  December 15-16, 1864. [Written as a Carriers’ Address for the Nashville Daily Press and Times, December 25, 1864.] The Preparation. All day, while gazing from yon lofty tower, We saw, far gleaming through the mist and smoke, The camps, like fleets upon a circling sea, Or snowdrifts sleeping on the frozen hills, Dumb batteries, like bloodhounds in the leash, Yet terrible in silence, the blue tide Of cavalry, the battle’s foremost wave; The gunboats on the left; upon the right Fort Gillem’s bannered staff, and to the south Fort Negley’s bastions belting St. Cloud’s hill, And Morton and Casino by its side. How soon their guns will belch their sulphurous breath Upon the crimson carnival of Death! The Night Scene. But when the darkness swallowed up the day, As if we entered the Elysian fields, Through the encircling clouds of awful night, We saw a glowing Paradise of light. A thousand camp-fires blossomed on the hills, The flame-leaved lilies of the Field of Mars, Minerva’s bloody roses, passion-flowers, Planted by sooty Vulcan, whose red disc Thrive best in crimson showers, and gather strength, Fanned by the moans and sighs of dying men, Each tented hill and pyramid of fire Flashed round the dark horizon, till it seemed A billowed sea of many-twinkling lights, Or burning girdle of Vesuvian crests Whose surging lava trembled to o’erleap Their glowing craters and engulf the plains. Alas, for many a harnessed warrior when Yon Battle-Titan turns him in his den! The Prelude. Hearken! In the murky morning, Sounds the awful note of warning. Winding down the river shore Tramps the veteran Sixteenth Corps, Wilson’s bugles charm the river, With the signal of advance, Twenty thousand guidons quiver From the horsemen’s tapering lance! Twenty thousand chargers’ feet Hurry through the startled street, Stretching “to the crack of doom” Till they vanish in the gloom Of the woods which fringe the west Round Fort Zollicoffer’s crest. We hear along the western shore The sullen battle’s opening roar, While in the clouds, like the Angel of Death, The white-winged shells pour their sulphurous breath. Hatch’s horsemen spur their steeds, Croxton’s sabres bright and gleaming, Johnson in the vanguard leads Still encircling, still advancing, Onward like a torrent’s dashing, Spaulding’s carbine fire is flashing, Like a serpent line of fire— Stewart reels before their ire. Rolls the battle-tumult higher— The soldier falls—the charger bleeds, Stewart’s line recoils!—recedes! “Charge the batteries!”—It is done— Stewart’s legions turn and fly— Swells the glad shout of Victory!— So the first day’s strife is won The Second Day. The morning breaks With battle thunder, The city wakes With fear and wonder. See the glittering bayonets shine, Along the front of Steedman’s line. The mad shriek of the flying shell, The rush—the soldier’s frenzied yell, The crash of the exploding bomb Careering wildly through the air, The distant batteries’ vivid glare, The cannons’ smoke which jets aloof, The foaming charger’s clattering hoof, The musketry’s incessant shower, Drifting its lead ’round Acklin’s tower; The cannister’s consuming spray, Where dauntless Steedman cleaves his way; Or fearless Wood’s heroic form Lion-like, confronts the storm, Startle the eye and stun the ear As sweeps the battle’s wild career There is dread and desperation, There is wrath and trepidation; They grapple, they reel In the sharp shock of steel, They struggle, they bleed, They rush, they recede; Death’s harvesters labor With carbine and sabre. In swaths the dead are falling, and the maimed and bleeding writhe Before the steady swinging of the ponderous battle-scythe. The Chief. Serene and steady as the Polar Star Whose light no clouds can quench nor billows mar But shines while tempests lash the deep below, Thomas surveyed the turbid storm of war, And gazed and watched to strike the final blow, The Rock of Chickamauga, braving the whirlwind’s jar. The Charge. Freemen of the stern Northwest, Come with bayonets in rest, Exiles of East Tennessee Strike! and make the oppressor flee. With liberty would you be crowned? Now or never stand your ground, Make your fearless masters feel The vengeance of a freeman’s steel, And with or on your shining shield Return in glory from the field. Clenched lips turn pale, but they pale not with fear, And the soldier’s eye gleams like a star in its sphere,— There’s a hush! There’s a rumbling and crush, Like the breaking of the ice in a thawing river’s flush, The solid earth shakes with a universal rush, The clouds of battle break, The hills in terror quake, While the fire crackles down their sides like a red volcanic lake— Beneath whose fiery surge that day full many a bark went down, And many a soul which morning woke from dreams of high renown. Face to face and sword to sword— See the slave confront his lord; Through the tumult the foam-covered charger is spurred, And the shrieks of the wounded and dying are heard; And the muskets and carbines are doubled and battered And sabres and bayonets to atoms are scattered— The command and the curse, and the groan and the yell, Thunder up like the mad-bubbling cauldron of Hell. Eagles of victory, say, on which flag will you alight— Confederate or Federal? Both deem their cause is right; Never more fearless rivals grappled in mortal fight. No carpet knights are they, but iron-sinewed men, From office, mine, and workshop, from mountain, prairie, glen, From legendary Southern river, from sparkling Northern lake, From Indiana beechwood, or Arkansas cane-brake. All worthy of the highest song that dropped from Homer’s pen. Leonidas at ThermopylÆ led on no braver crew Than those who bore the “Stars and Bars”; nor bloody Waterloo, Than the men who carried the “Stars and Stripes” where bullets thickest flew. God speed the day when the boys in Gray shall charge with the boys in Blue, And San Juan and Manila Bay a loving-cup shall brew, And Dewey and Joe Wheeler the old love shall renew. Smother the tumult in his breast; Along the line his clear survey Scans the sure fortune of the day. “Forward to the charge once more!” Then like the Judgment thunder, Cleaving the clouds asunder, The shock of battle sweeps from shore to shore And shakes the rock-ribbed valley with its roar. Like a tropical tornado, Death pours his crimson rain In swirling drifts of slaughter along the trampled plain. Bleeding and torn and shattered, Hood’s vanquished legions fly, And along the Union line goes up the shout of victory. Thus Nashville’s Two Days’ Battle by our silent chief was won, And our hearts were filled with gladness at the setting of the sun. |
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