  By OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. (Written in December, 1860, when South Carolina adopted the Ordinance of Secession.) She has gone,—she has left us in passion and pride— Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side! She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow, And turned on her brother the face of a foe! O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, We can never forget that our hearts have been one,— Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's name, From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame! You were always too ready to fire at a touch; But we said: "She's a beauty—she does not mean much." We have scowled when you uttered some turbulent threat; But Friendship still whispered: "Forgive and forget." Has our love all died out? Have its altars grown cold? Has the curse come at last which the fathers foretold? Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chain That her petulant children would sever in vain. They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with their spoil,— Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil, Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their caves, And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves: In vain is the strife! When its fury is past, Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last, As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snow Roll mingled in peace in the valleys below. Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky; Man breaks not the medal when God cuts the die! Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with steel, The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal! O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, There are battles with fate that can never be won! The star-flowering banner must never be furled, For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world! Go, then, our rash sister, afar and aloof,— Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof; But when your heart aches and your feet have grown sore, Remember the pathway that leads to our door! A.D., 1861. By EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. [Peculiar interest attaches to this piece as the first poem written after the actual outbreak of the Civil War and inspired by its events. The poem appeared in the evening edition of the New York World, on April 16, 1861.—Editor.] Came the morning of that day, When the God to whom we pray, Gave the soul of Henry Clay To the land; How we loved him—living, dying! But his birthday banners flying, Saw us asking and replying, Hand to hand. For we knew that far away, Round the fort at Charleston bay, Hung the dark impending fray, Soon to fall; Had the summons to surrender: Seventy loyal hearts and tender— That was all. And we knew the April sun Lit the length of many a gun— Hosts of batteries to the one Island crag; Johnson, Moultrie, Pinckney, crowning, And ten thousand men disowning The old flag. O the fury of the fight Even then was at its height! Yet no breath from noon till night Reached us here; We had almost ceased to wonder, And the day had faded under, When—the echo of the thunder Filled each ear! Then our hearts more fiercely beat, As we crowded on the street, Hot to gather and repeat All the tale; All the doubtful chances turning, Till our souls with shame were burning, As if all our bitter yearning Could avail! Who had fired the earliest gun? Was the fort by traitors won? Was there succor? What was done, Who could know? To the gallant, lone commander, On his battered ramparts grander Than the foe. Not too long the brave shall wait: On their own heads be their fate, Who against the hallowed State Dare begin; Flag defied and compact riven! In the record of high Heaven, How shall southern men be shriven For the sin! By RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. [This poem was the second piece that appeared in print after the fall of Fort Sumter. It was published in the World on the day after the appearance of Mr. Stedman's "The Twelfth of April."—Editor.] Men of the North and West, Wake in your might. Prepare, as the rebels have done, For the fight! You cannot shrink from the test; Rise! Men of the North and West! They have torn down your banner of stars; They have trampled the laws; They have stifled the freedom they hate, For no cause! Do you love it or slavery best? Speak! Men of the North and West! They strike at the life of the State: Shall the murder be done? They cry: "We are two!" And you? "We are one!" You must meet them, then, breast to breast; On! Men of the North and West! Not with words; they laugh them to scorn, And tears they despise; But with swords in your hands, and death In your eyes! Strike home! leave to God all the rest; Strike! Men of the North and West! By General F. W. LANDER. Once, on New England's bloody heights, And o'er a southern plain, Our fathers fought for sovereign rights, That working men might reign. And by that only Lord we serve, The great Jehovah's name; By those sweet lips that ever nerve High hearts to deeds of fame; By all that makes the man a king, The household hearth a throne,— Take back the idle scoff ye fling, Where freedom claims its own. For though our battle hope was vague Upon Manassas' plain, Where Slocum stood with gallant Sprague And gave his life in vain,— Before we yield the holy trust Our old forefathers gave, Or wrong New England's hallowed dust, Or grant the wrongs ye crave,— We'll print in kindred gore so deep The shore we love to tread, That woman's eyes shall fail to weep O'er man's unnumbered dead. By WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Lay down the axe, fling by the spade; Leave in its track the toiling plough; The rifle and the bayonet-blade For arms like yours were fitter now; And let the hands that ply the pen Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman's crooked brand, and rein The charger on the battle-field. Our country calls; away! away! To where the blood-stream blots the green; Strike to defend the gentlest sway That Time in all his course has seen. See, from a thousand coverts—see Spring the armed foes that haunt her track; They rush to smite her down, and we Must beat the banded traitors back. Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave, And moved as soon to fear and flight, Your woodcraft for the field of fight. The arms that wield the axe must pour An iron tempest on the foe; His serried ranks shall reel before The arm that lays the panther low. And ye who breast the mountain storm By grassy steep or highland lake, Come, for the land ye love, to form A bulwark that no foe can break. Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock The whirlwind; stand in her defence: The blast as soon shall move the rock, As rushing squadrons bear ye thence. And ye whose homes are by her grand Swift rivers, rising far away, Come from the depth of her green land As mighty in your march as they; As terrible as when the rains Have swelled them over bank and bourne, With sudden floods to drown the plains And sweep along the woods uptorn. And ye who throng beside the deep, Her ports and hamlets of the strand, In number like the waves that leap On his long-murmuring marge of sand, He rises, all his floods to pour, And flings the proudest barks that swim, A helpless wreck against his shore. Few, few were they whose swords of old Won the fair land in which we dwell; But we are many, we who hold The grim resolve to guard it well. Strike for that broad and goodly land, Blow after blow, till men shall see That Might and Right move hand in hand, And Glorious must their triumph be. By HENRY TIMROD. Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side! Ho, dwellers in the vales! Ho, ye who by the chafing tide Have roughened in the gales! Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot, Lay by the bloodless spade; Let desk and case and counter rot, And burn your books of trade! The despot roves your fairest lands; And till he flies or fears, Your fields must grow but armÈd bands, Your sheaves be sheaves of spears! Give up to mildew and to rust The useless tools of gain, And feed your country's sacred dust With floods of crimson rain! Come with the weapons at your call— With musket, pike, or knife; He wields the deadliest blade of all Who lightest holds his life. The arm that drives its unbought blows With all a patriot's scorn, Might brain a tyrant with a rose Or stab him with a thorn. Does any falter? Let him turn To some brave maiden's eyes, And catch the holy fires that burn In those sublunar skies. Oh, could you like your women feel, And in their spirit march, A day might see your lines of steel Beneath the victor's arch! What hope, O God! would not grow warm When thoughts like these give cheer? The lily calmly braves the storm, And shall the palm-tree fear? No! rather let its branches court The rack that sweeps the plain; And from the lily's regal port Learn how to breast the strain. Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side Ho, dwellers in the vales! Ho, ye who by the roaring tide Have roughened in the gales! Come, flocking gayly to the fight, From forest, hill, and lake; We battle for our country's right, And for the lily's sake! [Southern.] By R. W. RAYMOND. Hurrah! boys, hurrah! fling our banner to the breeze! Let the enemies of freedom see its folds again unfurled. And down with the pirates that scorn upon the seas Our victorious Yankee banner, sign of Freedom to the World! Chorus.—We'll never have a new flag, for ours is the true flag, The true flag, the true flag, the Red, White, and Blue flag, Hurrah! boys, hurrah! we will carry to the wars, The old flag, the free flag, the Banner of the Stars. And what tho' its white shall be crimsoned with our blood? And what tho' its stripes shall be shredded in the storms? To the torn flag, the worn flag, we'll keep our promise good, And we'll bear the starry blue field, with gallant hearts and arms. —Chorus. Then, cursed be he who would strike our Starry Flag! May the God of Hosts be with us, as we smite the traitor down! And cursed be he who would hesitate or lag, Till the dear flag, the fair flag, with Victory we crown. —Chorus. By T. BUCHANAN REID. The stars of our morn on our banner borne, With the iris of heav'n are blended, The hands of our sires first mingled those fires, By us they shall be defended! Then hail the true—the Red, White, and Blue, The flag of the Constellation; It sails as it sailed, by our fore-fathers hailed, O'er battles that made us a nation. What hand so bold to strike from its fold, One star or stripe of its bright'ning; To him be each star a fiery Mars, Each stripe a terrible lightning. Then hail the true—the Red, White, and Blue, The flag of the Constellation. It sails as it sailed, by our fore-fathers hailed, O'er battles that made us a nation. Its meteor form shall ride the storm Till the fiercest of foes surrender; The storm gone by, it shall gild the sky, As a rainbow of peace and splendor. Then hail the true—the Red, White, and Blue, The flag of the Constellation, It sails as it sailed, by our fore-fathers hailed, O'er battles that made us a nation. Peace, peace to the world—is our motto unfurled, Tho' we shun not a field that is gory; At home or abroad, fearing none but our God, We will carve our own pathway to glory! Then hail the true—the Red, White, and Blue, The flag of the Constellation, It sails as it sailed, by our fore-fathers hailed, O'er battles that made us a nation, Florence, Italy, May, 1861. By JAMES T. FIELDS. Rally round the flag, boys— Give it to the breeze! That's the banner we bore On the land and seas. Brave hearts are under it, Let the traitors brag, Gallant lads, fire away! And fight for the flag. Their flag is but a rag— Ours is the true one; Up with the Stars and Stripes! Down with the new one! Let our colors fly, boys— Guard them day and night; For victory is liberty, And God will bless the right. By ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM. Come, brothers! rally for the right! The bravest of the brave Sends forth her ringing battle-cry Beside the Atlantic wave! She leads the way in honor's path; Come brothers, near and far, Come rally round the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star! We've borne the Yankee trickery, The Yankee gibe and sneer, Till Yankee insolence and pride Know neither shame nor fear; But ready now with shot and steel Their brazen front to mar, We hoist aloft the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star. Now Georgia marches to the front, And close beside her come Her sisters by the Mexique Sea, With pealing trump and drum; Till answering back from hill and glen The rallying cry afar, A Nation hoists the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star! By every stone in Charleston Bay, By each beleaguered town, We swear to rest not, night nor day, But hunt the tyrants down! Till bathed in valor's holy blood The gazing world afar Shall greet with shouts the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears the cross and star! [Southern.] By EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. O STAR-SPANGLED BANNER! the flag of our pride! Though trampled by traitors and basely defied, Fling out to the glad winds your red, white, and blue, For the heart of the Northland is beating for you! And her strong arm is nerving to strike with a wall, Till the foe and his boastings are humbled and still! Here's welcome to wounding and combat and scars And the glory of death—for the Stripes and the Stars! From prairie, O ploughman! speed boldly away— There's seed to be sown in God's furrows to-day! Row landward, lone fisher! stout woodman come home! Let smith leave his anvil and weaver his loom, And hamlet and city ring loud with the cry: "For God and our country we'll fight till we die! Here's welcome to wounding and combat and scars And the glory of death—for the Stripes and the Stars!" Invincible banner! the flag of the free, Oh, where treads the foot that would falter for thee? Or the hands to be folded, till triumph is won And the eagle looks proud, as of old, to the sun? Give tears for the parting—a murmur of prayer— Then forward! the fame of our standard to share! With welcome to wounding and combat and scars And the glory of death—for the Stripes and the Stars! O God of our fathers! this banner must shine Where battle is hottest, in warfare divine! The cannon has thundered, the bugle has blown— We fear not the summons-we fight not alone! O lead us, till wide from the gulf to the sea The land shall be sacred to freedom and Thee! With love for oppression; with blessing, for scars— One country—one banner—the Stripes and the Stars! By ALBERT PIKE. Southrons, hear your country call you! Up, lest worse than death befall you! To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie! Lo! all the beacon-fires are lighted— Let all hearts be now united! To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie! Advance the flag of Dixie! Hurrah! hurrah! For Dixie's land we take our stand, And live or die for Dixie! To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie! To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie! Hear the Northern thunders mutter! Northern flags in South winds flutter! To arms! Stamp upon the accursed alliance! To arms! Advance the flag of Dixie! Fear no danger! shun no labor! Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre! To arms! Shoulder pressing close to shoulder, Let the odds make each heart bolder! To arms! Advance the flag of Dixie! How the South's great heart rejoices At your cannon's ringing voices! To arms! For faith betrayed, and pledges broken, Wrongs inflicted, insults spoken, To arms! Advance the flag of Dixie! Strong as lions, swift as eagles, Back to their kennels hunt these beagles! To arms! Cut the unequal bond asunder! Let them hence each other plunder! To arms! Advance the flag of Dixie! Swear upon your country's altar Never to submit or falter! To arms! Till the spoilers are defeated, Till the Lord's work is completed, To arms! Advance the flag of Dixie! Halt not till our Federation Secures among earth's powers its station To arms! Then at peace, and crowned with glory, Hear your children tell the story! To arms! Advance the flag of Dixie! If the loved ones weep in sadness, Victory soon shall bring them gladness. To arms! Exultant pride soon vanish sorrow; Smiles chase tears away to-morrow. To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie! Advance the flag of Dixie! Hurrah! hurrah! For Dixie's land we take our stand, And live or die for Dixie! And conquer peace for Dixie! To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie! [Southern.] By JAMES BARRON HOPE. Born free, thus we resolve to live: By Heaven, we will be free! By all the stars which burn on high— By the green earth—the mighty sea— By God's unshaken majesty, We will be free or die! Then let the drums all roll! Let all the trumpets blow! Mind, heart, and soul, We spurn control Attempted by a foe! Born free, thus we resolve to live: By Heaven, we will be free! And, vainly now the Northmen try To beat us down—in arms we stand To strike for this our native land! We will be free or die! Then let the drums all roll! Born free, we thus resolve to live: By Heaven, we will be free! Our wives and children look on high, Pray God to smile upon the right! And bid us in the deadly fight As freemen live or die! Then let the drums all roll! Born free, thus we resolve to live: By Heaven, we will be free! And ere we cease this battle-cry, Be all our blood, our kindred's spilt, On bayonet or sabre hilt! We will be free or die! Then let the drums all roll! Born free, thus we resolve to live: By Heaven, we will be free! Defiant let the banners fly, Shake out their glories to the air, And kneeling, brothers, let us swear We will be free or die! Then let the drums all roll! Born free, thus we resolve to live: By Heaven, we will be free! Our valiant fathers' sacred ghosts— These with us, and the God of hosts, We will be free or die! Then let the drums all roll! [Southern.] CIVIL WARBy CHARGES DAWSON SHANLY. [In many collections this poem is entitled "The Fancy Shot." It was first published in London, in the paper called Once-a-Week, and was there entitled "Civile Bellum." It is believed to be the work of Charles Dawson Shanly, who died in 1876.—Editor.] "Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette; Ring me a ball in the glittering spot That shines on his breast like an amulet!" "Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead, There's music around when my barrel's in tune!" Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped, And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon. "Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood; A button, a loop, or that luminous patch That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud!" "O captain! I staggered and sunk on my track, When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette, For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back, That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet. "But I snatched off the trinket,—this locket of gold; An inch from the centre my lead broke its way, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." "Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket!—'tis she, My brother's young bride,—and the fallen dragoon Was her husband—Hush! soldier, 'twas Heaven's decree, We must bury him there, by the light of the moon! "But hark! the far bugles their warnings unite; War is a virtue, weakness a sin; There's a lurking and loping around us to-night;— Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!" By ROBERT LOWELL. Still first, as long and long ago, Let Massachusetts muster; Give her the post right next the foe; Be sure that you may trust her. She was the first to give her blood For freedom and for honor; She trod her soil to crimson mud; God's blessing be upon her! She never faltered for the right, Nor ever will hereafter; Fling up her name with all your might, Shake roof-tree and shake rafter! But of old deeds she need not brag, How she broke sword and fetter; Fling out again the old striped flag! She'll do yet more and better. In peace her sails fleck all the seas, Her mills shake every river; And where are scenes so fair as these God and her true hands give her? Her claim in war who seek to rob? All others come in later;— Hers first it is to front the mob, The tyrant, and the traitor. God bless, God bless this glorious State! Let her have her way in battle! She'll go where batteries crash with fate Or where thick rifles rattle. Give her the Light and let her try, And then who can may press her; She'll go straight on or she will die; God bless her, and God bless her! May 7, 1861. By A. J. H. DUGANNE. [Theodore Winthrop, a brilliant young man of letters, was killed at Big Bethel, on June 10, 1861.—Editor.] We mustered at midnight, in darkness we formed, And the whisper went round of a fort to be stormed; But no drum-beat had called us, no trumpet we heard, And no voice of command, but our colonel's low word— "Column! Forward!" And out, through the mist, and the murk of the morn, From the beaches of Hampton our barges were borne; And we heard not a sound, save the sweep of the oar, Till the word of our colonel came up from the shore— "Column! Forward!" With hearts bounding bravely, and eyes all alight, As ye dance to soft music, so trod we that night; Through the aisles of the greenwood, with vines over-arched, Tossing dew-drops, like gems, from our feet, as we marched— "Column! Forward!" As ye dance with the damsels, to viol and flute, So we skipped from the shadows, and mocked their pursuit; But the soft zephyrs chased us, with scents of the morn, As we passed by the hay-fields and green waving corn— "Column! Forward!" For the leaves were all laden with fragrance of June, And the flowers and the foliage with sweets were in tune; And the air was so calm, and the forest so dumb, That we heard our own heart-beats, like taps of a drum— "Column! Forward!" Till the lull of the lowlands was stirred by the breeze, And the buskins of morn brushed the tops of the trees, And the glintings of glory that slid from her track By the sheen of our rifles were gayly flung back— "Column! Forward!" And the woodlands grew purple with sunshiny mist, And the blue-crested hill-tops with rose-light were kissed, And the earth gave her prayers to the sun in perfumes, Till we marched as through gardens, and trampled on blooms— "Column! Forward!" Ay, trampled on blossoms, and seared the sweet breath Of the greenwood with low-brooding vapors of death; O'er the flowers and the corn we were borne like a blast, And away to the forefront of battle we passed— "Column! Forward!" For the cannon's hoarse thunder roared out from the glades, And the sun was like lightning on banners and blades, When the long line of chanting Zouaves, like a flood, From the green of the woodlands rolled, crimson as blood— "Column! Forward!" While the sound of their song, like the surge of the seas, With the "Star-Spangled Banner" swelled over the leas; And the sword of Duryea, like a torch, led the way, Bearing down on the batteries of Bethel that day— "Column! Forward!" Through green-tasselled cornfields our columns were thrown, And like corn by the red scythe of fire we were mown; While the cannon's fierce ploughings new-furrowed the plain, That our blood might be planted for Liberty's grain— "Column! Forward!" Oh! the fields of fair June have no lack of sweet flowers, But their rarest and best breathe no fragrance like ours; And the sunshine of June, sprinkling gold on the corn, Hath no harvest that ripeneth like Bethel's red morn— "Column! Forward!" When our heroes, like bridegrooms, with lips and with breath, Drank the first kiss of Danger and clasped her in death; And the heart of brave Winthrop grew mute with his lyre, When the plumes of his genius lay moulting in fire— "Column! Forward!" Where he fell shall be sunshine as bright as his name, And the grass where he slept shall be green as his fame; For the gold of the pen and the steel of the sword Write his deeds—in his blood—on the land he adored— "Column! Forward!" And the soul of our comrade shall sweeten the air, And the flowers and the grass-blades his memory upbear; While the breath of his genius, like music in leaves, With the corn-tassels whispers, and sings in the sheaves— "Column! Forward!" By Dr. THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. Eighty and nine with their captain Rode on the enemy's track, Rode in the gray of the morning: Nine of the ninety came back. Slow rose the mist from the river, Lighter each moment the way: Careless and tearless and fearless Galloped they on to the fray. Singing in tune, how the scabbards Loud on the stirrup-irons rang, Clinked as the men rose in saddle, Fell as they sank with a clang. What is it moves by the river, Jaded and weary and weak, Gray-backs—a cross on their banner— Yonder the foe whom they seek. Silence! They see not, they hear not, Tarrying there by the marge: Forward! Draw sabre! Trot! Gallop! Charge! like a hurricane, charge! Ah! 'twas a man-trap infernal— Fire like the deep pit of hell! Volley on volley to meet them, Mixed with the gray rebels' yell. Ninety had ridden to battle, Tracing the enemy's track,— Ninety had ridden to battle, Nine of the ninety came back. Honor the name of the ninety; Honor the heroes who came Scathless from five hundred muskets, Safe from the lead-bearing flame. Eighty and one of the troopers Lie on the field of the slain— Lie on the red field of honor: Honor the nine who remain! Cold are the dead there, and gory, There where their life-blood was spilt; Back come the living, each sabre Red from the point to the hilt. Give them three cheers and a tiger! Let the flags wave as they come! Give them the blare of the trumpet Give them the roll of the drum! July 21, 1861. By CATHERINE M. WARFIELD. They have met at last—as storm-clouds Meet in heaven, And the Northmen back and bleeding Have been driven: And their thunders have been stilled, And their leaders crushed or killed, And their ranks with terror thrilled, Rent and riven! Like the leaves of Vallambrosa They are lying; In the moonlight, in the midnight, Dead and dying: Like those leaves before the gale, Swept their legions, wild and pale; While the host that made them quail Stood, defying. When aloft in morning sunlight Flags were flaunted, And "swift vengeance on the rebel" Proudly vaunted: Little did they think that night Should close upon their shameful flight, And rebels, victors in the fight, Stand undaunted. But peace to those who perished In our passes! Light be the earth above them; Green the grasses! Long shall Northmen rue the day When they met our stern array, And shrunk from battle's wild affray At Manassas. (Southern.) July 21, 1861. By GEORGE H. BOKER. I'll tell you what I heard that day: I heard the great guns, far away, Boom after boom. Their sullen sound Shook all the shuddering air around; And shook, ah me! my shrinking ear, And downward shook the hanging tear That, in despite of manhood's pride, Rolled o'er my face a scalding tide. And then I prayed. O God! I prayed, As never stricken saint, who laid His hot cheek to the holy tomb Of Jesus, in the midnight gloom. "What saw I?" Little. Clouds of dust; Great squares of men, with standards thrust Against their course; dense columns crowned With billowing steel. Then bound on bound, Behind the horses, streaked and gored With sweaty speed. Anon shot by, Like a lone meteor of the sky, A single horseman; and he shone His bright face on me, and was gone. All these with rolling drums, with cheers, With songs familiar to my ears, Passed under the far-hanging cloud, And vanished, and my heart was proud! For mile on mile the line of war Extended; and a steady roar, As of some distant stormy sea, On the south-wind came up to me. And high in air, and over all, Grew, like a fog, that murky pall, Beneath whose gloom of dusty smoke The cannon flamed, the bombshell broke. And the sharp rattling volley rang, And shrapnel roared, and bullets sang, And fierce-eyed men, with panting breath, Toiled onward at the work of death. I could not see, but knew too well, That underneath that cloud of hell, Which still grew more by great degrees, Man strove with man in deeds like these. But when the sun had passed his stand At noon, behold! on every hand The dark brown vapor backward bore, And fainter came the dreadful roar From the huge sea of striving men. Thus spoke my rising spirit then: "Take comfort from that dying sound, Faint heart, the foe is giving ground!" And one, who taxed his horse's powers, Flung at me, "Ho! the day is ours!" And scoured along. So swift his pace, I took no memory of his face. Then turned I once again to Heaven; All things appeared so just and even; So clearly from the highest Cause Traced I the downward-working laws— Those moral springs, made evident, In the grand, triumph-crowned event. So half I shouted, and half sang, Like Jephtha's daughter, to the clang Of my spread, cymbal-striking palms, Some fragments of thanksgiving psalms. Meanwhile a solemn stillness fell Upon the land. O'er hill and dell Failed every sound. My heart stood still, Waiting before some coming ill. The silence was more sad and dread, Under that canopy of lead, That raged a little while before. All nature, in her work of death, Paused for one last, despairing breath; And, cowering to the earth, I drew From her strong breast my strength anew. When I arose, I wondering saw Another dusty vapor draw, From the far right, its sluggish way Toward the main cloud, that frowning lay Against the western sloping sun: And all the war was re-begun, Ere this fresh marvel of my sense Caught from my mind significance. And then—why ask me? O my God! Would I had lain beneath the sod, A patient clod, for many a day, And from my bones and mouldering clay The rank field grass and flowers had sprung, Ere the base sight, that struck and stung My very soul, confronted me, Shamed at my own humanity. O happy dead! who early fell, Ye have no wretched tale to tell Of causeless fear and coward flight, Of victory snatched beneath your sight, Of martial strength and honor lost, Of mere life bought at any cost, For ever scorched on brow and name, That no new deeds, however bright, Shall banish from men's loathful sight! Ye perished in your conscious pride, Ere this vile scandal opened wide A wound that cannot close nor heal. Ye perished steel to levelled steel, Stern votaries of the god of war, Filled with his godhead to the core! Ye died to live, these lived to die, Beneath the scorn of every eye! How eloquent your voices sound From the low chambers under ground! How clear each separate title burns From your high-set and laurelled urns! While these, who walk about the earth, Are blushing at their very birth! And, though they talk, and go, and come, Their moving lips are worse than dumb. Ye sleep beneath the valley's dew, And all the nation mourns for you; So sleep till God shall wake the lands! For angels, armed with fiery brands, Await to take you by the hands. The right-hand vapor broader grew; It rose, and joined itself unto Loud and more near the cannon's crash Came toward me, and I heard a sound As if all hell had broken bound— A cry of agony and fear. Still the dark vapor rolled more near, Till at my very feet it tossed, The vanward fragments of our host. Can man, Thy image, sink so low, Thou, who hast bent Thy tinted bow Across the storm and raging main; Whose laws both loosen and restrain The powers of earth, without whose will No sparrow's little life is still? Was fear of hell, or want of faith, Or the brute's common dread of death The passion that began a chase, Whose goal was ruin and disgrace? What tongue the fearful sight may tell? What horrid nightmare ever fell Upon the restless sleep of crime— What history of another time— What dismal vision, darkly seen By the stern-featured Florentine, Can give a hint to dimly draw The likeness of the scene I saw? I saw, yet saw not. In that sea, That chaos of humanity, No more the eye could catch and keep The eye may mark a single wave, Where hurrying myriads leap and rave. Men of all arms, and all costumes, Bare-headed, decked with broken plumes; Soldiers and officers, and those Who wore but civil-suited clothes; On foot or mounted—some bestrode Steeds severed from their harnessed load; Wild mobs of white-topped wagons, cars, Of wounded, red with bleeding scars; The whole grim panoply of war Surged on me with a deafening roar! All shades of fear, disfiguring man, Glared through their faces' brazen tan. Not one a moment paused, or stood To see what enemy pursued. With shrieks of fear, and yells of pain, With every muscle on the strain, Onward the struggling masses bore. Oh! had the foemen lain before, They'd trampled them to dust and gore, And swept their lines and batteries As autumn sweeps the windy trees! Here one cast forth his wounded friend, And with his sword or musket-end Urged on the horses; there one trod Upon the likeness of his God, As if 'twere dust; a coward here And struck his weaker comrade prone, And struggled to the front alone. All had one purpose, one sole aim, That mocked the decency of shame,— To fly, by any means to fly; They cared not how, they asked not why. I found a voice. My burning blood Flamed up. Upon a mound I stood; I could no more restrain my voice Than could the prophet of God's choice. "Back, animated dirt!" I cried, "Back, on your wretched lives, and hide Your shame beneath your native clay! Or if the foe affrights you, slay Your own base selves; and, dying, leave Your children's tearful cheeks to grieve, Not quail and blush, when you shall come, Alive, to their degraded home! Your wives will look askance with scorn; Your boys, and infants yet unborn, Will curse you to God's holy face! Heaven holds no pardon in its grace For cowards. Oh! are such as ye The guardians of our liberty? Back, if one trace of manhood still May nerve your arm and brace your will! You stain your country in the eyes Of Europe and her monarchies! Man's cause is lost and overthrown! I curse you, by the sacred blood That freely poured its purple flood Down Bunker's heights, on Monmouth's plain, From Georgia to the rocks of Maine! I curse you, by the patriot band Whose bones are crumbling in the land! By those who saved what these had won— In the high name of Washington!" Then I remember little more. As the tide's rising waves, that pour Over some low and rounded rock, The coming mass, with one great shock, Flowed o'er the shelter of my mound, And raised me helpless from the ground. As the huge shouldering billows bear, Half in the sea and half in air, A swimmer on their foaming crest, So the foul throng beneath me pressed, Swept me along, with curse and blow, And flung me-where, I ne'er shall know. When I awoke, a steady rain Made rivulets across the plain; And it was dark—oh, very dark. I was so stunned as scarce to mark The ghostly figures of the trees, Or hear the sobbing of the breeze Upon me lay a dismal woe, A boundless, superhuman grief, That drew no promise of relief From any hope. Then I arose, As one who struggles up from blows By unseen hands; and as I stood Alone, I thought that God was good, To hide, in clouds and driving rain, Our low world from the angel train, Whose souls filled heroes when the earth Was worthy of their noble birth. By that dull instinct of the mind, Which leads aright the helpless blind, I struggled onward, till the dawn Across the eastern clouds had drawn A narrow line of watery gray; And full before my vision lay The great dome's gaunt and naked bones Beneath whose crown the nation thrones Her queenly person. On I stole, With hanging head and abject soul, Across the high embattled ridge, And o'er the arches of the bridge. So freshly pricked my sharp disgrace, I feared to meet the human face, Skulking, as any woman might, Who'd lost her virtue in the night, And sees the dreadful glare of day Alone, heart-broken, shamed, undone, I staggered into Washington! Since then long sluggish days have passed, And on the wings of every blast Have come the distant nations' sneers To tingle in our blushing ears. In woe and ashes, as was meet, We wore the penitential sheet. But now I breathe a purer air, And from the depths of my despair Awaken to a cheering morn, Just breaking through the night forlorn, A morn of hopeful victory. Awake, my countrymen, with me! Redeem the honor which you lost. With any blood, at any cost! I ask not how the war began, Nor how the quarrel branched and ran To this dread height. The wrong or right Stands clear before God's faultless sight. I only feel the shameful blow, I only see the scornful foe, And vengeance burns in every vein To die, or wipe away the stain. The war-wise hero of the west, Wearing his glories as a crest, Of trophies gathered in your sight, Is arming for the coming fight. The duty and its mighty ends; The great occasion of the hour, That never lay in human power Since over Yorktown's tented plain The red cross fell, nor rose again. My humble pledge of faith I lay, Dear comrade of my school-boy day, Before thee, in the nation's view, And if thy prophet prove untrue, And from our country's grasp be thrown The sceptre and the starry crown, And thou, and all thy marshalled host Be baffled and in ruin lost; Oh! let me not outlive the blow That seals my country's overthrow! And, lest this woful end come true, Men of the North, I turn to you. Display your vaunted flag once more, Southward your eager columns pour! Sound trump, and fife, and rallying drum; From every hill and valley come. Old men, yield up your treasured gold! Can liberty be priced and sold? Fair matrons, maids, and tender brides Gird weapons to your lovers' sides; And though your hearts break at the deed, Give them your blessing and God-speed; Then point them to the field of flame, And when the ranks are full and strong, And the whole army moves along, A vast result of care and skill, Obedient to the master will; And your young hero draws the sword, And gives the last commanding word That hurls your strength upon the foe— Oh! let them need no second blow. Strike, as your fathers struck of old; Through summer's heat, and winter's cold; Through pain, disaster, and defeat; Through marches tracked with bloody feet; Through every ill that could befall The holy cause that bound them all! Strike as they struck for liberty! Strike as they struck to make you free! Strike for the crown of victory! END OF VOL. I. |
|
