  By Charles Fenno Hoffman. We were not many—we who stood Before the iron sleet that day: Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if but he could Have with us been at Monterey. Now here, now there, the shot it hail'd In deadly drifts of fiery spray, Yet not a single soldier quail'd When wounded comrades round them wail'd Their dying shout at Monterey. And on—still on our column kept Through walls of flame its withering way Where fell the dead, the living stept, Still charging on the guns which swept The slippery streets of Monterey. The foe himself recoil'd aghast, When, striking where he strongest lay, We swoop'd his flanking batteries past, And braving full their murderous blast, Storm'd home the towers of Monterey. Our banners on those turrets wave, And there our evening bugles play: Where orange-boughs above their grave Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and fell at Monterey. We are not many—we who press'd Beside the brave who fell that day— But who of us has not confess'd He'd rather share their warrior rest Than not have been at Monterey? [By some strange oversight, this fine ballad appears in none of the popular collections. So far as the editor can discover, indeed, it exists nowhere in print except in a volume privately printed by General Pike some years ago, and to his courtesy the editor is indebted for the copy from which the piece is here reproduced.—Editor.] BUENA VISTA. By ALBERT PIKE. From the Rio Grande's waters to the icy lakes of Maine, Let all exult! for we have met the enemy again; Beneath their stern old mountains we have met them in their pride, And rolled from Buena Vista back the battle's bloody tide; Where the enemy came surging swift, like the Mississippi's flood, And the reaper, Death, with strong arms swung his sickle red with blood. Santana boasted loudly that, before two hours were past, His Lancers through Saltillo should pursue us fierce and fast:— On comes his solid infantry, line marching after line; Lo! their great standards in the sun like sheets of silver shine: With thousands upon thousands,—yea, with more than three to one,— Their forests of bright bayonets fierce-flashing in the sun. Lo! Guanajuato's regiment; Morelos' boasted corps, And Guadalajara's chosen troops!—all veterans tried before. Lo! galloping upon the right four thousand lances gleam, Where, floating in the morning-wind, their blood-red pennons stream; And here his stern artillery climbs up the broad plateau: To-day he means to strike at us an overwhelming blow. Now, Wool, hold strongly to the heights! for, lo! the mighty tide Comes, thundering like an avalanche, deep, terrible and wide. Now, Illinois, stand steady! Now, Kentucky, to their aid! For a portion of our line, alas! is broken and dismayed: And the day is lost, if Illinois and brave Kentucky yield. One of O'Brien's guns is gone!—On, on their masses drift, Till their cavalry and infantry outflank us on the left; Our light troops, driven from the hills, retreat in wild dismay, And round us gather, thick and dark, the Mexican array. Santana thinks the day is gained; for, now approaching near, MiÑon's dark cloud of Lancers sternly menaces our rear. Now, Lincoln, gallant gentleman, lies dead upon the field, Who strove to stay those cravens, when before the storm they reeled. Fire, Washington, fire fast and true! Fire, Sherman, fast and far! Lo! Bragg comes thundering to the front, to breast the adverse war! Santana thinks the day is gained! On, on his masses crowd, And the roar of battle swells again more terrible and loud. Not yet! Our brave old General comes to regain the day; Kentucky, to the rescue! Mississippi, to the fray! And back before his rifles, in red waves the Lancers flow. Upon them yet once more, ye brave! The avalanche is stayed! Back roll the Aztec multitudes, all broken and dismayed. Ride! May!—To Buena Vista! for the Lancers gain our rear, And we have few troops there to check their vehement career. Charge, Arkansas! Kentucky, charge! Yell, Porter, Vaughan, are slain, But the shattered troops cling desperately unto that crimsoned plain; Till, with the Lancers intermixed, pursuing and pursued, Westward, in combat hot and close, drifts off the multitude. And May comes charging from the hills with his ranks of flaming steel, While shattered with a sudden fire, the foe already reel: They flee amain!—Now to the left, to stay the torrent there, Or else the day is surely lost, in horror and despair! For their hosts pour swiftly onward, like a river in the spring, Our flank is turned, and on our left their cannon thundering. Now, good Artillery! bold Dragoons! Steady, brave hearts, be calm! Through rain, cold hail, and thunder, now nerve each gallant arm! What though their shot fall round us here, yet thicker than the hail? We'll stand against them, as the rock stands firm against the gale. Lo! their battery is silenced! but our iron sleet still showers: They falter, halt, retreat!—Hurrah! the glorious day is ours! In front, too, has the fight gone well, where upon gallant Lane, And on stout Mississippi, the thick Lancers charged in vain: Ah! brave Third Indiana! you have nobly wiped away The reproach that through another corps befell your State to-day; For back, all broken and dismayed, before your storm of fire, Santana's boasted chivalry, a shattered wreck, retire. Now charge again, Santana! or the day is surely lost— For back, like broken waves, along our left your hordes are tossed. Still faster roar his batteries,—his whole reserve moves on; Now for your wives and children men! Stand steady yet once more! Fight for your lives and honors! Fight as you never fought before! Ho! Hardin breasts it bravely! and heroic Bissell there Stands firm before the storm of balls that fill the astonished air: The Lancers dash upon them too! The foe swarm ten to one: Hardin is slain; McKee and Clay the last time see the sun: And many another gallant heart, in that last desperate fray, Grew cold, its last thought turning to its loved ones far away. Speed, speed, Artillery! to the front!—for the hurricane of fire Crushes those noble regiments, reluctant to retire! Speed swiftly! Gallop! Ah! they come! Again Bragg climbs the ridge, And his grape sweeps down the swarming foe, as a strong man moweth sedge: Still menacing in firm array, their columns leave the field. The guns still roared at intervals; but silence fell at last, And on the dead and dying came the evening shadows fast. And then above the mountains rose the cold moon's silver shield, And patiently and pitying she looked upon the field. While careless of his wounded, and neglectful of his dead, Despairingly and sullenly by night Santana fled. And thus on Buena Vista's heights a long day's work was done, And thus our brave old General another battle won. Still, still our glorious banner waves, unstained by flight or shame, And the Mexicans among their hills still tremble at our name. So, honor unto those that stood! Disgrace to those that fled! And everlasting glory unto BUENA VISTA'S DEAD! February 28, 1847. By THEODORE O'HARA. [Originally written on the occasion of the erection of a monument to the Kentucky volunteers who fell at Buena Vista.—Editor.] The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo; No more on Life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few. On Fame's eternal camping-ground Their silent tents are spread, And Glory guards, with solemn round, The bivouac of the dead. No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms; No braying horn nor screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms. Their shivered swords are red with rust; Their plumÈd heads are bowed; Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud. And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow, And the proud forms, by battle gashed, Are free from anguish now. The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The bugle's stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout are past; Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that nevermore may feel The rapture of the fight. Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe. Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was "Victory or Death." Long had the doubtful conflict raged O'er all that stricken plain, For never fiercer fight had waged The vengeful blood of Spain; And still the storm of battle blew, Still swelled the gory tide; Not long our stout old chieftain knew, Such odds his strength could bide. 'Twas in that hour his stern command Called to a martyr's grave The flower of his belovÈd land, The nation's flag to save. By rivers of their fathers' gore His first-born laurels grew And well he deemed the sons would pour There lives for glory too. Full many a norther's breath has swept, O'er Angostura's plain— And long the pitying sky has wept Above its mouldered slain. The raven's scream or eagle's flight Or shepherd's pensive lay, Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray. Sons of the Dark and Bloody ground, Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air. Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave; She claims from war his richest spoil— The ashes of her brave. Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield; The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulchre. Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! Dear as the blood ye gave, No impious footstep here shall tread The herbage of your grave; Nor shall your story be forgot, While Fame her record keeps, Or Honor points the hallowed spot Where Valor proudly sleeps. Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell When many a vanished age hath flown, The story how ye fell; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Nor Time's remorseless doom, Shall dim one ray of glory's light That gilds your deathless tomb.
|
|
