  "OH MOTHER OF A MIGHTY RACE" Oh mother of a mighty race, Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! The elder dames, thy haughty peers, Admire and hate thy blooming years. With words of shame And taunts of scorn they join thy name. For on thy cheeks the glow is spread That tints thy morning hills with red; Thy step—the wild deer's rustling feet Within thy woods are not more fleet; Thy hopeful eye Is bright as thine own sunny sky. Ay, let them rail—those haughty ones, While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. They do not know how loved thou art, How many a fond and fearless heart Would rise to throw Its life between thee and the foe. They know not, in their hate and pride, What virtues with thy children bide; How true, how good, thy graceful maids Make bright, like flowers, the valley-shades; What generous men Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen;— What cordial welcomes greet the guest By thy lone rivers of the West; How faith is kept, and truth revered, And man is loved, and God is feared, In woodland homes, And where the ocean border foams. There's freedom at thy gates and rest For earth's down-trodden and opprest, A shelter for the hunted head, For the starved laborer toil and bread. Power, at thy bounds, Stops and calls back his baffled hounds. Oh, fair young mother! on thy brow Shall sit a nobler grace than now. Deep in the brightness of the skies The thronging years in glory rise, And, as they fleet, Drop strength and riches at thy feet. William Cullen Bryant. CHAPTER ITHE NEW NATION
A RADICAL SONG OF 1786 Huzza, my Jo Bunkers! no taxes we'll pay; Here's a pardon for Wheeler, Shays, Parsons, and Day; Put green boughs in your hats, and renew the old cause; Stop the courts in each county, and bully the laws: Constitutions and oaths, sir, we mind not a rush; Such trifles must yield to us lads of the bush. New laws and new charters our books shall display, Composed by conventions and Counsellor Grey. Since Boston and Salem so haughty have grown, We'll make them to know we can let them alone. Of Glasgow or Pelham we'll make a seaport, And there we'll assemble our General Court: Our governor, now, boys, shall turn out to work, And live, like ourselves, on molasses and pork; In Adams or Greenwich he'll live like a peer On three hundred pounds, paper money, a year. Grand jurors, and sheriffs, and lawyers we'll spurn, As judges, we'll all take the bench in our turn, And sit the whole term, without pension or fee, Nor Cushing nor Sewal look graver than we. Our wigs, though they're rusty, are decent enough; Our aprons, though black, are of durable stuff; Array'd in such gear, the laws we'll explain, That poor people no more shall have cause to complain. To Congress and impost we'll plead a release; The French we can beat half-a-dozen apiece; We want not their guineas, their arms, or alliance; And as for the Dutchmen, we bid them defiance. Then huzza, my Jo Bunkers! no taxes we'll pay; Here's a pardon for Wheeler, Shays, Parsons and Day; Put green boughs in your hats, and renew the old cause; Stop the courts in each county, and bully the laws. St. John Honeywood.
THE FEDERAL CONVENTION [May, 1787] Concentred here th' united wisdom shines, Of learn'd judges, and of sound divines: Patriots, whose virtues searching time has tried, Heroes, who fought, where brother heroes died; Lawyers, who speak, as Tully spoke before, Sages, deep read in philosophic lore; Merchants, whose plans are to no realms confin'd, Farmers—the noblest title 'mongst mankind: Yeomen and tradesmen, pillars of the state; On whose decision hangs Columbia's fate. September, 1787.
TO THE FEDERAL CONVENTION [1787] Be then your counsels, as your subject, great, A world their sphere, and time's long reign their date. Each party-view, each private good, disclaim, Each petty maxim, each colonial aim; Let all Columbia's weal your views expand, A mighty system rule a mighty land; Yourselves her genuine sons let Europe own, Not the small agents of a paltry town. Learn, cautious, what to alter, where to mend; See to what close projected measures tend. From pressing wants the mind averting still, Thinks good remotest from the present ill: From feuds anarchial to oppression's throne, Misguided nations hence for safety run; And through the miseries of a thousand years, Their fatal folly mourn in bloody tears. Ten thousand follies thro' Columbia spread; Ten thousand wars her darling realms invade. The private interest of each jealous state; Of rule th' impatience and of law the hate. But ah! from narrow springs these evils flow, A few base wretches mingle general woe; Still the same mind her manly race pervades; Still the same virtues haunt the hallow'd shades. But when the peals of war her centre shook, All private aims the anxious mind forsook. In danger's iron-bond her race was one, Each separate good, each little view unknown. Now rule, unsystem'd, drives the mind astray; Now private interest points the downward way: Hence civil discord pours her muddy stream, And fools and villains float upon the brim; O'er all, the sad spectator casts his eye, And wonders where the gems and minerals lie. But ne'er of freedom, glory, bliss, despond: Uplift your eyes those little clouds beyond; See there returning suns, with gladdening ray, Roll on fair spring to chase this wint'ry day. 'Tis yours to bid those days of Eden shine: First, then, and last, the federal bands entwine: To this your every aim and effort bend: Let all your efforts here commence and end. O'er state concerns, let every state preside; Its private tax controul; its justice guide; Religion aid; the morals to secure; And bid each private right thro' time endure. Columbia's interests public sway demand, Her commerce, impost, unlocated land; Her war, her peace, her military power; Treaties to seal with every distant shore; To bid contending states their discord cease; To send thro' all the calumet of peace; Science to wing thro' every noble flight; And lift desponding genius into light. Be then your task to alter, aid, amend; The weak to strengthen, and the rigid bend; The prurient lop; what's wanted to supply; And grant new scions from each friendly sky. Timothy Dwight.
THE NEW ROOF A SONG FOR FEDERAL MECHANICS [1787] I Come muster, my lads, your mechanical tools, Your saws and your axes, your hammers and rules; Bring your mallets and planes, your level and line, And plenty of pins of American pine: For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be, Our government firm, and our citizens free. II Come, up with the plates, lay them firm on the wall, Like the people at large, they're the groundwork of all; Examine them well, and see that they're sound, Let no rotten part in our building be found: For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be A government firm, and our citizens free. III Now hand up the girders, lay each in his place, Between them the joists, must divide all the space; Like assemblymen these should lie level along, Like girders, our senate prove loyal and strong: For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be A government firm over citizens free. IV The rafters now frame; your king-posts and braces, And drive your pins home, to keep all in their places; Let wisdom and strength in the fabric combine, And your pins be all made of American pine: For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be, A government firm over citizens free. V Our king-posts are judges; how upright they stand, Supporting the braces; the laws of the land: The laws of the land, which divide right from wrong, And strengthen the weak, by weak'ning the strong: For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be, Laws equal and just, for a people that's free. VI Up! up! with the rafters; each frame is a state: How nobly they rise! their span, too, how great! From the north to the south, o'er the whole they extend, And rest on the walls, whilst the walls they defend: For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be Combined in strength, yet as citizens free. VII Now enter the purlins, and drive your pins through; And see that your joints are drawn home and all true. The purlins will bind all the rafters together: The strength of the whole shall defy wind and weather: For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be, United as states, but as citizens free. VIII Come, raise up the turret; our glory and pride; In the centre it stands, o'er the whole to preside: The sons of Columbia shall view with delight Its pillars, and arches, and towering height: Our roof is now rais'd, and our song still shall be, A federal head o'er a people that's free. IX Huzza! my brave boys, our work is complete; The world shall admire Columbia's fair seat; Its strength against tempest and time shall be proof, And thousands shall come to dwell under our roof: Whilst we drain the deep bowl, our toast still shall be, Our government firm, and our citizens free. Francis Hopkinson.
CONVENTION SONG [February 6, 1788] Hot battles were still to be fought in some of the other states,—hottest of all in New York,—but by midsummer of 1788 all the states had ratified the Constitution, and it stood an accomplished fact. THE FEDERAL CONSTITUTION Poets may sing of their Helicon streams; Their gods and their heroes are fabulous dreams! They ne'er sang a line Half so grand, so divine As the glorious toast We Columbians boast— The Federal Constitution, boys, and Liberty forever. The man of our choice presides at the helm; No tempest can harm us, no storm overwhelm; Our sheet anchor's sure, And our bark rides secure; So here's to the toast We Columbians boast— The Federal Constitution and the President forever. A free navigation, commerce, and trade, We'll seek for no foe, of no foe be afraid; Our frigates shall ride, Our defence and our pride; Our tars guard our coast, And huzza for our toast— The Federal Constitution, trade and commerce forever. Montgomery and Warren still live in our songs; Like them our young heroes shall spurn at our wrongs: The world shall admire The zeal and the fire, Which blaze in the toast We Columbians boast— The Federal Constitution and its advocates forever. When an enemy threats, all party shall cease; We bribe no intruders to buy a mean peace; Columbia will scorn Friends and foes to suborn; We'll ne'er stain the toast Which as freemen we boast— The Federal Constitution, and integrity forever. Fame's trumpet shall swell in Washington's praise, And time grant a furlough to lengthen his days; Of delight round his head. No nation can boast Such a name, such a toast, The Federal Constitution, boys, and Washington forever. William Milns.
[April 6, 1789] Columbus looked; and still around them spread, From south to north, th' immeasurable shade; At last, the central shadows burst away, And rising regions open'd on the day. He saw, once more, bright Del'ware's silver stream, And Penn's throng'd city cast a cheerful gleam; The dome of state, that met his eager eye, Now heav'd its arches in a loftier sky. The bursting gates unfold: and lo, within, A solemn train in conscious glory shine. The well-known forms his eye had trac'd before, In diff'rent realms along th' extended shore; Here, grac'd with nobler fame, and rob'd in state, They look'd and mov'd magnificently great. High on the foremost seat, in living light, Majestic Randolph caught the hero's sight: Fair on his head, the civic crown was plac'd, And the first dignity his sceptre grac'd. He opes the cause, and points in prospect far, Thro' all the toils that wait th' impending war— But, hapless sage, thy reign must soon be o'er, To lend thy lustre, and to shine no more. So the bright morning star, from shades of ev'n, Leads up the dawn, and lights the front of heav'n, Points to the waking world the sun's broad way, Then veils his own, and shines above the day. And see great Washington behind thee rise, Thy following sun, to gild our morning skies; O'er shadowy climes to pour the enliv'ning flame, The charms of freedom and the fire of fame. Th' ascending chief adorn'd his splendid seat, Like Randolph, ensign'd with a crown of state; Where the green patriot bay beheld, with pride, The hero's laurel springing by its side; His sword, hung useless, on his graceful thigh, On Britain still he cast a filial eye; But sov'reign fortitude his visage bore, To meet their legions on th' invaded shore. Sage Franklin next arose, in awful mien, And smil'd, unruffled, o'er th' approaching scene; High, on his locks of age, a wreath was brac'd, Palm of all arts, that e'er a mortal grac'd; Beneath him lies the sceptre kings have borne, And crowns and laurels from their temples torn. Nash, Rutledge, Jefferson, in council great, And Jay and Laurens op'd the rolls of fate. The Livingstons, fair Freedom's gen'rous band, The Lees, the Houstons, fathers of the land, O'er climes and kingdoms turn'd their ardent eyes, Bade all th' oppressed to speedy vengeance rise; All pow'rs of state, in their extended plan, Rise from consent to shield the rights of man. Bold Wolcott urg'd the all-important cause; With steady hand the solemn scene he draws; Undaunted firmness with his wisdom join'd, Nor kings nor worlds could warp his stedfast mind. Now, graceful rising from his purple throne, In radiant robes, immortal Hosmer shone; Myrtles and bays his learned temples bound, The statesman's wreath, the poet's garland crown'd: Morals and laws expand his liberal soul, Beam from his eyes, and in his accents roll. But lo! an unseen hand the curtain drew, And snatch'd the patriot from the hero's view; Wrapp'd in the shroud of death, he sees descend The guide of nations and the muses' friend. Columbus dropp'd a tear. The angel's eye Trac'd the freed spirit mounting thro' the sky. Adams, enrag'd, a broken charter bore, Some injur'd right in each loose leaf appears, A king in terrors and a land in tears; From all the guileful plots the veil he drew, With eye retortive look'd creation through; Op'd the wide range of nature's boundless plan, Trac'd all the steps of liberty and man; Crowds rose to vengeance while his accents rung, And Independence thunder'd from his tongue. Joel Barlow.
WASHINGTON God wills no man a slave. The man most meek, Who saw Him face to face on Horeb's peak, Had slain a tyrant for a bondman's wrong, And met his Lord with sinless soul and strong. But when, years after, overfraught with care, His feet once trod doubt's pathway to despair, For that one treason lapse, the guiding hand That led so far now barred the promised land. God makes no man a slave, no doubter free; Abiding faith alone wins liberty. No angel led our Chieftain's steps aright; No pilot cloud by day, no flame by night; No plague nor portent spake to foe or friend; No doubt assailed him, faithful to the end. Weaklings there were, as in the tribes of old, Who craved for fleshpots, worshipped calves of gold, Murmured that right would harder be than wrong, And freedom's narrow road so steep and long; But he who ne'er on Sinai's summit trod, Still walked the highest heights and spake with God; Saw with anointed eyes no promised land By petty bounds or pettier cycles spanned, Its people curbed and broken to the ring, Packed with a caste and saddled with a King,— But freedom's heritage and training school, Where men unruled should learn to wisely rule, Till sun and moon should see at Ajalon King's heads in dust and freemen's feet thereon. His work well done, the leader stepped aside, Spurning a crown with more than kingly pride, Content to wear the higher crown of worth, While time endures, First Citizen of earth. James Jeffrey Roche.
[April 30, 1789] The sword was sheathed: in April's sun Lay green the fields by Freedom won; And severed sections, weary of debates, Joined hands at last and were United States. O City sitting by the Sea! How proud the day that dawned on thee, When the new era, long desired, began, And, in its need, the hour had found the man! One thought the cannon salvos spoke, The resonant bell-tower's vibrant stroke, The voiceful streets, the plaudit-echoing halls, And prayer and hymn borne heavenward from St. Paul's! How felt the land in every part The strong throb of a nation's heart, As its great leader gave, with reverent awe, His pledge to Union, Liberty, and Law! That pledge the heavens above him heard, That vow the sleep of centuries stirred; In world-wide wonder listening peoples bent Their gaze on Freedom's great experiment. Could it succeed? Of honor sold And hopes deceived all history told. Above the wrecks that strewed the mournful past, Was the long dream of ages true at last? Thank God! the people's choice was just, The one man equal to his trust, Wise beyond lore, and without weakness good, Calm in the strength of flawless rectitude! His rule of justice, order, peace, Made possible the world's release; Taught prince and serf that power is but a trust, And rule alone, which serves the ruled, is just; That Freedom generous is, but strong In hate of fraud and selfish wrong, Pretence that turns her holy truth to lies, And lawless license masking in her guise. Land of his love! with one glad voice Let thy great sisterhood rejoice; A century's suns o'er thee have risen and set, And, God be praised, we are one nation yet. And still we trust the years to be Shall prove his hope was destiny, Leaving our flag, with all its added stars, Unrent by faction and unstained by wars. Lo! where with patient toil he nursed And trained the new-set plant at first, The widening branches of a stately tree Stretch from the sunrise to the sunset sea. And in its broad and sheltering shade, Sitting with none to make afraid, Were we now silent, through each mighty limb, The winds of heaven would sing the praise of him. Our first and best!—his ashes lie Beneath his own Virginian sky. Forgive, forget, O true and just and brave, The storm that swept above thy sacred grave! For, ever in the awful strife And dark hours of the nation's life, Through the fierce tumult pierced his warning word, Their father's voice his erring children heard! The change for which he prayed and sought In that sharp agony was wrought; No partial interest draws its alien line 'Twixt North and South, the cypress and the pine! One people now, all doubt beyond, His name shall be our Union-bond; We lift our hands to Heaven, and here and now Take on our lips the old Centennial vow. For rule and trust must needs be ours; Chooser and chosen both are powers Equal in service as in rights; the claim Of Duty rests on each and all the same. Then let the sovereign millions, where Our banner floats in sun and air, From the warm palm-lands to Alaska's cold, Repeat with us the pledge a century old! John Greenleaf Whittier.
ON THE DEATH OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN [April 17, 1790] Thus, some tall tree that long hath stood The glory of its native wood, By storms destroyed, or length of years, Demands the tribute of our tears. The pile, that took long time to raise, To dust returns by slow decays; But, when its destined years are o'er, We must regret the loss the more. So long accustomed to your aid, The world laments your exit made; So long befriended by your art, Philosopher, 'tis hard to part!— When monarchs tumble to the ground Successors easily are found; But, matchless Franklin! what a few Can hope to rival such as you, Who seized from kings their sceptred pride, And turned the lightning's darts aside! Philip Freneau.
GEORGE WASHINGTON This was the man God gave us when the hour Proclaimed the dawn of Liberty begun; Who dared a deed and died when it was done Patient in triumph, temperate in power,— Not striving like the Corsican to tower To win the world and weep for worlds unwon, Or lose the star to revel in the flower. The lives that serve the eternal verities Alone do mould mankind. Pleasure and pride Sparkle awhile and perish, as the spray Smoking across the crests of cavernous seas Is impotent to hasten or delay The everlasting surges of the tide. John Hall Ingham.
WASHINGTON Where may the wearied eye repose When gazing on the Great; Where neither guilty glory glows, Nor despicable state? Yes—one—the first—the last—the best— The Cincinnatus of the West, Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeath the name of Washington, To make men blush there was but one! Lord Byron.
[1798] Ye sons of Columbia, who bravely have fought For those rights which unstained from your sires have descended, May you long taste the blessings your valor has bought, And your sons reap the soil which their fathers defended. 'Mid the reign of mild peace, May your nation increase, With the glory of Rome and the wisdom of Greece; And ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves. In a clime, whose rich vales feed the marts of the world, Whose shores are unshaken by Europe's commotion, The trident of commerce should never be hurl'd, To incense the legitimate powers of the ocean. But should pirates invade, Though in thunder array'd, Let your cannon declare the free charter of trade. For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves. The fame of our arms, of our laws the mild sway, Had justly ennobled our nation in story, Till the dark clouds of faction obscured our young day, And enveloped the sun of American glory. But let traitors be told, Who their country have sold, And barter'd their God for his image in gold, That ne'er will the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves. While France her huge limbs bathes recumbent in blood, And society's base threats with wide dissolution; May peace, like the dove who return'd from the flood, Find an ark of abode in our mild constitution. But, though peace is our aim, Yet the boon we disclaim, If bought by our sovereignty, justice, or fame; For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves. 'Tis the fire of the flint, each American warms: Let Rome's haughty victors beware of collision, Let them bring all the vassals of Europe in arms, We're a world by ourselves, and disdain a division. While, with patriot pride, To our laws we're allied, No foe can subdue us, no faction divide, For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves. Our mountains are crown'd with imperial oak; Whose roots, like our liberties, ages have nourish'd; But long ere our nation submits to the yoke, Not a tree shall be left on the field where it flourish'd. Should invasion impend, Every grove would descend, From the hill-tops, they shaded, our shores to defend. For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves. Let our patriots destroy Anarch's pestilent worm; Lest our liberty's growth should be check'd by corrosion; Then let clouds thicken round us; we heed not the storm; Our realm fears no shock, but the earth's own explosion. Foes assail us in vain, Though their fleets bridge the main, For our altars and laws with our lives we'll maintain. For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves. Should the tempest of war overshadow our land, Its bolts could ne'er rend Freedom's temple asunder; For, unmov'd, at its portal, would Washington stand, And repulse, with his breast, the assaults of the thunder! His sword from the sleep Of its scabbard would leap, And conduct, with its point, every flash to the deep! For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves. Let fame to the world sound America's voice; No intrigues can her sons from their government sever; Her pride is her Adams; her laws are his choice, And shall flourish, till Liberty slumbers forever. Then unite heart and hand, Like Leonidas' band, And swear to the God of the ocean and land, That ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves. Robert Treat Paine.
[First sung at the Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, May, 1798] Hail! Columbia, happy land! Hail! ye heroes, heav'n-born band, Who fought and bled in freedom's cause, Who fought and bled in freedom's cause, And when the storm of war was gone, Enjoyed the peace your valor won; Let independence be your boast, Ever mindful what it cost, Ever grateful for the prize, Let its altar reach the skies. Chorus—Firm, united let us be, Rallying round our liberty, As a band of brothers joined, Peace and safety we shall find. Immortal patriots, rise once more! Defend your rights, defend your shore; Let no rude foe with impious hand, Let no rude foe with impious hand Invade the shrine where sacred lies Of toil and blood the well-earned prize; While offering peace, sincere and just, In heav'n we place a manly trust, That truth and justice may prevail, And ev'ry scheme of bondage fail. Sound, sound the trump of fame! Let Washington's great name Ring thro' the world with loud applause! Ring thro' the world with loud applause! Let ev'ry clime to freedom dear Listen with a joyful ear; With equal skill, with steady pow'r, He governs in the fearful hour Of horrid war, or guides with ease The happier time of honest peace. Behold the chief, who now commands, Once more to serve his country stands, The rock on which the storm will beat! The rock on which the storm will beat! But armed in virtue, firm and true, His hopes are fixed on heav'n and you. When hope was sinking in dismay, When gloom obscured Columbia's day, His steady mind, from changes free, Resolved on death or liberty. Joseph Hopkinson.
AN ODE [July, 1798] Ye sons of Columbia, unite in the cause Of liberty, justice, religion, and laws; Should foes then invade us, to battle we'll hie, For the God of our fathers will be our ally! Let Frenchmen advance, And all Europe join France, Designing our conquest and plunder; United and free Forever we'll be, And our cannon shall tell them in thunder, That foes to our freedom we'll ever defy, Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry! When Britain assail'd us, undaunted we stood, Defended the land we had purchas'd with blood, Our liberty won, and it shall be our boast, If the old world united should menace our coast:— Should millions invade, In terrour array'd, Our liberties bid us surrender, Our country they'd find With bayonets lin'd, And Washington here to defend her, For foes to our freedom we'll ever defy Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry! Should Buonapart' come with his sans culotte band, And a new sort of freedom we don't understand, And make us an offer to give us as much As France has bestow'd on the Swiss and the Dutch, His fraud and his force Will be futile of course; We wish for no Frenchified Freedom: If folks beyond sea Are to bid us be free, We'll send for them when we shall need 'em. But sans culotte Frenchmen we'll ever defy, Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry! We're anxious that Peace may continue her reign, We cherish the virtues which sport in her train; Our hearts ever melt, when the fatherless sigh, And we shiver at Horrour's funereal cry! But still, though we prize That child of the skies, In a war of defence Our means are immense, And we'll fight till our all is exhausted: For foes to our freedom we'll ever defy, Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry! The eagle of freedom with rapture behold, Overshadow our land with his plumage of gold! The flood-gates of glory are open on high, And Warren and Mercer descend from the sky! They come from above With a message of love, To bid us be firm and decided; "At Liberty's call, Unite one and all, For you conquer, unless you're divided. Unite, and the foes to your freedom defy, Till the continent sinks and the ocean is dry! "Americans, seek no occasion for war; The rude deeds of rapine still ever abhor: But if in defence of your rights you should arm, Let toils ne'er discourage, nor dangers alarm. For foes to your peace Will ever increase, If freedom and fame you should barter, Let those rights be yours, While nature endures, For Omnipotence gave you the charter!" Then foes to our freedom we'll ever defy, Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry! Thomas Green Fessenden.
TRUXTON'S VICTORY [February 9, 1799] When Freedom, fair Freedom, her banner display'd, Defying each foe whom her rights would invade, Columbia's brave sons swore those rights to maintain, And o'er ocean and earth to establish her reign; United they cry, While that standard shall fly, Resolved, firm, and steady, We always are ready To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die. Tho' Gallia through Europe has rushed like a flood, And deluged the earth with an ocean of blood: While by faction she's led, while she's governed by knaves, We court not her smiles, and will ne'er be her slaves; Her threats we defy, While our standard shall fly, Resolved, firm, and steady, We always are ready To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die. Tho' France with caprice dares our Statesmen upbraid, A tribute demands, or sets bounds to our trade; From our young rising Navy our thunders shall roar, And our Commerce extend to the earth's utmost shore. Our cannon we'll ply, While our standard shall fly; Resolved, firm, and steady, We always are ready To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die. To know we're resolved, let them think on the hour, When Truxton, brave Truxton off Nevis's shore, His ship mann'd for battle, the standard unfurl'd, And at the Insurgente defiance he hurled; And his valiant tars cry, While our standard shall fly, Resolved, firm, and steady, We always are ready To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die. Each heart beat exulting, inspir'd by the cause; They fought for their country, their freedom and laws; And the standard of France to Columbia was lower'd. Huzza! they now cry, Let the Eagle wave high; Resolved, firm, and steady, We always are ready To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die. Then raise high the strain, pay the tribute that's due To the fair Constellation, and all her brave Crew; Be Truxton revered, and his name be enrolled, 'Mongst the chiefs of the ocean, the heroes of old. Each invader defy, While such heroes are nigh, Who always are ready, Resolved, firm, and steady To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die. THE CONSTELLATION AND THE INSURGENTE [February 9, 1799] Come all ye Yankee sailors, with swords and pikes advance, 'Tis time to try your courage and humble haughty France, The sons of France our seas invade, Destroy our commerce and our trade, 'Tis time the reck'ning should be paid! To brave Yankee boys. On board the Constellation, from Baltimore we came, We had a bold commander and Truxton was his name! Our ship she mounted forty guns, And on the main so swiftly runs, To prove to France Columbia's sons Are brave Yankee boys. We sailed to the West Indies in order to annoy The invaders of our commerce, to burn, sink, and destroy; Our Constellation shone so bright, The Frenchmen could not bear the sight, And away they scamper'd in affright, From the brave Yankee boys. 'Twas on the 9th of February, at Montserrat we lay, And there we spy'd the Insurgente just at the break of day, We raised the orange and the blue, To see if they our signals knew, The Constellation and her crew Of brave Yankee boys. Then all hands were called to quarters, while we pursued in chase, With well-prim'd guns, our tompions out, well spliced the main brace. Soon to the French we did draw nigh, Compelled to fight, they were, or fly, The word was passed, "Conquer or die," My brave Yankee boys. Lord! our Cannons thunder'd with peals tremendous roar, And death upon our bullets' wings that drenched their decks with gore, The blood did from their scuppers run, Their chief exclaimed, "We are undone!" Their flag they struck, the battle won, By the brave Yankee boys. Then to St. Kitts we steered, we bro't her safe in port, The grand salute was fired and answered from the fort, John Adams in full bumpers toast, George Washington, Columbia's boast, And now "the girl we love the most!" My brave Yankee boys. 1813.
WASHINGTON'S MONUMENT Since 1785 it had been necessary to protect American commerce from the Barbary corsairs by paying tribute, but their demands grew so exorbitant that war was at last declared against Tripoli, and a squadron dispatched to the Mediterranean. One of this squadron was the Philadelphia, which ran aground and was captured by the pirates on October 31, 1803. The ship was towed into the harbor of Tripoli and anchored under the guns of the fortress. On the night of February 15, 1804, a party of seventy-five headed by Lieutenants Decatur and Lawrence and Midshipman Bainbridge, entered the harbor, boarded the Philadelphia, drove the Turkish crew overboard, set fire to the ship, and escaped without losing a man, having performed what Lord Nelson called "the most daring act of the age." HOW WE BURNED THE PHILADELPHIA [February 15, 1804] By the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw swore He would scourge us from the seas; Yankees should trouble his soul no more— By the Prophet's beard the Bashaw swore, Then lighted his hookah, and took his ease, And troubled his soul no more. The moon was dim in the western sky, And a mist fell soft on the sea, As we slipped away from the Siren brig And headed for Tripoli. Behind us the hulk of the Siren lay, Before us the empty night; And when again we looked behind The Siren was gone from our sight. Nothing behind us, and nothing before, Only the silence and rain, As the jaws of the sea took hold of our bows And cast us up again. Through the rain and the silence we stole along, Cautious and stealthy and slow, For we knew the waters were full of those Who might challenge the Mastico. But nothing we saw till we saw the ghost Of the ship we had come to see, Her ghostly lights and her ghostly frame Rolling uneasily. And as we looked, the mist drew up And the moon threw off her veil, And we saw the ship in the pale moonlight, Ghostly and drear and pale. Then spoke Decatur low and said: "To the bulwarks shadow all! But the six who wear the Tripoli dress Shall answer the sentinel's call." "What ship is that?" cried the sentinel. "No ship," was the answer free; "But only a Malta ketch in distress Wanting to moor in your lee. "We have lost our anchor, and wait for day To sail into Tripoli town, And the sea rolls fierce and high to-night, So cast a cable down." Then close to the frigate's side we came, Made fast to her unforbid— Six of us bold in the heathen dress, The rest of us lying hid. But one who saw us hiding there "Americano!" cried. Then straight we rose and made a rush Pellmell up the frigate's side. Less than a hundred men were we, And the heathen were twenty score; But a Yankee sailor in those old days Liked odds of one to four. And first we cleaned the quarter-deck, And then from stern to stem We charged into our enemies And quickly slaughtered them. All around was the dreadful sound Of corpses striking the sea, And the awful shrieks of dying men In their last agony. The heathen fought like devils all, But one by one they fell, Swept from the deck by our cutlasses To the water, and so to hell. Some we found in the black of the hold, Some to the fo'c's'le fled, But all in vain; we sought them out And left them lying dead; Till at last no soul but Christian souls Upon that ship was found; The twenty score were dead, and we, The hundred, safe and sound. And, stumbling over the tangled dead, The deck a crimson tide, We fired the ship from keel to shrouds And tumbled over the side. Then out to sea we sailed once more With the world as light as day, And the flames revealed a hundred sail Of the heathen there in the bay. All suddenly the red light paled, And the rain rang out on the sea; Then—a dazzling flash, a deafening roar, Between us and Tripoli! Then, nothing behind us, and nothing before, Only the silence and rain; And the jaws of the sea took hold of our bows And cast us up again. By the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw swore He would scourge us from the seas; Yankees should trouble his soul no more— By the Prophet's beard the Bashaw swore, Then lighted his hookah and took his ease, And troubled his soul no more. Barrett Eastman.
REUBEN JAMES [August 3, 1804] Three ships of war had Preble when he left the Naples shore, And the knightly king of Naples lent him seven galleys more, And never since the Argo floated in the middle sea Such noble men and valiant have sailed in company As the men who went with Preble to the siege of Tripoli. Stewart, Bainbridge, Hull, Decatur—how their names ring out like gold!— Lawrence, Porter, Trippe, Macdonough, and a score as true and bold; Every star that lights their banner tells the glory that they won; But one common sailor's glory is the splendor of the sun. Reuben James was first to follow when Decatur laid aboard Of the lofty Turkish galley and in battle broke his sword. Then the pirate captain smote him, till his blood was running fast, And they grappled and they struggled, and they fell beside the mast. Close behind him Reuben battled with a dozen, undismayed, Till a bullet broke his sword-arm, and he dropped the useless blade. Then a swinging Turkish sabre clove his left and brought him low, Like a gallant bark, dismasted, at the mercy of the foe. Little mercy knows the corsair: high his blade was raised to slay, When a richer prize allured him where Decatur struggling lay. And his scimetar like lightning o'er the Yankee captain swung. Reuben James, disabled, armless, saw the sabre flashed on high, Saw Decatur shrink before it, heard the pirate's taunting cry, Saw, in half the time I tell it, how a sailor brave and true Still might show a bloody pirate what a dying man can do. Quick he struggled, stumbling, sliding in the blood around his feet, As the Turk a moment waited to make vengeance doubly sweet. Swift the sabre fell, but swifter bent the sailor's head below, And upon his 'fenceless forehead Reuben James received the blow! So was saved our brave Decatur; so the common sailor died; So the love that moves the lowly lifts the great to fame and pride. Yet we grudge him not his honors, for whom love like this had birth— For God never ranks His sailors by the Register of earth! James Jeffrey Roche.
[1808] Of all the rides since the birth of time, Told in story or sung in rhyme,— On Apuleius's Golden Ass, Or one-eyed Calender's horse of brass, Witch astride of a human back, Islam's prophet on Al-BorÁk,— The strangest ride that ever was sped Was Ireson's out from Marblehead! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Body of turkey, head of fowl, Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl, Feathered and ruffled in every part, Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. Scores of women, old and young, Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, Shouting and singing the shrill refrain: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase Bacchus round some antique vase, Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang, Over and over the MÆnads sang: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Small pity for him!—He sailed away From a leaking ship in Chaleur Bay,— Sailed away from a sinking wreck, With his own town's-people on her deck! "Lay by! lay by!" they called to him. Back he answered, "Sink or swim! Brag of your catch of fish again!" And off he sailed through the fog and rain! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur That wreck shall lie forevermore. Mother and sister, wife and maid, Looked from the rocks of Marblehead Over the moaning and rainy sea,— Looked for the coming that might not be! What did the winds and the sea-birds say Of the cruel captain who sailed away?— Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Through the street, on either side, Up flew windows, doors swung wide; Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, Hulks of old sailors run aground, Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane, And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Sweetly along the Salem road Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. Little the wicked skipper knew Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. Riding there in his sorry trim, Like an Indian idol glum and grim, Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear Of voices shouting, far and near: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" "Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,— "What to me is this noisy ride? What is the shame that clothes the skin To the nameless horror that lives within? Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, And hear a cry from a reeling deck! Hate me and curse me,—I only dread The hand of God and the face of the dead!" Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea Said, "God has touched him! why should we!" Said an old wife mourning her only son, "Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!" So with soft relentings and rude excuse, Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, And gave him a cloak to hide him in, And left him alone with his shame and sin. Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! John Greenleaf Whittier.
A PLEA FOR FLOOD IRESON [1808] Old Flood Ireson! all too long Have jeer and gibe and ribald song Done thy memory cruel wrong. Old Flood Ireson, bending low Under the weight of years and woe, Crept to his refuge long ago. Old Flood Ireson sleeps in his grave; Howls of a mad mob, worse than the wave, Now no more in his ear shall rave! * * * * * Gone is the pack and gone the prey, Yet old Flood Ireson's ghost to-day Is hunted still down Time's highway. Old wife Fame, with a fish-horn's blare Hooting and tooting the same old air, Drags him along the old thoroughfare. Mocked evermore with the old refrain, Skilfully wrought to a tuneful strain, Jingling and jolting he comes again Over that road of old renown, Fair broad avenue, leading down Through South Fields to Salem town, Scourged and stung by the Muses' thong, Mounted high on the car of song, Sight that cries, O Lord! how long Shall heaven look on and not take part With the poor old man and his fluttering heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart? Old Flood Ireson, now when Fame Wipes away with tears of shame Stains from many an injured name, Shall not, in the tuneful line, Beams of truth and mercy shine Through the clouds that darken thine? Take henceforth, perturbÈd sprite, From the fever and the fright, Take the rest,—thy well-earned right. Along the track of that hard ride The form of Penitence oft shall glide, With tender Pity by her side; And their tears, that mingling fall On the dark record they recall, Shall cleanse the stain and expiate all. Charles Timothy Brooks. CHAPTER IITHE SECOND WAR WITH ENGLAND
Ye brave sons of Freedom, come join in the chorus, At the dangers of war do not let us repine, But sing and rejoice at the prospect before us, And drink it success in a bumper of wine. At the call of the nation, Let each to his station, And resist depredation, Which our country degrades; Ere the conflict is over, Our rights we'll recover, Or punish whoever Our honor invades. We're abused and insulted, our country's degraded, Our rights are infringed both by land and by sea; Let us rouse up, indignant, when those rights are invaded, And announce to the world, "We're united and free!" By our navy's protection We'll make our election, And in every direction Our trade shall be free; No British oppression, No Gallic aggression Shall disturb the possession We claim to the sea. Then Columbia's ships shall sail on the ocean, And the nations of Europe respect us at last: Our stars and our stripes shall command their devotion, And Liberty perch on the top of the mast. Though Bona and John Bull Continue their long pull, Till ambition's cup-full Be drain'd to the lees; By wisdom directed, By tyrants respected, By cannon protected, We'll traverse the seas. Though vile combinations to sever the Union Be projected with caution and managed with care, Though traitors and Britons, in sweetest communion, Their patriot virtue unite and compare, American thunder Shall rend it asunder, And ages shall wonder At the deeds we have done: And every Tory When he hears of the story, Shall repine at the glory Our heroes have won. Let local attachments be condemn'd and discarded, Distrust and suspicion be banish'd the mind, Let union, our safety, be ever regarded, When improved by example, by virtue refined. Our ancestors brought it, Our sages have taught it, Our Washington bought it, 'Tis our glory and boast! No factions shall ever Our government sever, But "Union forever," Shall be our last toast.
REPARATION OR WAR WRITTEN DURING THE EMBARGO Rejoice, rejoice, brave patriots, rejoice! Our martial sons take a bold and manly stand! Rejoice, rejoice, exulting raise your voice, Let union pervade our happy land. The altar of Liberty shall never be polluted, But freedom expand and flourish, firm and deeply rooted. Our eagle, towering high, Triumphantly shall fly, While men like Jefferson preside to serve their country! Huzza! huzza! boys, etc., etc. With firmness we'll resent our wrongs sustain'd at sea; Huzza! huzza! etc., etc. For none but slaves will bend to tyranny. To arms, to arms, with ardor rush to arms, Our injured rights have long for vengeance cried. To arms, to arms, prepare for war's alarms, If honest reparation be denied. Though feeble counteracting plans, or foreign combinations, May interdict awhile our trade, against the law of nations, The embargo on supplies Shall open Europe's eyes; Proclaiming unto all the world, "Columbia will be free." Huzza! huzza! etc., etc. With honor we'll maintain a just neutrality. Huzza! huzza! etc., etc. For none but slaves will bend to tyranny. Defend, defend, ye heroes and ye sages, The gift divine—your independency! Transmit with joy, down to future ages, How Washington achieved your liberty. When freemen are insulted, they send forth vengeful thunder, Determined to maintain their rights, strike the foe with wonder. They cheerfully will toil, To cultivate the soil, And rather live on humble fare than feast ignobly. Huzza! huzza! etc., etc. United, firm we stand, invincible and free, Huzza! huzza! etc., etc. Then none but slaves shall bend to tyranny.
TERRAPIN WAR Huzza for our liberty, boys, These are the days of our glory— The days of true national joys, When terrapins gallop before ye! There's Porter and Grundy and Rhea, In Congress who manfully vapor, Who draw their six dollars a day, And fight bloody battles on paper! Ah! this is true Terrapin war. Poor Madison the tremors has got, 'Bout this same arming the nation; Too far to retract, he cannot Go on—and he loses his station. Then bring up your "regulars," lads, In "attitude" nothing ye lack, sirs, Ye'll frighten to death the Danads, With fire-coals blazing aback, sirs! Oh, this is true Terrapin war! As to powder and bullets and swords, For, as they were never intended, They're a parcel of high-sounding words, But never to action extended. Ye must frighten the rascals away, In "rapid descent" on their quarters; Then the plunder divide as ye may, And drive them headlong in the waters. Oh, this is great Terrapin war!
FAREWELL, PEACE [June 18, 1812] Farewell, Peace! another crisis Calls us to "the last appeal," Made when monarchs and their vices Leave no argument but steel. When injustice and oppression Dare avow the tyrant's plea. Who would recommend submission? Virtue bids us to be free. History spreads her page before us, Time unrolls his ample scroll; Truth unfolds them, to assure us, States, united, ne'er can fall. See, in annals Greek and Roman, What immortal deeds we find; When those gallant sons of woman In their country's cause combined. Sons of Freedom! brave descendants From a race of heroes tried, To preserve our independence Let all Europe be defied. Let not all the world, united, Rob us of one sacred right: Every patriot heart's delighted In his country's cause to fight. Come then, War! with hearts elated To thy standard we will fly; Every bosom animated Either to live free or die. May the wretch that shrinks from duty, Or deserts the glorious strife, Never know the smile of beauty, Nor the blessing of a wife.
COME, YE LADS, WHO WISH TO SHINE Come, ye lads, who wish to shine Bright in future story, Haste to arms, and form the line That leads to martial glory. Beat the drum, the trumpet sound, Manly and united, Danger face, maintain your ground, And see your country righted. Columbia, when her eagle's roused, And her flag is rearing Will always find her sons disposed To drub the foe that's daring. Beat the drum, etc. Hearts of oak, protect the coast, Pour your naval thunder, While on shore a mighty host Shall strike the world with wonder. Beat the drum, etc. Haste to Quebec's towering walls, Through the British regions; Hark! Montgomery's spirit calls, Drive the hostile legions. Beat the drum, etc. Honor for the brave to share Is the noblest booty; Guard your rights, protect the fair, For that's a soldier's duty. Beat the drum, etc. Charge the musket, point the lance, Brave the worst of dangers; Tell to Britain and to France, That we to fear are strangers. Beat the drum, etc.
HULL'S SURRENDER [August 16, 1812] Ye Columbians so bold, attend while I sing; Sure treason and treachery's not quite the thing, In defence of our rights, to stand nobly or fall. Chorus Then let traitors be banish'd Columbia's fair shore, And treason be known in her borders no more. With a brave, gallant army Hull went to Detroit, And swore he'd accomplish a noble exploit; That the British and Indians he'd conquer outright, And give cause to his country of joy and delight. Chorus But if traitors still dwell on Columbia's fair shore, O let it be known in her borders no more. Ah! quickly alas! defeat and disgrace Star'd our brave noble soldiers quite full in the face, When they thought that the victory was sure to be won, Their general gave up, without firing a gun. Chorus Then do traitors still dwell on Columbia's fair shore, If they do, let them dwell in her borders no more! Those heroes, who bravely on the Wabash had fought, Who for glory successfully nobly had sought, Where the favor denied of asserting their wrongs, And deprived of that right which to freemen belongs. Chorus Then if treason still dwell on Columbia's fair shore, O let it be known in her borders no more! Is it true that our soldiers were wrongfully us'd? Is it true that they've been by their General abus'd? Is it true that an army so gallant were sold? Is it true that Columbians were barter'd for gold? Chorus If it is, then does treason still dwell on our shore, But let it be known in our country no more! Ye heroes who fought by the side of brave Floyd, Ye heroes, conducted to glory by Boyd, Think not that your brethren will quietly bear, From your brows that a traitor your laurels should tear. Chorus No—if treason still dwell on Columbia's fair shore, It shall soon be expell'd to reside here no more. Then rouse ye brave freemen, and heed no alarms, Your dear native country now calls you to arms, Away to the battle, and count not the cost Till the glory you gain, which so basely was lost. Chorus For if treason still dwell on Columbia's fair shore, By our fathers we swear it shall dwell here no more.
THE CONSTITUTION AND THE GUERRIÈRE [August 19, 1812] I often have been told That the British seamen bold Could beat the tars of France neat and handy O; Till the Yankees did them catch, For the Yankee tars for fighting are the dandy O. O, the GuerriÈre so bold On the foaming ocean rolled, Commanded by Dacres the grandee O; For the choice of British crew That a rammer ever drew Could beat the Frenchmen two to one quite handy O. When the frigate hove in view, "O," said Dacres to his crew, "Prepare ye for action and be handy O; On the weather-gauge we'll get her." And to make his men fight better, He gave to them gunpowder and good brandy O. Now this boasting Briton cries, "Make that Yankee ship your prize, You can in thirty minutes do it handy O, Or twenty-five, I'm sure You'll do it in a score, I will give you a double share of good brandy O. "When prisoners we've made them, With switchell we will treat them, We will treat them with 'Yankee Doodle Dandy' O;" The British balls flew hot, But the Yankees answered not, Until they got a distance that was handy O. "O," cried Hull unto his crew, "We'll try what we can do; If we beat those boasting Britons we're the dandy O." The first broadside we poured Brought the mizzen by the board, Which doused the royal ensign quite handy O. O Dacres he did sigh, And to his officers did cry, "I did not think these Yankees were so handy O." The second told so well That the fore and main-mast fell, Which made this lofty frigate look quite handy O. "O," says Dacres, "we're undone," So he fires a lee gun. Our drummer struck up "Yankee Doodle Dandy" O; When Dacres came on board To deliver up his sword, He was loth to part with it, it looked so handy O. "You may keep it," says brave Hull. "What makes you look so dull? Cheer up and take a glass of good brandy O;" O Britons now be still, Since we've hooked you in the gill, Don't boast upon Dacres the grandee O. HALIFAX STATION [August 19, 1812] ON THE CAPTURE OF THE GUERRIÈRE [August 19, 1812] Long the tyrant of our coast Reigned the famous GuerriÈre; Our little navy she defied, Public ship and privateer: On her sails in letters red, To our captains were displayed Words of warning, words of dread, "All who meet me, have a care! I am England's GuerriÈre." On the wide, Atlantic deep (Not her equal for the fight) The Constitution, on her way, Chanced to meet these men of might; On her sails was nothing said, But her waist the teeth displayed That a deal of blood could shed, Which, if she would venture near, Would stain the decks of the GuerriÈre. Now our gallant ship they met— And, to struggle with John Bull— Who had come, they little thought, Strangers, yet, to Isaac Hull: Better soon to be acquainted: Isaac hailed the Lord's anointed— While the crew the cannon pointed, And the balls were so directed With a blaze so unexpected; Isaac so did maul and rake her That the decks of Captain Dacre Were in such a woful pickle As if death with scythe and sickle, With his sling, or with his shaft Had cut his harvest fore and aft. Thus, in thirty minutes ended, Mischiefs that could not be mended; Masts, and yards, and ship descended, All to David Jones's locker— Such a ship in such a pucker! Drink a bout to the Constitution! She performed some execution, Did some share of retribution For the insults of the year When she took the GuerriÈre. May success again await her, Let who will again command her, Bainbridge, Rodgers, or Decatur— Nothing like her can withstand her. With a crew like that on board her Who so boldly called "to order" One bold crew of English sailors, Long, too long our seamen's jailors, Dacre and the GuerriÈre! Philip Freneau. FIRSTFRUITS IN 1812 [August 19, 1812] What is that a-billowing there Like a thunderhead in air? Why should such a sight be whitening the seas? That's a Yankee man-o'-war, And three things she's seeking for— For a prize, and for a battle, and a breeze. When the war blew o'er the sea Out went Hull and out went we In the Constitution, looking for the foe; But five British ships came down— And we got to Boston-town By a mighty narrow margin, you must know! Captain Hull can't fight their fleet, But he fairly aches to meet Quite the prettiest British ship of all there were; So he stands again to sea In the hope that on his lee He'll catch Dacres and his pretty GuerriÈre. 'Tis an August afternoon Not a day too late or soon, When we raise a ship whose lettered mainsail reads: All who meet me have a care, I am England's GuerriÈre; So Hull gayly clears for action as he speeds. Cheery bells had chanted five On the happiest day alive When we Yankees dance to quarters at his call; While the British bang away With their broadsides' screech and bray; But the Constitution never fires a ball. We send up three times to ask If we sha'n't begin our task? Captain Hull sends back each time the answer No; Till to half a pistol-shot The two frigates he had brought, Then he whispers, Lay along!—and we let go. Twice our broadside lights and lifts, And the Briton, crippled, drifts With her mizzen dangling hopeless at her poop: Laughs a Yankee, She's a brig! Says our Captain, That's too big; Try another, so we'll have her for a sloop! We hurrah, and fire again, Lay aboard of her like men, And, like men, they beat us off, and try in turn; But we drive bold Dacres back With our muskets' snap and crack— All the while our crashing broadsides boom and burn. 'Tis but half an hour, bare, When that pretty GuerriÈre Not a stick calls hers aloft or hers alow, Save the mizzen's shattered mast, Where her "meteor flag" 's nailed fast Till, a fallen star, we quench its ruddy glow. Dacres, injured, o'er our side Slowly bears his sword of pride, Holds it out, as Hull stands there in his renown: No, no! says th' American, Never, from so brave a man— But I see you're wounded, let me help you down. All that night we work in vain Keeping her upon the main, But we've hulled her far too often, and at last In a blaze of fire there Dies the pretty GuerriÈre; While away we cheerly sail upon the blast. Oh, the breeze that blows so free! Oh, the prize beneath the sea! Oh, the battle!—was there ever better won? Still the happy Yankee cheers Are a-ringing in our ears From old Boston, glorying in what we've done. What is that a-billowing there Like a thunderhead in air? Why should such a sight be whitening the seas? That's Old Ir'nsides, trim and taut, And she's found the things she sought— Found a prize, a bully battle, and a breeze! Wallace Rice.
THE BATTLE OF QUEENSTOWN [October 13, 1812] When brave Van Rensselaer cross'd the stream, Just at the break of day, Distressing thoughts, a restless dream, Disturb'd me where I lay. But all the terrors of the night Did quickly flee away: My opening eyes beheld the light, And hail'd the new-born day. Soon did the murdering cannon's roar Put blood in all my veins; Columbia's sons have trod the shore Where the proud Britain reigns. To expose their breast to cannon's ball, Their country's rights to save, O what a grief to see them fall! True heroes, bold and brave! The musket's flash, the cannon's glow, Thunder'd and lighten'd round, Struck dread on all the tawny foe, And swept them to the ground. I thought what numbers must be slain, What weeping widows left! And aged parents full of pain, Of every joy bereft. The naked savage yelling round Our heroes where they stood, And every weapon to be found Was bathed in human blood. But bold Van Rensselaer, full of wounds, Was quickly carried back; Brave Colonel Bloom did next command The bloody fierce attack. Where Brock, the proud insulter, rides In pomp and splendor great; Our valiant heroes he derides, And dared the power of fate. "Here is a mark for Yankee boys, So shoot me if you can:" A Yankee ball soon closed his eyes, Death found him but a man. They slaughter'd down the tawny foe, And Britons that were near; They dealt out death at every blow, The battle was severe. Five battles fought all in one day, Through four victorious stood, But ah! the fifth swept all away, And spilt our heroes' blood. The tomahawk and scalping-knife On them did try their skill; Some wounded, struggling for their life, Did black barbarians kill. Brave Wadsworth boldly kept the field Till their last bullets flew; Then all were prisoners forced to yield, What could the general do? Militia men! O fie for shame! Thus you your country flee. 'Tis you at last will bear the blame For loss of victory. When mild Van Rensselaer did command, You would not him obey; But stood spectators on the strand, To see the bloody fray. The number kill'd was seventy-four, Prisoners, seven hundred sixty-nine, Wounded, two hundred or more, Who languish'd in great pain. Some have already lost their lives, And others like to go; But few, I fear, will tell their wives The doleful tale of wo. William Banker, Jr.
THE WASP'S FROLIC [October 18, 1812] 'Twas on board the sloop of war Wasp, boys, We set sail from Delaware Bay, To cruise on Columbia's fair coast, sirs, Our rights to maintain on the sea. Three days were not passed on our station, When the Frolic came up to our view; Says Jones, "Show the flag of our nation;" Three cheers were then gave by our crew. We boldly bore up to this Briton, Whose cannon began for to roar; The Wasp soon her stings from her side ran, When we on them a broadside did pour. Each sailor stood firm at his quarters, 'Twas minutes past forth and three, When fifty bold Britons were slaughtered, Whilst our guns swept their masts in the sea. Their breasts then with valor still glowing, Acknowledged the battle we'd won, On us then bright laurels bestowing, When to leeward they fired a gun. On their decks we the twenty guns counted, With a crew for to answer the same; Eighteen was the number we mounted, Being served by the lads of true game. With the Frolic in tow, we were standing, All in for Columbia's fair shore; But fate on our laurels was frowning, We were taken by a seventy-four.
THE UNITED STATES AND THE MACEDONIAN [October 25, 1812] How glows each patriot bosom that boasts a Yankee heart, To emulate such glorious deeds and nobly take a part; When sailors with their thund'ring guns, Prove to the English, French, and Danes That Neptune's chosen fav'rite sons Are brave Yankee boys. The twenty-fifth of October, that glorious happy day, When we beyond all precedent, from Britons bore the sway,— 'Twas in the ship United States, Four and forty guns the rates, That she should rule, decreed the Fates, And brave Yankee boys. Decatur and his hardy tars were cruising on the deep, When off the Western Islands they to and fro did sweep, The Macedonian they espied, "Huzza! bravo!" Decatur cried, "We'll humble Britain's boasted pride, My brave Yankee boys." The decks were cleared, the hammocks stowed, the boatswain pipes all hands, The tompions out, the guns well sponged, the Captain now commands; The boys who for their country fight, Their words, "Free Trade and Sailor's Rights!" Three times they cheered with all their might, Those brave Yankee boys. Now chain-shot, grape, and langrage pierce through her oaken sides, And many a gallant sailor's blood runs purpling in the tides; While death flew nimbly o'er their decks, Some lost their legs, and some their necks, And Glory's wreath our ship be-decks, For brave Yankee boys. My boys, the proud St. George's Cross, the stripes above it wave, And busy are our gen'rous tars, the conquered foe to save, Our Captain cries "Give me your hand," Then of the ship who took command But brave Yankee boys? Our enemy lost her mizzen, her main and fore-topmast, For ev'ry shot with death was winged, which slew her men so fast, That they lost five to one in killed, And ten to one their blood was spilled, So Fate decreed and Heaven had willed, For brave Yankee boys. Then homeward steered the captive ship, now safe in port she lies, The old and young with rapture viewed our sailors' noble prize; Through seas of wine their health we'll drink, And wish them sweet-hearts, friends, and chink, Who 'fore they'd strike, will nobly sink Our brave Yankee boys. THE UNITED STATES AND MACEDONIAN [October 25, 1812] The banner of Freedom high floated unfurled, While the silver-tipt surges in low homage curled, Flashing bright round the bow of Decatur's brave bark, In contest, an "eagle"—in chasing, a "lark." The bold United States, Which four-and-forty rates, Will ne'er be known to yield—be known to yield or fly, Her motto is "Glory! we conquer or we die." All canvas expanded to woo the coy gale, The ship cleared for action, in chase of a sail; The foemen in view, every bosom beats high, All eager for conquest, or ready to die. Now havoc stands ready, with optics of flame, And battle-hounds "strain on the start" for the game; The blood demons rise on the surge for their prey, While Pity, rejected, awaits the dread fray. The gay floating streamers of Britain appear, Waving light on the breeze as the stranger we near; And now could the quick-sighted Yankee discern "Macedonian," emblazoned at large on her stern. She waited our approach, and the contest began, But to waste ammunition is no Yankee plan; In awful suspense every match was withheld, While the bull-dogs of Britain incessantly yelled. Unawed by her thunders, alongside we came, While the foe seemed enwrapped in a mantle of flame; When, prompt to the word, such a flood we return, That Neptune, aghast, thought his trident would burn. Now the lightning of battle gleams horridly red, With a tempest of iron and hail-storm of lead; And our fire on the foe we so copiously poured, His mizzen and topmasts soon went by the board. So fierce and so bright did our flashes aspire, They thought that their cannon had set us on fire, "The Yankee's in flames!"—every British tar hears, And hails the false omen with three hearty cheers. In seventeen minutes they found their mistake, And were glad to surrender and fall in our wake; Her decks were with carnage and blood deluged o'er, Where welt'ring in blood lay an hundred and four. But though she was made so completely a wreck, With blood they had scarcely encrimsoned our deck; Only five valiant Yankees in the contest were slain, And our ship in five minutes was fitted again. Let Britain no longer lay claim to the seas, For the trident of Neptune is ours, if we please, We dare their whole navy to come on our coast. Rise, tars of Columbia!—and share in the fame, Which gilds Hull's, Decatur's, and Jones's bright name; Fill a bumper, and drink, "Here's success to the cause, But Decatur supremely deserves our applause." The bold United States, Which four-and-forty rates, Shall ne'er be known to yield—be known to yield or fly, Her motto is "Glory! we conquer or we die."
JACK CREAMER [October 25, 1812] The boarding nettings are triced for fight; Pike and cutlass are shining bright; The boatswain's whistle pipes loud and shrill; Gunner and topman work with a will; Rough old sailor and reefer trim Jest as they stand by the cannon grim; There's a fighting glint in Decatur's eye, And brave Old Glory floats out on high. But many a heart beats fast below The laughing lips as they near the foe; For the pluckiest knows, though no man quails, That the breath of death is filling the sails. Only one little face is wan; Only one childish mouth is drawn; One little heart is sad and sore To the watchful eye of the Commodore. Little Jack Creamer, ten years old, In no purser's book or watch enrolled, Must mope or skulk while his shipmates fight,— No wonder his little face is white! "Why, Jack, old man, so blue and sad? Afraid of the music?" The face of the lad With mingled shame and anger burns. Quick to the Commodore he turns: "I'm not a coward, but I think if you— Excuse me, Capt'n, I mean if you knew (I s'pose it's because I'm young and small) I'm not on the books! I'm no one at all! And as soon as this fighting work is done, And we get our prize-money, every one Has his share of the plunder—I get none." "And you're sure we shall take her?" "Sure? Why, sir, She's only a blessed Britisher! We'll take her easy enough, I bet; But glory's all that I'm going to get!" "Glory! I doubt if I get more, If I get so much," said the Commodore; "But faith goes far in the race for fame, And down on the books shall go your name." Bravely the little seaman stood To his post while the scuppers ran with blood, While grizzled veterans looked and smiled And gathered new courage from the child; Till the enemy, crippled in pride and might, Struck his crimson flag and gave up the fight. Then little Jack Creamer stood once more Face to face with the Commodore. "You have got your glory," he said, "my lad, And money to make your sweetheart glad. Now, who may she be?" "My mother, sir; I want you to send the half to her." "And the rest?" Jack blushed and hung his head; "I'll buy some schoolin' with that," he said. Decatur laughed; then in graver mood: "The first is the better, but both are good. Your mother shall never know want while I Have a ship to sail, or a flag to fly; And schooling you'll have till all is blue, But little the lubbers can teach to you." Midshipman Creamer's story is told— They did such things in the days of old, When faith and courage won sure reward, And the quarter-deck was not triply barred, To the forecastle hero; for men were men, And the Nation was close to its Maker then. James Jeffrey Roche.
YANKEE THUNDERS [1813] Britannia's gallant streamers Float proudly o'er the tide, And fairly wave Columbia's stripes, In battle side by side. And ne'er did bolder seamen meet, Where ocean's surges pour; O'er the tide now they ride, While the bell'wing thunders roar, While the cannon's fire is flashing fast, And the bell'wing thunders roar. When Yankee meets the Briton, Whose blood congenial flows, By Heav'n created to be friends, By fortune rendered foes; Hard then must be the battle fray, Ere well the fight is o'er; Now they ride, side by side, While the bell'wing thunders roar, While her cannon's fire is flashing fast, And the bell'wing thunders roar. Still, still, for noble England Bold D'Acres' streamers fly; And for Columbia, gallant Hull's As proudly and as high; Now louder rings the battle din, And thick the volumes pour; Still they ride, side by side, While the bell'wing thunders roar, While the cannon's fire is flashing fast, And the bell'wing thunders roar. Why lulls Britannia's thunder, That waked the wat'ry war? Why stays the gallant GuerriÈre, Whose streamers waved so fair? That streamer drinks the ocean wave, That warrior's fight is o'er! Still they ride, side by side, While the bell'wing thunders roar, While the cannon's fire is flashing fast, And the bell'wing thunders roar. Hark! 'tis the Briton's lee gun! Ne'er bolder warrior kneeled! And ne'er to gallant mariners Did braver seamen yield. Proud be the sires, whose hardy boys Then fell to fight no more: With the brave, mid the wave; When the cannon's thunders roar, Their spirits then shall trim the blast, And swell the thunder's roar. Vain were the cheers of Britons, Their hearts did vainly swell, Where virtue, skill, and bravery With gallant Morris fell. That heart so well in battle tried, Along the Moorish shore, And again o'er the main, When Columbia's thunders roar, Shall prove its Yankee spirit true, When Columbia's thunders roar. Hence be our floating bulwark Those oaks our mountains yield; 'Tis mighty Heaven's plain decree— Then take the wat'ry field! To ocean's farthest barrier then Your whit'ning sail shall pour; Safe they'll ride o'er the tide, While Columbia's thunders roar, While her cannon's fire is flashing fast, And her Yankee thunders roar.
THE GENERAL ARMSTRONG [March 11, 1813] Come, all you sons of Liberty, that to the seas belong, It's worth your attention to listen to my song; The history of a privateer I will detail in full, That fought a "six-and-thirty" belonging to John Bull. The General Armstrong she is called, and sailÈd from New York, With all our hearts undaunted, once more to try our luck; She had a brave commander, George Champlin was his name. We stood unto the eastward, all with a favoring gale, In longitude of fifty we spied a lofty sail: Our mainsail being lower'd and foresail to repair, Our squaresail being set, my boys, the wind it provÈd fair. We very soon perceivÈd the lofty sail to be Bearing down upon us while we lay under her lee; All hands we call'd, and sail did make, then splicÈd the main-brace, Night coming on, we sail'd so fast, she soon gave up the chase. Then to Barbadoes we were bound, our course so well did steer; We cruisÈd there for several days, and nothing did appear. 'Twas on the 11th of March, to windward of Surinam, We spied a lofty ship, my boys, at anchor near the land; All hands we call'd to quarters, and down upon her bore, Thinking 'twas some merchant-ship then lying near the shore. She quickly weighÈd anchor and from us did steer, And setting her top-gallant sail as if she did us fear, But soon we were alongside of her, and gave her a gun, DeterminÈd to fight, my boys, and not from her to run. We hoisted up the bloody flag and down upon her bore, If she did not strike, my boys, no quarters we would show her; Each man a brace of pistols, a boarding-pike and sword, We'll give her a broadside, my boys, before we do her board. All hands at their quarters lay, until we came alongside, And gave them three hearty cheers, their British courage tried. The lower ports she had shut in, the Armstrong to decoy, And quickly she her ports did show, to daunt each Yankee boy. The first broadside we gave them true, their colors shot away, Their topsail, haulyards, mizen rigging, main and mizen stay, Two ports we did knock into one, his starboard quarter tore, They overboard their wounded flung, while cannons loud did roar. She wore directly round, my boys, and piped all hands on deck, For fear that we would board and serve a Yankee trick; To board a six-and-thirty it was in vain to try, While the grape, round, and langrage, like hailstones they did fly. Brave Champlin on the quarter-deck so nobly gave command: "Fight on, my brave Americans, dismast her if you can." The round, grape, and star-shot so well did play, A musket-ball from the maintop brave Champlin low did lay. His wound was quickly dress'd, while he in his cabin lay; The doctor, while attending, these words he heard him say: "Our Yankee flag shall flourish," our noble captain cried, "Before that we do strike, my boys, we'll sink alongside." She was a six-and-thirty, and mounted forty-two, We fought her four glasses, what more then could we do; Till six brave seamen we had kill'd, which grievÈd us full sore, And thirteen more wounded lay bleeding in their gore. Our foremast being wounded, and bowsprit likewise; Our lower rigging fore and aft, and headstay beside; We found we could not fight her, boys, so from her we did go. Our foremast proving dangerous, we could not carry sail, Although we had it fish'd and welded with a chain; It grieved us to the heart to put up with such abuse, For this damn'd English frigate had surely spoil'd our cruise. Here's success attend brave Champlin, his officers and men, That fought with courage keen, my boys, our lives to defend; We fought with much superior force, what could we do more? Then haul'd our wind and stood again for Freedom's happy shore.
CAPTURE OF LITTLE YORK [April 27, 1813] When Britain, with envy and malice inflamed, Dared dispute the dear rights of Columbia's bless'd union, We thought of the time when our freedom we claim'd, And fought 'gainst oppression with fullest communion. Our foes on the ocean have been forced to yield, And fresh laurels we now gather up in the field. Freedom's flag on the wilds of the west is unfurl'd, And our foes seem to find their resistance delusion; For our eagle her arrows amongst them has hurl'd And their ranks of bold veterans fill'd with confusion. Our foes on the ocean, etc. On the lakes of the west, full of national pride, See our brave little fleet most triumphantly riding! And behold the brave tars on the fresh-water tide, In a noble commander, brave Chauncey, confiding. Our foes on the ocean, etc. Their deeds of proud valor shall long stand enroll'd On the bright shining page of our national glory: And oft, in the deep winter's night, shall be told The exploits of the tars of American story. Our foes on the ocean, etc. Nor less shall the soldiers come in for their praise, Who engaged to accomplish the great expedition; And a monument Fame shall for them cheerily raise, And their deeds shall in history find repetition. Our foes on the ocean, etc. Let Britons still boast of their prowess and pluck; We care not a straw for their muskets and cannon. In the field we will beat them, unless they've the luck To run from their foes like Tenedos and Shannon. Our foes on the ocean, etc. Our sweet little bull-dogs, they thunder'd away, And our sailors and soldiers the foe still kept mauling, Till they grew very sick of such tight Yankee play, And poor Sheaffe and his troops then ran away bawling. Our foes on the ocean, etc. But the rascals on malice quite fully were bent: And as from the fort they were cowardly going, In pursuance to what was at first their intent, The magazine they had resolved on up-blowing. Our foes on the ocean, etc. Two hundred brave soldiers there met with their death; And while for their country they nobly were dying, Full fifty bold Britons at once lost their breath, And with them in the air were their carcasses flying. Our foes on the ocean, etc. The brave General Pike there met with his end; But his virtues his country forever will cherish: And while o'er his grave fair Freedom shall bend, She will swear that his memory never shall perish. Our foes on the ocean, etc. Let the minions of Britain swarm over our coast; Columbians, all cowardly conduct disdaining, We'll teach the invaders how vain is their boast, And contend, whilst a drop of their blood is remaining. Our foes on the ocean, etc. Then, freemen, arise, and gird on your swords, And declare, while you still have the means of resistance, That you ne'er will give up for the threatening of words, Nor of arms, those dear rights which you prize as existence. Our foes on the ocean, etc.
THE DEATH OF GENERAL PIKE [April 27, 1813] General William Henry Harrison, meanwhile, at the head of the western army, was besieged in Fort Meigs, at the mouth of the Maumee, by a large force of Indians and British. On May 1 the British made a determined assault, but were beaten off; a few days later, after a desperate battle with a relief column, the British raised the siege and retreated to Canada. OLD FORT MEIGS [April 28—May 9, 1813] Oh! lonely is our old green fort, Where oft, in days of old, Our gallant soldiers bravely fought 'Gainst savage allies bold; But with the change of years have pass'd That unrelenting foe, Since we fought here with Harrison, A long time ago. It seems but yesterday I heard, From yonder thicket nigh, The unerring rifle's sharp report, The Indian's startling cry. Yon brooklet flowing at our feet, With crimson gore did flow, When we fought here with Harrison, A long time ago. The river rolls between its banks, As when of old we came, Each grassy path, each shady nook, Seems to me still the same; But we are scatter'd now, whose faith Pledged here, through weal or woe, With Harrison our soil to guard, A long time ago. But many a soldier's lip is mute, And clouded many a brow, And hearts that beat for honor then, Have ceased their throbbing now. We ne'er shall meet again in life As then we met, I trow, When we fought here with Harrison, A long time ago.
THE SHANNON AND THE CHESAPEAKE [June 1, 1813] The captain of the Shannon came sailing up the bay, A reeling wind flung out behind his pennons bright and gay; His cannon crashed a challenge; the smoke that hid the sea Was driven hard to windward and drifted back to lee. The captain of the Shannon sent word into the town: Was Lawrence there, and would he dare to sail his frigate down And meet him at the harbor's mouth and fight him, gun to gun, For honor's sake, with pride at stake, until the fight was won? Now, long the gallant Lawrence had scoured the bitter main; With many a scar and wound of war his ship was home again; His crew, relieved from service, were scattered far and wide, And scarcely one, his duty done, had lingered by his side. But to refuse the challenge? Could he outlive the shame? Brave men and true, but deadly few, he gathered to his fame. Once more the great ship Chesapeake prepared her for the fight,— "I'll bring the foe to town in tow," he said, "before to-night!" High on the hills of Hingham that overlooked the shore, To watch the fray and hope and pray, for they could do no more, The children of the country watched the children of the sea When the smoke drove hard to windward and drifted back to lee. "How can he fight," they whispered, "with only half a crew, Though they be rare to do and dare, yet what can brave men do?" But when the Chesapeake came down, the Stars and Stripes on high, Stilled was each fear, and cheer on cheer resounded to the sky. The Captain of the Shannon, he swore both long and loud: "This victory, where'er it be, shall make two nations proud! Now onward to this victory or downward to defeat! A sailor's life is sweet with strife, a sailor's death as sweet." And as when lightnings rend the sky and gloomy thunders roar, And crashing surge plays devil's dirge upon the stricken shore, With thunder and with sheets of flame the two ships rang with shot, And every gun burst forth a sun of iron crimson-hot. And twice they lashed together and twice they tore apart, And iron balls burst wooden walls and pierced each oaken heart. Still from the hills of Hingham men watched with hopes and fears, While all the bay was torn that day with shot that rained like tears. The tall masts of the Chesapeake went groaning by the board; The Shannon's spars were weak with scars when Broke cast down his sword; "Now woe," he cried, "to England, and shame and woe to me!" The smoke drove hard to windward and drifted back to lee. "Give them one breaking broadside more," he cried, "before we strike!" But one grim ball that ruined all for hope and home alike Laid Lawrence low in glory, yet from his pallid lip Rang to the land his last command: "Boys, don't give up the ship!" * * * * * The wounded wept like women when they hauled her ensign down. Men's cheeks were pale as with the tale from Hingham to the town They hurried in swift silence, while toward the eastern night The victor bore away from shore and vanished out of sight. Hail to the great ship Chesapeake! Hail to the hero brave Who fought her fast, and loved her last, and shared her sudden grave! And glory be to those that died for all eternity; They lie apart at the mother-heart of God's eternal sea. Thomas Tracy BouvÉ.
CHESAPEAKE AND SHANNON [June 1, 1813] The Chesapeake so bold Out of Boston, I've been told, Came to take a British Frigate Neat and handy O! While the people of the port Flocked out to see the sport, With their music playing Yankee Doodle Dandy O! Now the British Frigate's name Which for the purpose came Of cooling Yankee courage Neat and handy O! Was the Shannon, Captain Broke, Whose crew were heart of oak, And for the fighting were confessed To be the dandy O! The engagement scarce begun Ere they flinched from their guns, Which at first they thought of working Neat and handy O! The bold Broke he waved his sword, Crying, "Now, my lads, on board, And we'll stop their playing Yankee Doodle Dandy O!" They no sooner heard the word Than they quickly rushed aboard And hauled down the Yankee ensign Neat and handy O! Notwithstanding all their brag, Now the glorious British flag At the Yankee's mizzen-peak Was quite the dandy O! Successful Broke to you, And your officers and crew, Who on board the Shannon frigate Fought so handy O! And may it ever prove That in fighting as in love The true British tar is the dandy O!
DEFEAT AND VICTORY [June 1, 1813] Through the clangor of the cannon, Through the combat's wreck and reek, Answer to th' o'ermastering Shannon Thunders from the Chesapeake: Gallant Lawrence, wounded, dying, Speaks with still unconquered lip Ere the bitter draught he drinks: Keep the Flag flying! Fight her till she strikes or sinks! Don't give up the ship! Still that voice is sounding o'er us, So bold Perry heard it call; Farragut has joined its chorus; Porter, Dewey, Wainwright—all Heard the voice of duty crying; Deathless word from dauntless lip That our past and future links: Keep the Flag flying! Fight her till she strikes or sinks! Don't give up the ship! Wallace Rice.
ENTERPRISE AND BOXER [September 5, 1813] Again Columbia's stripes, unfurl'd, Have testified before the world, How brave are those who wear 'em; The foe has now been taught again His streamers cannot shade the main While Yankees live to share 'em. Huzza! once more for Yankee skill! The brave are very generous still But teach the foes submission: Now twice three times his flag we've gain'd, And more, much more can be obtain'd Upon the same condition. The gallant Enterprise her name, A vessel erst of little fame, Had sail'd and caught the foe, sirs; 'Twas hers the glory and the gain, To meet the Boxer on the main, And bring her home in tow, sirs. Huzza! once more for Yankee skill, etc. Fierce lightnings gleam and thunders roar, While round and grape in torrents pour, And echo through the skies, sirs; When minutes forty-five had flown, Behold the Briton's colors down!— She's yielded up a prize, sirs. Huzza! once more for Yankee skill, etc. The victory gain'd, we count the cost, We mourn, indeed, a hero lost! Who nobly fell, we know, sirs; But Burrows, we with Lawrence find, Has left a living name behind, Much honor'd by the foe, sirs. Huzza! once more for Yankee skill, etc. And while we notice deeds of fame, In which the gallant honors claim; As heroes of our story, The name of Blyth a meed demands, Whose tomb is deck'd by freemen's hands, Who well deserve the glory. Huzza! once more for Yankee skill, etc. Then, while we fill the sparkling glass, And cause it cheerly round to pass, In social hours assembled; Be Hull, Decatur, Bainbridge, Jones, Lawrence and Burrows—Victory's sons, With gratitude remember'd. Huzza! once more for Yankee skill, etc.
PERRY'S VICTORY [September 10, 1813] We sailed to and fro in Erie's broad lake, To find British bullies or get into their wake, When we hoisted our canvas with true Yankee speed, And the brave Captain Perry our squadron did lead. We sailed through the lake, boys, in search of the foe, In the cause of Columbia our brav'ry to show, To be equal in combat was all our delight, As we wished the proud Britons to know we could fight. And whether like Yeo, boys, they'd taken affright, We could see not, nor find them by day or by night; So cruising we went in a glorious cause, In defence of our rights, our freedom, and laws. At length to our liking, six sails hove in view, Huzzah! says brave Perry, huzzah! says his crew, And then for the chase, boys, with our brave little crew, We fell in with the bullies and gave them "burgoo." Though the force was unequal, determined to fight, We brought them to action before it was night; We let loose our thunder, our bullets did fly, "Now give them your shot, boys," our commander did cry. We gave them a broadside, our cannon to try, "Well done," says brave Perry, "for quarter they'll cry, Shot well home, my brave boys, they shortly shall see, That quite brave as they are, still braver are we." Then we drew up our squadron, each man full of fight, And put the proud Britons in a terrible plight, The brave Perry's movements will prove fully as bold, As the fam'd Admiral Nelson's prowess of old. The conflict was sharp, boys, each man to his gun, For our country, her glory, the vict'ry was won, So six sail (the whole fleet) was our fortune to take, Here's a health to brave Perry, who governs the Lake. THE BATTLE OF ERIE [September 10, 1813] Avast, honest Jack! now, before you get mellow, Come tip us that stave just, my hearty old fellow, 'Bout the young commodore, and his fresh-water crew, Who keelhaul'd the Britons, and captured a few. "'Twas just at sunrise, and a glorious day, Our squadron at anchor snug in Put-in-Bay, When we saw the bold Britons, and cleared for a bout, Instead of put in, by the Lord we put out. "Up went union-jack, never up there before, 'Don't give up the ship' was the motto it bore; And as soon as that motto our gallant lads saw, They thought of their Lawrence, and shouted huzza! "Oh! then it would have raised your hat three inches higher, To see how we dash'd in among them like fire! The Lawrence went first, and the rest as they could, And a long time the brunt of the action she stood. "'Twas peppering work,—fire, fury, and smoke, And groans that from wounded lads, spite of 'em, broke. The water grew red round our ship as she lay, Though 'twas never before so till that bloody day. "They fell all around me like spars in a gale; The shot made a sieve of each rag of a sail; And out of our crew scarce a dozen remain'd; But these gallant tars still the battle maintain'd. "'Twas then our commander—God bless his young heart— Thought it best from his well-peppered ship to depart, And bring up the rest who were tugging behind— For why—they were sadly in want of a wind. "So to Yarnall he gave the command of his ship, And set out, like a lark, on this desperate trip, In a small open yawl, right through their whole fleet, Who with many a broadside our cockboat did greet. "I steer'd her and damme if every inch Of these timbers of mine at each crack didn't flinch: But our tight little commodore, cool and serene, To stir ne'er a muscle by any was seen. "Whole volleys of muskets were levell'd at him, But the devil a one ever grazed e'en a limb, Though he stood up aloft in the stern of the boat, Till the crew pull'd him down by the skirt of his coat. "At last, through Heaven's mercy, we reached t'other ship, And the wind springing up, we gave her the whip, And run down their line, boys, through thick and through thin, And bother'd their crews with a horrible din. "Then starboard and larboard, and this way and that, We bang'd them and raked them, and laid their masts flat, Till, one after t'other, they haul'd down their flag, And an end, for that time, put to Johnny Bull's brag. "The Detroit, and Queen Charlotte, and Lady Prevost, Not able to fight or run, gave up the ghost: And not one of them all from our grapplings got free, Though we'd fifty-four guns, and they just sixty-three. "Smite my limbs! but they all got their bellies full then, And found what it was, boys, to buckle with men, Who fight, or, what's just the same, think that they fight For their country's free trade and their own native right. "Now give us a bumper to Elliott and those Who came up, in good time, to belabor our foes: To our fresh-water sailors we'll toss off one more, And a dozen, at least, to our young commodore. "And though Britons may brag of their ruling the ocean, And that sort of thing, by the Lord, I've a notion, I'll bet all I'm worth—who takes it—who takes? Though they're lords of the sea, we'll be lords of the lakes."
PERRY'S VICTORY—A SONG [September 10, 1813] Columbia, appear!—To thy mountains ascend, And pour thy bold hymn to the winds and the woods; Columbia, appear!—O'er thy tempest-harp bend, And far to the nations its trumpet-song send,— Let thy cliff-echoes wake, with their sun-nourish'd broods, And chant to the desert—the skies—and the floods, And bid them remember, The Tenth of September, When our Eagle came down from her home in the sky— And the souls of our heroes were marshall'd on high. Columbia, ascend!—Let thy warriors behold Their flag like a firmament bend o'er thy head. The wide rainbow-flag with its star-clustered fold! Let the knell of dark Battle beneath it be tolled, While the anthem of Peace shall be pealed for the dead, And the rude waters heave, on whose bosom they bled: Oh, they will remember, The Tenth of September, When their souls were let loose in a tempest of flame, And wide Erie shook at the trumpet of Fame. Columbia, appear!—Let thy cloud minstrels wake, As they march on the storm, all the grandeur of song, Till the far mountain reel—and the billowless lake Shall be mantled in froth, and its Monarch shall quake On his green oozy throne, as their harping comes strong, With the chime of the winds as they're bursting along. For he will remember, The Tenth of September, When he saw his dominions all covered with foam, And heard the loud war in its echoless home. Columbia, appear!—Be thine olive displayed, O cheer with thy smile, all the land and the tide! Be the anthem we hear not the song that was made, When the victims of slaughter stood forth, all arrayed In blood-dripping garments—and shouted—and died. Let the hymning of peace o'er the blue heavens ride; O let us remember, The Tenth of September, When the dark waves of Erie were brightened to-day, And the flames of the Battle were quenched in the spray.
THE FALL OF TECUMSEH [October 5, 1813] What heavy-hoofed coursers the wilderness roam, To the war-blast indignantly tramping? Their mouths are all white, as if frosted with foam, The steel bit impatiently champing. 'Tis the hand of the mighty that grasps the rein, Conducting the free and the fearless. Ah! see them rush forward, with wild disdain, Through paths unfrequented and cheerless. From the mountains had echoed the charge of death, Announcing that chivalrous sally; The savage was heard, with untrembling breath, To pour his response from the valley. One moment, and nought but the bugle was heard, And nought but the war-whoop given; The next, and the sky seemed convulsively stirred, As if by the lightning riven. The din of the steed, and the sabred stroke, The blood-stifled gasp of the dying, Were screened by the curling sulphur-smoke, That upward went wildly flying. In the mist that hung over the field of blood, The chief of the horsemen contended; His rowels were bathed in purple flood, That fast from his charger descended. That steed reeled, and fell, in the van of the fight, But the rider repressed not his daring, Till met by a savage, whose rank and might Were shown by the plume he was wearing. The moment was fearful; a mightier foe Had ne'er swung the battle-axe o'er him; But hope nerved his arm for a desperate blow, And Tecumseh fell prostrate before him. O ne'er may the nations again be cursed With conflict so dark and appalling!— Foe grappled with foe, till the life-blood burst From their agonized bosoms in falling. Gloom, silence, and solitude rest on the spot Where the hopes of the red man perished; But the fame of the hero who fell shall not, By the virtuous, cease to be cherished. He fought, in defence of his kindred and king, With a spirit most loving and loyal. And long shall the Indian warrior sing The deeds of Tecumseh the royal. The lightning of intellect flashed from his eye, In his arm slept the force of the thunder, But the bolt passed the suppliant harmlessly by, And left the freed captive to wonder. Above, near the path of the pilgrim, he sleeps, With a rudely built tumulus o'er him; And the bright-bosomed Thames, in his majesty, sweeps, By the mound where his followers bore him.
THE LEGEND OF WALBACH TOWER Scene.—Fort Constitution on the Island of Newcastle, off Portsmouth, More ill at ease was never man than Walbach, that Lord's day, When, spent with speed, a trawler cried, "A war-ship heads this way!" His pipe, half filled, to shatters flew; he climbed the ridge of knolls; And, turning spy-glass toward the east, swept the long reach of Shoals. An hour he watched: behind his back the Portsmouth spires waxed red; Its harbor like a field of war, a brazen shield o'erhead. Another hour: the sundown gun the Sabbath stillness brake; When loud a second voice hallooed, "Two war-ships hither make!" Again the colonel scanned the east, where soon white gleams arose: Behind Star Isle they first appeared, then flashed o'er Smuttynose. Fleet-wing'd they left Duck Isle astern; when, rounding full in view, Lo! in the face of Appledore three Britishers hove to. "To arms, O townsfolk!" Walbach cried, "Behold these black hawk three! Whether they pluck old Portsmouth town rests now with you and me. "The guns of Kittery, and mine, may keep the channel clear, If but one pintle-stone be raised to ward me in the rear. "But scarce a score my muster-roll; the earthworks lie unmanned (Whereof some mouthing spy, no doubt, has made them understand); "And if, ere dawn, their long-boat keels once kiss the nether sands, My every port-hole's mouth is stopped, and we be in their hands!" Then straightway from his place upspake the parson of the town: "Let us beseech Heaven's blessing first!"—and all the folk knelt down. "O God, our hands are few and faint; our hope rests all with thee: Lend us thy hand in this sore strait,—and thine the glory be!" "Amen! Amen!" the chorus rose; "Amen!" the pines replied; And through the churchyard's rustling grass an "Amen" softly sighed. Astir the village was awhile, with hoof and iron clang; Then all grew still, save where, aloft, a hundred trowels rang. None supped, they say, that Lord's-day eve; none slept, they say, that night; But all night long, with tireless arms, each toiled as best he might. Four flax-haired boys of Amazeen the flickering torches stay, Peopling with titan shadow-groups the canopy of gray; Grandsires, with frost above their brows, the steaming mortar mix; Dame Tarlton's apron, crisp at dawn, helps hod the yellow bricks; While pilot, cooper, mackerelman, parson and squire as well, Make haste to plant the pintle-gun, and raise its citadel. And one who wrought still tells the tale, that as his task he plied, An unseen fellow-form he felt that labored at his side; And still to wondering ears relates, that as each brick was squared, Lo! unseen trowels clinked response, and a new course prepared. O night of nights! The blinking dawn beheld the marvel done, And from the new martello boomed the echoing morning gun. One stormy cloud its lip upblew; and as its thunder rolled, Old England saw, above the smoke, New England's flag unfold. Then, slowly tacking to and fro, more near the cruisers made, To see what force unheralded had flown to Walbach's aid. "God be our stay," the parson cried, "who hearkened Israel's wail!" And as he spake,—all in a line, seaward the ships set sail. George Houghton.
THE BATTLE OF VALPARAISO Proeliis audax, neque te silebo.—Hor. [March 28, 1814] From the laurel's fairest bough, Let the muse her garland twine, To adorn our Porter's brow, Who, beyond the burning line, Led his caravan of tars o'er the tide. To the pilgrims fill the bowl, Who, around the southern pole, Saw new constellations roll, For their guide. "Heave the topmast from the board, And our ship for action clear, We will die or conquer here. The foe, of twice our force, nears us fast: To your posts, my faithful tars! Mind your rigging, guns, and spars, And defend your stripes and stars To the last." At the captain's bold command, Flew each sailor to his gun, And resolved he there would stand, Though the odds was two to one, To defend his flag and ship with his life: High on every mast display'd, "God, Our Country, and Free Trade," E'en the bravest braver made For the strife. Fierce the storm of battle pours: But unmoved as ocean's rock, When the tempest round it roars, Every seaman breasts the shock, Boldly stepping where his brave messmates fall. O'er his head, full oft and loud, Like the vulture in a cloud, As it cuts the twanging shroud, Screams the ball. Before the siroc blast From its iron caverns driven, Drops the sear'd and shiver'd mast, By the bolt of battle riven, And higher heaps the ruin of the deck— As the sailor, bleeding, dies, To his comrades lifts his eyes, "Let our flag still wave," he cries, O'er the wreck. In echo to the sponge, Hark! along the silent lee, Oft is heard the solemn plunge, In the bosom of the sea. 'Tis not the sullen plunge of the dead, But the self-devoted tar, Who, to grace the victor's car, Scorns from home and friends afar To be led. Long live the gallant crew Who survived that day of blood: And may fortune soon renew Equal battle on the flood. Long live the glorious names of the brave O'er these martyrs of the deep, Oft the roving tar shall weep, Crying, "Sweetly may they sleep 'Neath the wave."
THE BATTLE OF BRIDGEWATER [July 25, 1814] Colonel Winfield Scott commanded a battalion at this battle, and by a series of desperate charges drove the British from the field. But so shaken was the American army that it was compelled to retreat to camp, after spending the night upon the conquered ground. THE HERO OF BRIDGEWATER [July 25, 1814] Seize, O seize the sounding lyre, With its quivering string! Strike the chords, in ecstasy, Whilst loud the valleys ring! Sing the chief, who, gloriously, From England's veteran band, Pluck'd the wreaths of victory, To grace his native land! Where Bridgewater's war-famed stream Saw the foemen reel, Thrice repulsed, with burnish'd gleam Of bayonet, knife, and steel; And its crimson'd waters run Red with gurgling flow, As Albion's gathering hosts his arm, His mighty arm, laid low. Strike the sounding string of fame, O lyre! Beat loud, ye drums! Ye clarion blasts, exalt his name! Behold the hero comes! I see Columbia, joyously, Her palmy circlet throw Around his high victorious brow Who laid her foemen low! Take him, Fame! for thine he is! On silvery columns, rear The name of Scott, whence envious Time Shall ne'er its honors tear! And thou, O Albion, quake with dread! Ye veterans shrink, the while, Whene'er his glorious name shall sound To shake your sea-girt isle! Charles L. S. Jones.
THE BATTLE OF STONINGTON ON THE SEABOARD OF CONNECTICUT [August 9-12, 1814] Four gallant ships from England came Freighted deep with fire and flame, And other things we need not name, To have a dash at Stonington. Now safely moor'd, their work begun; They thought to make the Yankees run, And have a mighty deal of fun In stealing sheep at Stonington. A deacon then popp'd up his head, And parson Jones's sermon read, In which the reverend doctor said That they must fight for Stonington. A townsman bade them, next, attend To sundry resolutions penn'd, By which they promised to defend With sword and gun old Stonington. The ships advancing different ways, The Britons soon began to blaze, And put th' old women in amaze, Who fear'd the loss of Stonington. The Yankees to their fort repair'd, And made as though they little cared For all that came—though very hard The cannon play'd on Stonington. The Ramillies began the attack, Despatch came forward—bold and black— And none can tell what kept them back From setting fire to Stonington. The bombardiers with bomb and ball, Soon made a farmer's barrack fall, And did a cow-house sadly maul That stood a mile from Stonington. They kill'd a goose, they kill'd a hen, Three hogs they wounded in a pen— They dash'd away, and pray what then? This was not taking Stonington. The shells were thrown, the rockets flew, But not a shell, of all they threw, Though every house was full in view, Could burn a house at Stonington. To have their turn they thought but fair;— The Yankees brought two guns to bear, And, sir, it would have made you stare, This smoke of smokes at Stonington. They bored Pactolus through and through, And kill'd and wounded of her crew So many, that she bade adieu T' the gallant boys of Stonington. The brig Despatch was hull'd and torn— So crippled, riddled, so forlorn, No more she cast an eye of scorn On the little fort at Stonington. The Ramillies gave up th' affray, And, with her comrades, sneak'd away, Such was the valor, on that day, Of British tars near Stonington. But some assert, on certain grounds (Besides the damage and the wounds), It cost the king ten thousand pounds To have a dash at Stonington. Philip Freneau.
THE OCEAN-FIGHT [September 1, 1814] The sun had sunk beneath the west, When two proud barks to battle press'd, With swelling sail and streamers dress'd, So gallantly. Proud Britain's pennon flouts the skies: Columbia's flag more proudly flies, Her emblem stars of victories Beam gloriously. Sol's lingering rays, through vapors shed, Have streak'd the sky of bloody red, And now the ensanguined lustre spread Heaven's canopy. Dread prelude to that awful night When Britain's and Columbia's might Join'd in the fierce and bloody fight, Hard rivalry. Now, lowering o'er the stormy deep, Dank, sable clouds more threatening sweep: Yet still the barks their courses keep Unerringly. The northern gales more fiercely blow, The white foam dashing o'er the prow; The starry crescent round each bow Beams vividly. Near and more near the war-ships ride, Till, ranged for battle, side by side, Each warrior's heart beats high with pride Of chivalry. 'Twas awful, ere the fight begun, To see brave warriors round each gun, While thoughts on home and carnage run, Stand silently. As death-like stillness reigns around, Nature seems wrapp'd in peace profound, Ere fires, volcanic, mountain bound, Burst furiously. So, bursting from Columbia's prow, Her thunder on the red-cross foe, The lurid cloud's sulphuric glow Glares awfully. ReËchoing peals more fiercely roar, Britannia's shatter'd sides run gore, The foaming waves that raged before, Sink, tremulous. Columbia's last sulphuric blaze, That lights her stripes and starry rays, The vanquish'd red-cross flag betrays, Struck fearfully. And, hark! their piercing shrieks of wo! Haste, haste and save the sinking foe: Haste, e'er their wreck to bottom go, Brave conquerors. Now, honor to the warriors brave, Whose field of fame, the mountain wave, Their corses bear to ocean's cave, Their sepulchre. Their country's pÆans swell their praise; And whilst the warm tear, gushing, strays, Full many a bard shall chant his lays, Their requiem.
THE LOST WAR-SLOOP (THE WASP, 1814) O the pride of Portsmouth water, Toast of every brimming beaker,— Eighteen hundred and fourteen on land and sea,— Was the Wasp, the gallant war-sloop, Built of oaks Kearsarge had guarded, Pines of Maine to lift her colors high and free! Every timber scorning cowards; Every port alert for foemen From the masthead seen on weather-side or lee;— With eleven guns to starboard, And eleven guns to larboard, All for glory on a morn of May sailed she. British ships were in the offing; Swift and light she sped between them,— Well her daring crew knew shoal and wind and tide; They had come from Portsmouth river, Sea-girt Marblehead and Salem, Bays and islands where the fisher-folk abide; Come for love of home and country, Come with wrongs that cried for vengeance,— Every man among them brave and true and tried. "Hearts of oak" are British seamen? Hearts of fire were these, their kindred, Flaming till the haughty foe should be descried! From the mountains, from the prairies, Blew the west winds glad to waft her;— Ah, what goodly ships before her guns went down! Ships with wealth of London laden, Ships with treasures of the Indies, Till her name brought fear to British wharf and town; Till the war-sloops Reindeer, Avon, To her valor struck their colors, Making coast and ocean ring with her renown; While her captain cried, exultant, "Britain, to the bold Republic, Of the empire of the seas shall yield the crown!" Oh, the woful, woful ending Of the pride of Portsmouth water! Never more to harbor nor to shore came she! Springs returned but brought no tidings; Mothers, maidens, broken-hearted, Wept the gallant lads that sailed away in glee. Did the bolts of heaven blast her? Did the hurricanes o'erwhelm her With her starry banner and her tall masts three? Was a pirate-fleet her captor? Did she drift to polar oceans? Who shall tell the awful secret of the sea! Who shall tell? yet many a sailor In his watch at dawn or midnight, When the wind is wildest and the black waves moan, Sees a stanch three-master looming; Hears the hurried call to quarters, The drum's quick beat and the bugle fiercely blown;— Then the cannon's direful thunder Echoes far along the billows; Then the victor's shout for the foe overthrown;— And the watcher knows the phantom Is the Wasp, the gallant war-sloop, Still a rover of the seas and glory's own! Edna Dean Proctor.
ON THE BRITISH INVASION [1814] From France, desponding and betray'd, From liberty in ruins laid, Exulting Britain has display'd Her flag, again to invade us. Her myrmidons, with murdering eye, Across the broad Atlantic fly, Prepared again their strength to try, And strike our country's standard. Lord Wellington's ten thousand slaves, And thrice ten thousand, on the waves, And thousands more of brags and braves Are under sail, and coming, To burn our towns, to seize our soil, To change our laws, our country spoil, And Madison to Elba's isle To send without redemption. In Boston state they hope to find A Yankee host of kindred mind, To aid their arms, to rise and bind Their countrymen in shackles. But no such thing—it will not do— At least, not while a Jersey Blue Is to the cause of freedom true, Or the bold Pennsylvanian. A curse on England's frantic schemes! Both mad and blind, her monarch dreams Of crowns and kingdoms in these climes, Where kings have had their sentence. Though Washington has left our coast, Yet other Washingtons we boast, Who rise, instructed by his ghost, To punish all invaders. Go where they will, where'er they land, This pilfering, plundering, pirate band, They liberty will find at hand To hurl them to perdition! If in Virginia they appear, Their fate is fix'd, their doom is near, Death in their front, and hell their rear; So says the gallant buckskin. All Carolina is prepared, And Charleston doubly on her guard; Where, once, Sir Peter badly fared, So blasted by Fort Moultrie. If farther south they turn their views, With veteran troops, or veteran crews, The curse of Heaven their march pursues, To send them all a-packing. The tallest mast that sails the wave, The longest keel its waters lave, Will bring them to an early grave On the shores of Pensacola. Philip Freneau.
THE BATTLE OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN [September 11, 1814] Parading near Saint Peter's flood Full fourteen thousand soldiers stood; Allied with natives of the wood, With frigates, sloops, and galleys near; Which southward, now, began to steer; Their object was, Ticonderogue. Assembled at Missisqui bay A feast they held, to hail the day, When all should bend to British sway From Plattsburgh to Ticonderogue. And who could tell, if reaching there They might not other laurels share And England's flag in triumph bear To the capitol, at Albany! Sir George advanced, with fire and sword, The frigates were with vengeance stored, The strength of Mars was felt on board,— When Downie gave the dreadful word, Huzza! for death or victory! Sir George beheld the prize at stake, And, with his veterans, made the attack, Macomb's brave legions drove him back; And England's fleet approached, to meet A desperate combat, on the lake. From Isle La Motte to Saranac With sulphurous clouds the heavens were black; We saw advance the Confiance, Shall blood and carnage mark her track, To gain dominion on the lake. Then on our ships she poured her flame, And many a tar did kill or maim, Who suffered for their country's fame, Her soil to save, her rights to guard. Macdonough, now, began his play, And soon his seamen heard him say, "No Saratoga yields, this day, To all the force that Britain sends. "Disperse, my lads, and man the waist, Be firm, and to your stations haste, And England from Champlain is chased, If you behave as you see me." The fire began with awful roar; At our first flash the artillery tore, From his proud stand, their commodore, A presage of the victory. The skies were hid in flame and smoke, Such thunders from the cannon spoke, The contest such an aspect took As if all nature went to wreck! Amidst his decks, with slaughter strewed, Unmoved, the brave Macdonough stood, Or waded through a scene of blood, At every step that round him streamed: He stood amidst Columbia's sons, He stood amidst dismounted guns, He fought amidst heart-rending groans, The tattered sail, the tottering mast. Then, round about, his ship he wore, And charged his guns with vengeance sore, And more than Etna shook the shore— The foe confessed the contest vain. In vain they fought, in vain they sailed, That day; for Britain's fortune failed, And their best efforts naught availed To hold dominion on Champlain. So, down their colors to the deck The vanquished struck—their ships a wreck— What dismal tidings for Quebec, What news for England and her prince! For, in this fleet, from England won, A favorite project is undone; Her sorrows only are begun— And she may want, and very soon, Her armies for her own defence. Philip Freneau. THE BATTLE OF PLATTSBURG BAY [September 11, 1814] Plattsburg Bay! Plattsburg Bay! Blue and gold in the dawning ray, Crimson under the high noonday With the reek of the fray! It was Thomas Macdonough, as gallant a sailor As ever went scurrying over the main; And he cried from his deck, If they think I'm a quailer, And deem they can capture this Lake of Champlain, We'll show them they're not fighting France, sir, nor Spain! So from Cumberland Head to the little Crab Island He scattered his squadron in trim battle-line; And when he saw Downie come rounding the highland, He knelt him, beseeching for guidance divine, Imploring that Heaven would crown his design. Then thundered the Eagle her lusty defiance; The stout Saratoga aroused with a roar; Soon gunboat and galley in hearty alliance Their resonant volley of compliments pour; And ever Macdonough's the man to the fore! And lo, when the fight toward its fiercest was swirling, A game-cock, released by a splintering ball, Flew high in the ratlines, the smoke round him curling, And over the din gave his trumpeting call, An omen of ultimate triumph to all! Then a valianter light touched the powder-grimed faces; Then faster the shot seemed to plunge from the gun; And we shattered their yards and we sundered their braces, And the fume of our cannon—it shrouded the sun; Cried Macdonough—Once more, and the battle is won! Now, the flag of the haughty Confiance is trailing; The Linnet in woe staggers in toward the shore; The Finch is a wreck from her keel to her railing; The galleys flee fast to the strain of the oar; Macdonough! 'tis he is the man to the fore! Oh, our main decks were grim and our gun decks were gory, And many a brave brow was pallid with pain; And while some won to death, yet we all won to glory Who fought with Macdonough that day on Champlain, And humbled her pride who is queen of the main! Clinton Scollard.
THE BATTLE OF PLATTSBURG [September 11, 1814] Sir George Prevost, with all his host, March'd forth from Montreal, sir, Both he and they as blithe and gay As going to a ball, sir. The troops he chose were all of those That conquer'd Marshall Soult, sir; Who at Garonne (the fact is known) Scarce brought they to a halt, sir. With troops like these, he thought with ease To crush the Yankee faction: His only thought was how he ought To bring them into action. "Your very names," Sir George exclaims, "Without a gun or bayonet, Will pierce like darts through Yankee hearts, And all their spirits stagnate. "Oh! how I dread lest they have fled And left their puny fort, sir, For sure Macomb won't stay at home, T' afford us any sport, sir. Good-by!" he said to those that stay'd: "Keep close as mice or rats snug: We'll just run out upon a scout, To burn the town of Plattsburg." Then up Champlain with might and main He marched in dress array, sir; With fife and drum to scare Macomb, And drive him quite away, sir. And, side by side, their nation's pride Along the current beat, sir: Sworn not to sup till they ate up McDonough and his fleet, sir. Still onward came these men of fame, Resolved to give "no quarter:" But to their cost they found at last That they had caught a Tartar. At distant shot awhile they fought, By water and by land, sir: His knightship ran from man to man, And gave his dread command, sir. "Britons, strike home! this dog Macomb— So well the fellow knows us— Will just as soon jump o'er the moon As venture to oppose us. With quick despatch light every match, Man every gun and swivel, And drive 'em to the devil!" The Vermont ranks that lined the banks, Then poised the unerring rifle, And to oppose their haughty foes They found a perfect trifle. Meanwhile the fort kept up such sport, They thought the devil was in it; Their mighty train play'd off in vain— 'Twas silenced in a minute. Sir George, amazed, so wildly gazed, Such frantic gambols acted, Of all his men, not one in ten But thought him quite distracted. He cursed and swore, his hair he tore, Then jump'd upon his pony, And gallop'd off towards the bluff, To look for Captain Downie. But when he spied McDonough ride, In all the pomp of glory, He hasten'd back to Saranac, To tell the dismal story: "My gallant crews—Oh! shocking news— Are all or killed or taken! Except a few that just withdrew In time to save their bacon. "Old England's pride must now subside. Oh! how the news will shock her, To have her fleet not only beat, But sent to Davy's locker. From this sad day, let no one say Britannia rules the ocean: We've dearly bought the humbling thought, That this is all a notion. "With one to ten I'd fight 'gainst men, But these are Satan's legions, With malice fraught, some piping hot From Pluto's darkest regions! HÉlas! mon Dieu! what shall I do? I smell the burning sulphur— Set Britain's isle all rank and file, Such men would soon engulf her. "That's full as bad—Oh! I'll run mad! Those western hounds are summon'd; Gaines, Scott, and Brown are coming down, To serve me just like Drummond. Thick, too, as bees, the Vermontese Are swarming to the lake, sir; And Izard's men, come back again, Lie hid in every brake, sir. "Good Brisbane, beat a quick retreat, Before their forces join, sir: For, sure as fate, they've laid a bait To catch us like Burgoyne, sir. All round about, keep good look out: We'll surely be surrounded; Since I could crawl, my gallant soul Was never so astounded." The rout begun, Sir George led on, His men ran helter skelter, Each tried his best t' outrun the rest To gain a place of shelter; To hide their fear, they gave a cheer, And thought it mighty cunning— He'll fight, they say, another day, Who saves himself by running!
THE BATTLE OF BALTIMORE [September 12, 1814] Old Ross, Cockburn, and Cochrane too, And many a bloody villain more, Swore with their bloody savage crew, That they would plunder Baltimore. But General Winder being afraid That his militia would not stand, He sent away to crave the aid Of a few true Virginians. Then up we rose with hearts elate, To help our suffering sister state. When first our orders we received, For to prepare without delay, Our wives and sweethearts for to leave, And to the army march away, Although it grieved our hearts full sore, To leave our sweet Virginia shore, We kiss'd our sweethearts o'er and o'er, And march'd like true Virginians. Adieu awhile, sweet girls, adieu, With honor we'll return to you. With rapid marches on we went, To leave our sweet Virginia shore, No halt was made, no time was spent, Till we arrived at Baltimore. The Baltimoreans did us greet, The ladies clapt their lily-white hands, Exclaiming as we passed the street, "Welcome, ye brave Virginians. May Heaven all your foes confound, And send you home with laurels crown'd." We had not been in quarters long, Before we heard the dread alarms, The cannon roar'd, the bells did ring, The drum did beat to arms, to arms. Then up we rose to face our foes, Determined to meet them on the strand, And drive them back from fair Freedom's shore, Or die like brave Virginians. In Heaven above we placed our trust, Well knowing that our cause is just. Then Ross he landed at North Point, With seven thousand men or more, And swore by that time next night, That he would be in Baltimore. But Striker met him on the strand, Attended by a chosen band, Where he received a fatal shot From a brave Pennsylvanian— Whom Heaven directed to the field, To make this haughty Briton yield. Then Cockburn he drew up his fleet, To bombard Fort McHenry, A thinking that our men, of course, Would take affright and run away. The fort was commanded by a patriotic band, As ever graced fair Freedom's land, And he who did the fort command Was a true blue Virginian. Long may we have brave Armstead's name Recorded on the book of fame. A day and a night they tried their might, But found their bombs did not prevail, And seeing their army put to flight, They weigh'd their anchor and made sail, Resolving to return again, To execute their former plan; But if they do, they'll find us still That we are brave Virginians. And they shall know before they've done, That they are not in Washington. But now their shipping's out of sight, And each man takes a parting glass, Drinks to his true love and heart's delight, His only joy and bosom friend, For I might as well drink a health, For I hate to see good liquor stand, That America may always boast That we are brave Virginians.
FORT McHENRY [September 13, 1814] Just before the bombardment began, Francis Scott Key had put out to the admiral's frigate to arrange for an exchange of prisoners, and was directed to remain till the action was over. All that night he watched the flaming shells, and when, by the first rays of the morning, he saw his country's flag still waving above the fort, he hastily wrote the stirring verses which have since become America's national song. [September 13, 1814] O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming? Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming! And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there: O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream: 'Tis the star-spangled banner! O long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave: And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation! Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation. Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, And this be our motto: "In God is our trust." And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. Francis Scott Key.
YE PARLIAMENT OF ENGLAND Ye parliament of England, You lords and commons, too, Consider well what you're about, And what you're going to do; You're now to fight with Yankees, I'm sure you'll rue the day You roused the sons of liberty, In North America. You first confined our commerce, And said our ships shan't trade, You next impressed our seamen, And used them as your slaves; You then insulted Rogers, While ploughing o'er the main, And had not we declarÈd war, You'd have done it o'er again. You thought our frigates were but few And Yankees could not fight, Until brave Hull your GuerriÈre took And banished her from your sight. The Wasp then took your Frolic, We'll nothing say to that, The Poictiers being of the line, Of course she took her back. The next, your Macedonian, No finer ship could swim, Decatur took her gilt-work off, And then he sent her in. The Java, by a Yankee ship Was sunk, you all must know; The Peacock fine, in all her plume, By Lawrence down did go. Then next you sent your Boxer, To box us all about, But we had an Enterprising brig That beat your Boxer out; We boxed her up to Portland, And moored her off the town, To show the sons of liberty The Boxer of renown. The next upon Lake Erie, Where Perry had some fun, You own he beat your naval force, And caused them for to run; This was to you a sore defeat, The like ne'er known before— Your British squadron beat complete— Some took, some run ashore. There's Rogers in the President, Will burn, sink, and destroy; The Congress, on the Brazil coast, Your commerce will annoy; The Essex, in the South Seas, Will put out all your lights, The flag she waves at her mast-head— "Free Trade and Sailor's Rights." Lament, ye sons of Britain, Far distant is the day, When you'll regain by British force What you've lost in America; Go tell your king and parliament, By all the world 'tis known, That British force, by sea and land, By Yankees is o'erthrown. Use every endeavor, And strive to make a peace, For Yankee ships are building fast, Their navy to increase; They will enforce their commerce, The laws by heaven are made, That Yankee ships in time of peace To any port may trade.
THE BOWER OF PEACE From "Ode Written during the War with America, 1814" When shall the Island Queen of Ocean lay The thunderbolt aside, And, twining olives with her laurel crown, Rest in the Bower of Peace? Not long may this unnatural strife endure Beyond the Atlantic deep; Not long may men, with vain ambition drunk, And insolent in wrong, Afflict with their misrule the indignant land Where Washington hath left His awful memory A light for after-times! Vile instruments of fallen Tyranny In their own annals, by their countrymen. For lasting shame shall they be written down. Soon may the better Genius there prevail! Then will the Island Queen of Ocean lay The thunderbolt aside, Rest in the Bower of Peace. Robert Southey.
REID AT FAYAL [September 26, 1814] A cliff-locked port and a bluff sea wall, And a craggy rampart, brown and bold; Proud Pico's bastions towering tall, And a castle dumb and cold. The scream of a gull where a porpoise rolls; And the flash of a home-bound fisher's blade, Where the ghostly boom of the drum fish tolls For wrecks that the surf has made. A grim dun ridge, and a thin gray beach, And the swish and the swash of the sleepless tide; And the moonlight masking the reef's long reach, Where the lurking breakers bide. And under the castle's senseless walls (Santa Cruz, old and cold and dumb), Where only the prying sea-mew calls, And the harbor beetles hum, A Yankee craft at her cable swings: "All's well!" the cheery lookout sings. But the skipper counts his sleeping crew, His guns, and his drowsy ensign, too. —Says he, "They'll do!" For the skipper marks, tho' he makes no sign, Frigate and corvette and ship of the line, Rounding the headland into the light: "Three Union Jacks and a moonlight night!" —Says he, "We'll fight!" Twelve launches cutting the silver bay; Twenty score boarders called away. And it's "Lively, hearties, and let her go!" With a rouse and a cheer and a "Yeo, ho, ho!" —Says Reid, "Lie low!" 'Tis a song of havoc the rowlocks sing, And Death marks time in the rower's swing; 'Tis a baleful glow on the spouting spray, As the keels in their cruel lust make way. "Now, up and slay!" Now up and play in the mad old game— Axe and cutlass, fury and flame! White breasts red-wat in the viler muck, Proud hearts hurled back in the sprawling ruck. —Says Reid, "Well struck!" Pike and pistol and dripping blade (So are the ghosts and the glory made); A curse for a groan, and a cheer for a yell; Pale glut of Hate and red rapture of Hell! —Says Reid, "All's well!" All's well for the banner that dances free, Where the mountains are shouting the news to the sea. All's well for the bold, and all's ill for the strong, In the fight and the flight that shall hold us long, In tale and song. John Williamson Palmer. THE FIGHT OF THE ARMSTRONG PRIVATEER Tell the story to your sons Of the gallant days of yore, When the brig of seven guns Fought the fleet of seven score, From the set of sun till morn, through the long September night— Ninety men against two thousand, and the ninety won the fight In the harbor of Fayal the Azore. Three lofty British ships came a-sailing to Fayal: One was a line-of-battle ship, and two were frigates tall; Nelson's valiant men of war, brave as Britons ever are, Manned the guns they served so well at Aboukir and Trafalgar. Waited eager for their coming, fretted sore at their delay. There was loot for British valor on the Mississippi coast In the beauty and the booty that the Creole cities boast; There were rebel knaves to swing, there were prisoners to bring Home in fetters to old England for the glory of the King! At the setting of the sun and the ebbing of the tide Came the great ships one by one, with their portals opened wide, And their cannon frowning down on the castle and the town And the privateer that lay close inside; Came the eighteen-gun Carnation, and the Rota, forty-four, And the triple-decked Plantagenet an Admiral's pennon bore: And the privateer grew smaller as their topmasts towered taller, And she bent her springs and anchored by the castle on the shore. Spoke the noble Portuguese to the stranger: "Have no fear; They are neutral waters these, and your ship is sacred here As if fifty stout armadas to shelter you from harm, For the honor of the Briton will defend you from his arm." But the privateersman said, "Well we know the Englishmen, And their faith is written red in the Dartmoor slaughter-pen. Come what fortune God may send, we will fight them to the end, And the mercy of the sharks may spare us then." "Seize the pirate where she lies!" cried the English Admiral: "If the Portuguese protect her, all the wors for Portugal!" And four launches at his bidding leaped impatient for the fray, Speeding shoreward where the Armstrong, grim and dark and ready, lay. Twice she hailed and gave them warning; but the feeble menace scorning, On they came in splendid silence, till a cable's length away. Then the Yankee pivot spoke; Pico's thousand echoes woke; And four baffled, beaten launches drifted helpless on the bay. Then the wrath of Lloyd arose till the lion roared again, And he called out all his launches and he called five hundred men; And he gave the word "No quarter!" and he sent them forth to smite. Heaven help the foe before him when the Briton comes in might! Heaven helped the little Armstrong in her hour of bitter need; God Almighty nerved the heart and guided well the arm of Reid. Launches to port and starboard, launches forward and aft, Fourteen launches together striking the little craft. They hacked at the boarding-nettings, they swarmed above the rail; But the Long Tom roared from his pivot and the grape-shot fell like hail; Pike and pistol and cutlass, and hearts that knew not fear, Bulwarks of brawn and mettle, guarded the privateer. And ever where fight was fiercest the form of Reid was seen: Ever where foes drew nearest, his quick sword fell between. Once in the deadly strife The boarder's leader pressed Forward of all the rest Challenging life for life; But ere their blades had crossed A dying sailor tossed His pistol to Reid, and cried, "Now riddle the lubber's hide!" But the privateersman laughed, and flung the weapon aside, And he drove his blade to the hilt, and the foeman gasped and died. Then the boarders took to their launches, laden with hurt and dead, But little with glory burdened, and out of the battle fled. Now the tide was at flood again, and the night was almost done, When the sloop-of-war came up with her odds of two to one, And she opened fire; but the Armstrong answered her, gun for gun, And the gay Carnation wilted in half an hour of sun. Then the Armstrong, looking seaward, saw the mighty seventy-four, With her triple tier of cannon, drawing slowly to the shore. And the dauntless captain said: "Take our wounded and our dead, Bear them tenderly to land, for the Armstrong's days are o'er; But no foe shall tread her deck, and no flag above it wave— To the ship that saved our honor we will give a shipman's grave." So they did as he commanded, and they bore their mates to land With the figurehead of Armstrong and the good sword in his hand. Then they turned the Long Tom downward, and they pierced her oaken side, And they cheered her, and they blessed her, and they sunk her in the tide. Tell the story to your sons, When the haughty stranger boasts Of his mighty ships and guns And the muster of his hosts, How the word of God was witnessed in the gallant days of yore When the twenty fled from one ere the rising of the sun, In the harbor of Fayal the Azore! James Jeffrey Roche.
THE ARMSTRONG AT FAYAL [September 26, 1814] Oh, the sun sets red, the moon shines white, And blue is Fayal's clear sky; The sun and moon and sky are bright, And the sea, and stars on high; But the name of Reid and the fame of Reid And the flag of his ship and crew Are brighter far than sea or star Or the heavens' red, white, and blue: So lift your voices once again For the land we love so dear, For the fighting Captain and the men Of the Yankee Privateer! The moonbeams, like fine silver, shine Upon the blue Azores, As twilight pours her purple wine Upon those storied shores; The General Armstrong's flag of stars In the harbor of Fayal Flies forth, remote from thought of wars, Until the sunset call. No glistening guns in serried line The slender schooner boasts, A pivot and eight hearty nines Shall meet her foeman's hosts; Her sides are oak, her masts are tall, Her captain's one to trust, Her ninety men are free men all, Her quarrel wholly just. On far Fayal the moon is fair To-night as it was when, Glad in the gay September air, Reid laughed beside his men; On far Fayal the sun to-day Was lord of all the sky As when the General Armstrong lay, Our banner flung on high; But now there rests a holier light Than theirs on land or sea: The splendor of our sailors' might, And glorious bravery. A moment, and the flag will sink As sinks the sun to rest Beyond the billows' western brink Where towers the Eagle's nest, When round the azure harbor-head Where sparkling ocean brims, Her British ensign streaming red, The brig Carnation swims. Ere with the sun her sails are set The Rota frigate glides And the great ship Plantagenet To stations at her sides: They carry six score guns and ten, They serve the British crown, To win were small renown. 'Twas by Fayal, where Portugal Still flaunts her Blue-and-White; What cares their Floyd for Portugal Or what cares he for right? He starts his signals down the line— Our flag is flying free— His weapons in the moonbeams shine, His boats drop on the sea. Straight to the Armstrong swift they come. Speak, or I fire! shouts Reid— Their rattling rowlocks louder hum To mark their heightened speed. Fierce o'er their moonlit path there stream Bright glares of crimson flame; Our muskets but an instant gleam, Yet leave them wounded, lame. They try a feeble, brief reply Ere back their course is sped. Before our marksmanship they fly, Their living with their dead. Floyd swears upon his faith and all The Armstrong shall be his; He scorns rebuke from Portugal, But not such enemies; So guns are charged with canister And picked men go to fight: Brave hearts and doomed full many were In the Azores that night. From nine until the nick of twelve Their boats are seen to throng Where rocky islets slant and shelve Safe from our bullets' song; Then out they dash, their small arms flash, While blare their carronades, Their boarding-pikes and axes clash, Their guns and cutlass blades. Our Long Tom speaks, our shrapnel shrieks; But ere we load again, On every side the battle reeks Of thrice a hundred men. Our rail is low, and there the foe Cling as they shoot and hack. We stab them as they climb a-row, Slaying, nor turning back. They dash up now upon our bow, And there our hearties haste; Now at our stern their muskets burn, And now along our waist. Our fo'c'sle weeps when Williams dies, When Worth falls in his blood, But bleeding through the battle-cries Our gallant Johnson stood; The British muskets snapt and spat Till Reid came in his wrath, His brow so pale with purpose that It glistened down his path. Forth from the quarter-deck he springs, He and his men with cheers; On British skulls his cutlass rings, His pistols in their ears; His men beside him hold him good Till spent the foeman's breath; Where at our sides a Briton stood, A Briton sank in death; Though weak our men with blood and sweat, Our sides a riddled wreck, Yet ne'er a British foot is set Upon the Armstrong's deck. Three hundred men their Admiral sent Our schooner's ways to mend: A hundred British sailors went Down to a warrior's end. Two of our lads in death are red, But safe the flag above: God grant that never worse be sped The fray for all we love! The General Armstrong lies beneath The waves in far Fayal, But still his countrymen shall wreathe Reid's name with laurels tall; The sun and moon are fair to see Above the blue Azores, But fairer far Reid's victory Beside their storied shores. Oh, the sun sets red, the moon shines white, And blue is Fayal's clear sky; The sun and moon and sky are bright, And the sea, and stars on high; But the name of Reid and the fame of Reid And the flag of his ship and crew Are brighter far than sea or star Or the heavens' red, white, and blue: So lift your voices once again For the land we love so dear, For the fighting Captain and the men Of the Yankee Privateer. Wallace Rice.
FORT BOWYER [September 15, 1814] Where the wild wave, from ocean proudly swelling, Mexico's shores, wide stretching, with its billowy Surge, in its sweep laves, and, with lashing foam, breaks, Rough in its whiteness; See where the flag of Freedom, with its light wreaths, Floats on the wind, in buoyancy expanded High o'er the walls of Bowyer's dauntless breastwork, Proudly and fearless. Loud roll thy thunders, Albion; and thy missile Boasts throng the air with lightning flash tremendous, Whilst the dark wave, illuminated bright, shines Sparkling with death-lights. Shrink then that band of freemen, at the onslaught? Palsy those arms that wield the unerring rifles? Strikes chill the breast dread fear? or coward paleness Whiten the blanch'd cheek? No! round that flag, undaunted, midst the loud din, Like their own shores, which mountain surges move not Breasted and firm, and heedless of the war-shock, Rallying they stand fast. "Look," Lawrence cries, "brave comrades; how the foe proud Quails at our charge, with recreant spirit flying:" Like Rome's bold chief, he came and saw, but neither Awed us, nor conquer'd. Charles L. S. Jones.
THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS [January 8, 1815] Here, in my rude log cabin, Few poorer men there be Among the mountain ranges Of Eastern Tennessee. My limbs are weak and shrunken, White hairs upon my brow, My dog—lie still old fellow!— My sole companion now. Yet I, when young and lusty, Have gone through stirring scenes, For I went down with Carroll To fight at New Orleans. You say you'd like to hear me The stirring story tell, Of those who stood the battle And those who fighting fell. Short work to count our losses— We stood and dropped the foe As easily as by firelight Men shoot the buck or doe. And while they fell by hundreds Upon the bloody plain, Of us, fourteen were wounded And only eight were slain. The eighth of January, Before the break of day, Our raw and hasty levies Were brought into array. No cotton-bales before us— Some fool that falsehood told; Before us was an earthwork Built from the swampy mould And there we stood in silence, And waited with a frown. The bull-dogs of the Crown. The heavy fog of morning Still hid the plain from sight, When came a thread of scarlet Marked faintly in the white. We fired a single cannon, And as its thunders rolled, The mist before us lifted In many a heavy fold— The mist before us lifted And in their bravery fine Came rushing to their ruin The fearless British line. Then from our waiting cannon Leaped forth the deadly flame, To meet the advancing columns That swift and steady came. The thirty-twos of Crowley And Bluchi's twenty-four To Spotts's eighteen-pounders Responded with their roar, Sending the grape-shot deadly That marked its pathway plain, And paved the road it travelled With corpses of the slain. Our rifles firmly grasping, And heedless of the din, We stood in silence waiting For orders to begin. Our fingers on the triggers, Our hearts, with anger stirred, Grew still more fierce and eager As Jackson's voice was heard: "Stand steady! Waste no powder! Wait till your shots will tell! To-day the work you finish— See that you do it well!" Their columns drawing nearer, We felt our patience tire, When came the voice of Carroll, Distinct and measured, "Fire!" Oh! then you should have marked us Our volleys on them pour— Have heard our joyous rifles Ring sharply through the roar, And seen their foremost columns Melt hastily away As snow in mountain gorges Before the floods of May. They soon re-formed their columns, And, mid the fatal rain We never ceased to hurtle, Came to their work again. The Forty-fourth is with them, That first its laurels won With stout old Abercrombie Beneath an eastern sun. It rushes to the battle, And, though within the rear Its leader is a laggard, It shows no signs of fear. It did not need its colonel, For soon there came instead An eagle-eyed commander, And on its march he led. 'Twas Pakenham in person, The leader of the field; I knew it by the cheering That loudly round him pealed; And by his quick, sharp movement We felt his heart was stirred, As when at Salamanca He led the fighting Third. I raised my rifle quickly, I sighted at his breast, God save the gallant leader And take him to his rest! I did not draw the trigger, I could not for my life. So calm he sat his charger Amid the deadly strife, That in my fiercest moment A prayer arose from me— God save that gallant leader, Our foeman though he be! Sir Edward's charger staggers; He leaps at once to ground. And ere the beast falls bleeding Another horse is found. His right arm falls—'tis wounded; He waves on high his left; In vain he leads the movement, The ranks in twain are cleft. The men in scarlet waver Before the men in brown, And fly in utter panic— The soldiers of the Crown! I thought the work was over, But nearer shouts were heard, The gallant Ninety-third. Then Pakenham, exulting, With proud and joyous glance, Cried, "Children of the tartan— Bold Highlanders—advance! Advance to scale the breastworks, And drive them from their hold, And show the stainless courage That marked your sires of old!" His voice as yet was ringing, When, quick as light, there came The roaring of a cannon, And earth seemed all aflame. Who causes thus the thunder The doom of men to speak? It is the Baratarian, The fearless Dominique. Down through the marshalled Scotsmen The step of death is heard, And by the fierce tornado Falls half the Ninety-third. The smoke passed slowly upward And, as it soared on high, I saw the brave commander In dying anguish lie. They bear him from the battle Who never fled the foe; Unmoved by death around them His bearers softly go. In vain their care, so gentle, Fades earth and all its scenes; The man of Salamanca Lies dead at New Orleans. But where were his lieutenants? Had they in terror fled? No! Keane was sorely wounded And Gibbs as good as dead. Brave Wilkinson commanding, A major of brigade, The shattered force to rally A final effort made. He led it up our ramparts, Small glory did he gain— Our captives some; some slaughtered, And he himself was slain. The stormers had retreated, The bloody work was o'er; The feet of the invaders Were soon to leave our shore. We rested on our rifles And talked about the fight, When came a sudden murmur Like fire from left to right; We turned and saw our chieftain, And then, good friend of mine, You should have heard the cheering That rang along the line. For well our men remembered How little, when they came, Had they but native courage, And trust in Jackson's name; How through the day he labored, How kept the vigils still, Till discipline controlled us— A stronger power than will; And how he hurled us at them Within the evening hour, That red night in December And made us feel our power. In answer to our shouting Fire lit his eye of gray; Erect, but thin and pallid, He passed upon his bay. Weak from the baffled fever, And shrunken in each limb, The swamps of Alabama Had done their work on him; But spite of that and fasting, And hours of sleepless care, The soul of Andrew Jackson Shone forth in glory there. Thomas Dunn English. JACKSON AT NEW ORLEANS The British were permitted to retire unmolested to their ships, and the sails of that mighty fleet were soon fading away along the horizon. Neither victor nor vanquished knew that a treaty of peace had been signed at Ghent two weeks before, and that the battle need never have been fought. TO THE DEFENDERS OF NEW ORLEANS Hail sons of generous valor, Who now embattled stand, To wield the brand of strife and blood, For Freedom and the land. And hail to him your laurelled chief, Around whose trophied name A nation's gratitude has twined The wreath of deathless fame. Now round that gallant leader Your iron phalanx form, And throw, like Ocean's barrier rocks, Your bosoms to the storm. Though wild as Ocean's wave it rolls, Its fury shall be low, For justice guides the warrior's steel, And vengeance strikes the blow. High o'er the gleaming columns, The bannered star appears, And proud amid its martial band, His crest the eagle rears. And long as patriot valor's arm Shall win the battle's prize, That star shall beam triumphantly, That eagle seek the skies. Then on, ye daring spirits, To danger's tumults now, The bowl is filled and wreathed the crown, To grace the victor's brow; And they who for their country die, Shall fill an honored grave; For glory lights the soldier's tomb, And beauty weeps the brave. Joseph Rodman Drake.
THE HUNTERS OF KENTUCKY Ye gentlemen and ladies fair, Who grace this famous city, Just listen, if you've time to spare, While I rehearse a ditty; Conceive yourselves quite lucky, For 'tis but seldom that you see A hunter from Kentucky. Oh! Kentucky, The hunters of Kentucky. We are a hardy free-born race, Each man to fear a stranger; Whate'er the game, we join in chase, Despising toil and danger: And if a daring foe annoys, Whate'er his strength or force is, We'll show him that Kentucky boys Are Alligator-horses. I s'pose you've read it in the prints, How Pakenham attempted To make old Hickory Jackson wince, But soon his schemes repented; For we, with rifles ready cock'd, Thought such occasion lucky, And soon around the general flock'd The hunters of Kentucky. I s'pose you've heard how New Orleans Is famed for wealth and beauty; They've gals of every hue, it seems, From snowy white to sooty: So Pakenham he made his brags If he in fight was lucky, He'd have their gals and cotton bags, In spite of Old Kentucky. But Jackson he was wide awake, And wasn't scared at trifles, For well he knew what aim we take With our Kentucky rifles; So he led us down to Cypress Swamp, The ground was low and mucky; There stood John Bull in martial pomp— But here was Old Kentucky. We raised a bank to hide our breasts, Not that we thought of dying, But then we always like to rest, Unless the game is flying: Behind it stood our little force— None wish'd it to be greater, For every man was half a horse And half an alligator. They didn't let our patience tire Before they show'd their faces; We didn't choose to waste our fire, But snugly kept our places; And when so near we saw them wink, We thought it time to stop 'em, It would have done you good, I think, To see Kentuckians drop 'em. They found, at length, 'twas vain to fight, When lead was all their booty, And so they wisely took to flight, And left us all the beauty. And now, if danger e'er annoys, Remember what our trade is; Just send for us Kentucky boys, And we'll protect you, ladies: Oh! Kentucky, The hunters of Kentucky.
THE CONSTITUTION'S LAST FIGHT [February 20, 1815] A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew— Constitution, where ye bound for? Wherever, my lad, there's fight to be had Acrost the Western ocean. Our captain was married in Boston town And sailed next day to sea; For all must go when the State says so; Blow high, blow low, sailed we. "Now, what shall I bring for a bridal gift When my home-bound pennant flies? The rarest that be on land or sea It shall be my lady's prize." "There's never a prize on sea or land Could bring such joy to me As my true love sound and homeward bound With a king's ship under his lee." The Western ocean is wide and deep, And wild its tempests blow, But bravely rides "Old Ironsides," A-cruising to and fro. We cruised to the east and we cruised to north, And southing far went we, And at last off Cape de Verd we raised Two frigates sailing free. Oh, God made man, and man made ships, But God makes very few Like him who sailed our ship that day, And fought her, one to two. He gained the weather-gage of both, He held them both a-lee; And gun for gun, till set of sun, He spoke them fair and free; Till the night-fog fell on spar and sail, And ship, and sea, and shore, And our only aim was the bursting flame And the hidden cannon's roar. Then a long rift in the mist showed up The stout Cyane, close-hauled To swing in our wake and our quarter rake, And a boasting Briton bawled: "Starboard and larboard, we've got him fast Where his heels won't take him through; Let him luff or wear, he'll find us there,— Ho, Yankee, which will you do?" We did not luff and we did not wear, But braced our topsails back, Till the sternway drew us fair and true Broadsides athwart her track. Athwart her track and across her bows We raked her fore and aft, And out of the fight and into the night Drifted the beaten craft. The slow Levant came up too late; No need had we to stir; Her decks we swept with fire, and kept The flies from troubling her. We raked her again, and her flag came down,— The haughtiest flag that floats,— And the lime-juice dogs lay there like logs, With never a bark in their throats. With never a bark and never a bite, But only an oath to break, As we squared away for Praya Bay With our prizes in our wake. Parole they gave and parole they broke, What matters the cowardly cheat, If the captain's bride was satisfied With the one prize laid at her feet? A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew— Constitution, where ye bound for? Wherever the British prizes be, Though it's one to two, or one to three,— "Old Ironsides" means victory, Acrost the Western ocean. James Jeffrey Roche.
SEA AND LAND VICTORIES With half the Western world at stake, See Perry on the midland lake, The unequal combat dare; Unawed by vastly stronger pow'rs, He met the foe and made him ours, And closed the savage war. Macdonough, too, on Lake Champlain, In ships outnumbered, guns, and men, Saw dangers thick increase; His trust in God and virtue's cause He conquer'd in the lion's jaws, And led the way to peace. To sing each valiant hero's name Whose deeds have swelled the files of fame, Requires immortal powers; Columbia's warriors never yield To equal force by sea or field, Her eagle never cowers. Long as Niagara's cataract roars Or Erie laves our Northern shores, Great Brown, thy fame shall rise; Outnumber'd by a veteran host Of conquering heroes, Britain's boast— Conquest was there thy prize. At Plattsburg, see the Spartan band, Where gallant Macomb held command, The unequal host oppose; Provost confounded, vanquished flies, Convinced that numbers won't suffice Where Freemen are the foes. Our songs to noblest strains we'll raise While we attempt thy matchless praise, Carolina's godlike son; While Mississippi rolls his flood, Or Freemen's hearts move patriots' blood, The palm shall be thine own. At Orleans—lo! a savage band, In countless numbers gain the strand, "Beauty and spoil" the word— There Jackson with his fearless few, The invincibles by thousands slew, And dire destruction poured. O Britain! when the tale is told Of Jackson's deeds by fame enrolled, Should grief and madness rise, Remember God, the avenger, reigns, Who witnessed Havre's smoking plains, And Hampton's female cries. ODE TO PEACE Oh! breathe upon this hapless world, And bid our pains and sorrows cease; Broad be thy snowy flag unfurl'd, And may we hail thy coming, peace! For long enough has ruin stalk'd, With force and terror o'er our earth; Around them hideous spectres walk'd, And evil nurs'd his monstrous birth. Ah! banish'd from these happy skies, By thee, be soon these boding stars, Which erring made mankind arise, To deeds of sin, to blood and wars. Philadelphia, 1816. CHAPTER IIITHE WEST
THE SETTLER His echoing axe the settler swung Amid the sea-like solitude, And, rushing, thundering, down were flung The Titans of the wood; Loud shrieked the eagle, as he dashed From out his mossy nest, which crashed With its supporting bough, And the first sunlight, leaping, flashed On the wolf's haunt below. Rude was the garb and strong the frame Of him who plied his ceaseless toil: To form that garb the wildwood game Contributed their spoil; The soul that warmed that frame disdained The tinsel, gaud, and glare that reigned Where men their crowds collect; The simple fur, untrimmed, unstained, This forest-tamer decked. The paths which wound mid gorgeous trees, The stream whose bright lips kissed their flowers, The winds that swelled their harmonies Through those sun-hiding bowers, The temple vast, the green arcade, The nestling vale, the grassy glade, Dark cave, and swampy lair; These scenes and sounds majestic made His world, his pleasures, there. His roof adorned a pleasant spot; Mid the black logs green glowed the grain, And herbs and plants the woods knew not Throve in the sun and rain. The low, the bleat, the tinkling bell, All made a landscape strange, Which was the living chronicle Of deeds that wrought the change. The violet sprung at spring's first tinge, The rose of summer spread its glow, The maize hung out its autumn fringe, Rude winter brought his snow; And still the lone one labored there, His shout and whistle broke the air, As cheerily he plied His garden-spade, or drove his share Along the hillock's side. He marked the fire-storm's blazing flood Roaring and crackling on its path, And scorching earth, and melting wood, Beneath its greedy wrath; He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot, Trampling the pine-tree with its foot, And darkening thick the day With streaming bough and severed root, Hurled whizzing on its way. His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed, The grim bear hushed his savage growl; In blood and foam the panther gnashed His fangs, with dying howl; The fleet deer ceased its flying bound, Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground, And, with its moaning cry, The beaver sunk beneath the wound Its pond-built Venice by. Humble the lot, yet his the race, When Liberty sent forth her cry, Who thronged in conflict's deadliest place, To fight,—to bleed,—to die! Who cumbered Bunker's height of red, By hope through weary years were led, And witnessed Yorktown's sun Blaze on a nation's banner spread, A nation's freedom won. Alfred B. Street.
THE MOTHERS OF THE WEST The Mothers of our Forest-Land! Stout-hearted dames were they; With nerve to wield the battle-brand, And join the border-fray. Our rough land had no braver, In its days of blood and strife— Aye ready for severest toil, Aye free to peril life. The Mothers of our Forest-Land! On old Kan-tuc-kee's soil, How shared they, with each dauntless band, War's tempest and Life's toil! They shrank not from the foeman,— They quailed not in the fight,— But cheered their husbands through the day, And soothed them through the night. The Mothers of our Forest-Land! Their bosoms pillowed men! And proud were they by such to stand, In hammock, fort, or glen. To load the sure old rifle,— To run the leaden ball,— To watch a battling husband's place, And fill it should he fall. The Mothers of our Forest-Land! Such were their daily deeds. Their monument!—where does it stand? Their epitaph!—who reads? No braver dames had Sparta, No nobler matrons Rome,— Yet who or lauds or honors them, E'en in their own green home! The Mothers of our Forest-Land! They sleep in unknown graves: And had they borne and nursed a band Of ingrates, or of slaves, They had not been more neglected! But their graves shall yet be found, And their monuments dot here and there "The Dark and Bloody Ground." William D. Gallagher.
ON THE EMIGRATION TO AMERICA AND PEOPLING THE WESTERN COUNTRY [1784] To western woods and lonely plains, Palemon from the crowd departs, Where Nature's wildest genius reigns, To tame the soil, and plant the arts— What wonders there shall freedom show, What mighty states successive grow! From Europe's proud, despotic shores Hither the stranger takes his way, And in our new-found world explores A happier soil, a milder sway, Where no proud despot holds him down, No slaves insult him with a crown. What charming scenes attract the eye, On wild Ohio's savage stream! There Nature reigns, whose works outvie The boldest pattern art can frame; There ages past have rolled away, And forests bloomed but to decay. From these fair plains, these rural seats, So long concealed, so lately known, The unsocial Indian far retreats, To make some other clime his own, Where other streams, less pleasing, flow, And darker forests round him grow. Great Sire of floods! whose varied wave Through climes and countries takes its way, To whom creating Nature gave Ten thousand streams to swell thy sway! No longer shall they useless prove, Nor idly through the forests rove; Nor longer shall your princely flood From distant lakes be swelled in vain, Nor longer through a darksome wood Advance unnoticed to the main; Far other ends the heavens decree— And commerce plans new freights for thee. While virtue warms the generous breast, There heaven-born freedom shall reside, Nor shall the voice of war molest, Nor Europe's all-aspiring pride— There Reason shall new laws devise, And order from confusion rise. Forsaking kings and regal state, With all their pomp and fancied bliss, The traveller owns, convinced though late, No realm so free, so blest as this— The east is half to slaves consigned, Where kings and priests enchain the mind. O come the time, and haste the day, When man shall man no longer crush, When Reason shall enforce her sway, Nor these fair regions raise our blush, Where still the African complains, And mourns his yet unbroken chains. Far brighter scenes a future age, The muse predicts, these States will hail, Whose genius may the world engage, Whose deeds may over death prevail, And happier systems bring to view Than all the eastern sages knew. Philip Freneau.
JOHN FILSON [1788] John Filson was a pedagogue— A pioneer was he; I know not what his nation was, Nor what his pedigree. Tradition's scanty records tell But little of the man, Save that he to the frontier came In immigration's van. Perhaps with phantoms of reform His busy fancy teemed, Perhaps of new Utopias Hesperian he dreamed. John Filson and companions bold A frontier village planned, In forest wild, on sloping hills, By fair Ohio's strand. John Filson from three languages With pedant skill did frame The novel word Losantiville To be the new town's name. Said Filson: "Comrades, hear my words: Ere threescore years have flown Our town will be a city vast." Loud laughed Bob Patterson. Still John exclaimed, with prophet-tongue, "A city fair and proud, The Queen of Cities in the West!" Mat Denman laughed aloud. Deep in the wild and solemn woods Unknown to white man's track, John Filson went, one autumn day, But nevermore came back. He struggled through the solitude The inland to explore, And with romantic pleasure traced Miami's winding shore. Across his path the startled deer Bounds to its shelter green; He enters every lonely vale And cavernous ravine. Too soon the murky twilight comes, The boding night-winds moan; Bewildered wanders Filson, lost, Exhausted, and alone. By lurking foes his steps are dogged, A yell his ear appalls! A ghastly corpse, upon the ground, A murdered man, he falls. The Indian, with instinctive hate, In him a herald saw Of coming hosts of pioneers, The friends of light and law; In him beheld the champion Of industries and arts, The founder of encroaching roads And great commercial marts; The spoiler of the hunting-ground, The plougher of the sod, The builder of the Christian school And of the house of God. And so the vengeful tomahawk John Filson's blood did spill,— The spirit of the pedagogue No tomahawk could kill. John Filson had no sepulchre, Except the wildwood dim; The mournful voices of the air Made requiem for him. The druid trees their waving arms Uplifted o'er his head; The moon a pallid veil of light Upon his visage spread. The rain and sun of many years Have worn his bones away, And what he vaguely prophesied We realize to-day. Losantiville, the prophet's word, The poet's hope fulfils,— She sits a stately Queen to-day Amid her royal hills! Then come, ye pedagogues, and join To sing a grateful lay For him, the martyr pioneer, Who led for you the way. And may my simple ballad be A monument to save His name from blank oblivion, Who never had a grave. William Henry Venable.
SAINCLAIRE'S DEFEAT [November 4, 1791] 'Twas November the fourth, in the year of ninety-one, We had a sore engagement near to Fort Jefferson; For there we left nine hundred men in t' West'n Ter'tory. At Bunker's Hill and Quebeck, there many a hero fell, Likewise at Long Island (it is I the truth can tell), But such a dreadful carnage may I never see again As hap'ned near St. Mary's, upon the river plain. Our army was attacked just as the day did dawn, And soon was overpowered and driven from the lawn. They killed Major Ouldham, Levin and Briggs likewise, And horrid yells of savages resounded through the skies. Major Butler was wounded the very second fire; His manly bosom swell'd with rage when forc'd to retire; And as he lay in anguish, nor scarcely could he see, Exclaim'd, "Ye hounds of hell! Oh, revenged I will be!" We had not been long broken when General Butler found Himself so badly wounded, was forced to quit the ground; "My God!" says he, "what shall we do? we're wounded every man; Go charge them, valiant heroes, and beat them if you can." He leaned his back against a tree, and there resigned his breath, And like a valiant soldier sunk in the arms of death; When blessed angels did await his spirit to convey, And unto the celestial fields he quickly bent his way. We charg'd again with courage firm, but soon again gave ground; The war-whoop then redoubled, as did the foes around. They killed Major Ferguson, which caused his men to cry, "Our only safety is in flight, or fighting here to die." "Stand to your guns," says valiant Ford; "let's die upon them here, Before we let the sav'ges know we ever harbored fear!" Our cannon-balls exhausted, and artill'ry-men all slain, Obliged were our musketmen the enemy to sustain. Yet three hours more we fought them, and then were forc'd to yield, When three hundred warriors lay stretched upon the field. Says Colonel Gibson to his men, "My boys, be not dismayed; I'm sure that true Virginians were never yet afraid. "Ten thousand deaths I'd rather die than they should gain the field!" With that he got a fatal shot, which causÈd him to yield. Says Major Clarke, "My heroes, I can here no longer stand; We'll strive to form in order, and retreat the best we can." The word "Retreat!" being passed around, there was a dismal cry, Then helter-skelter through the woods like wolves and sheep they fly. This well-appointed army, who but a day before Defied and braved all danger, had like a cloud passed o'er. Alas, the dying and wounded, how dreadful was the thought! To the tomahawk and scalping-knife in misery are brought. Some had a thigh and some an arm broke on the field that day, Who writhed in torments at the stake to close the dire affray. To mention our brave officers, is what I wish to do; No sons of Mars e'er fought more brave, or with more courage true. He fell that day amongst the slain, a valiant man was he.
JOHNNY APPLESEED A BALLAD OF THE OLD NORTHWEST A midnight cry appalls the gloom, The puncheon door is shaken: "Awake! arouse! and flee the doom! Man, woman, child, awaken! "Your sky shall glow with fiery beams Before the morn breaks ruddy! The scalpknife in the moonlight gleams, Athirst for vengeance bloody!" Alarumed by the dreadful word Some warning tongue thus utters, The settler's wife, like mother bird, About her young ones flutters. Her first-born, rustling from a soft Leaf-couch, the roof close under, Glides down the ladder from the loft, With eyes of dreamy wonder. The pioneer flings open wide The cabin door, naught fearing; The grim woods drowse on every side, Around the lonely clearing. "Come in! come in! nor like an owl Thus hoot your doleful humors; What fiend possesses you to howl Such crazy, coward rumors?" The herald strode into the room; That moment, through the ashes, The back-log struggled into bloom Of gold and crimson flashes. The glimmer lighted up a face, And o'er a figure dartled, So eerie, of so solemn grace, The bluff backwoodsman startled. The brow was gathered to a frown, The eyes were strangely glowing, And, like a snow-fall drifting down, The stormy beard went flowing. The tattered cloak that round him clung Had warred with foulest weather; Across his shoulders broad were flung Brown saddlebags of leather. One pouch with hoarded seed was packed, From Penn-land cider-presses; The other garnered book and tract Within its creased recesses. A glance disdainful and austere, Contemptuous of danger, Cast he upon the pioneer, Then spake the uncouth stranger: "Heed what the Lord's anointed saith; Hear one who would deliver Your bodies and your souls from death; List ye to John the Giver. "Thou trustful boy, in spirit wise Beyond thy father's measure, Because of thy believing eyes I share with thee my treasure. "Of precious seed this handful take; Take next this Bible Holy: In good soil sow both gifts, for sake Of Him, the meek and lowly. "Farewell! I go!—the forest calls My life to ceaseless labors; Wherever danger's shadow falls I fly to save my neighbors. "I save; I neither curse nor slay; I am a voice that crieth In night and wilderness. Away! Whoever doubteth, dieth!" The prophet vanished in the night, Like some fleet ghost belated: Then, awe-struck, fled with panic fright The household, evil-fated. They hurried on with stumbling feet, Foreboding ambuscado; In frontier palisado. But ere a mile of tangled maze Their bleeding hands had broken, Their home-roof set the dark ablaze, Fulfilling doom forespoken. The savage death-whoop rent the air! A howl of rage infernal! The fugitives were in Thy care, Almighty Power eternal! Unscathed by tomahawk or knife, In bosky dingle nested, The hunted pioneer, with wife And babes, hid unmolested. The lad, when age his locks of gold Had changed to silver glory, Told grandchildren, as I have told, This western wildwood story. Told how the fertile seeds had grown To famous trees, and thriven; And oft the Sacred Book was shown, By that weird Pilgrim given. Remember Johnny Appleseed, All ye who love the apple; He served his kind by Word and Deed, In God's grand greenwood chapel. William Henry Venable.
THE FOUNDERS OF OHIO Ohio was admitted to the Union in 1803. The serenity of the new state was rudely shaken, in 1806, by the remarkable bugbear known as the "Burr Conspiracy." Burr had incurred the enmity of Jefferson and most of the other leading politicians of the time, and they were led to believe that he was preparing an expedition against the southwest, to set up a separate empire there. Burr had interested in his plan—which was really directed against Mexico—one Harmon Blennerhassett, who owned the island of that name in the Ohio, and who undertook to finance the expedition. BLENNERHASSETT'S ISLAND From "The New Pastoral" Once came an exile, longing to be free, Born in the greenest island of the sea; He sought out this, the fairest blooming isle That ever gemmed a river; and its smile, Of summer green and freedom, on his heart Fell, like the light of Paradise. Apart It lay, remote and wild; and in his breast He fancied this an island of the blest; And here he deemed the world might never mar The tranquil air with its molesting jar. Long had his soul, among the strife of men, Gone out and fought, and fighting, failed; and then Withdrew into itself: as when some fount Finds space within, and will no longer mount, Content to hear its own secluded waves Make lonely music in the new-found caves. And here he brought his household; here his wife, As happy as her children, round his life Sang as she were an echo, or a part Of the deep pleasure springing in his heart— A silken string which with the heavier cord Made music, such as well-strung harps afford. She was the embodied spirit of the man, His second self, but on a fairer plan. And set the rose and taught the vines to roam, Until the place became an isle of bowers, Where odors, mist-like, swam above the flowers. It was a place where one might lie and dream, And see the naiads, from the river-stream, Stealing among the umbrous, drooping limbs; Where Zephyr, 'mid the willows, tuned her hymns Round rippling shores. Here would the first birds throng, In early spring-time, and their latest song Was given in autumn; when all else had fled, They half forgot to go; such beauty here was spread. It was, in sooth, a fair enchanted isle, Round which the unbroken forest, many a mile, Reached the horizon like a boundless sea;— A sea whose waves, at last, were forced to flee On either hand, before the westward host, To meet no more upon its ancient coast. But all things fair, save truth, are frail and doomed; And brightest beauty is the first consumed By envious Time; as if he crowned the brow With loveliest flowers, before he gave the blow Which laid the victim on the hungry shrine:— Such was the dreamer's fate, and such, bright isle, was thine. There came the stranger, heralded by fame, Whose eloquent soul was like a tongue of flame, Which brightened and despoiled whate'er it touched. A violet, by an iron gauntlet clutched, Were not more doomed than whosoe'er he won To list his plans, with glowing words o'errun: And Blennerhassett hearkened as he planned. Far in the South there was a glorious land Crowned with perpetual flowers, and where repute Pictured the gold more plenteous than the fruit— The Persia of the West. There would he steer His conquering course; and o'er the bright land rear His far-usurping banner, till his home Should rest beneath a wide, imperial dome, Where License, round his thronÈd feet, should whirl Her dizzy mazes like an Orient girl. His followers should be lords; their ladies each Wear wreaths of gems beyond the old world's reach; And emperors, gazing to that land of bloom, With impotent fire of envy should consume. Such was the gorgeous vision which he drew. The listener saw; and, dazzled by the view,— As one in some enchanter's misty room, His senses poisoned by the strange perfume, Beholds with fierce desire the picture fair, And grasps at nothing in the painted air,— Gave acquiescence, in a fatal hour, And wealth, and hope, and peace were in the tempter's power. The isle became a rendezvous; and then Came in the noisy rule of lawless men. Domestic calm, affrighted, fled afar, And Riot revelled 'neath the midnight star; Continuous music rustled through the trees, Where banners danced responsive on the breeze; Or in festoons, above the astonished bowers, With flaming colors shamed the modest flowers. There clanged the mimic combat of the sword, Like daily glasses round the festive board; Here lounged the chiefs, there marched the plumÈd file, And martial splendor over-ran the isle. Already, the shrewd leader of the sport The shadowy sceptre grasped, and swayed his court. In dreams, or waking, revelling or alone, Before him swam the visionary throne; Until a voice, as if the insulted woods Had risen to claim their ancient solitudes, Broke on his spirit, like a trumpet rude, Shattering his dream to nothing where he stood! The revellers vanished, and the banners fell Like the red leaves beneath November's spell. Full of great hopes, sustained by mighty will, Urged by ambition, confident of skill, As fearless to perform as to devise, A-flush, but now he saw the glittering prize Flame like a cloud in day's descending track; But, lo, the sun went down and left it black! Alone, despised, defiance in his eye, He heard the shout, and "treason!" was the cry; And that harsh word, with its unpitying blight, Swept o'er the island like an arctic night. And desolation walked among the bowers. This was the mansion. Through the ruined hall The loud winds sweep, with gusty rise and fall, Or glide, like phantoms, through the open doors; And winter drifts his snow along the floors, Blown through the yawning rafters, where the stars And moon look in as through dull prison bars. On yonder gable, through the nightly dark, The owl replies unto the dreary bark Of lonely fox, beside the grass-grown sill; And here, on summer eves, the whip-poor-will Exalts her voice, and to the traveller's ear Proclaims how Ruin rules with full contentment here. Thomas Buchanan Read.
THE BATTLE OF MUSKINGUM OR, THE DEFEAT OF THE BURRITES [November 30, 1806] Ye jovial throng, come join the song I sing of glorious feats, sirs; Of bloodless wounds, of laurels, crowns, Of charges, and retreats, sirs; Of thundering guns, and honors won, By men of daring courage; Of such as dine on beef and wine, And such as sup their porridge. When Blanny's fleet, so snug and neat, Came floating down the tide, sirs, Ahead was seen one-eyed Clark Green, To work them, or to guide, sirs. Our General brave the order gave, "To arms! To arms, in season! Old Blanny's boats most careless float, Brim-full of death and treason!" A few young boys, their mothers' joys, And five men there were found, sirs, Floating at ease—each little sees Or dreams of death and wound, sirs. "Fly to the bank! on either flank! We'll fire from every corner; We'll stain with blood Muskingum's flood, And gain immortal honor. "The cannon there shall rend the air, Loaded with broken spikes, boys; While our cold lead, hurled by each head, Shall give the knaves the gripes, boys. "Let not maids sigh, or children cry, Or mothers drop a tear, boys; I have the Baron in my head, Therefore you've nought to fear, boys. "Now to your posts, this numerous host, Be manly, firm, and steady. But do not fire till I retire And say when I am ready." The Deputy courageously Rode forth in power and pride, sirs; Twitching his reins, the man of brains Was posted by his side, sirs. The men in ranks stood on the banks, While, distant from its border, The active aid scours the parade And gives the general order: "First, at command, bid them to stand; Then, if one rascal gains out Or lifts his poll, why, damn his soul And blow the traitor's brains out." The night was dark, silent came Clark With twelve or fifteen more, sirs; While Paddy Hill, with voice most shrill, Whooped! as was said before, sirs. The trembling ranks along the banks Fly into Shipman's manger; While old Clark Green, with voice serene, Cried, "Soldiers, there's no danger. "Our guns, good souls, are setting-poles, Dead hogs I'm sure can't bite you; Along each keel is Indian meal; There's nothing here need fright you." Out of the barn, still in alarm, Came fifty men or more, sirs, And seized each boat and other float And tied them to the shore, sirs. This plunder rare, they sport and share, And each a portion grapples. 'Twas half a kneel of Indian meal, And ten of Putnam's apples. The boats they drop to Allen's shop, Commanded by O'Flannon, Where, lashed ashore, without an oar, They lay beneath the cannon. This band so bold, the night being cold, And blacksmith's shop being handy, Around the forge they drink and gorge On whiskey and peach-brandy. Two honest tars, who had some scars, Beheld their trepidation; Cries Tom, "Come, Jack, let's fire a crack; 'Twill fright them like damnation. "Tyler, they say, lies at BelprÉ, Snug in old Blanny's quarters; Yet this pale host tremble like ghosts For fear he'll walk on waters." No more was said, but off they sped To fix what they'd begun on; At one o'clock, firm as a rock, They fired the spun-yarn cannon. Trembling and wan stood every man; Then bounced and shouted murder, While Sergeant Morse squealed like a horse To get the folks to order. Ten men went out and looked about— A hardy set of fellows; Some hid in holes behind the coals, And some behind the bellows. The Cor'ner swore the western shore He saw with muskets bristle; Some stamp'd the ground;—'twas cannon sound, They heard the grape-shot whistle. The Deputy mounted "Old Bay," When first he heard the rattle, Then changed his course—"Great men are scarce, I'd better keep from battle." The General flew to meet the crew, His jacket flying loose, sirs; Instead of sword, he seized his board;— Instead of hat, his goose, sirs. "Tyler's" he cried, "on t'other side, Your spikes will never do it; The cannon's bore will hold some more," Then thrust his goose into it. Sol raised his head, cold spectres fled; Each man resumed his courage; Captain O'Flan dismissed each man To breakfast on cold porridge. William Harrison Safford.
TO AARON BURR, UNDER TRIAL FOR HIGH TREASON Thou wonder of the Atlantic shore, Whose deeds a million hearts appall; Thy fate shall pity's eye deplore, Or vengeance for thy ruin call. Thou man of soul! whose feeble form Seems as a leaf the gales defy, Though scattered in sedition's storm, Yet borne by glorious hope on high. Such did the youthful Ammon seem, And such does Europe's scourge appear, As, of the sun, a vertic beam, The brightest in the golden year. Nature, who many a gift bestowed, The strong herculean limbs denied, But gave—a mind, where genius glowed, A soul, to valor's self allied. Ambition as her curse was seen, Thy every blessing to annoy; To blight thy laurels' tender green; The banner of thy fame destroy. Ambition, by the bard defined The fault of godlike hearts alone, Like fortune in her frenzy, blind, Here gives a prison, there a throne. Sarah Wentworth Morton.
THE BATTLE OF TIPPECANOE [November 7, 1811] Awake! awake! my gallant friends; To arms! to arms! the foe is nigh; The sentinel his warning sends; And hark! the treacherous savage cry. Awake! to arms! the word goes round; The drum's deep roll, the fife's shrill sound, The trumpet's blast, proclaim through night, An Indian band, a bloody fight. O haste thee, Baen! alas! too late; A red chief's arm now aims the blow (An early, but a glorious fate); The tomahawk has laid thee low. Dread darkness reigns. On, Daviess, on. Where's Boyd? And valiant Harrison, Commander of the Christian force? And Owen? He's a bleeding corse! "Stand, comrades brave, stand to your post: Here Wells, and Floyd, and Barton; all Must now be won, or must be lost; Ply briskly, bayonet, sword, and ball." Thus spake the general; when a yell Was heard, as though a hero fell. And, hark! the Indian whoop again— It is for daring Daviess slain! Oh! fearful is the battle's rage; No lady's hand is in the fray; But brawny limbs the contest wage, And struggle for the victor's bay. Lo! Spencer sinks, and Warwick's slain, And breathless bodies strew the plain: And yells, and groans, and clang, and roar, Echo along the Wabash shore. But mark! where breaks upon the eye Aurora's beam. The coming day Shall foil a frantic prophecy, And Christian valor well display. Ne'er did Constantine's soldiers see, With more of joy for victory, A cross the arch of heaven adorn, Than these the blushing of the morn. Bold Boyd led on his steady band, With bristling bayonets burnish'd bright: Who could their dauntless charge withstand? What stay the warriors' matchless might? Rushing amain, they clear'd the field, The savage foe constrain'd to yield To Harrison, who, near and far, Gave form and spirit to the war. Sound, sound the charge! spur, spur the steed, And swift the fugitives pursue— 'Tis vain: rein in—your utmost speed Could not o'ertake the recreant crew. In lowland marsh, in dell, or cave, Each Indian sought his life to save; Whence, peering forth, with fear and ire, He saw his prophet's town on fire. Now the great Eagle of the West Triumphant wing was seen to wave! And now each soldier's manly breast Sigh'd o'er his fallen comrade's grave. Some dropp'd a tear, and mused the while, Then join'd in measured march their file; And here and there cast wistful eye, That might surviving friend descry. But let a foe again appear, Or east, or west, or south, or north; The soldier then shall dry his tear, And fearless, gayly sally forth. With lightning eye, and warlike front, He'll meet the battle's deadly brunt: Come Gaul or Briton; if array'd For fight—he'll feel a freeman's blade. THE TOMB OF THE BRAVE IN COMMEMORATION OF THE BATTLE ON THE WABASH [November 7, 1811] When darkness prevail'd and aloud on the air No war-whoop was heard through the deep silence yelling, Our chiefs found the foe on their slumbers propelling. While the mantle of night Hid the savage from sight, Undismay'd were our warriors slain in the fight: But the laurel shall ever continue to wave, And glory thus bloom o'er the tomb of the brave. Brave Daviess, legitimate offspring of fame, Though new to the war, rush'd to battle undaunted; And ere, bearing death, the dread rifle-ball came, In the breast of the foe oft his weapon he planted. Gallant Daviess, adieu! Tears thy destiny drew; But yet o'er thy body shall tremble no yew, For the laurel, etc. Great Owen, too bold from the fight to remain, Rush'd on to the foe, every soldier's heart firing; But he sinks, in the blood of his foes, on the plain, The pale lamp of life in its socket expiring; Closed in death are his eyes, And lamented he lies; Yet o'er the sad spot shall no cypress arise! But the laurel, etc. Long Warwick, McMahan, and Spencer, and Baen, And Berry, 'mid darkness their banners defended, But when day drew the curtain of night, they were seen Cover'd o'er with the blood of the savage, extended. Though Freedom may weep Where they mouldering sleep, Yet shall valor their death as a jubilee keep: For the laurel, etc. Ye chiefs of the Wabash, who gallantly fought, And fearlessly heard the dread storm of war rattle, Who lived to see conquest so terribly bought, While your brothers were lost in the uproar of battle, Still fearless remain, And, though stretch'd on the plain, You shall rise on the records of freedom again: For the laurel, etc. Ye sons of Columbia, when danger is nigh, And liberty calls, round her standard to rally, For your country, your wives, and your children to die, Resolve undismay'd on oppression to sally. Every hero secure That his fame shall endure Till eternity time in oblivion immure; For the laurel shall ever continue to wave, And glory thus bloom o'er the tomb of the brave. Joseph Hutton.
SA-CÁ-GA-WE-A THE INDIAN GIRL WHO GUIDED LEWIS AND CLARK IN THEIR EXPEDITION TO THE PACIFIC Sho-shÓ-ne Sa-cÁ-ga-we-a—captive and wife was she On the grassy plains of Dakota in the land of the Minnetaree; But she heard the west wind calling, and longed to follow the sun Back to the shining mountains and the glens where her life begun. So, when the valiant Captains, fain for the Asian sea, Stayed their marvellous journey in the land of the Minnetaree (The Red Men wondering, wary—Omaha, Mandan, Sioux— Friendly now, now hostile, as they toiled the wilderness through), Glad she turned from the grassy plains and led their way to the West, Her course as true as the swan's that flew north to its reedy nest; Her eye as keen as the eagle's when the young lambs feed below; Straight was she as a hillside fir, lithe as the willow-tree, And her foot as fleet as the antelope's when the hunter rides the lea; In broidered tunic and moccasins, with braided raven hair, And closely belted buffalo robe with her baby nestling there— Girl of but sixteen summers, the homing bird of the quest, Free of the tongues of the mountains, deep on her heart imprest,— Sho-shÓ-ne Sa-cÁ-ga-we-a led the way to the West!— To Missouri's broad savannas dark with bison and deer, While the grizzly roamed the savage shore and cougar and wolf prowled near; To the cataract's leap, and the meadows with lily and rose abloom; The sunless trails of the forest, and the canyon's hush and gloom; By the veins of gold and silver, and the mountains vast and grim— Their snowy summits lost in clouds on the wide horizon's brim; Through sombre pass, by soaring peak, till the Asian wind blew free, And lo! the roar of the Oregon and the splendor of the Sea! Some day, in the lordly upland where the snow-fed streams divide— Afoam for the far Atlantic, afoam for Pacific's tide— There, by the valiant Captains whose glory will never dim While the sun goes down to the Asian sea and the stars in ether swim, She will stand in bronze as richly brown as the hue of her girlish cheek, With broidered robe and braided hair and lips just curved to speak; And the mountain winds will murmur as they linger along the crest, "Sho-shÓ-ne Sa-cÁ-ga-we-a, who led the way to the West!" Edna Dean Proctor.
ON THE DISCOVERIES OF CAPTAIN LEWIS [January 14, 1807] Let the Nile cloak his head in the clouds, and defy The researches of science and time; Let the Niger escape the keen traveller's eye, By plunging or changing his clime. Columbus! not so shall thy boundless domain Defraud thy brave sons of their right; Streams, midlands, and shorelands elude us in vain. We shall drag their dark regions to light. Look down, sainted sage, from thy synod of Gods; See, inspired by thy venturous soul, Mackenzie roll northward his earth-draining floods, And surge the broad waves to the pole. With the same soaring genius thy Lewis ascends, And, seizing the car of the sun, O'er the sky-propping hills and high waters he bends, And gives the proud earth a new zone. Potowmak, Ohio, Missouri had felt Half her globe in their cincture comprest; His long curving course has completed the belt, And tamed the last tide of the west. Then hear the loud voice of the nation proclaim, And all ages resound the decree: Let our occident stream bear the young hero's name, Who taught him his path to the sea. These four brother floods, like a garland of flowers, Shall entwine all our states in a band And their wealth and their wisdom expand. From Darien to Davis one garden shall bloom, Where war's weary banners are furl'd, And the far scenting breezes that waft its perfume, Shall settle the storms of the world. Then hear the loud voice of the nation proclaim And all ages resound the decree: Let our occident stream bear the young hero's name, Who taught him his path to the sea. Joel Barlow.
WHITMAN'S RIDE FOR OREGON [October, 1842-March 3, 1843] I "An empire to be lost or won!" And who four thousand miles will ride And climb to heaven the Great Divide, And find the way to Washington, Through mountain caÑons, winter snows, O'er streams where free the north wind blows? Who, who will ride from Walla-Walla, Four thousand miles for Oregon? II "An empire to be lost or won? In youth to man I gave my all, And nought is yonder mountain wall; If but the will of Heaven be done, It is not mine to live or die, Or count the mountains low or high, Or count the miles from Walla-Walla. I, I will ride for Oregon. III "An empire to be lost or won? Bring me my Cayuse pony then, And I will thread old ways again, Beneath the gray skies' crystal sun. 'Twas on these altars of the air I raised the flag, and saw below The measureless Columbia flow; The Bible oped, and bowed in prayer, And gave myself to God anew, And felt my spirit newly born; And to my mission I'll be true, And from the vale of Walla-Walla, I'll ride again for Oregon. IV "I'm not my own, myself I've given, To bear to savage hordes the word; If on the altars of the heaven I'm called to die, it is the Lord. The herald may not wait or choose, 'Tis his the summons to obey; To do his best, or gain or lose, To seek the Guide and not the way. He must not miss the cross, and I Have ceased to think of life or death; My ark I've builded—Heaven is nigh, And earth is but a morning's breath; Go, then, my Cayuse pony bring, The hopes that seek myself are gone, And from the vale of Walla-Walla, I'll ride again for Oregon." V He disappeared, as not his own, He heard the warning ice winds sigh; The smoky sun flames o'er him shone, On whitened altars of the sky, As up the mountain sides he rose; The wandering eagle round him wheeled, The partridge fled, the gentle roes, And oft his Cayuse pony reeled Upon some dizzy crag, and gazed Down cloudy chasms, falling storms, While higher yet the peaks upraised Against the winds their giant forms. On, on and on, past Idaho, On past the mighty Saline sea, His covering at night the snow, His only sentinel a tree. On, past Portneuf's basaltic heights, On where the San Juan mountains lay, Through sunless days and starless nights, Towards Taos and far Sante FÉ. Through pine-roofed gorges, caÑons cold, Now fording streams incased in mail Of ice, like Alpine knights of old: Still on, and on, forgetful on, Till far behind lay Walla-Walla, And far the fields of Oregon. VI The winter deepened, sharper grew The hail and sleet, the frost and snow, Not e'en the eagle o'er him flew, And scarce the partridge's wing below. The land became a long white sea, And then a deep with scarce a coast, The stars refused their light, till he Was in the wildering mazes lost. He dropped the rein, his stiffened hand Was like a statue's hand of clay; "My trusty beast, 'tis the command, Go on, I leave to thee the way. I must go on, I must go on, Whatever lot may fall to me, On, 'tis for others' sake I ride,— For others I may never see,— And dare thy clouds, O Great Divide; Not for myself, O Walla-Walla, Not for myself, O Washington, But for thy future, Oregon." VII And on and on the dumb beast pressed, Uncertain, and without a guide, And found the mountain's curves of rest And sheltered ways of the Divide. His feet grew firm, he found the way With storm-beat limbs and frozen breath, As keen his instincts to obey As was his master's eye of faith. Still on and on, still on and on, And far and far grew Walla-Walla, And far the fields of Oregon. VIII That spring, a man with frozen feet Came to the marble halls of State, And told his mission but to meet The chill of scorn, the scoff of hate. "Is Oregon worth saving?" asked The treaty-makers from the coast; And him the church with questions tasked, And said, "Why did you leave your post?" Was it for this that he had braved The warring storms of mount and sky? Yes!—yet that empire he had saved, And to his post went back to die,— Went back to die for others' sake, Went back to die from Washington, Went back to die for Walla-Walla, For Idaho and Oregon. IX At fair Walla-Walla one may see The city of the Western North, And near it graves unmarked there be That cover souls of royal worth. The flag waves o'er them in the sky Beneath whose stars are cities born, And round them mountain-castled lie The hundred states of Oregon. Hezekiah Butterworth.
DISCOVERY OF SAN FRANCISCO BAY [October 31, 1769] In 1822 California became a province of Mexico, and in 1844 Colonel John Charles FrÉmont reached Sutter's Fort with an exploring expedition. Two years later, during the war with Mexico, he assumed command of the American forces in the country, and established the authority of the United States there. JOHN CHARLES FRÉMONT Pathfinder—and Path-clincher! Who blazed the way, indeed, But more—who made the eternal Fact Whereto a path had need; Who, while our Websters set at naught The thing that Was to Be, Whipped-out our halting, half-way map Full to the Other Sea! 'Twas well that there were some could read The logic of the West! A Kansas-edged geography, Of provinces confessed, Became potential Union And took a Nation's span When God sent Opportunity And Benton found the Man! Charles F. Lummis.
You are looking now on old Tom Moore, A relic of bygone days; A Bummer, too, they call me now, But what care I for praise? For my heart is filled with the days of yore, And oft I do repine For the Days of Old, and the Days of Gold, And the Days of 'Forty-nine. Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc. I had comrades then who loved me well, A jovial, saucy crew: There were some hard cases, I must confess, But they all were brave and true; Who would never flinch, whate'er the pinch, Who never would fret nor whine, But like good old Bricks they stood the kicks In the Days of 'Forty-Nine. Refrain—And my heart is filled, etc. There was Monte Pete—I'll ne'er forget The luck he always had. He would deal for you both day and night, So long as you had a scad. He would play you Draw, he would Ante sling, He would go you a hatfull Blind— But in a game with Death Pete lost his breath In the Days of 'Forty-Nine. Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc. There was New York Jake, a butcher boy, That was always a-getting tight; Whenever Jake got on a spree, He was spoiling for a fight. One day he ran against a knife In the hands of old Bob Cline— So over Jake we held a wake, In the Days of 'Forty-Nine. Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc. There was Rackensack Jim, who could out-roar A Buffalo Bull, you bet! He would roar all night, he would roar all day, And I b'lieve he's a-roaring yet! One night he fell in a prospect-hole— 'Twas a roaring bad design— For in that hole he roared out his soul In the Days of 'Forty-Nine. Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc. There was Poor Lame Ches, a hard old case Who never did repent. Ches never missed a single meal, Nor he never paid a cent. But Poor Lame Ches, like all the rest, Did to death at last resign, For all in his bloom he went up the Flume In the Days of 'Forty-Nine. Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc. And now my comrades all are gone, Not one remains to toast; They have left me here in my misery, Like some poor wandering ghost. And as I go from place to place, Folks call me a "Travelling Sign," Saying "There goes Tom Moore, a Bummer, sure, From the Days of 'Forty-Nine." Refrain—But my heart is filled, etc.
THE OLD SANTA FÉ TRAIL It wound through strange scarred hills, down caÑons lone Where wild things screamed, with winds for company; Its mile-stones were the bones of pioneers. Bronzed, haggard men, often with thirst a-moan, Lashed on their beasts of burden toward the sea: An epic quest it was of elder years, For fabled gardens or for good, red gold, The trail men strove in iron days of old. To-day the steam-god thunders through the vast, While dominant Saxons from the hurtling trains Smile at the aliens, Mexic, Indian, Who offer wares, keen-colored, like their past; Dread dramas of immitigable plains Rebuke the softness of the modern man; No menace, now, the desert's mood of sand; Still westward lies a green and golden land. For, at the magic touch of water, blooms The wilderness, and where of yore the yoke Tortured the toilers into dateless tombs, Lo! brightsome fruits to feed a mighty folk. Richard Burton.
CALIFORNIA [September 9, 1850] Land of gold!—thy sisters greet thee, O'er the mountain and the main; See,—they stretch the hand to meet thee, Youngest of our household train. Many a form their love hath fostered Lingers 'neath thy sunny sky, And their spirit-tokens brighten Every link of sympathy. We 'mid storms of war were cradled, 'Mid the shock of angry foes; Thou, with sudden, dreamlike splendor, Pallas-born,—in vigor rose. Children of one common country, Strong in friendship let us stand, With united ardor earning Glory for our Mother Land. They of gold and they of iron, They who reap the bearded wheat, They who rear the snowy cotton, Pour their treasures at her feet; While with smiling exultation, She, who marks their filial part, Like the mother of the Gracchi, Folds her jewels to her heart. Lydia Huntley Sigourney. CHAPTER IVTHROUGH FIVE ADMINISTRATIONS
THEODOSIA BURR: THE WRECKER'S STORY [January, 1813] In revel and carousing We gave the New Year housing, With wreckage for our firing, And rum to heart's desiring, Antigua and Jamaica, Flagon and stoup and breaker. Full cans and a ranting chorus; Hard hearts for the bout before us— To brave grim Death's grimaces On dazed and staring faces. With dirks and hangers bristling, We for a gale went whistling, Tornado or pampero, To swamp the host of Pharaoh; To goad the mad Atlantic, And drive the skippers frantic; And make the waste a wonder, And plunge the coasters under, And pile the banks with plunder. Then the wild rack came skirling, Ragged and crazed, and whirling Sea-stuff and sand in breakers, Frothing the shelvy acres: Over the banks high bounding, Inlet and sound confounding. Hatteras roared and rumbled, Currituck heaved and tumbled; And the sea-gulls screamed like witches, And sprawled in the briny ditches. Shelter and rest we flouted, Jorum and pipe we scouted, Fiddler and wench we routed. "Fetch out the nag!" we shouted; For a craft in the offing struggled. "Now for a skipper juggled; Now for a coaster stranded, And loot in the lockers landed!" With lantern cheerly rocking On the nag's head, we went mocking— Lilting of tipsy blisses, And Bonnibel's squandered kisses. Straight for that hell-spark steering, Drove the doomed craft careering; Men on her fore-deck huddled, Sea in her wake all cruddled, Kitty Hawk sheer before her, And the breakers booming o'er her. Till the rocks in their lurking stove her, And her riven spars went over, And she lay on her side and shivered, And groaned to be delivered. Boats through the black rift storming, Foes on her quarter swarming; Dirks in the torchlight flashing, And the wicked hangers slashing; Lips that were praying mangled, Throats that were screaming, strangled; Souls in the surges tumbling, Vainly for foothold fumbling; Horror of staring faces, Gruesome in Death's grimaces— And God's wrath overpast us, With never a bolt to blast us! By the brunt of our doings daunted, We crouched where the fore-deck slanted, Scanning each other's faces, Graved with that horror's traces. One, peering aft, wild-staring, Points through the torches flaring: "Spook of the storm, or human? Angel, or wraith, or woman?" Havoc and wreck surveying, Imploring not, nor praying, Nor death nor life refusing; Stony and still—accusing! Black as our hearts the creature's Vesture, her matchless features White as the dead. Oh! wonder Of women high heaven under! So she moved down upon us (Though Death and the Fiend might shun us), And we made passage, cowering. Rigid and mute and towering, Never a frown she deigned us, Never with curse arraigned us. One, trembling, dropped his hanger, And swooned at the awful clangor; But she passed on, unharking, Her steps our doom-strokes marking, Straight to the plank, and mounted. "One, two, three, four!" we counted; Till she paused, o'er the flood suspended, Poised, her lithe arms extended.— And the storm stood still and waited For the stroke of the Lord, belated! John Williamson Palmer.
ON THE DEATH OF COMMODORE OLIVER H. PERRY By strangers honor'd, and by strangers mourn'd. [August 23, 1819] How sad the note of that funereal drum, That's muffled by indifference to the dead! And how reluctantly the echoes come, On air that sighs not o'er that stranger's bed, Who sleeps with death alone. O'er his young head On his lone grave the careless step shall tread, And pestilential vapors soon shall dry Each shrub that buds around—each flow'r that blushes nigh. Let Genius, poising on her full-fledg'd wing, Fill the charm'd air with thy deserved praise! Of war, and blood, and carnage let her sing, Of victory and glory!—let her gaze On the dark smoke that shrouds the cannon's blaze, On the red foam that crests the bloody billow; Then mourn the sad close of thy shorten'd days— Place on thy country's brow the weeping willow, And plant the laurels thick around thy last cold pillow. No sparks of Grecian fire to me belong: Alike uncouth the poet and the lay; Unskill'd to turn the mighty tide of song, He floats along the current as he may, The humble tribute of a tear to pay. Another hand may choose another theme, May sing of Nelson's last and brightest day, Of Wolfe's unequall'd and unrivall'd fame, The wave of Trafalgar—the fields of Abraham: But if the wild winds of thy western lake Might teach a harp that fain would mourn the brave, And sweep those strings the minstrel may not wake, Or give an echo from some secret cave That opens on romantic Erie's wave, The feeble cord would not be swept in vain; And though the sound might never reach thy grave, Yet there are spirits here that to the strain Would send a still small voice responsive back again. John G. C. Brainard.
ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE [September 21, 1820] Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days! None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise. Tears fell, when thou wert dying, From eyes unused to weep, And long where thou art lying, Will tears the cold turf steep. When hearts, whose truth was proven, Like thine, are laid in earth, There should a wreath be woven To tell the world their worth; And I, who woke each morrow To clasp thy hand in mine, Who shared thy joy and sorrow, Whose weal and woe were thine: It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow, But I've in vain essayed it, And feel I cannot now. While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee. Fitz-Greene Halleck.
ON LAYING THE CORNER-STONE OF THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT [June 17, 1825] Oh, is not this a holy spot? 'Tis the high place of Freedom's birth! God of our fathers! is it not The holiest spot of all the earth? Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side; The robber roams o'er Sinai now; And those old men, thy seers, abide No more on Zion's mournful brow. But on this hill thou, Lord, hast dwelt, Since round its head the war-cloud curled, And wrapped our fathers, where they knelt In prayer and battle for a world. Here sleeps their dust: 'tis holy ground: And we, the children of the brave, From the four winds are gathering round, To lay our offering on their grave. Free as the winds around us blow, Free as the waves below us spread, We rear a pile, that long shall throw Its shadow on their sacred bed. But on their deeds no shade shall fall, While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame. Thine ear was bowed to hear their call, And thy right hand shall guard their fame. John Pierpont.
LA FAYETTE Born, nurtured, wedded, prized, within the pale Of peers and princes, high in camp—at court— He hears, in joyous youth, a wild report, Swelling the murmurs of the Western gale, Of a young people struggling to be free! Straight quitting all, across the wave he flies, Aids with his sword, wealth, blood, the high emprize! And shares the glories of its victory. Then comes for fifty years a high romance Of toils, reverses, sufferings, in the cause Of man and justice, liberty and France, Crowned, at the last, with hope and wide applause. Champion of Freedom! Well thy race was run! All time shall hail thee, Europe's noblest Son! Dolly Madison. Washington, April 25, 1848.
THE DEATH OF JEFFERSON [July 4, 1826] I 'Twas midsummer; cooling breezes all the languid forests fanned, And the angel of the evening drew her curtain o'er the land. Like an isle rose Monticello through the cooled and rippling trees, Like an isle in rippling starlight in the silence of the seas. Ceased the mocking-bird his singing; said the slaves with faltering breath, "'Tis the Third, and on the morrow Heaven will send the Angel Death." II In his room at Monticello, lost in dreams the statesman slept, Seeing not the still forms round him, seeing not the eyes that wept, Hearing not the old clock ticking in life's final silence loud, Knowing not when night came o'er him like the shadow of a cloud. In the past his soul is living as in fifty years ago, Hastes again to Philadelphia, hears again the Schuylkill flow— III Meets again the elder Adams—knowing not that far away He is waiting for Death's morrow, on old Massachusetts Bay; Meets with Hancock, young and courtly, meets with Hopkins, bent and old, Meets again calm Roger Sherman, fiery Lee, and Carroll bold, Meets the sturdy form of Franklin, meets the half a hundred men Who have made themselves immortal,—breathes the ancient morn again. IV Once again the Declaration in his nerveless hands he holds, And before the waiting statesmen its prophetic hope unfolds,— Reads again the words puissant, "All men are created free," Claims again for man his birthright, claims the world's equality; Hears the coming and the going of an hundred firm-set feet, Hears the summer breezes blowing 'mid the oak trees cool and sweet. V Sees again tall Patrick Henry by the side of Henry Lee, Hears him cry, "And will ye sign it?—it will make all nations free! Fear ye not the axe or gibbet; it shall topple every throne. Sign it for the world's redemption!—all mankind its truth shall own! Stars may fall, but truth eternal shall not falter, shall not fail. Sign it, and the Declaration shall the voice of ages hail. VI "Sign, and set yon dumb bell ringing, that the people all may know Man has found emancipation; sign, the Almighty wills it so." Sees one sign it, then another, till like magic moves the pen, Till all have signed it, and it lies there, charter of the rights of men. Hears the small bells, hears the great bell, hanging idly in the sun, Break the silence, and the people whisper, awe-struck, "It is done." VII Then the dream began to vanish—burgesses, the war's red flames, Charging Tarleton, proud Cornwallis, navies moving on the James, Years of peace, and years of glory, all began to melt away, And the statesman woke from slumber in the night, and tranquil lay, And his lips moved; friends there gathered with love's silken footstep near, And he whispered, softly whispered in love's low and tender ear,— VIII "It is the Fourth?" "No, not yet," they answered, "but 'twill soon be early morn; We will wake you, if you slumber, when the day begins to dawn." Then the statesman left the present, lived again amid the past, Saw, perhaps, the peopled future ope its portals grand and vast, Till the flashes of the morning lit the far horizon low, And the sun's rays o'er the forests in the east began to glow. IX Rose the sun, and from the woodlands fell the midnight dews like rain, In magnolias cool and shady sang the mocking-bird again; And the statesman woke from slumber, saw the risen sun, and heard Rippling breezes 'mid the oak trees, and the lattice singing bird, And, his eye serene uplifted, as rejoicing in the sun, "It is the Fourth?" his only question,—to the world his final one. X Silence fell on Monticello—for the last dread hour was near, And the old clock's measured ticking only broke upon the ear. All the summer rooms were silent, where the great of earth had trod, All the summer blooms seemed silent as the messengers of God; Silent were the hall and chamber where old councils oft had met, Save the far boom of the cannon that recalled the old day yet. XI Silent still is Monticello—he is breathing slowly now, In the splendors of the noon-tide, with the death-dew on his brow— Silent save the clock still ticking where his soul had given birth To the mighty thoughts of freedom, that should free the fettered earth; Silent save the boom of cannon on the sun-filled wave afar, Bringing 'mid the peace eternal still the memory of war. XII Evening in majestic shadows fell upon the fortress' walls; Sweetly were the last bells ringing on the James and on the Charles. 'Mid the choruses of freedom two departed victors lay, One beside the blue Rivanna, one by Massachusetts Bay. He was gone, and night her sable curtain drew across the sky; Gone his soul into all nations, gone to live and not to die. Hezekiah Butterworth.
OLD IRONSIDES [September 14, 1830] Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon's roar;— The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more. Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee;— The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea! Oh better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave; Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms, The lightning and the gale! Oliver Wendell Holmes. SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE BATTLE MONUMENT, APRIL 19, 1836 By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world. The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone; That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone. Spirit that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee. Ralph Waldo Emerson.
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS [December 17, 1839] It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughtÈr, To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds That ope in the month of May. The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South. Then up and spake an old SailÒr, Had sailed to the Spanish Main, "I pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane. "Last night, the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see!" The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the Northeast, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length. "Come hither, come hither, my little daughtÈr, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow." He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. "O father! I hear the church-bells ring, O say, what may it be?" "'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"— And he steered for the open sea. "O father! I hear the sound of guns, Oh say, what may it be?" "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!" "O father! I see a gleaming light, Oh say, what may it be?" But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That savÈd she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe. And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck. She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts, went by the board; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho! ho! the breakers roared! At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
[October, November, 1840] Harrison was inaugurated March 4, 1841. He was at that time sixty-eight years of age, but he took up the work of his office with a vigor almost youthful. On March 27, however, he contracted a chill, pneumonia developed, and he died April 4. The vice-president, John Tyler, at once took the oath of office as president. THE DEATH OF HARRISON [April 4, 1841] What! soar'd the old eagle to die at the sun! Lies he stiff with spread wings at the goal he had won! Are there spirits more blest than the "Planet of Even," Who mount to their zenith, then melt into Heaven— No waning of fire, no quenching of ray, But rising, still rising, when passing away? Farewell, gallant eagle! thou'rt buried in light! God-speed into Heaven, lost star of our night! Death! Death in the White House! Ah, never before, Trod his skeleton foot on the President's floor! He is look'd for in hovel, and dreaded in hall— The king in his closet keeps hatchment and pall— The youth in his birthplace, the old man at home, Make clean from the door-stone the path to the tomb;— But the lord of this mansion was cradled not here— In a churchyard far-off stands his beckoning bier! He is here as the wave-crest heaves flashing on high— As the arrow is stopp'd by its prize in the sky— The arrow to earth, and the foam to the shore— Death finds them when swiftness and sparkle are o'er— But Harrison's death fills the climax of story— He went with his old stride—from glory to glory! Lay his sword on his breast! There's no spot on its blade In whose cankering breath his bright laurels will fade! 'Twas the first to lead on at humanity's call— It was stay'd with sweet mercy when "glory" was all! As calm in the council as gallant in war, He fought for its country and not its "hurrah!" In the path of the hero with pity he trod— Let him pass—with his sword—to the presence of God! What more? Shall we on with his ashes? Yet, stay! He hath ruled the wide realm of a king in his day! At his word, like a monarch's, went treasure and land— The bright gold of thousands has pass'd through his hand. Is there nothing to show of his glittering hoard? No jewel to deck the rude hilt of his sword— No trappings—no horses?—what had he, but now? Brave old Cincinnatus! Unwind ye his sheet! Let him sleep as he lived—with his purse at this feet! Follow now, as ye list! The first mourner to-day Is the nation—whose father is taken away! Wife, children, and neighbor, may moan on his knell— He was "lover and friend" to his country, as well! For the stars on our banner, grown suddenly dim, Let us weep, in our darkness—but weep not for him! Not for him—who, departing, leaves millions in tears! Not for him—who has died full of honor and years! Not for him—who ascended Fame's ladder so high From the round at the top he has stepp'd to the sky! Nathaniel Parker Willis. CHAPTER VTHE WAR WITH MEXICO
THE VALOR OF BEN MILAM [December 5-11, 1835] Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio? Such was the thrilling word we heard in the chill December glow; Went up from the dun adobe walls to the cloudless Texas sky. He had won from the reek of a Mexique jail back without map or chart, With his mother-wit and his hero-grit and his stanch Kentucky heart; He had trudged by vale and by mountain trail, and by thorny and thirsty plain, And now, with joy on his grizzled brow, he had come to his own again. They're the spawn of Hell! we heard him tell; they will knife and lie and cheat; At the board of none of the swarthy horde would I deign to sit at meat; They hold it naught that I bled and fought when Spain was their ruthless foe; Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio? It was four to one, not gun for gun, but never a curse cared we, Three hundred faithful and fearless men who had sworn to make Texas free. It was mighty odds, by all the gods, this brute of the Mexique dam, But it was not much for heroes such as followed old Ben Milam! With rifle-crack and sabre-hack we drove them back in the street; From house to house in the red carouse we hastened their flying feet; And ever that shout kept pealing out with a swift and sure death-blow: Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio? Behind the walls from the hurtling balls Cos cowered and swore in his beard, While we slashed and slew from dawn till dew, and, Bexar, how we cheered! But ere failed each ruse, and the white of truce on the failing day was thrown, Our fearless soul had gone to the goal, the Land of the Great Unknown. Death brought the darksome boon too soon to this truest one of the true, Or, men of the fated Alamo, Milam had died with you! So when their names that now are Fame's—the scorner of braggart sham;— In song be praised, let a rouse be raised for the name of Ben Milam! Clinton Scollard. BEN MILAM Oft shall the soldier think of thee, Thou dauntless leader of the brave, Who on the heights of Tyranny Won Freedom and a glorious grave. And o'er thy tomb shall pilgrims weep, And pray to heaven in murmurs low That peaceful be the hero's sleep Who conquered San Antonio. Enshrined on Honor's deathless scroll, A nation's thanks will tell thy fame; Long as her beauteous rivers roll Shall Freedom's votaries hymn thy name. For bravest of the Texan clime, Who fought to make her children free, Was Milam, and his death sublime Linked with undying Liberty! William H. Wharton.
THE MEN OF THE ALAMO [February 23-March 6, 1836] To Houston at Gonzales town, ride, Ranger, for your life, Nor stop to say good-bye to-day to home, or child, or wife; But pass the word from ranch to ranch, to every Texan sword, That fifty hundred Mexicans have crossed the Nueces ford, With Castrillon and perjured Cos, SesmÁ and AlmontÊ, And Santa Anna ravenous for vengeance and for prey! Where northward sweeps that locust herd on San Antonio! Now who will bar the foeman's path, to gain a breathing space, Till Houston and his scattered men shall meet him face to face? Who holds his life as less than naught when home and honor call, And counts the guerdon full and fair for liberty to fall? Oh, who but Barrett Travis, the bravest of them all! With seven score of riflemen to play the rancher's game, And feed a counter-fire to halt the sweeping prairie flame; For Bowie of the broken blade is there to cheer them on, With Evans of Concepcion, who conquered Castrillon, And o'er their heads the Lone Star flag defiant floats on high, And no man thinks of yielding, and no man fears to die. But ere the siege is held a week a cry is heard without, A clash of arms, a rifle peal, the Ranger's ringing shout, And two-and-thirty beardless boys have bravely hewed their way To die with Travis if they must, to conquer if they may. Was ever valor held so cheap in Glory's mart before In all the days of chivalry, in all the deeds of war? But once again the foemen gaze in wonderment and fear To see a stranger break their lines and hear the Texans cheer. God! how they cheered to welcome him, those spent and starving men! For Davy Crockett by their side was worth an army then. The wounded ones forgot their wounds; the dying drew a breath To hail the king of border men, then turned to laugh at death. For all knew Davy Crockett, blithe and generous as bold, And strong and rugged as the quartz that hides its heart of gold. His simple creed for word or deed true as the bullet sped, And rung the target straight: "Be sure you're right, then go ahead!" And were they right who fought the fight for Texas by his side? They questioned not; they faltered not; they only fought and died. Who hath an enemy like these, God's mercy slay him straight!— A thousand Mexicans lay dead outside the convent gate, And half a thousand more must die before the fortress falls, And still the tide of war beats high around the leaguered walls. At last the bloody breach is won; the weakened lines give way; The wolves are swarming in the court; the lions stand at bay. The leader meets them at the breach, and wins the soldier's prize; A foeman's bosom sheathes his sword when gallant Travis dies. Now let the victor feast at will until his crest be red— We may not know what raptures fill the vulture with the dead. Let Santa Anna's valiant sword right bravely hew and hack The senseless corse; its hands are cold; they will not strike him back. Let Bowie die, but 'ware the hand that wields his deadly knife; Four went to slay, and one comes back, so dear he sells his life. And last of all let Crockett fall, too proud to sue for grace, So grand in death the butcher dared not look upon his face. But far on San Jacinto's field the Texan toils are set, And Alamo's dread memory the Texan steel shall whet. And Fame shall tell their deeds who fell till all the years be run. "ThermopylÆ left one alive—the Alamo left none." James Jeffrey Roche. THE DEFENCE OF THE ALAMO [March 6, 1835] Santa Ana came storming, as a storm might come; There was rumble of cannon; there was rattle of blade; There was cavalry, infantry, bugle and drum— Full seven thousand in pomp and parade. The chivalry, flower of Mexico; And a gaunt two hundred in the Alamo! And thirty lay sick, and some were shot through; For the siege had been bitter, and bloody, and long. "Surrender, or die!"—"Men, what will you do?" And Travis, great Travis, drew sword, quick and strong; Drew a line at his feet.... "Will you come? Will you go? I die with my wounded, in the Alamo." The Bowie gasped, "Lead me over that line!" Then Crockett, one hand to the sick, one hand to his gun, Crossed with him; then never a word or a sign Till all, sick or well, all, all save but one, One man. Then a woman stepped, praying, and slow Across; to die at her post in the Alamo. Then that one coward fled, in the night, in that night When all men silently prayed and thought Of home; of to-morrow; of God and the right, Till dawn; and with dawn came Travis's cannon-shot, In answer to insolent Mexico, From the old bell-tower of the Alamo. Then came Santa Ana; a crescent of flame! Then the red escalade; then the fight hand to hand; Such an unequal fight as never had name Since the Persian hordes butchered that doomed Spartan band. All day—all day and all night; and the morning? so slow, Through the battle smoke mantling the Alamo. Now silence! Such silence! Two thousand lay dead In a crescent outside! And within? Not a breath Save the gasp of a woman, with gory gashed head, All alone, all alone there, waiting for death; And she but a nurse. Yet when shall we know Another like this of the Alamo? Shout "Victory, victory, victory ho!" I say 'tis not always to the hosts that win! I say that the victory, high or low, Is given the hero who grapples with sin, Or legion or single; just asking to know When duty fronts death in his Alamo. Joaquin Miller.
THE FIGHT AT SAN JACINTO [April 21, 1836] "Now for a brisk and cheerful fight!" Said Harman, big and droll, As he coaxed his flint and steel for a light, And puffed at his cold clay bowl; "For we are a skulking lot," says he, "Of land-thieves hereabout, And the bold seÑores, two to one, Have come to smoke us out." Santa Anna and Castrillon, Almonte brave and gay, Portilla red from Goliad, And Cos with his smart array. Dulces and cigaritos, And the light guitar, ting-tum! Sant' Anna courts siesta— And Sam Houston taps his drum. The buck stands still in the timber— "Is't the patter of nuts that fall?" The foal of the wild mare whinnies— "Did he hear the Comanche call?" The slinking she-wolves howl, And the mustang's snort in the river sedge Has startled the paddling fowl. A soft low tap, and a muffled tap, And a roll not loud nor long— We would not break Sant' Anna's nap, Nor spoil Almonte's song. Saddles and knives and rifles! Lord! but the men were glad When Deaf Smith muttered "Alamo!" And Karnes hissed "Goliad!" The drummer tucked his sticks in his belt, And the fifer gripped his gun. Oh, for one free, wild Texan yell, And we took the slope in a run! But never a shout nor a shot we spent, Nor an oath nor a prayer that day, Till we faced the bravos, eye to eye, And then we blazed away. Then we knew the rapture of Ben Milam, And the glory that Travis made, With Bowie's lunge and Crockett's shot, And Fannin's dancing blade; And the heart of the fighter, bounding free In his joy so hot and mad— When Millard charged for Alamo, Lamar for Goliad. Deaf Smith rode straight, with reeking spur, Into the shock and rout: "I've hacked and burned the bayou bridge, There's no sneak's back-way out!" Muzzle or butt for Goliad, Pistol and blade and fist! Oh, for the knife that never glanced, And the gun that never missed! Dulces and cigaritos, Song and the mandolin! That gory swamp was a gruesome grove To dance fandangos in. We bridged the bog with the sprawling herd That fell in that frantic rout; We slew and slew till the sun set red, And the Texan star flashed out. John Williamson Palmer.
SONG OF TEXAS Make room on our banner bright That flaps in the lifting gale, For the orb that lit the fight In Jacinto's storied vale. Through clouds, all dark of hue, It arose with radiant face; Oh, grant to a sister true, Ye stars, in your train a place! The blood of the Saxon flows In the veins of the men who cry,— "Give ear, give ear unto those Who pine for their native sky! We call on our Motherland For a home in Freedom's hall,— While stretching forth the hand, Oh, build no dividing wall! "The Mexican vaunteth no more; In strife we have tamed his pride; The coward raps not at your door, Speak out! shall it open wide? Oh, the wish of our hearts is strong, That the star of Jacinto's fight Have place in the flashing throng That spangle your banner bright." William Henry Cuyler Hosmer.
TEXAS VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND Up the hillside, down the glen, Rouse the sleeping citizen; Summon out the might of men! Like a lion growling low, Like a night-storm rising slow, Like the tread of unseen foe; It is coming, it is nigh! Stand your homes and altars by; On your own free thresholds die. Clang the bells in all your spires; On the gray hills of your sires Fling to heaven your signal-fires. From Wachuset, lone and bleak, Unto Berkshire's tallest peak, Let the flame-tongued heralds speak. Oh, for God and duty stand, Heart to heart and hand to hand, Round the old graves of the land. Whoso shrinks or falters now, Whoso to the yoke would bow, Brand the craven on his brow! Freedom's soil hath only place For a free and fearless race, None for traitors false and base. Perish party, perish clan; Strike together while ye can, Like the arm of one strong man. Like that angel's voice sublime, Heard above a world of crime, Crying of the end of time; With one heart and with one mouth, Let the North unto the South Speak the word befitting both: "What though Issachar be strong! Ye may load his back with wrong Overmuch and over long: "Patience with her cup o'errun, With her weary thread outspun, Murmurs that her work is done. "Make our Union-bond a chain, Weak as tow in Freedom's strain Link by link shall snap in twain. "Vainly shall your sand-wrought rope Bind the starry cluster up, Shattered over heaven's blue cope! "Give us bright though broken rays, Rather than eternal haze, Clouding o'er the full-orbed blaze. "Take your land of sun and bloom; Only leave to Freedom room For her plough, and forge, and loom; "Take your slavery-blackened vales; Leave us but our own free gales, Blowing on our thousand sails. "Boldly, or with treacherous art, Strike the blood-wrought chain apart; Break the Union's mighty heart; "Work the ruin, if ye will; Pluck upon your heads an ill Which shall grow and deepen still. "With your bondman's right arm bare, With his heart of black despair, Stand alone, if stand ye dare! "Onward with your fell design; Dig the gulf and draw the line: Fire beneath your feet the mine: "Deeply, when the wide abyss Yawns between your land and this, Shall ye feel your helplessness. "By the hearth and in the bed, Shaken by a look or tread, Ye shall own a guilty dread. "And the curse of unpaid toil, Downward through your generous soil Like a fire shall burn and spoil. "Our bleak hills shall bud and blow, Vines our rocks shall overgrow, Plenty in our valleys flow;— "And when vengeance clouds your skies, Hither shall ye turn your eyes, As the lost on Paradise! "We but ask our rocky strand, Freedom's true and brother band, Freedom's strong and honest hand; "Valleys by the slave untrod, And the Pilgrim's mountain sod, BlessÈd of our fathers' God!" John Greenleaf Whittier.
MR. HOSEA BIGLOW SPEAKS Thrash away, you'll hev to rattle On them kittle-drums o' yourn,— 'Taint a knowin' kind o' cattle Thet is ketched with mouldy corn; Put in stiff, you fifer feller, Let folks see how spry you be,— Guess you'll toot till you are yeller 'Fore you git ahold o' me! Thet air flag's a leetle rotten, Hope it aint your Sunday's best;— Fact! it takes a sight o' cotton To stuff out a soger's chest: Sence we farmers hev to pay fer 't, Ef you must wear humps like these, S'posin' you should try salt hay fer 't, It would du ez slick ez grease. 'Twouldn't suit them Southun fellers, They're a dreffle graspin' set, We must ollers blow the bellers Wen they want their irons het; May be it's all right ez preachin', But my narves it kind o' grates, Wen I see the overreachin' O' them nigger-drivin' States. Them thet rule us, them slave-traders, Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth (Helped by Yankee renegaders), Thru the vartu o' the North! We begin to think it's nater To take sarse an' not be riled;— Who'd expect to see a tater All on eend at bein' biled? Ez fer war, I call it murder,— There you hev it plain an' flat; I don't want to go no furder Than my Testyment fer that; God hez sed so plump an' fairly, It's ez long ez it is broad, An' you've gut to git up airly Ef you want to take in God. 'Taint your eppyletts an' feathers Make the thing a grain more right; 'Taint afollerin' your bell-wethers Will excuse ye in His sight; Ef you take a sword an' dror it, An' go stick a feller thru, Guv'ment aint to answer for it, God'll send the bill to you. Wut's the use o' meetin'-goin' Every Sabbath, wet or dry, Ef it's right to go amowin' Feller-men like oats an' rye? I dunno but what it's pooty Trainin' round in bobtail coats,— But it's curus Christian dooty This 'ere cuttin' folks's throats. They may talk o' Freedom's airy Tell they're pupple in the face,— It's a grand gret cemetary Fer the barthrights of our race; They jest want this Californy So's to lug new slave-states in To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye, An' to plunder ye like sin. Aint it cute to see a Yankee Take sech everlastin' pains, All to get the Devil's thankee Helpin' on 'em weld their chains? Wy, it's jest ez clear es figgers, Clear ez one an' one make two, Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggers Want to make wite slaves o' you. Tell ye jest the eend I've come to Arter cipherin' plaguy smart, An' it makes a handy sum, tu, Any gump could larn by heart; Laborin' man an' laborin' woman, Hev one glory an' one shame, Ev'y thin' thet's done inhuman Injers all on 'em the same. 'Taint by turnin' out to hack folks You're agoin' to git your right, Nor by lookin' down on black folks Coz you're put upon by wite; Slavery aint o' nary color, 'Taint the hide thet makes it wus, All it keers fer in a feller 'S jest to make him fill its pus. Want to tackle me in, du ye? I expect you'll hev to wait; Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye You'll begin to kal'late; S'pose the crows wun't fall to pickin' All the carkiss from your bones, Coz you helped to give a lickin' To them poor half-Spanish drones? Jest go home an' ask our Nancy Wether I'd be such a goose Ez to jine ye,—guess you'd fancy The eternal bung wuz loose! She wants me fer home consumption, Let alone the hay's to mow,— Ef you're arter folks o' gumption, You've a darned long row to hoe. Take them editors thet's crowin' Like a cockerel three months old,— Don't ketch any on 'em goin', Though they be so blasted bold; Aint they a prime lot o' fellers? 'Fore they think on 't guess they'll sprout (Like a peach thet's got the yellers), With the meanness bustin' out. Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin' Bigger pens to cram with slaves, Help the men thet's ollers dealin' Insults on your fathers' graves; Help the strong to grind the feeble, Help the many agin the few, Help the men thet call your people Witewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew! Massachusetts, God forgive her, She's akneelin' with the rest, She, thet ough' to ha' clung ferever In her grand old eagle-nest; She thet ough' to stand so fearless W'ile the wracks are round her hurled, Holdin' up a beacon peerless To the oppressed of all the world! Ha'n't they sold your colored seamen? Ha'n't they made your env'ys w'iz? Wut'll make ye act like freemen? Wut'll git your dander riz? Come, I tell you wut I'm thinkin' Is our dooty in this fix, They'd ha' done 't ez quick ez winkin' In the days o' seventy-six. Clang the bells in every steeple, Call all true men to disown The tradoocers of our people, The enslavers o' their own; Let our dear old Bay State proudly Put the trumpet to her mouth, Let her ring this messidge loudly In the ears of all the South:— "I'll return ye good fer evil Much ez we frail mortils can, But I wun't go help the Devil Makin' man the cus o' man; Call me coward, call me traitor, Jest ez suits your mean idees,— Here I stand a tyrant-hater, An' the friend o' God an' Peace!" Ef I'd my way I hed ruther We should go to work an' part, They take one way, we take t'other, Guess it wouldn't break my heart; Man hed ough' to put asunder Them thet God has noways jined; An' I shouldn't gretly wonder Ef there's thousands o' my mind. James Russell Lowell.
THE GUNS IN THE GRASS [May 8, 1846] Blake brought back with him an accurate description of the disposition of the Mexican forces, and Taylor resolved to attack, despite the odds against him. His artillery did great execution, and gradually advanced, as the Mexicans were forced back. Charge after charge was repulsed, and the Mexicans finally withdrew to Resaca de la Palma. There Taylor attacked them next day, routed them, and marched on to relieve Fort Brown. RIO BRAVO—A MEXICAN LAMENT [May 8, 1846] Rio Bravo! Rio Bravo! Saw men ever such a sight? Since the field of Roncesvalles Sealed the fate of many a knight. Dark is Palo Alto's story, Sad Reseca Palma's rout, On those fatal fields so gory, Many a gallant life went out. There our best and bravest lances Shivered 'gainst the Northern steel, Left the valiant hearts that couched them 'Neath the Northern charger's heel. Rio Bravo! Rio Bravo! Minstrel ne'er knew such a fight Since the field of Roncesvalles Sealed the fate of many a knight. Rio Bravo, fatal river, Saw ye not while red with gore, Torrejon all headless quiver, A ghastly trunk upon thy shore! Heard you not the wounded coursers Shrieking on your trampled banks, As the Northern winged artillery Thundered on our shattered ranks! There Arista, best and bravest, There Raguena, tried and true, On the fatal field thou lavest, Nobly did all men could do. Vainly there those heroes rally, Castile on Montezuma's shore, "Rio Bravo"—"Roncesvalles," Ye are names blent evermore. Weepest thou, lorn lady Inez, For thy lover 'mid the slain, Cleft his slayer to the brain. Brave La Vega who all lonely, By a host of foes beset, Yielded up his sabre only When his equal there he met. Other champions not less noted Sleep beneath that sullen wave; Rio Bravo, thou hast floated An army to an ocean grave. On they came, those Northern horsemen, On like eagles toward the sun, Followed then the Northern bayonet, And the field was lost and won. Oh! for Orlando's horn to rally His Paladins on that sad shore, "Rio Bravo"—"Roncesvalles," Ye are names blent evermore. Translated by Charles Fenno Hoffman from the Spanish of Don Jose de Saltillo.
TO ARMS [1846] Awake! arise, ye men of might! The glorious hour is nigh,— Your eagle pauses in his flight, And screams his battle-cry. From North to South, from East to West: Send back an answering cheer, And say farewell to peace and rest, And banish doubt and fear. Arm! arm! your country bids you arm! Fling out your banners free— Let drum and trumpet sound alarm, O'er mountains, plain, and sea. March onward from th' Atlantic shore, To Rio Grande's tide— Fight as your fathers fought of yore! Die as your fathers died! Go! vindicate your country's fame, Avenge your country's wrong! The sons should own a deathless name, To whom such sires belong. The kindred of the noble dead As noble deeds should dare: The fields whereon their blood was shed A deeper stain must bear. To arms! to arms! ye men of might; Away from home, away! The first and foremost in the fight Are sure to win the day! Park Benjamin.
MONTEREY [September 23, 1846] 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 been with us at Monterey. Now here, now there, the shot is 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: 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? Charles Fenno Hoffman.
VICTOR GALBRAITH [September 23, 1846] Under the walls of Monterey At daybreak the bugles began to play, Victor Galbraith! In the mist of the morning damp and gray, These were the words they seemed to say: "Come forth to thy death, Victor Galbraith!" Forth he came, with a martial tread; Firm was his step, erect his head; Victor Galbraith, He who so well the bugle played, Could not mistake the words it said: "Come forth to thy death, Victor Galbraith!" He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, He looked at the files of musketry, Victor Galbraith! And he said, with a steady voice and eye, "Take good aim; I am ready to die!" Thus challenges death Victor Galbraith. Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red, Six leaden balls on their errand sped; Victor Galbraith Falls to the ground, but he is not dead: His name was not stamped on those balls of lead, And they only scath Victor Galbraith. Three balls are in his breast and brain, But he rises out of the dust again, Victor Galbraith! The water he drinks has a bloody stain; "Oh, kill me, and put me out of my pain!" In his agony prayeth Victor Galbraith. Forth dart once more those tongues of flame, And the bugler has died a death of shame, Victor Galbraith! His soul has gone back to whence it came, And no one answers to the name When the Sergeant saith, "Victor Galbraith!" Under the walls of Monterey By night a bugle is heard to play, Victor Galbraith! Through the mist of the valley damp and gray The sentinels hear the sound, and say, "That is the wraith Of Victor Galbraith!" Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
BUENA VISTA [February 22-23, 1847] 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:— 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: Great bands of shameless fugitives are fleeing from the field, 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! Again our line advances! Gallant Davis fronts the foe, 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; More work remains for us to do, ere the good fight is won. 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: Thus baffled in their last attack, compelled perforce to yield, 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! Albert Pike. February 28, 1847. [February 22-23, 1847] Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away, O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array, Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they near? Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear. "Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls; Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their souls!" Who is losing? who is winning? "Over hill and over plain, I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain rain." Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, look once more. "Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse, Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain course." Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke has rolled away; And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray. Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of Minon wheels; There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their heels. "Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now advance! Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance! Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together fall; Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the Northern ball." Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on! Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost, and who has won? "Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together fall, O'er the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters, for them all! "Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting. Blessed Mother, save my brain! I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain. Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and strive to rise; Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes! "O my heart's love! O my dear one! lay thy poor head on my knee; Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me? canst thou see? O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernal, look once more On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy! mercy! all is o'er!" Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest; Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast; Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said; To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid. Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away; But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt, She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt. With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her head; With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her dead; But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain, And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again. Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand and faintly smiled; Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch beside her child? All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart supplied; With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" murmured he, and died! "A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth, From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, in the North!" Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead, And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled. Look forth once more, Ximena! "Like a cloud before the wind Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind; Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded strive; Hide your faces, holy angels! O thou Christ of God, forgive!" Sink, O Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray shadows fall; Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all! Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled, In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold. But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and lacking food. Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they hung, And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern tongue. Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours; Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden flowers; From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer, And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air! John Greenleaf Whittier.
THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 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 Their 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 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. Theodore O'Hara.
WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS [1847] Guvener B. is a sensible man; He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes; But John P. Robinson he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du? We can't never choose him o' course,—thet's flat; Guess we shell hev to come round, (don't you?) An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf; But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,— He's ben true to one party,—an' thet is himself;— So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; He don't vally princerple more 'n an old cud; Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood? So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village, With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint, We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage, An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint; But John P. Robinson he Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee. The side of our country must ollers be took, An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country. An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry; An' John P. Robinson he Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. Parson Wilbur he calls all these argiments lies; Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum; An' thet all this big talk of our destinies Is half on it ign'ance, an' t'other half rum; But John P. Robinson he Sez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we. Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats, To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes; But John P. Robinson he Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee. Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,— God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers, To start the world's team wen it gits in a slough; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee! James Russell Lowell.
BATTLE OF THE KING'S MILL [September 8, 1847] Said my landlord, white-headed Gil Gomez, With newspaper held in his hand— "So they've built from El Paso a railway That Yankees may visit our land. As guests let them come and be welcome, But not as they came here before; They are rather rough fellows to handle In the rush of the battle and roar. "They took Vera Cruz and its castle; In triumph they marched through the land; We fought them with desperate daring, But lacked the right man to command. They stormed, at a loss, Cerro Gordo— Every mile in their movement it cost; And when they arrived at Puebla, Some thousands of men they had lost. "Ere our capital fell, and the city By foreign invaders was won, We called out among its defenders Each man who could handle a gun. Chapultepec stood in their pathway; Churubusco they had to attack; The mill of the King—well, I fought there, And they were a hard nut to crack. "While their right was assailing the ramparts, Our force struck their left on the field, Where our colonel, in language that stirred us, To love of our country appealed. And we swore that we never would falter Before either sabre or ball; We would beat back the foeman before us, Or dead on the battle-field fall. "Fine words, you may say, but we meant them; And so when they came up the hill, We poured on them volley on volley, And riddled their ranks with a will. Their line in a moment was broken; They closed it, and came with a cheer; But still we fired quickly and deadly, And felt neither pity nor fear. "We smote the blue column with grape-shot, But it rushed as the wild torrent runs; At the pieces they slew our best gunners, And took in the struggle our guns. We sprang in a rage to retake them, And lost nearly half of our men; Then, baffled and beaten, retreated, And gained our position again. "Ceased their yell, and in spite of our firing They dressed like an arrow in line, Then, standing there moveless a moment, Their eyes flashed with purpose malign, All still as the twilight in summer, No cloud on the sky to deform, Like the lull in the voices of nature Ere wakens the whirlwind and storm. "We had fought them with death-daring spirit, And courage unyielding till then; No man could have forced us to falter, But these were more demons than men. Our ranks had been torn by their bullets, We filled all the gaps they had made; But the pall of that terrible silence The hearts of our boldest dismayed. "Before us no roaring of cannon, Rifle-rattle, or musketry peal; Surged steady the billow of steel. Fierce we opened our fire on the column, We pierced it with ball here and there; But it swept on in pitiless sternness Till we faltered and fled in despair. "After that all their movements were easy; At their storming Chapultepec fell, And that ended the war—we were beaten: No story is left me to tell. And now they come back to invade us, Though not with the bullet and blade; They are here with their goods on a railway, To conquer the country by trade." Thomas Dunn English.
THE SIEGE OF CHAPULTEPEC [September 13, 1847] While these victories were being won in Mexico, General Stephen W. Kearny, at the head of the Army of the West, had seized the territory of New Mexico, and established a civil government at Santa FÉ. He then proceeded to California, defeated the Mexicans at Sacramento, and took possession of that province. ILLUMINATION FOR VICTORIES IN MEXICO Light up thy homes, Columbia, For those chivalric men Who bear to scenes of warlike strife Thy conquering arms again, Where glorious victories, flash on flash, Reveal their stormy way,— Resaca's, Palo Alto's fields, The heights of Monterey! They pile with thousands of thy foes Buena Vista's plain; With maids and wives, at Vera Cruz, Swell high the list of slain! They paint upon the Southern skies The blaze of burning domes,— Light up, light up thy homes! Light up your homes, O fathers! For those young hero bands, Whose march is still through vanquished towns, And over conquered lands! Whose valor, wild, impetuous, In all its fiery glow, Pours onward like a lava-tide, And sweeps away the foe! For those whose dead brows glory crowns, On crimson couches sleeping, And for home faces wan with grief, And fond eyes dim with weeping. And for the soldier, poor, unknown, Who battled, madly brave, Beneath a stranger soil to share A shallow, crowded grave. Light up thy home, young mother! Then gaze in pride and joy Upon those fair and gentle girls, That eagle-eyed young boy; And clasp thy darling little one Yet closer to thy breast, And be thy kisses on its lips In yearning love impressed. In yon beleaguered city Were homes as sweet as thine; Where trembling mothers felt loved arms In fear around them twine,— The lad with brow of olive hue, The babe like lily fair, The maiden with her midnight eyes, And wealth of raven hair. The booming shot, the murderous shell, Crashed through the crumbling walls, And filled with agony and death Those sacred household halls! Then, bleeding, crushed, and blackened, lay The sister by the brother, And the torn infant gasped and writhed On the bosom of the mother! O sisters, if ye have no tears For fearful tales like these, If the banners of the victors veil The victim's agonies, If ye lose the babe's and mother's cry In the noisy roll of drums, If your hearts with martial pride throb high, Light up, light up your homes! Grace Greenwood.
THE CRISIS Across the Stony Mountains, o'er the desert's drouth and sand, The circles of our empire touch the western ocean's strand; From slumberous Timpanogos to Gila, wild and free, Flowing down from Nuevo-Leon to California's sea; And from the mountains of the east, to Santa Rosa's shore, The eagles of Mexitli shall beat the air no more. O Vale of Rio Bravo! Let thy simple children weep; Close watch about their holy fire let maids of Pecos keep; Let Taos send her cry across Sierra Madre's pines, And Santa Barbara toll her bells amidst her corn and vines; For lo! the pale land-seekers come, with eager eyes of gain, Wide scattering, like the bison herds on broad Salada's plain. Let Sacramento's herdsmen heed what sound the winds bring down Of footsteps on the crisping snow, from cold Nevada's crown! Full hot and fast the Saxon rides, with rein of travel slack, And, bending o'er his saddle, leaves the sunrise at his back; By many a lonely river, and gorge of fir and pine, On many a wintry hill-top, his nightly camp-fires shine. O countrymen and brothers! that land of lake and plain, Of salt wastes alternating with valleys fat with grain; Of mountains white with winter, looking downward, cold, serene, On their feet with spring-vines tangled and lapped in softest green; Swift through whose black volcanic gates, o'er many a sunny vale, Wind-like the Arapahoe sweeps the bison's dusty trail! Great spaces yet untravelled, great lakes whose mystic shores The Saxon rifle never heard, nor dip of Saxon oars; Great herds that wander all unwatched, wild steeds that none have tamed, Strange fish in unknown streams, and birds the Saxon never named; Deep mines, dark mountain crucibles, where Nature's chemic powers Work out the Great Designer's will; all these ye say are ours! Forever ours! for good or ill, on us the burden lies: God's balance, watched by angels, is hung across the skies. Shall Justice, Truth, and Freedom turn the poised and trembling scale? Or shall the Evil triumph, and robber Wrong prevail? Shall the broad land o'er which our flag in starry splendor waves, Forego through us its freedom, and bear the tread of slaves? The day is breaking in the East of which the prophets told, And brightens up the sky of Time the Christian Age of Gold; Old Might to Right is yielding, battle blade to clerkly pen, Earth's monarchs are her peoples, and her serfs stand up as men; The isles rejoice together, in a day are nations born, And the slave walks free in Tunis, and by Stamboul's Golden Horn! Is this, O countrymen of mine! a day for us to sow The soil of new-gained empire with slavery's seeds of woe? To feed with our fresh life-blood the Old World's cast-off crime, Dropped, like some monstrous early birth, from the tired lap of Time? To run anew the evil race the old lost nations ran, And die like them of unbelief of God, and wrong of man? Great Heaven! Is this our mission? End in this the prayers and tears, The toil, the strife, the watchings of our younger, better years? Still as the Old World rolls in light, shall ours in shadow turn, A beamless Chaos, cursed of God, through outer darkness borne? Where the far nations looked for light, a blackness in the air? Where for words of hope they listened, the long wail of despair? The Crisis presses on us; face to face with us it stands, With solemn lips of question, like the Sphinx in Egypt's sands! This day we fashion Destiny, our web of Fate we spin; This day for all hereafter choose we holiness or sin; Even now from starry Gerizim, or Ebal's cloudy crown, We call the dews of blessing or the bolts of cursing down! By all for which the martyrs bore their agony and shame; By all the warning words of truth with which the prophets came; By the Future which awaits us; by all the hopes which cast Their faint and trembling beams across the blackness of the Past; And by the blessed thought of Him who for Earth's freedom died, O my people! O my brothers! let us choose the righteous side. So shall the Northern pioneer go joyful on his way; To wed Penobscot's waters to San Francisco's bay, To make the rugged places smooth, and sow the vales with grain; And bear, with Liberty and Law, the Bible in his train: And mountain unto mountain call, Praise God, for we are free! John Greenleaf Whittier.
THE VOLUNTEERS [1849] The Volunteers! the Volunteers! I dream, as in the by-gone years, I hear again their stirring cheers, And see their banners shine, What time the yet unconquered North Pours to the wars her legions forth, For many a wrong to strike a blow With mailÈd hand at Mexico. The Volunteers! Ah, where are they Who bade the hostile surges stay, When the black forts of Monterey Frowned on their dauntless line? When, undismayed amid the shock Of war, like Cerro Gordo's rock, They stood, or rushed more madly on Than tropic tempest o'er San Juan? On Angostura's crowded field Their shattered columns scorned to yield, And wildly yet defiance pealed Their flashing batteries' throats; And echoed then the rifle's crack, As deadly as when on the track Of flying foe, of yore, its voice Bade Orleans' dark-eyed girls rejoice. Blent with the roar of guns and bombs, How grandly from the dim past comes The roll of their victorious drums, Their bugle's joyous notes, When over Mexico's proud towers, And the fair valley's storied bowers, Fit recompense of toil and scars, In triumph waved their flag of stars. Ah, comrades, of your own tried troop, Whose honor ne'er to shame might stoop, Of lion heart and eagle swoop, But you alone remain; On all the rest has fallen the hush Of death; the men whose battle-rush Was wild as sun-loosed torrent's flow From Orizaba's crest of snow. The Volunteers! the Volunteers! God send us peace through all our years, But if the cloud of war appears, We'll see them once again. From broad Ohio's peaceful side, From where the Maumee pours its tide, From storm-lashed Erie's wintry shore, Shall spring the Volunteers once more. William Haines Lytle. CHAPTER VIFOURTEEN YEARS OF PEACE
THE SHIP CANAL FROM THE ATLANTIC TO THE PACIFIC AN ODE TO THE AMERICAN PEOPLE AND THEIR CONGRESS, Rend America asunder And unite the Binding Sea That emboldens man and tempers— Make the ocean free. Break the bolt that bars the passage, That our River richly pours Western wealth to western nations; Let that sea be ours— Ours by all the hardy whalers, By the pointing Oregon, By the west-impelled and working, Unthralled Saxon son. Long indeed they have been wooing, The Pacific and his bride; Join them by the tide. Have the snowy surfs not struggled Many centuries in vain That their lips might seal the Union? Lock them main to main. When the mighty God of nature Made this favored continent, He allowed it yet unsevered, That a race be sent, Able, mindful of his purpose, Prone to people, to subdue, And to bind the land with iron, Or to force it through. What the prophet-navigator, Seeking straits to his Catais, But began, now consummate it— Make the strait and pass. Blessed the eyes that shall behold it, When the pointing boom shall veer, Leading through the parted Andes, While the nations cheer! There at Suez, Europe's mattock Cuts the briny road with skill, And must Darien bid defiance To the pilot still? Do we breathe this breath of Knowledge Purely to enjoy its zest? Shall the iron arm of science Like a sluggard rest? Up then, at it! earnest people! Bravely wrought thy scorning blade, But there's fresher fame in store yet, Glory for the spade. What we want is naught in envy, And for all we pioneer; Let the keels of every nation Through the isthmus steer. Must the globe be always girded Ere we get to Bramah's priest? Take the tissues of your Lowells Westward to the East. Ye, that vanquish pain and distance, Ye, enmeshing Time with wire, Court ye patiently forever Yon Antarctic ire? Shall the mariner forever Double the impending capes, While his longsome and retracing Needless course he shapes? What was daring for our fathers, To defy those billows fierce, Is but tame for their descendants; We are bid to pierce. Ye that fight with printing armies, Settle sons on forlorn track, As the Romans flung their eagles, But to win them back. Who, undoubting, worship boldness, And, if baffled, bolder rise, Shall we lag when grandeur beckons To this good emprize? Let the vastness not appal us; Greatness is thy destiny. Let the doubters not recall us: Venture suits the free. Like a seer, I see her throning, Winland strong in freedom's health, Warding peace on both the waters, Widest Commonwealth. Crowned with wreaths that still grow greener, Guerdon for untiring pain, For the wise, the stout, and steadfast: Rend the land in twain. Cleave America asunder, This is worthy work for thee. Hark! The seas roll up imploring "Make the ocean free." Francis Lieber.
THE WAR SHIP OF PEACE [1847] Sweet land of song, thy harp doth hang Upon the willow now, Stamps mis'ry on thy brow; Yet take thy harp and raise thy voice, Though weak and low it be, And let thy sinking heart rejoice In friends still left to thee. Look out! look out! across the sea That girds thy em'rald shore, A ship of war is bound to thee, But with no war-like store. Her thunders sleep; 'tis mercy's breath That wafts her o'er the sea; She goes not forth to deal out death, But bears new life to thee. Thy wasted hands can scarcely strike The chords of grateful praise, Thy plaintive tone is now unlike The voice of prouder days; Yet, e'en in sorrow, tuneful still, Let Erin's voice proclaim In bardic praise on ev'ry hill Columbia's glorious name. Samuel Lover.
ON THE DEFEAT OF HENRY CLAY [June 8, 1848] Fallen? How fallen? States and empires fall; O'er towers and rock-built walls, And perished nations, floods to tempests call With hollow sound along the sea of time: The great man never falls. He lives, he towers aloft, he stands sublime— They fall who give him not The honor here that suits his future name— They die and are forgot. O Giant loud and blind! the great man's fame Is his own shadow and not cast by thee— A shadow that shall grow As down the heaven of time the sun descends, And on the world shall throw His god-like image, till it sinks where blends Time's dim horizon with Eternity. William Wilberforce Lord.
ON THE DEATH OF M. D'OSSOLI AND HIS WIFE, MARGARET FULLER [July 16, 1850] Over his millions Death has lawful power, But over thee, brave D'Ossoli! none, none. After a longer struggle, in a fight Worthy of Italy, to youth restored, Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the surge Of the Atlantic; on its shore; in reach Of help; in trust of refuge; sunk with all Precious on earth to thee—a child, a wife! Proud as thou wert of her, America Is prouder, showing to her sons how high Swells woman's courage in a virtuous breast. She would not leave behind her those she loved; Such solitary safety might become Others; not her; not her who stood beside The pallet of the wounded, when the worst Of France and Perfidy assailed the walls Of unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul, Renowned for the strength of genius, Margaret! Rest with the twain too dear! My words are few, And shortly none will hear my failing voice, But the same language with more full appeal Shall hail thee. Many are the sons of song Whom thou hast heard upon thy native plains Worthy to sing of thee: the hour is come; Take we our seats and let the dirge begin. Walter Savage Landor.
THE LAST APPENDIX TO "YANKEE DOODLE" [Punch, 1851] Yankee Doodle sent to Town His goods for exhibition; Everybody ran him down, And laugh'd at his position. A goney, muff, or noodle; Laugh on, good people,—never mind— Says quiet Yankee Doodle. Chorus—Yankee Doodle, keep it up, Yankee Doodle Dandy! Mind the music and the step, And with the girls be handy! Yankee Doodle had a craft, A rather tidy clipper, And he challenged, while they laughed, The Britishers to whip her. Their whole yacht-squadron she outsped, And that on their own water; Of all the lot she went ahead, And they came nowhere arter. O'er PanamÀ there was a scheme Long talked of, to pursue a Short route—which many thought a dream— By Lake Nicaragua. John Bull discussed the plan on foot, With slow irresolution, While Yankee Doodle went and put It into execution. A steamer of the Collins line, A Yankee Doodle's notion, Has also quickest cut the brine Across the Atlantic Ocean. And British Agents, no ways slow Her merits to discover, Have been and bought her—just to tow The Cunard packets over. Your gunsmiths of their skill may crack, But that again don't mention: I guess that Colts' revolvers whack Their very first invention. By Yankee Doodle, too, you're beat Downright in Agriculture, With his machine for reaping wheat, Chawed up as by a vulture. You also fancied, in your pride, Which truly is tarnation, Them British locks of yourn defied The rogues of all creation; But Chubbs' and Bramah's Hobbs has picked, And you must now be viewed all As having been completely licked By glorious Yankee Doodle. DANIEL WEBSTER [Died October 24, 1852] When life hath run its largest round Of toil and triumph, joy and woe, How brief a storied page is found To compass all its outward show! The world-tried sailor tires and droops; His flag is rent, his keel forgot; His farthest voyages seem but loops That float from life's entangled knot. But when within the narrow space Some larger soul hath lived and wrought, Whose sight was open to embrace The boundless realms of deed and thought,— When, stricken by the freezing blast, A nation's living pillars fall, How rich the storied page, how vast, A word, a whisper, can recall! No medal lifts its fretted face, Nor speaking marble cheats your eye; Yet, while these pictured lines I trace, A living image passes by: A roof beneath the mountain pines; The cloisters of a hill-girt plain; The front of life's embattled lines; A mound beside the heaving main. These are the scenes: a boy appears; Set life's round dial in the sun. Count the swift arc of seventy years, His frame is dust; his task is done. Yet pause upon the noontide hour, Ere the declining sun has laid His bleaching rays on manhood's power, And look upon the mighty shade. No gloom that stately shape can hide, No change uncrown his brow: behold! Dark, calm, large-fronted, lightning-eyed, Earth has no double from its mould! Ere from the fields by valor won The battle-smoke had rolled away, And bared the blood-red setting sun, His eyes were opened on the day. His land was but a shelving strip, Black with the strife that made it free; He lived to see its banners dip Their fringes in the Western sea. The boundless prairies learned his name, His words the mountain echoes knew; The Northern breezes swept his fame From icy lake to warm bayou. In toil he lived; in peace he died; When life's full cycle was complete, Put off his robes of power and pride, And laid them at his Master's feet. His rest is by the storm-swept waves Whom life's wild tempests roughly tried, Whose heart was like the streaming caves Of ocean, throbbing at his side. Death's cold white hand is like the snow Laid softly on the furrowed hill, It hides the broken seams below, And leaves the summit brighter still. In vain the envious tongue upbraids; His name a nation's heart shall keep Till morning's latest sunlight fades On the blue tablet of the deep! Oliver Wendell Holmes.
THE FLAG AN INCIDENT OF STRAIN'S EXPEDITION [1854] I never have got the bearings quite, Though I've followed the course for many a year, If he was crazy, clean outright, Or only what you might say was "queer." He was just a simple sailor man. I mind it as well as yisterday, When we messed aboard of the old Cyane. Lord! how the time does slip away! That was five and thirty year ago, And I never expect such times again, For sailors wasn't afraid to stow Themselves on a Yankee vessel then. He was only a sort of bosun's mate, But every inch of him taut and trim; Stars and anchors and togs of state Tailors don't build for the like of him. He flew a no-account sort of name, A reg'lar fo'castle "Jim" or "Jack," With a plain "McGinnis" abaft the same, Giner'ly reefed to simple "Mack." Mack, we allowed, was sorter queer,— Ballast or compass wasn't right. Till he licked four Juicers one day, a fear Prevailed that he hadn't larned to fight. But I reckon the Captain knowed his man, When he put the flag in his hand the day That we went ashore from the old Cyane, On a madman's cruise for Darien Bay. Forty days in the wilderness We toiled and suffered and starved with Strain, Losing the number of many a mess In the Devil's swamps of the Spanish Main. All of us starved, and many died. One laid down, in his dull despair; His stronger messmate went to his side— We left them both in the jungle there. It was hard to part with shipmates so; But standing by would have done no good. We heard them moaning all day, so slow We dragged along through the weary wood. McGinnis, he suffered the worst of all; Not that he ever piped his eye Or wouldn't have answered to the call If they'd sounded it for "All hands to die." I guess 'twould have sounded for him before, But the grit inside of him kept him strong, Till we met relief on the river shore; And we all broke down when it came along. All but McGinnis. Gaunt and tall, Touching his hat, and standing square: "Captain, the Flag."—And that was all; He just keeled over and foundered there. "The Flag?" We thought he had lost his head— It mightn't be much to lose at best— Till we came, by and by, to dig his bed, And we found it folded around his breast. He laid so calm and smiling there, With the flag wrapped tight about his heart; Maybe he saw his course all fair, Only—we couldn't read the chart. James Jeffrey Roche.
KANE Aloft upon an old basaltic crag, Which, scalp'd by keen winds that defend the Pole, Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll Around the secret of the mystic zone, A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag Flutters alone, And underneath, upon the lifeless front Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced; Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt, But with a rocky purpose in his soul, Breasted the gathering snows, Clung to the drifting floes, By want beleaguer'd, and by winter chased, Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste. Not many months ago we greeted him, Crown'd with the icy honors of the North, Across the land his hard-won fame went forth, And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb; His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim, Burst from decorous quiet as he came; Hot Southern lips with eloquence aflame Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim, Proffer'd its horny hand. The large-lung'd West, From out its giant breast, Yell'd its frank welcome. And from main to main, Jubilant to the sky, Thunder'd the mighty cry, Honor to Kane! In vain, in vain beneath his feet we flung The reddening roses! All in vain we pour'd The golden wine, and round the shining board Sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast! Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes, Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies, Faded and faded! And the brave young heart That the relentless Arctic winds had robb'd Of all its vital heat, in that long quest For the lost captain, now within his breast More and more faintly throbb'd. His was the victory; but as his grasp Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp, Death launch'd a whistling dart; And ere the thunders of applause were done His bright eyes closed forever on the sun! Too late, too late the splendid prize he won In the Olympic race of Science and of Art! Like to some shatter'd berg that, pale and lone, Drifts from the white North to a tropic zone, And in the burning day Wastes peak by peak away, Till on some rosy even It dies with sunlight blessing it; so he Tranquilly floated to a Southern sea, And melted into heaven. He needs no tears, who lived a noble life; We will not weep for him who died so well, But we will gather round the hearth, and tell The story of his strife; Such homage suits him well, Better than funeral pomp or passing bell. What tale of peril and self-sacrifice! Prison'd amid the fastnesses of ice, With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow! Night lengthening into months, the ravenous floe Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear Crunches his prey. The insufficient share Of loathsome food, The lethargy of famine, the despair Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued, Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind Glimmer'd the fading embers of a mind! That awful hour, when through the prostrate band Delirium stalk'd, laying his burning hand Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew. The whispers of rebellion, faint and few At first, but deepening ever till they grew Into black thoughts of murder; such the throng Of horrors bound the hero. High the song Should be that hymns the noble part he play'd! Sinking himself, yet ministering aid To all around him. By a mighty will Living defiant of the wants that kill, Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill Those Polar waters, dark and desolate. Equal to every trial, every fate, He stands, until Spring, tardy with relief, Unlocks the icy gate, And the pale prisoners thread the world once more, To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shore Bearing their dying chief. Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold From royal hands, who woo'd the knightly state; The knell of old formalities is toll'd, And the world's knights are now self-consecrate. No grander episode doth chivalry hold In all its annals, back to Charlemagne, Than that lone vigil of unceasing pain, Faithfully kept through hunger and through cold, By the good Christian knight, Elisha Kane! Fitz-James O'Brien.
HERNDON [September 12, 1857] In 1857 Commodore Josiah Tattnall was appointed flag-officer of the Asiatic station, and, finding China at war with the allied English and French fleets, went to the scene of operations at Pei-ho. Just before an engagement, his flagship grounded and was towed off by the English boats; and when he saw the English in trouble shortly afterwards, he sailed in to their assistance, exclaiming, "Blood is thicker than water!" BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER [June 25, 1859] Ebbed and flowed the muddy Pei-Ho by the gulf of Pechili, Near its waters swung the yellow dragon-flag; Past the batteries of China, looking westward we could see Lazy junks along the lazy river lag; On the flats the ugly mud fort lay and dreamed; While the Powhatan swung slowly at her station by the bar, While the Toey-Wan with Tattnall onward steamed. Lazy East and lazy river, fort of mud in lazy June, English gunboats through the waters slowly fare, With the dragon-flag scarce moving in the lazy afternoon O'er the mud-heap storing venom in the glare. We were on our way to Peking, to the Son of Heaven's throne, White with peace was all our mission to his court, Peaceful, too, the English vessels on the turbid stream bestrown Seeking passage up the Pei-Ho past the fort. By the bar lay half the English, while the rest, with gallant Hope, Wrestled with the slipping ebb-tide up the stream; They had cleared the Chinese irons, reached the double chain and rope, Where the ugly mud fort scowled upon their beam— Boom! the heavens split asunder with the thunder of the fight As the hateful dragon made its faith a mock; Every cannon spat its perfidy, each casemate blazed its spite, Crashing down upon the English, shock on shock. In his courage Rason perished, brave McKenna fought and fell; Scores were dying as they'd lived, like valiant men; And the meteor flag that upward prayed to Heaven from that hell, Wept below for those who ne'er should weep again. Far away the English launches near the Powhatan swung slow, All despairing, useless, out of reach of war, Knew their comrades in the battle, felt them reel beneath the blow, Lying helpless 'gainst the ebb-tide by the bar. On the Toey-Wan stood Tattnall, Stephen Trenchard by his side— "Old Man" Tattnall, he who dared at Vera Cruz,— Saw here, crippled by the cannon; saw there, throttled by the tide, Men of English blood and speech—could he refuse? I'll be damned, says he to Trenchard, if old Tattnall's standing by, Seeing white men butchered here by such a foe. Where's my barge? No side-arms, mind you! See those English fight and die— Blood is thicker, sir, than water. Let us go. Quick we man the boat, and quicker plunge into that devil's brew— "An official call," and Tattnall went in state. Trenchard's hurt, our flag in ribbons, and the rocking barge shot through, Hart, our coxswain, dies beneath the Chinese hate; But the cheers those English give us as we gain their Admiral's ship Make the shattered boat and weary arms seem light— Then the rare smile from "Old" Tattnall, and Hope's hearty word and grip, Lying wounded, bleeding, brave in hell's despite. Tattnall nods, and we go forward, find a gun no longer fought— What is peace to us when all its crew lie dead? One bright English lad brings powder and a wounded man the shot, And we scotch that Chinese dragon, tail and head. Hands are shaken, faith is plighted, sounds our Captain's cheery call, In a British boat we speed us fast and far; And the Toey-Wan and Tattnall down the ebb-tide slide and fall To the launches lying moaning by the bar. Eager for an English vengeance, battle-light on every face, See the Clustered Stars lead on the Triple Cross! Cheering, swinging into action, valiant Hope takes heart of grace From the cannon's cloudy roar, the lanyards' toss Cheered our sailors, cheered "Old" Tattnall, grim and gray! And their cheers ring down the ages as they rang beneath the sun O'er those bubbling, troubled waters far away. Ebbs and flows the muddy Pei-Ho by the gulf of Pechili, Idly floats beside the stream the dragon-flag; Past the batteries of China, looking westward still you see Lazy junks along the lazy river lag. Let the long, long years drip slowly on that lost and ancient land, Ever dear one scene to hearts of gallant men; There's a hand-clasp and a heart-throb, there's a word we understand: Blood is thicker, sir, than water, now as then. Wallace Rice.
BARON RENFREW'S BALL [October, 1860] 'Twas a grand display was the prince's ball, A pageant or fÊte, or what you may call A brilliant coruscation, Where ladies and knights of noble worth Enchanted a prince of royal birth By a royal demonstration. Like queens arrayed in their regal guise, They charmed the prince with dazzling eyes, Fair ladies of rank and station, Till the floor gave way, and down they sprawled, In a tableaux style, which the artists called A floor-all decoration. At the prince's feet like flowers they were laid, In the brightest bouquet ever made, For a prince's choice to falter— Perplexed to find, where all were rare, Which was the fairest of the fair To cull for a queenly altar. But soon the floor was set aright, And Peter Cooper's face grew bright, When, like the swell of an organ, All hearts beat time to the first quadrille, And the prince confessed to a joyous thrill As he danced with Mrs. Morgan. Then came the waltz—the Prince's Own— And every bar and brilliant tone Had music's sweetest grace on; But the prince himself ne'er felt its charm Till he slightly clasped, with circling arm, That lovely girl, Miss Mason. But ah! the work went bravely on, And meek-eyed Peace a trophy won By the magic art of the dancers; For the daring prince's next exploit Was to league with Scott's Camilla Hoyt, And overcome the Lancers. Besides these three, he deigned to yield His hand to Mrs. M. B. Field, Miss Jay and Miss Van Buren; Miss Russell, too, was given a place— All beauties famous for their grace From Texas to Lake Huron. With Mrs. Kernochan he "lanced," With Mrs. Edward Cooper danced, With Mrs. Belmont capered; With fair Miss Fish, in fairy rig, He tripped a sort of royal jig, And next Miss Butler favored. And thus, 'mid many hopes and fears, By the brilliant light of the chandeliers, Did they gayly quaff and revel; Well pleased to charm a royal prince— The only one from old England since George Washington was a rebel. And so the fleeting hours went by, And watches stopped—lest Time should fly— Or that they winding wanted; Old matrons dozed, and papas smiled, And many a fair one was beguiled As the prince danced on, undaunted. 'Tis now a dream—the prince's ball, Its vanished glories, one and all, The scenes of the fairy tales; For Cinderella herself was there, And Barnum keeps for trial fair The beautiful slipper deposited there By his highness, the Prince of Wales. Charles Graham Halpine. |
|
