is done;—perhaps thy words may live;—
Thou hast no favor now to ask,
                  And few to give.

Thou hast writ down thy thoughts of fire,
         And deep communion with thine own
Sad spirit; now thy broken lyre
                  Makes its last moan.

Thou hast laid out thy secrecy
         Before the world, and traced each wave
Of feeling, from thy troubled sea
                  Unto its cave.

Within thy dim recesses, where
         The feelings most intense are hidden;
Thou hast outborne thence to the air
                  Thy thoughts, unbidden.

And now unto the desert! Why
         Am I to be a slave forever?
To stay amid mankind, and die
         Like a scorched river,

Wasting in burning sands away?
         Am I to toil, and watch my heart
And spirit, hour by hour decay,
                  Still not depart?—

To pour the treasures of my soul
         Upon the world's parched wilderness,
And feel no answering echo roll
                  My ear to bless?

Once more unto the desert! There
         I ask nor wealth, nor hope, nor praise,
Nor gentle ease, nor want of care
                  On my dark ways;

Nor fame, nor friends, nor joy, nor leisure—
         Here I must have them all, or die,
Or lead a life devoid of pleasure—
                  Such now lead I.

No life of pain and toil for me!
         Of home unhoped for—friends unkind!
Better the desert's waveless sea,
                  And stormy wind.

Better a life amid the wild
         Storm-hearted children of the plain,
Than this, with heart and soul defiled
                  By sorrow's rain.

Out to the desert! from this mart
         Of bloodless cheeks, and lightless eyes,
And broken hopes, and shattered hearts,
                  And miseries.

Out to the desert! from the sway
         Of falsehood, crime, and heartlessness;
Better a free life for a day
                  Than years like this.

Once more unto the desert, where
         My gun and steed shall be my friend:
And I shall ask no aidance there—
                  As little lend.

Farewell, my father-land! Afar
         I make my last and kind farewell.
I did think to have seen thee—ah!
                  How hopes will swell!

Farewell, forever! Take the last
         Sad gift, my father-land, of one
Struck by misfortune's chilling blast,
                  Yet still thy son.

Farewell, my land! Farewell, my pen!
         Farewell, hard world—thy harder life!
Now to the desert once again!
                  The gun and knife!

Pike: Who knoweth why?

Albert Pike wrote his poem "The Dead Child" while living in Washington, D.C., on March 28, 1884:

The young leaf lives in Spring its little hour,
      And falleth from the limb—who knoweth why?
The fair young bud blooms not into a flower,
      But sickening droops and hasteneth to die.
                            Who knoweth why?
Our Father knows, from whom the bud and leaf
Received their life, so beautiful and brief.

Those loved by us,—the young, fair, innocent,—
      When like your dear ones they have grown more dear,
For but a little season to us lent,
      He calleth home, letting us live on here—
                            Who knoweth why?
They in the early morning of Life's day
Do fade and fade, while we grow old and gray.

Our Father knows. He knew they did not need
      Life's discipline and Sorrow's chastening pain
To make them fit for Heaven, and early freed
      These pure white souls to Him returned again,
                            For us to intercede.
Thus we, amid Life's sorrows, toils and cares,
Have entertained His angels unawares.

Pike was 74 years old at the time, just a few years away from his own death, and the majority of his poetic output long behind him It's uncertain if he was thinking of a specific dead child but, it if was meant to be autobiographical, he had several options for inspiration. He and his wife Mary Ann Hamilton had ten children, several of whom died before their father. His first child died as an infant, his second only a couple days after his birth. Another son was killed by bandits during the Civil War, and a daughter committed suicide. A son drowned in the Arkansas River, and two more children died as adults. In his poem, Pike maintains a positive and spiritual outlook on the death of children — certainly a difficult point of view to hold for a man with so much tragedy in his life.

Pike: the soul of the Universe

Albert Pike wrote two poems he titled "Love," one which he never republished and another which was reprinted posthumously by his family. The latter was first published in the Boston Pearl on January 30, 1836. In it, "Love" tells its own story of how great a role it plays:

I am the soul of the Universe,
        In Nature's pulse I beat;
To Doom and Death I am a curse,
        I trample them under my feet.

Creation's every voice is mine,
        I breathe in its every tone;
I have in every heart a shrine,
        A consecrated throne.

The whisper that sings in the summer leaves,
        The hymn of the star-lit brook,
The martin that nests in the ivied eaves,
        The dove in his shaded nook,

The quivering heart of the blushing flower,
        The thick Aeolian grass,
The harmonies of the summer shower,
        The south wind's soft, sweet mass,

The psalm of the great grave sea,—are mine;
        The cataract's thunder tongue,
The monody of the mountain pine,
        Moaning the cliffs among.

I kiss the snowy breasts of the maiden,
        And they thrill with a new delight;
While the crimson pulses flush and redden,
        Along the forehead's white.

I fill the restless heart of the boy,
        As a sphere is filled with fire,
Till it quivers and trembles with hope and joy,
        Like the strings of a golden lyre.

I touch the poet's soul with my wing,
        It yields to my magic power,
And the songs of his mighty passions ring,
        Till the world is full of the shower.

The heart of the soldier bows to me,
        His arms aside are flung,
Unheeded the wild sublimity
        Of the silver trumpet's tongue.

I brood on the soul like a golden thrush,
        My music to it clings,
And its purple fountains throb and flush,
        In the crimson light of my wings.

Deep in a lovely woman's soul
        I love to build my throne,
For the harmonies that through it roll
        Are the echoes of one tone.

The sounds of its many perfect strings
        Have but one key-note ever,
Its passions are the thousand springs,
        All flowing to one river.

Interestingly, Pike (pictured above in Masonic regalia) was born in Massachusetts and it was in Boston that he published his first works. Nevertheless, he is more associated with Arkansas, where he lived for many years and was a member of the Confederacy.

Pike: Slanders the brightest name assail

Confederate Brigadier-General Albert Pike resigned from his post on November 11, 1862. He held the role for just under a year, particularly focused on the Indian Territory, but his tenure was not without controversy. Months earlier, he had been accused of disloyalty by Major General Thomas C. Hindman. Pike was asked to leave the Indian Territory but refused; his arrest was ordered.

Pike responded to the charges in a vitriolic letter to Hindman. "You dare to pretend, sir, that I might be disloyal, or, even in thought, couple the word treason with my name!" He closed the letter: "Whether I am respectfully yours, you will be able to determine from the contents." He took the charges to the Confederate Congress in Richmond. Pike was eventually cleared, helped in part by his friendship with President Jefferson Davis. He remained bitter about the affair and later told his daughter he resigned because he was tired of working for men of inferior intelligence.

Pike returned to his home in Arkansas and resumed his writing (and his involvement with the Freemasons). He was recognized both as a novelist and a poet. One of his poems, "Reflections," shows his bitterness over the war and his resolution to leave it behind:

Out on this wretched party-war!
     Where the best weapons, trick, chicane,
And perjury and cunning are,—
     Its picked troops, scoundrelism's train—
Where baser men outweigh the best,
     Lies always over truth prevail,
Wisdom by numbers is oppressed,
     Knavery at Virtue dares to rail,
     Slanders the brightest name assail;
Victory in such a war humbles the victor's crest.

Henceforth, myself I dedicate
     To other service. Let me read
Thy pages, Nature — though so late
     Thy voice of reprimand I heed.
From bud and leaf, from flower and bloom,
From every fair created thing,
Thy teachings will my soul illume,
     So long in darkness slumbering;
That when to life's bright sunny Spring,
Autumn succeeds, it may not all my hopes entomb.

A dirge for Albert Pike

Albert Pike gave up on writing poetry long before his death and turned his attention particularly to his role with the Freemasons; he earned the title Sovereign Grand Commander. At 81 years old, he wrote his will, leaving specific instructions for the care of his body and his funeral. However, when he died on April 2, 1891, his instructions were not followed.

He asked that his body be "cremated without any ceremony other than the word 'Good-bye!'" His ashes, he asked, be placed between two acacia trees. He specifically requested no "procession, parade or music," only the Kadosh ceremony of the Freemasons. Instead, his Masonic brothers had his body lay in state for two days, where it was visited by thousands. In addition to the Kadosh the next day, they held services at an episcopal church the day after that.

Rather than no ceremony at all, it was somewhat extravagant. One attendee noted that the walls of the church were covered in black draperies and his coffin was surrounded by candles in tall, silver candlesticks. At his head was a huge iron cross. The body was draped in laurel, vines, berries, and violets. He was buried at Oak Hill Cemetery, Washington, D.C. Other Masons commissioned a white marble gravestone which was placed in 1917. As he requested, the stone listed only his name, birth and death dates, and the words: Laborum Ejus Superstites Sunt Fructus Vixit. Apparently, his body was later moved to the House of the Temple, the Masonic headquarters in Washington.

Shortly after his death, efforts were made to honor Albert Pike with public art in Washington, D.C. A statue was finally unveiled in 1901. It depicts Pike with a book in one hand seated on a slab of granite, with a secondary statue of Minerva at his feet. A witness to its unveiling called it "one of the most important Masonic events that ever took place." Masons from around the country were present. Pike remains the only former Confederate officer honored with a statue in Washington.

 From his poem, "A Dirge":

     Vainly, ah! vainly we deplore
     Thy death, departed friend! No more
  Shalt thou be seen by us beneath the skies.
     The barbed arrow has gone through
     Thy heart, and all the blue
  Hath faded from thy clay-cold veins, and thou,
  With stern and pain-contracted brow,
Like one that wrestled mightily with death,
     Art lying here now.

Albert Pike's instructions

Albert Pike has many distinctions — a lawyer, Confederate officer, Freemason, and writer. Despite his birth in Boston, Pike is irrevocably associated with the South, having ultimately settled in Arkansas. His first collection of poetry was published in 1834, earning him a fair amount of attention as an up-and-comer, though he never carried on as a poet. In 1842, Edgar Poe lamented this, and noted that he had "unquestionably {sic} merit, and that of a high order... He is the most classic of our poets in the best sense of the term." Poe published one of Pike's poems, "Autumn," in Graham's Magazine. It concludes:

Day draweth to its close — night cometh on —
  Death standeth dimly on Life's western verge,
Casting his shadow o'er the startled sun —
  A deeper gloom, that seemeth to emerge
  From gloomy night — and bending forth, to urge
His eyeless steeds, fleet as the tempest's blast:
  And hear we not eternity's dim surge
Thundering anear? At the dread sound aghast,
Time hurries headlong, pale with frantic terror, past.

At the end of his life, Pike was focused less on poetics and more on practical concerns. On February 28, 1891, he wrote instructions for his impending death. Matter-of-factly, he wrote, "These are my wishes and directions in regard to the disposition of my body after death:"

I forbid any autopsy or dissection of my body to gratify curiosity, or for the benefit of science, or for any other reason. If I die in or near Washington, let my body be placed in no casket, but in a plain coffin, covered with black cloth, and taken in the evening of the day, to the Cathedral-room of the Scottish Rite, or a church, without any procession, parade or music. At midnight let the funeral offices of the Kadosh be performed there over my body and none other either then or afterwards; and, on the next morning early, let it be taken by nine or twelve brethren of the Scottish Rite to Baltimore or Philadelphia, and cremated without any ceremony other than the word "Good-bye!"

Pike asked for his ashes to be spread around the roots of two acacia trees, and demanded that no eulogy be offered. On his gravestone, if one was made, he asked for only his name, his birth and death dates, and the words Laborum Ejus Superstites Sunt Fructus Vixit. He died one month and four days after writing this document...

...And his careful instructions were not followed. More on that in April.