  Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on. I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps. His day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on." He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat: Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me: As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on. Julia Ward Howe. CHAPTER ITHE SLAVERY QUESTION
TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON [Read at the Convention which formed the American Anti-Slavery Society, in Philadelphia, December, 1833.] Champion of those who groan beneath Oppression's iron hand: In view of penury, hate, and death, I see thee fearless stand. Still bearing up thy lofty brow, In the steadfast strength of truth, In manhood sealing well the vow And promise of thy youth. Go on, for thou hast chosen well; On in the strength of God! Long as one human heart shall swell Beneath the tyrant's rod. Speak in a slumbering nation's ear, As thou hast ever spoken, Until the dead in sin shall hear, The fetter's link be broken! I love thee with a brother's love, I feel my pulses thrill, To mark thy spirit soar above The cloud of human ill. My heart hath leaped to answer thine, And echo back thy words, As leaps the warrior's at the shine And flash of kindred swords! They tell me thou art rash and vain, A searcher after fame; That thou art striving but to gain A long-enduring name; That thou hast nerved the Afric's hand And steeled the Afric's heart, To shake aloft his vengeful brand, And rend his chain apart. Have I not known thee well, and read Thy mighty purpose long? And watched the trials which have made Thy human spirit strong? And shall the slanderer's demon breath Avail with one like me, To dim the sunshine of my faith And earnest trust in thee? Go on, the dagger's point may glare Amid thy pathway's gloom; The fate which sternly threatens there Is glorious martyrdom! Then onward with a martyr's zeal; And wait thy sure reward When man to man no more shall kneel, And God alone be Lord! John Greenleaf Whittier.
CLERICAL OPPRESSORS [September 4, 1835] Just God! and these are they Who minister at thine altar, God of Right! Men who their hands with prayer and blessing lay On Israel's Ark of light! What! preach, and kidnap men? Give thanks, and rob thy own afflicted poor? Talk of thy glorious liberty, and then Bolt hard the captive's door? What! servants of thy own Merciful Son, who came to seek and save The homeless and the outcast, fettering down The tasked and plundered slave! Pilate and Herod, friends! Chief priests and rulers, as of old, combine! Just God and holy! is that church, which lends Strength to the spoiler, thine? Paid hypocrites, who turn Judgment aside, and rob the Holy Book Of those high words of truth which search and burn In warning and rebuke; Feed fat, ye locusts, feed! And, in your tasselled pulpits, thank the Lord That, from the toiling bondman's utter need, Ye pile your own full board. How long, O Lord! how long Shall such a priesthood barter truth away, And in Thy name, for robbery and wrong At Thy own altars pray? Is not Thy hand stretched forth Visibly in the heavens, to awe and smite? Shall not the living God of all the earth, And heaven above, do right? Woe, then, to all who grind Their brethren of a common Father down! To all who plunder from the immortal mind Its bright and glorious crown! Woe to the priesthood! woe To those whose hire is with the price of blood; Perverting, darkening, changing, as they go, The searching truths of God! Their glory and their might Shall perish; and their very names shall be Vile before all the people, in the light Of a world's liberty. Oh, speed the moment on When Wrong shall cease, and Liberty and Love And Truth and Right throughout the earth be known As in their home above. John Greenleaf Whittier.
THE DEBATE IN THE SENNIT SOT TO A NUSRY RHYME [April 20, 1848] "Here we stan' on the Constitution, by thunder! It's a fact o' wich ther's bushels o' proofs; Fer how could we trample on 't so, I wonder, Ef't worn't thet it's ollers under our hoofs?" Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; "Human rights haint no more Right to come on this floor, No more'n the man in the moon," sez he. "The North haint no kind o' bisness with nothin', An' you've no idee how much bother it saves; We aint none riled by their frettin' an' frothin', We're used to layin' the string on our slaves," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— Sez Mister Foote, "I should like to shoot The holl gang, by the gret horn spoon!" sez he. "Freedom's keystone is Slavery, thet ther's no doubt on, It's sutthin' thet's—wha' d'ye call it?—divine,— An' the slaves thet we ollers make the most out on Air them north o' Mason an' Dixon's line," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— "Fer all thet," sez Mangum, "'Twould be better to hang 'em An' so git red on 'em soon," sez he. "The mass ough' to labor an' we lay on soffies, Thet's the reason I want to spread Freedom's aree; An' reelises our Maker's orig'nal idee," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— "Thet's ez plain," sez Cass, "Ez thet some one's an ass, It's ez clear ez the sun is at noon," sez he. "Now don't go to say I'm the friend of oppression, But keep all your spare breath fer coolin' your broth, Fer I ollers hev strove (at least thet's my impression) To make cussed free with the rights o' the North," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— "Yes," sez Davis o' Miss., "The perfection o' bliss Is in skinnin' thet same old coon," sez he. "Slavery's a thing thet depends on complexion, It's God's law thet fetters on black skins don't chafe; Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflection!) Wich of our onnable body'd be safe?" Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— Sez Mister Hannegan, Afore he began agin, "Thet exception is quite oppertoon," sez he. "Gen'nle Cass, Sir, you needn't be twitchin' your collar, Your merit's quite clear by the dut on your knees, At the North we don't make no distinctions o' color; You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— Sez Mister Jarnagin, "They wun't hev to larn agin, They all on 'em know the old toon," sez he. "The slavery question aint no ways bewilderin', North an' South hev one int'rest, it's plain to a glance; No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't sell their childrin, But they du sell themselves, ef they git a good chance," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— Sez Atherton here, "This is gittin' severe, I wish I could dive like a loon," sez he. "It'll break up the Union, this talk about freedom, An' your fact'ry gals (soon ez we split) 'll make head, An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to lead 'em, 'll go to work raisin' permiscoous Ned," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— "Yes, the North," sez Colquitt, "Ef we Southeners all quit, Would go down like a busted balloon," sez he. "Jest look wut is doin', wut annyky's brewin' In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' vine, All the wise aristoxy's atumblin' to ruin, An' the sankylot's drorin' an' drinkin' their wine," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— "Yes," sez Johnson, "in France They're beginnin' to dance BeËlzebub's own rigadoon," sez he. "The South's safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery, Our slaves in their darkness an' dut air tu blest Not to welcome with proud hallylugers the ery Wen our eagle kicks yourn from the naytional nest," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— "Oh," sez Westcott o' Florida, "Wut treason is horrider Than our priv'leges tryin' to proon?" sez he. "It's 'coz they're so happy, thet, wen crazy sarpints Stick their nose in our bizness, we git so darned riled; We think it's our dooty to give pooty sharp hints, Thet the last crumb of Eden on airth sha'n't be spiled," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— "Ah," sez Dixon H. Lewis, "It perfectly true is Thet slavery's airth's grettest boon," sez he. James Russell Lowell.
[March 7, 1850] So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore! The glory from his gray hairs gone Forevermore! Revile him not, the Tempter hath A snare for all; And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, Befit his fall! Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage, When he who might Have lighted up and led his age, Falls back in night. Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, From hope and heaven! Let not the land once proud of him Insult him now, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, Dishonored brow. But let its humbled sons, instead, From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make. Of all we loved and honored, naught Save power remains; A fallen angel's pride of thought, Still strong in chains. All else is gone; from those great eyes The soul has fled; When faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead! Then, pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame; Walk backward, with averted gaze, And hide the shame! John Greenleaf Whittier.
THE KIDNAPPING OF SIMS [April 3, 1851] Souls of the patriot dead On Bunker's height who bled! The pile, that stands On your long-buried bones— Those monumental stones— Should not suppress the groans This day demands. For Freedom there ye stood; There gave the earth your blood; There found your graves; That men of every clime, Faith, color, tongue, and time, Might, through your death sublime, Never be slaves. Over your bed, so low, Heard ye not, long ago, A voice of power Proclaim to earth and sea, That where ye sleep should be A home for Liberty Till Time's last hour? Hear ye the chains of slaves, Now clanking round your graves? Hear ye the sound Of that same voice that calls From out our Senate halls, "Hunt down those fleeing thralls, With horse and hound!" That voice your sons hath swayed! 'Tis heard, and is obeyed! This gloomy day Tells you of ermine stained, Of Justice's name profaned, Of a poor bondman chained And borne away! Over Virginia's Springs, Her eagles spread their wings, Her Blue Ridge towers— That voice—once heard with awe— Now asks, "Who ever saw, Up there, a higher law Than this of ours?" Must we obey that voice? When God or man's the choice, Must we postpone Him, who from Sinai spoke? Must we wear slavery's yoke? Bear of her lash the stroke, And prop her throne? Lashed with her hounds, must we Run down the poor who flee From Slavery's hell? Great God! when we do this Exclude us from thy bliss; At us let angels hiss From heaven that fell! John Pierpont.
THE KANSAS EMIGRANTS [July, 1854] We cross the prairie as of old The pilgrims crossed the sea, To make the West, as they the East, The homestead of the free! We go to rear a wall of men On Freedom's southern line, And plant beside the cotton-tree The rugged Northern pine! We're flowing from our native hills As our free rivers flow: The blessing of our Mother-land Is on us as we go. We go to plant her common schools On distant prairie swells, And give the Sabbaths of the wild The music of her bells. Upbearing, like the Ark of old, The Bible in our van, We go to test the truth of God Against the fraud of man. No pause, nor rest, save where the streams That feed the Kansas run, Save where our Pilgrim gonfalon Shall flout the setting sun! We'll tread the prairie as of old Our fathers sailed the sea, And make the West, as they the East, The homestead of the free! John Greenleaf Whittier.
BURIAL OF BARBER [December 6, 1855] Bear him, comrades, to his grave; Never over one more brave Shall the prairie grasses weep, In the ages yet to come, When the millions in our room, What we sow in tears, shall reap. Bear him up the icy hill, With the Kansas, frozen still As his noble heart, below, And the land he came to till With a freeman's thews and will, And his poor hut roofed with snow! One more look of that dead face, Of his murder's ghastly trace! One more kiss, O widowed one! Lay your left hands on his brow, Lift your right hands up, and vow That his work shall yet be done. Patience, friends! The eye of God Every path by Murder trod Watches, lidless, day and night; And the dead man in his shroud, And his widow weeping loud, And our hearts, are in His sight. Every deadly threat that swells With the roar of gambling hells, Every brutal jest and jeer, Every wicked thought and plan Of the cruel heart of man, Though but whispered, He can hear! We in suffering, they in crime, Wait the just award of time, Wait the vengeance that is due; Not in vain a heart shall break, Not a tear for Freedom's sake Fall unheeded: God is true. While the flag with stars bedecked Threatens where it should protect, And the Law shakes hands with Crime, What is left us but to wait, Match our patience to our fate, And abide the better time? Patience, friends! The human heart Everywhere shall take our part, Everywhere for us shall pray; On our side are nature's laws, And God's life is in the cause That we suffer for to-day. Well to suffer is divine; Pass the watchword down the line, Pass the countersign: "Endure." Not to him who rashly dares, But to him who nobly bears, Is the victor's garland sure. Frozen earth to frozen breast, Lay our slain one down to rest; Lay him down in hope and faith, And above the broken sod, Once again, to Freedom's God, Pledge ourselves for life or death, That the State whose walls we lay, In our blood and tears, to-day, Shall be free from bonds of shame, And our goodly land untrod By the feet of Slavery, shod With cursing as with flame! Plant the Buckeye on his grave, For the hunter of the slave In its shadow cannot rest; And let martyr mound and tree Be our pledge and guaranty Of the freedom of the West! John Greenleaf Whittier.
THE DEFENCE OF LAWRENCE [September 14, 1856] A bill for the admission of Kansas under a constitution permitting slavery was introduced in Congress in February, 1858, and occasioned one of the most acrimonious debates ever heard at the Capital. In the House, a fist fight occurred between Keitt of South Carolina, and Grow of Pennsylvania. The bill was passed on May 4. THE FIGHT OVER THE BODY OF KEITT A FRAGMENT FROM THE GREAT AMERICAN EPIC, THE WASHINGTONIAD [March, 1858] Sing, O goddess, the wrath, the ontamable dander of Keitt— Keitt of South Carolina, the clear grit, the tall, the ondaunted— Him that hath wopped his own niggers till Northerners all unto Keitt Seem but as niggers to wop, and hills of the smallest potatoes. Late and long was the fight on the Constitution of Kansas; Daylight passed into dusk, and dusk into lighting of gas-lamps;— Still on the floor of the house the heroes unwearied were fighting. Dry grew palates and tongues with excitement and expectoration, Plugs were becoming exhausted, and Representatives also. Who led on to the war the anti-Lecomptonite phalanx? Grow, hitting straight from the shoulder, the Pennsylvania Slasher; Him followed Hickman, and Potter the wiry, from woody Wisconsin; Washburne stood with his brother,—Cadwallader stood with Elihu; Broad Illinois sent the one, and woody Wisconsin the other. Mott came mild as new milk, with gray hairs under his broad brim, Leaving the first chop location and water privilege near it, Held by his fathers of old on the willow-fringed banks of Ohio. Wrathy Covode, too, I saw, and Montgomery ready for mischief. Who against these to the floor led on the Lecomptonite legions? Keitt of South Carolina, the clear grit, the tall, the ondaunted— Keitt and Reuben Davis, the ra'al hoss of wild Mississippi; Barksdale, wearer of wigs, and Craige from North Carolina; Craige and scorny McQueen, and Owen, and Lovejoy, and Lamar, These Mississippi sent to the war, "tres juncti in uno." Long had raged the warfare of words; it was four in the morning; Whittling and expectoration and liquorin' all were exhausted, When Keitt, tired of talk, bespake Reu. Davis, "O Reuben, Grow's a tarnation blackguard, and I've concluded to clinch him." This said, up to his feet he sprang, and loos'ning his choker, Squares to go in at the b'ar, when the dangerous varmint is cornered. "Come out, Grow," he cried, "you Black Republican puppy, Come on the floor, like a man, and darn my eyes, but I'll show you"— Him answered straight-hitting Grow, "Wall now, I calkilate, Keitt, No nigger-driver shall leave his plantation in South Carolina, Here to crack his cow-hide round this child's ears, if he knows it." Scarce had he spoke when the hand, the chivÁlrous five fingers of Keitt, Clutched at his throat,—had they closed, the speeches of Grow had been ended,— Never more from a stump had he stirred up the free and enlightened;— But though smart Keitt's mauleys, the mauleys of Grow were still smarter; Straight from the shoulder he shot,—not Owen Swift or Ned Adams Ever put in his right with more delicate feeling of distance. As drops hammer on anvil, so dropped Grow's right into Keitt Just where the jugular runs to the point at which Ketch ties his drop-knot;— Prone like a log sank Keitt, his dollars rattled about him. Forth sprang his friends o'er the body; first Barksdale, waving-wig-wearer, Craige and McQueen and Davis, the ra'al hoss of wild Mississippi; Fiercely they gathered round Grow, catawampously up as to chaw him; But without Potter they reckoned, the wiry from woody Wisconsin; He, striking out right and left, like a catamount varmint and vicious, Dashed to the rescue, and with him the Washburnes, Cadwallader, Elihu; Slick into Barksdale's bread-basket walked Potter's one, two,—hard and heavy; Barksdale fetched wind in a trice, dropped Grow, and let out at Elihu. Then like a fountain had flowed the claret of Washburne the elder, But for Cadwallader's care,—Cadwallader, guard of his brother, Clutching at Barksdale's nob, into Chancery soon would have drawn it. Well was it then for Barksdale, the wig that waved over his forehead: Off in Cadwallader's hands it came, and, the wearer releasing, Left to the conqueror naught but the scalp of his bald-headed foeman. Meanwhile hither and thither, a dove on the waters of trouble, Moved Mott, mild as new milk, with his gray hair under his broad brim, Preaching peace to deaf ears, and getting considerably damaged. Cautious Covode in the rear, as dubious what it might come to, Brandished a stone-ware spittoon 'gainst whoever might seem to deserve it,— Little it mattered to him whether Pro- or Anti-Lecompton, So but he found in the Hall a foeman worthy his weapon! So raged the battle of men, till into the thick of the mÊlÉe, Like to the heralds of old, stepped the Sergeant-at-Arms and the Speaker.
LE MARAIS DU CYGNE [May 19, 1858] A blush as of roses Where rose never grew! Great drops on the bunch-grass, But not of the dew! A taint in the sweet air For wild bees to shun! A stain that shall never Bleach out in the sun! Back, steed of the prairies! Sweet song-bird, fly back! Wheel hither, bald vulture! Gray wolf, call thy pack! The foul human vultures Have feasted and fled; The wolves of the Border Have crept from the dead. From the hearths of their cabins, The fields of their corn, Unwarned and unweaponed, The victims were torn,— By the whirlwind of murder Swooped up and swept on To the low, reedy fen-lands, The Marsh of the Swan. With a vain plea for mercy No stout knee was crooked; In the mouths of the rifles Right manly they looked. How paled the May sunshine, O Marais du Cygne! On death for the strong life, On red grass for green! In the homes of their rearing, Yet warm with their lives, Ye wait the dead only, Poor children and wives! Put out the red forge-fire, The smith shall not come; Unyoke the brown oxen, The ploughman lies dumb. Wind slow from the Swan's Marsh, O dreary death-train, With pressed lips as bloodless As lips of the slain! Kiss down the young eyelids, Smooth down the gray hairs; Let tears quench the curses That burn through your prayers. Strong man of the prairies, Mourn bitter and wild! Wail, desolate woman! Weep, fatherless child! But the grain of God springs up From ashes beneath, And the crown of his harvest Is life out of death. Not in vain on the dial The shade moves along, To point the great contrasts Of right and of wrong: Free homes and free altars, Free prairie and flood,— The reeds of the Swan's Marsh, Whose bloom is of blood! On the lintels of Kansas That blood shall not dry; Henceforth the Bad Angel Shall harmless go by; Henceforth to the sunset, Unchecked on her way, Shall Liberty follow The march of the day. John Greenleaf Whittier.
HOW OLD BROWN TOOK HARPER'S FERRY [October 16, 1859] John Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer, Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men of might. There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Border-strife grew warmer, Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his absence, in the night; And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Came homeward in the morning—to find his house burned down. Then he grasped his trusty rifle and boldly fought for freedom; Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band; And he and his brave boys vowed—so might Heaven help and speed 'em!— They would save those grand old prairies from the curse that blights the land; And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Said, "Boys, the Lord will aid us!" and he shoved his ramrod down. And the Lord did aid these men, and they labored day and even, Saving Kansas from its peril; and their very lives seemed charmed, Till the ruffians killed one son, in the blessed light of Heaven,— In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journeyed all unarmed; Then Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and frowned a terrible frown! Then they seized another brave boy,—not amid the heat of battle, But in peace, behind his ploughshare,—and they loaded him with chains, And with pikes, before their horses, even as they goad their cattle, Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew out his brains; Then Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Raised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heaven's vengeance down. And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the Almighty, He would hunt this ravening evil that had scathed and torn him so; He would seize it by the vitals; he would crush it day and night; he Would so pursue its footsteps, so return it blow for blow, That Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in town! Then his beard became more grizzled, and his wild blue eye grew wilder, And more sharply curved his hawk's-nose, snuffing battle from afar; And he and the two boys left, though the Kansas strife waxed milder, Grew more sullen, till was over the bloody Border War, And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Had gone crazy, as they reckoned by his fearful glare and frown. So he left the plains of Kansas and their bitter woes behind him, Slipt off into Virginia, where the statesmen all are born, Hired a farm by Harper's Ferry, and no one knew where to find him, Or whether he'd turned parson, or was jacketed and shorn; For Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Mad as he was, knew texts enough to wear a parson's gown. He bought no ploughs and harrows, spades and shovels, and such trifles; But quietly to his rancho there came, by every train, Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his well-beloved Sharp's rifles; And eighteen other madmen joined their leader there again. Says Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, "Boys, we've got an army large enough to march and take the town! "Take the town, and seize the muskets, free the negroes and then arm them; Carry the County and the State, ay, and all the potent South. On their own heads be the slaughter, if their victims rise to harm them— These Virginians! who believed not, nor would heed the warning mouth." Says Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, "The world shall see a Republic, or my name is not John Brown." 'Twas the sixteenth of October, on the evening of a Sunday: "This good work," declared the captain, "shall be on a holy night!" It was on a Sunday evening, and before the noon of Monday, With two sons, and Captain Stephens, fifteen privates—black and white, Captain Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Marched across the bridged Potomac, and knocked the sentry down; Took the guarded armory-building, and the muskets and the cannon; Captured all the county majors and the colonels, one by one; Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they ran on, And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed was done. Osawatomie Brown, With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and took the town. Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder made he; It was all done in the midnight, like the Emperor's coup d'État. "Cut the wires! Stop the rail-cars! Hold the streets and bridges!" said he, Then declared the new Republic, with himself for guiding star,— This Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown; And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left the town. Then was riding and railroading and expressing here and thither; And the Martinsburg Sharpshooters and the Charlestown Volunteers, And the Shepherdstown and Winchester militia hastened whither Old Brown was said to muster his ten thousand grenadiers. General Brown! Osawatomie Brown! Behind whose rampant banner all the North was pouring down. But at last, 'tis said, some prisoners escaped from Old Brown's durance, And the effervescent valor of the Chivalry broke out, When they learned that nineteen madmen had the marvellous assurance— Only nineteen—thus to seize the place and drive them straight about; And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Found an army come to take him, encamped around the town. But to storm, with all the forces I have mentioned, was too risky; So they hurried off to Richmond for the Government Marines, Tore them from their weeping matrons, fired their souls with Bourbon whiskey, Till they battered down Brown's castle with their ladders and machines; And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut on his brave old crown. Tallyho! the old Virginia gentry gather to the baying! In they rushed and killed the game, shooting lustily away; And whene'er they slew a rebel, those who came too late for slaying, Not to lose a share of glory, fired their bullets in his clay; And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between them laid him down. How the conquerors wore their laurels; how they hastened on the trial; How Old Brown was placed, half dying, on the Charlestown court-house floor; How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all denial; What the brave old madman told them,—these are known the country o'er. "Hang Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown," Said the judge, "and all such rebels!" with his most judicial frown. But, Virginians, don't do it! for I tell you that the flagon, Filled with blood of Old Brown's offspring, was first poured by Southern hands; And each drop from Old Brown's life-veins, like the red gore of the dragon, May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through your slave-worn lands! And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, May trouble you more than ever, when you've nailed his coffin down! Edmund Clarence Stedman. November, 1859. THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTOWN [December 2, 1859] Fresh palms for the Old Dominion! New peers for the valiant Dead! Never hath showered her sunshine On a field of doughtier dread— Heroes in buff three thousand, And a single scarred gray head! Fuss, and feathers, and flurry— Clink, and rattle, and roar— On meadow and mountain hoar; The place, he remarks, is pleasant, I had not seen it before. Form, in your boldest order, Let the people press no nigher! Would ye have them hear to his words— The words that may spread like fire? 'Tis a right smart chance to test him (Here we are at the gallows-tree), So knot the noose—pretty tightly— Bandage his eyes, and we'll see (For we'll keep him waiting a little), If he tremble in nerve or knee. There, in a string, we've got him! (Shall the music bang and blow?) The chivalry wheels and marches, And airs its valor below. Look hard in the blindfold visage (He can't look back), and inquire (He has stood there nearly a quarter), If he doesn't begin to tire? Not yet! how long will he keep us, To see if he quail or no? I reckon it's no use waiting, And 'tis time that we had the show. For the trouble—we can't see why— Seems with us, and not with him, As he stands 'neath the autumn sky, So strangely solemn and dim! But high let our standard flout it! "Sic Semper"—the drop comes down— And (woe to the rogues that doubt it!) There's an end of old John Brown! Henry Howard Brownell. BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE [December 2, 1859] John Brown of Ossawatomie spake on his dying day: "I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay. But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free, With her children, from the gallows-stair put up a prayer for me!" John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him out to die; And lo! a poor slave-mother with her little child pressed nigh. Then the bold, blue eye grew tender, and the old harsh face grew mild, As he stooped between the jeering ranks and kissed the negro's child! The shadows of his stormy life that moment fell apart; And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave the loving heart. That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the good intent, And round the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent! Perish with him the folly that seeks through evil good! Long live the generous purpose unstained with human blood! Not the raid of midnight terror, but the thought which underlies; Not the borderer's pride of daring, but the Christian's sacrifice. Nevermore may yon Blue Ridges the Northern rifle hear, Nor see the light of blazing homes flash on the negro's spear. But let the free-winged angel Truth their guarded passes scale, To teach that right is more than might, and justice more than mail! So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in array; In vain her trampling squadrons knead the winter snow with clay. She may strike the pouncing eagle, but she dares not harm the dove; And every gate she bars to Hate shall open wide to Love! John Greenleaf Whittier.
GLORY HALLELUJAH! OR JOHN BROWN'S BODY John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in the grave, John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in the grave, John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in the grave, His soul is marching on! Chorus—Glory! Glory Hallelujah! Glory! Glory Hallelujah! Glory! Glory Hallelujah! His soul is marching on. He's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord! His soul is marching on. John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back. His soul is marching on. His pet lambs will meet him on the way, And they'll go marching on. They'll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree, As they go marching on. Now for the Union let's give three rousing cheers, As we go marching on. Hip, hip, hip, hip, Hurrah! Charles Sprague Hall.
JOHN BROWN John Brown died on the scaffold for the slave; Dark was the hour when we dug his hallowed grave; Now God avenges the life he gladly gave, Freedom reigns to-day! Glory, glory hallelujah, Glory, glory hallelujah, Glory, glory hallelujah, Freedom reigns to-day! John Brown sowed and the harvesters are we; Honor to him who has made the bondsman free; Loved evermore shall our noble ruler be, Freedom reigns to-day! John Brown's body lies mouldering in the grave; Bright o'er the sod let the starry banner wave; Lo! for the million he perilled all to save, Freedom reigns to-day! John Brown's body through the world is marching on; Hail to the hour when oppression shall be gone; All men will sing in the better day's dawn, Freedom reigns to-day! John Brown dwells where the battle's strife is o'er; Hate cannot harm him, nor sorrow stir him more; Earth will remember the martyrdom he bore, Freedom reigns to-day! John Brown's body lies mouldering in the grave; John Brown lives in the triumph of the brave; John Brown's soul not a higher joy can crave, Freedom reigns to-day! Edna Dean Proctor. JOHN BROWN: A PARADOX Compassionate eyes had our brave John Brown, And a craggy stern forehead, a militant frown; He, the storm-bow of peace. Give him volley on volley, The fool who redeemed us once of our folly, And the smiter that healed us, our right John Brown! Too vehement, verily, was John Brown! For waiting is statesmanlike; his the renown Of the holy rash arm, the equipper and starter Of freedmen; aye, call him fanatic and martyr: He can carry both halos, our plain John Brown. A scandalous stumbling-block was John Brown, And a jeer; but ah! soon from the terrified town, In his bleeding track made over hilltop and hollow, Wise armies and councils were eager to follow, And the children's lips chanted our lost John Brown. Star-led for us, stumbled and groped John Brown, Star-led, in the awful morasses to drown; And the trumpet that rang for a nation's upheaval, From the thought that was just, thro' the deed that was evil, Was blown with the breath of this dumb John Brown! Bared heads and a pledge unto mad John Brown! Now the curse is allayed, now the dragon is down, Now we see, clear enough, looking back at the onset, Christianity's flood-tide and Chivalry's sunset In the old broken heart of our hanged John Brown! Louise Imogen Guiney.
LECOMPTON'S BLACK BRIGADE A SONG OF THE CHARLESTON CONVENTION [April 23, 1860] Single-handed, and surrounded by Lecompton's black brigade, With the treasury of a nation drained to pay for hireling aid; All the weapons of corruption—the bribe, the threat, the lie— All the forces of his rivals leagued to make this one man die, Yet smilingly he met them, his heart and forehead bare, And they quailed beneath the lightnings of his blue eye's sudden glare; For all behind him thronging the mighty people came, With looks of fiery eagerness and words of leaping flame— "A Douglas and a Douglas!" Hark to the people's cry, Shaking the earth beneath their feet, And thundering through the sky. Crooked and weak, but envious as the witches of Macbeth, Came old and gray Buchanan a-hungering for his death; And full of mortal strategy, with green and rheumy eyes, John Slidell—he of Houmas—each poisoned arrow tries. With cold and stony visage, lo! Breckinridge is there, While old Joe Lane keeps flourishing his rusty sword in air; But still the "Little Giant" holds unmoved his fearless way, While the great waves of the people behind him rock and sway— "A Douglas and a Douglas! No hand but his can guide, In such a strait, our ship of state Across the stormy tide." A poisonous reptile, many-scaled and with most subtle fang, Crawled forward Caleb Cushing, while behind his rattles rang; And, mounted on a charger of hot and glossy black, The Alabamian Yancey dashes in with fell attack: Lo! Bayard is aroused, and quits his favorite cards and dice, While Jeff Davis plots with Bigler full many a foul device; But, smiling still, against them all their One Foe holds his own, While louder still and louder, the cry behind has grown— "A Douglas and a Douglas, Who every base trick spurns; The people's will is sovereign still, And that to Douglas turns." Half horse, half alligator, here from Mississippi's banks The blatant Barry caracoles and spurs along the ranks; From Arkansaw comes Burrows, with his "toothpick" in its sheath, While that jaundiced Georgian, Jackson, shows his grim and ugly teeth; And Barksdale barks his bitterest bark, and curls his stunted tail, And snarls like forty thousand curs beneath a storm of hail; But smiling now—almost a laugh—the Douglas marches on, While many million voices rise in chorus like to one— "A Douglas and a Douglas" Louder the war-song grows: "God speed the man who fights so well Against a thousand foes." Long and fierce was the encounter beneath the burning sky, Fierce were the threatening gestures—the words rang shrill and high; In a struggle most protracted, after seven and fifty shocks, Like those old gigantic combats in which Titans fought with rocks (And with "rocks," but of a different kind, no doubt Buchanan fought), This first pitched battle of the war unto its end was brought; And smiling still, with stainless plume and eye as clear as day, The "Little Giant" held his own through all that murderous fray: "A Douglas and a Douglas!" Still louder grows the roar Which swells and floats from myriad throats Like waves on some wild shore. Oh! a cheer for Colonel Flournoy, who to help our chief did press, May memory perish if his name we cease to love and bless! And a cheer for all the good and true who faced the music's note, Who seized old Hydra in his den, and shook him by the throat. Though our country stand forever, from her record ne'er will fade The glory of that combat with Lecompton's black brigade; And when June comes with her roses, at Baltimore we'll crown The "Little Giant," who has met and struck corruption down. So a Douglas and a Douglas! While hearts have smiles and tears, Your name will glow, your praise shall flow, Through all the coming years. Charles Graham Halpine.
LINCOLN, THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE When the Norn-Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour, Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, She bent the strenuous heavens and came down To make a man to meet the mortal need. She took the tried clay of the common road— Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy; Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff. It was a stuff to wear for centuries, A man that matched the mountains, and compelled The stars to look our way and honor us. The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; The tang and odor of the primal things— The rectitude and patience of the rocks; The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; The courage of the bird that dares the sea; The justice of the rain that loves all leaves; The pity of the snow that hides all scars; The loving-kindness of the wayside well; The tolerance and equity of light That gives as freely to the shrinking weed As to the great oak flaring to the wind— To the grove's low bill as to the Matterhorn That shoulders out the sky. And so he came. From prairie cabin up to Capitol, One fair Ideal led our chieftain on. Forevermore he burned to do his deed He built the rail-pile as he built the State, Pouring his splendid strength through every blow, The conscience of him testing every stroke, To make his deed the measure of a man. So came the Captain with a mighty heart: And when the step of Earthquake shook the house, Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold, He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again The rafters of the Home. He held his place— Held the long purpose like a growing tree— Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down As when a kingly cedar green with boughs Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, And leaves a lonesome place against the sky. Edwin Markham.
BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE Georgia, Alabama, Florida, North Carolina, Mississippi, and Louisiana followed South Carolina's lead in seceding and seizing United States forts and arsenals. On February 4, 1861, the first Confederate congress met at Montgomery, Ala., and a few days later, Jefferson Davis, of Mississippi, was chosen President, and Alexander H. JEFFERSON D. You're a traitor convicted, you know very well! Jefferson D., Jefferson D.! You thought it a capital thing to rebel, Jefferson D.! But there's one thing I'll say: You'll discover some day, When you see a stout cotton cord hang from a tree, There's an accident happened you didn't foresee, Jefferson D.! What shall be found upon history's page? Jefferson D., Jefferson D.! When a student explores the republican age! Jefferson D.! He will find, as is meet, That at Judas's feet You sit in your shame, with the impotent plea, That you hated the land and the law of the free, Jefferson D.! What do you see in your visions at night, Jefferson D., Jefferson D.? Does the spectacle furnish you any delight, Jefferson D.? Do you feel in disgrace The black cap o'er your face, While the tremor creeps down from your heart to your knee, And freedom, insulted, approves the decree, Jefferson D.? Oh! long have we pleaded, till pleading is vain, Jefferson D., Jefferson D.! Your hands are imbrued with the blood of the slain, Jefferson D.! And at last, for the right, We arise in our might, A people united, resistless, and free, And declare that rebellion no longer shall be! Jefferson D.! H. S. Cornwell.
THE OLD COVE "All we ask is to be let alone." [February 18, 1861] As vonce I valked by a dismal svamp, There sot an Old Cove in the dark and damp, And at everybody as passed that road A stick or a stone this Old Cove throwed. And venever he flung his stick or his stone, He'd set up a song of "Let me alone." "Let me alone, for I loves to shy These bits of things at the passers-by— Let me alone, for I've got your tin And lots of other traps snugly in;— Let me alone, I'm riggin' a boat To grab votever you've got afloat;— In a veek or so I expects to come And turn you out of your 'ouse and 'ome;— I'm a quiet Old Cove," says he, with a groan: "All I axes is—Let me alone." Just then came along on the self-same vay, Another Old Cove, and began for to say— "Let you alone! That's comin' it strong!— You've ben let alone a darned sight too long;— Of all the sarce that ever I heerd! Put down that stick! (You may well look skeered.) Let go that stone! If you once show fight, I'll knock you higher than ary kite. You must hev a lesson to stop your tricks, And cure you of shying them stones and sticks,— And I'll hev my hardware back and my cash, And knock your scow into tarnal smash, And if ever I catches you round my ranch, I'll string you up to the nearest branch. "The best you can do is to go to bed, And keep a decent tongue in your head; For I reckon, before you and I are done, You'll wish you had left honest folks alone." The Old Cove stopped, and t'other Old Cove He sot quite still in his cypress grove, And he looked at his stick revolvin' slow Whether 'twere safe to shy it or no,— And he grumbled on, in an injured tone, "All that I axed vos, let me alone." Henry Howard Brownell.
A SPOOL OF THREAD [March, 1861] Well, yes, I've lived in Texas since the spring of '61; And I'll relate the story, though I fear, sir, when 'tis done, 'Twill be little worth your hearing, it was such a simple thing, Unheralded in verses that the grander poets sing. There had come a guest unbidden, at the opening of the year, To find a lodgment in our hearts, and the tenant's name was fear; For secession's drawing mandate was a call for men and arms, And each recurring eventide but brought us fresh alarms. They had notified the General that he must yield to fate, And all the muniments of war surrender to the state, But he sent from San Antonio an order to the sea To convey on board the steamer all the fort's artillery. Right royal was his purpose, but the foe divined his plan, And the wily Texans set a guard to intercept the man Detailed to bear the message; they placed their watch with care That neither scout nor citizen should pass it unaware. Well, this was rather awkward, sir, as doubtless you will say, But the Major, who was chief of staff, resolved to have his way Despite the watchful provost guard; so he asked his wife to send, With a box of knick-knacks, a letter to her friend; And the missive held one sentence I remember to this day: "The thread is for your neighbor, Mr. French, across the way." He dispatched a youthful courier. Of course, as you will know, The Texans searched him thoroughly and ordered him to show The contents of the letter. They read it o'er and o'er, But failed to find the message they had hindered once before. So it reached the English lady, and she wondered at the word, But gave the thread to Major French, explaining that she heard He wished a spool of cotton, and great was his surprise At such a trifle sent, unasked, through leagues of hostile spies. "There's some hidden purpose, doubtless, in the curious gift," he said. Then he tore away the label, and inside the spool of thread Was Major Nichol's order, bidding him convey to sea All the arms and ammunition from Fort Duncan's battery. "Down to Brazon speed your horses," thus the Major's letter ran, "Shift equipments and munitions, and embark them if you can." Yes, the transfer was effected, for the ships lay close at hand, Ere the Texans guessed their purpose, they had vanished from the land. Do I know it for a fact, sir? 'Tis no story that I've read— I was but a boy in war time, and I carried him the thread. Sophie E. Eastman.
[March 4, 1861] All hail! Unfurl the Stripes and Stars! The banner of the free! Ten times ten thousand patriots greet The shrine of Liberty! Come, with one heart, one hope, one aim, An undivided band, To elevate, with solemn rites, The ruler of our land! Not to invest a potentate With robes of majesty,— Not to confer a kingly crown, Nor bend a subject knee. We bow beneath no sceptred sway, Obey no royal nod:— Columbia's sons, erect and free, Kneel only to their God! Our ruler boasts no titled rank, No ancient, princely line,— No regal right to sovereignty, Ancestral and divine. A patriot,—at his country's call, Responding to her voice; One of the people,—he becomes A sovereign by our choice! And now, before the mighty pile We've reared to Liberty, He swears to cherish and defend The charter of the free! God of our country! seal his oath With Thy supreme assent. God save the Union of the States! God save our President! Francis DeHaes Janvier. CHAPTER IITHE GAUNTLET
BOB ANDERSON, MY BEAU (Miss Columbia Sings) Bob Anderson, my beau, Bob, when we were first aquent, You were in Mex-i-co, Bob, because by order sent; But now you are in Sumter, Bob, because you chose to go; And blessings on you anyhow, Bob Anderson, my beau! Bob Anderson, my beau, Bob, I really don't know whether I ought to like you so, Bob, considering that feather; I don't like standing armies, Bob, as very well you know, But I love a man that dares to act, Bob Anderson, my beau.
ON FORT SUMTER It was a noble Roman, In Rome's imperial day, Who heard a coward croaker Before the battle say— "They're safe in such a fortress; There is no way to shake it"— "On, on!" exclaimed the hero, "I'll find a way, or make it!" Is Fame your aspiration? Her path is steep and high; In vain he seeks the temple, Content to gaze and sigh; The crowded town is waiting, But he alone can take it Who says, with "Southern firmness," "I'll find a way, or make it!" Is Glory your ambition? There is no royal road; Alike we all must labor, Must climb to her abode; In Helicon may slake it, If he has but the "Southern will," "To find a way, or make it!" Is Sumter worth the getting? It must be bravely sought; With wishing and with fretting The boon cannot be bought; To all the prize is open, But only he can take it Who says, with "Southern courage," "I'll find a way, or make it!" In all impassioned warfare, The tale has ever been, That victory crowns the valiant, The brave are they who win. Though strong is "Sumter Fortress," A Hero still may take it, Who says, with "Southern daring," "I'll find a way, or make it!" Charleston, S. C., Mercury.
SUMTER [April 12, 1861] Came the morning of that day When the God to whom we pray Gave the soul of Henry Clay To the land; How we loved him, living, dying! But his birthday banners flying Saw us asking and replying Hand to hand. For we knew that far away, Round the fort in Charleston Bay, Hung the dark impending fray, Soon to fall; And that Sumter's brave defender Had the summons to surrender Seventy loyal hearts and tender— (Those were all!) And we knew the April sun Lit the length of many a gun— Hosts of batteries to the one Island crag; Guns and mortars grimly frowning, Johnson, Moultrie, Pinckney, crowning, And ten thousand men disowning The old flag. Oh, the fury of the fight Even then was at its height! Yet no breath, from noon till night, Reached us here; We had almost ceased to wonder, And the day had faded under, When the echo of the thunder Filled each ear! Then our hearts more fiercely beat, As we crowded on the street, Hot to gather and repeat All the tale; All the doubtful chances turning, Till our souls with shame were burning, As if twice our bitter yearning Could avail! Who had fired the earliest gun? Was the fort by traitors won? Was there succor? What was done Who could know? And once more our thoughts would wander To the gallant, lone commander, On his battered ramparts grander Than the foe. Not too long the brave shall wait: On their own heads be their fate, Who against the hallowed State Dare begin; Flag defied and compact riven! In the record of high Heaven How shall Southern men be shriven For the sin! Edmund Clarence Stedman. THE BATTLE OF MORRIS' ISLAND A CHEERFUL TRAGEDY [April 12, 1861] I The morn was cloudy and dark and gray, When the first Columbiad blazed away, With the braves on Morris' Island; They fired their cannon again and again, Hoping that Major Anderson's men Would answer back, but 'twas all in vain At first, on Morris' Island: Hokee pokee, winkee wum, Shattering shot and thundering bomb, Fiddle and fife and rattling drum, At the battle of Morris' Island! II At length, as rose the morning sun, Fort Sumter fired a single gun, Which made the chivalry want to run Away from Morris' Island; But they had made so much of a boast Of their fancy batteries on the coast, That each felt bound to stick to his post Down there on Morris' Island. III Then there was firing in hot haste; The chivalry stripped them to the waist, And, brave as lions, they sternly faced —Their grog, on Morris' Island! The spirit of Seventy-six raged high, The cannons roared and the men grew dry— 'Twas marvellous like the Fourth of July, That fight on Morris' Island. IV All day they fought, till the night came down; It rained; the fellows were tired and blown, And they wished they were safely back to town, Away from Morris' Island. One can't expect the bravest men To shoot their cannons off in the rain, So all grew peaceful and still again, At the works on Morris' Island. V But after the heroes all had slept, To his gun each warrior swiftly leapt, Brisk, as the numerous fleas that crept In the sand on Morris' Island; And all that day they fired their shot, Heated in furnaces, piping hot, Hoping to send Fort Sumter to pot And glory to Morris' Island. VI Finally, wearying of the joke, Starved with hunger and blind with smoke From blazing barracks of pine and oak, Set fire from Morris' Island, The gallant Anderson struck his flag And packed his things in a carpet-bag, While cheers from bobtail, rag, and tag, Arose on Morris' Island. VII Then came the comforting piece of fun Of counting the noses one by one, To see if anything had been done On glorious Morris' Island: "Nobody hurt!" the cry arose; There was not missing a single nose, And this was the sadly ludicrous close Of the battle of Morris' Island. VIII But, gentle gunners, just wait and see What sort of a battle there yet will be; You'll hardly escape so easily, Next time on Morris' Island! There's a man in Washington with a will, Who won't mind shooting a little "to kill," If it proves that We Have a Government Still, Even on Morris' Island! Hokee pokee, winkee wum, Shattering shot and thundering bomb, Look out for the battle that's yet to come Down there on Morris' Island!
SUMTER—A BALLAD OF 1861 'Twas on the twelfth of April, Before the break of day. We heard the guns of Moultrie Give signal for the fray. Anon across the waters There boomed the answering gun, From north and south came flash on flash; The battle had begun. The mortars belched their deadly food And spiteful whizz'd the balls, On Sumter's doomÈd walls. We watched the meteor flight of shell, And saw the lightning flash— Saw where each fiery missile fell, And heard the sullen crash. The morn was dark and cloudy Yet till the sun arose, No answer to our gallant boys Came booming from our foes. Then through the dark and murky clouds The morning sunlight came, And forth from Sumter's frowning walls Burst sudden sheets of flame. Then shot and shell flew thick and fast, The war-dogs howling spoke, And thundering came their angry roar, Through wreathing clouds of smoke. Again to fight for liberty Our gallant sons had come, They smiled when came the bugle call, And laughed when tapped the drum. From cotton and from corn field, From desk and forum, too, From work bench and from anvil came Our gallant boys and true! A hireling band had come to awe, Our chains to rivet fast; Yon lofty pile scowls on our homes Seaward the hostile mast. But gallant freemen man our guns,— No mercenary host, Who barter for their honor's price, And of their baseness boast. Now came our stately matrons, And maidens, too, by scores; Oh! Carolina's beauty shone Like love-lights on her shores. See yonder, anxious gazing, Alone a matron stands, The tear-drop glistening on each lid, And tightly clasped her hands. For there, exposed to deadly fire, Her husband and her son— "Father," she spoke, and heavenward look'd, "Father, thy will be done." See yonder group of maidens, No joyous laughter now, For cares lie heavy on each heart And cloud each anxious brow; For brothers dear and lovers fond Are there amid the strife; Tearful the sister's anxious gaze— Pallid the promised wife. Yet breathed no heart one thought of fear, Prompt at their country's call, They yielded forth their dearest hopes, And gave to honor all! Now comes a message from below— Oh! quick the tidings tell— "At Moultrie and Fort Johnson, too, And Morris', all are well!" Then mark the joyous bright'ning; See how each bosom swells; That friends and loved ones all are safe, Each to the other tells. All day the shot flew thick and fast, All night the cannon roared, While wreathed in smoke stern Sumter stood And vengeful answer poured. Again the sun rose, bright and clear, 'Twas on the thirteenth day, While, lo! at prudent distance moored, Five hostile vessels lay. With choicest Abolition crews,— The bravest of their brave,— They'd come to pull our Crescent down And dig Secession's grave. "See, see, how Sumter's banner trails, They're signalling for aid. See you no boats of armed men? Is yet no movement made?" Now densest smoke and lurid flames Burst out o'er Sumter's walls; "The fort's on fire," is the cry, Again for aid he calls. See you no boats or vessels yet? Dare they not risk one shot; Of aid they rendered not? Nor boat, nor vessel, leaves the fleet, "Let the old Major burn, We'll boast of what we would have done, If but—on our return." Go back, go back, ye cravens; Go back the way ye came; Ye gallant, would-be men-of-war, Go! to your country's shame. 'Mid fiery storm of shot and shell, 'Mid smoke and roaring flame, See how Kentucky's gallant son Does honor to her name! See how he answers gun for gun— Hurrah! his flag is down! The white! the white! Oh see it wave! Is echoed all around. God save the gallant Anderson, All honor to his name, A soldier's duty nobly done, He's earned a hero's fame. Now ring the bells a joyous peal, And rend with shouts the air, We've torn the hated banner down, And placed the Crescent there. All honor to our gallant boys, Bring forth the roll of fame, And there in glowing lines inscribe Each patriot hero's name. Spread, spread the tidings far and wide, Ye winds take up the cry, "Our soil's redeemed from hateful yoke, We'll keep it pure or die." Columbia, S. C., Banner.
THE FIGHT AT SUMTER 'Twas a wonderful brave fight! Through the day and all night, March! Halt! Left! Right! So they formed: And one thousand to ten, The bold Palmetto men Sumter stormed. The smoke in a cloud Closed her in like a shroud, While the cannon roared aloud From the Port; And the red cannon-balls Ploughed the gray granite walls Of the Fort. Sumter's gunners at their places, With their gunpowdered faces, Shook their shoulders from their braces, And stripped Stark and white to the waist, Just to give the foe a taste, And be whipped. In the town, through every street, Tramp, tramp, went the feet, For they said the Federal fleet Hove in sight; And down the wharves they ran, Every woman, child, and man, To the fight. On the fort the old flag waved, And the barking batteries braved, While the bold seven thousand raved As they fought; For each blinding sheet of flame From her cannon thundered shame!— So they thought. And strange enough to tell, Though the gunners fired well, And the balls ploughed red as hell Through the dirt; Though the shells burst and scattered, And the fortress walls were shattered,— None were hurt. But the fort—so hot she grew, As the cannon-balls flew, That each man began to stew At his gun; They were not afraid to die, But this making Patriot pie Was not fun. So, to make the story short, The traitors got the fort After thirty hours' sport With the balls; Though their brazen banner flares From the walls. It were better they should dare The lion in his lair, Or defy the grizzly bear In his den, Than to wake the fearful cry That is rising up on high From our men. To our banner we are clinging, And a song we are singing, Whose chorus is ringing From each mouth; 'Tis "The old Constitution And a stern retribution To the South." Vanity Fair, April 27, 1861. SUMTER So, they will have it! The Black Witch (curse on her) Always had won her Greediest demand—for we gave it— All but our honor! Thirty hours thundered Siege-guns and mortars— (Flames in the quarters!) One to a hundred Stood our brave Forters! No more of parties!— Let them all moulder— Here's work that's bolder! Forward, my hearties! Shoulder to shoulder. Sight o'er the trunnion— Send home the rammer— Linstock and hammer! Speak for the Union! Tones that won't stammer! Men of Columbia, Leal hearts from Annan, Brave lads of Shannon! We are all one to-day— On with the cannon! Henry Howard Brownell.
THE GREAT BELL ROLAND SUGGESTED BY THE PRESIDENT'S CALL FOR VOLUNTEERS I Toll! Roland, toll! —High in St. Bavon's tower, At midnight hour, The great bell Roland spoke, And all who slept in Ghent awoke. —What meant its iron stroke? Why caught each man his blade? Why the hot haste he made? Why echoed every street With tramp of thronging feet— All flying to the city's wall? It was the call Known well to all, That Freedom stood in peril of some foe: And even timid hearts grew bold Whenever Roland tolled, And every hand a sword could hold;— For men Were patriots then, Three hundred years ago! II Toll! Roland, toll! Bell never yet was hung, Between whose lips there swung So true and brave a tongue! —If men be patriots still, At thy first sound True hearts will bound, Great souls will thrill— Then toll! and wake the test In each man's breast, And let him stand confess'd! III Toll! Roland, toll! —Not in St. Bavon's tower At midnight hour,— Nor by the Scheldt, nor far-off Zuyder Zee; And here in broad, bright day! Toll! Roland, toll! For not by night awaits A brave foe at the gates, But Treason stalks abroad—inside!—at noon! Toll! Thy alarm is not too soon! To arms! Ring out the Leader's call! ReËcho it from East to West, Till every dauntless breast Swell beneath plume and crest! Toll! Roland, toll! Till swords from scabbards leap! Toll! Roland, toll! —What tears can widows weep Less bitter than when brave men fall? Toll! Roland, toll! Till cottager from cottage-wall Snatch pouch and powder-horn and gun— The heritage of sire to son, Ere half of Freedom's work was done! Toll! Roland, toll! Till son, in memory of his sire, Once more shall load and fire! Toll! Roland, toll! Till volunteers find out the art Of aiming at a traitor's heart! IV Toll! Roland, toll! —St. Bavon's stately tower Stands to this hour,— And by its side stands Freedom yet in Ghent; For when the bells now ring, Men shout, "God save the King!" Until the air is rent! —Amen!—So let it be; For a true king is he Who keeps his people free. Toll! Roland, toll! This side the sea! No longer they, but we, Have now such need of thee! Toll! Roland, toll! And let thy iron throat Ring out its warning note, Till Freedom's perils be outbraved, And Freedom's flag, wherever waved, Shall overshadow none enslaved! Toll! till from either ocean's strand, Brave men shall clasp each other's hand, And shout, "God save our native land!" —And love the land which God hath saved! Toll! Roland, toll! Theodore Tilton. Independent, April 18, 1861. MEN OF THE NORTH AND WEST OUT AND FIGHT Out and fight! The clouds are breaking, Far and wide the red light streams, North and west see millions waking From their night-mare, doubting dreams. War is coming. As the thunder 'Mid the mountain caverns rolls, Driving rains in torrents under, So the wild roar wakes our souls. Out and fight! The time is over For all truce and compromise, Words of calm are words of folly, Sumter's flames in Southern waters Are the first wild beacon light, And on Northern hills reflected Give the signal for the fight. Out and fight! Endure no longer Goading insult, brazen guilt; Be the battle to the knife blade, And the knife blade to the hilt, Till the sacred zone of Freedom Girds the whole Atlantic strand, And the braggart and the Gascon Be extinguished from the land. Charles Godfrey Leland. Vanity Fair, April 27, 1861. NO MORE WORDS No more words; Try it with your swords! Try it with the arms of your bravest and your best! You are proud of your manhood, now put it to the test; Not another word; Try it by the sword! No more notes; Try it by the throats Of the cannon that will roar till the earth and air be shaken; For they speak what they mean, and they cannot be mistaken; No more doubt; Come—fight it out! No child's play! Waste not a day; Serve out the deadliest weapons that you know; Let them pitilessly hail on the faces of the foe; No blind strife; Waste not one life. You that in the front Bear the battle's brunt— When the sun gleams at dawn on the bayonets abreast, Remember 'tis for government and country you contest; For love of all you guard, Stand, and strike hard! You at home that stay From danger far away, Leave not a jot to chance, while you rest in quiet ease; Quick! forge the bolts of death; quick! ship them o'er the seas; If War's feet are lame, Yours will be the blame. You, my lads, abroad, "Steady!" be your word; You, at home, be the anchor of your soldiers young and brave; Spare no cost, none is lost, that may strengthen or may save; Sloth were sin and shame, Now play out the game! Franklin Lushington.
OUR COUNTRY'S CALL Lay down the axe; fling by the spade; Leave in its track the toiling plough; The rifle and the bayonet-blade For arms like yours were fitter now; And let the hands that ply the pen Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman's crooked brand, and rein The charger on the battle-field. Our country calls; away! away! To where the blood-stream blots the green. Strike to defend the gentlest sway That Time in all his course has seen. See, from a thousand coverts—see, Spring the armed foes that haunt her track; They rush to smite her down, and we Must beat the banded traitors back. Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave, And moved as soon to fear and flight, Men of the glade and forest! leave Your woodcraft for the field of fight. The arms that wield the axe must pour An iron tempest on the foe; His serried ranks shall reel before The arm that lays the panther low. And ye, who breast the mountain-storm By grassy steep or highland lake, Come, for the land ye love, to form A bulwark that no foe can break. Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock The whirlwind, stand in her defence; The blast as soon shall move the rock As rushing squadrons bear ye thence. And ye, whose homes are by her grand Swift rivers, rising far away, Come from the depth of her green land, As mighty in your march as they; As terrible as when the rains Have swelled them over bank and borne, With sudden floods to drown the plains And sweep along the woods uptorn. And ye, who throng, beside the deep, Her ports and hamlets of the strand, In number like the waves that leap On his long-murmuring marge of sand— Come like that deep, when, o'er his brim He rises, all his floods to pour, And flings the proudest barks that swim, A helpless wreck, against the shore! Few, few were they whose swords of old Won the fair land in which we dwell, But we are many, we who hold The grim resolve to guard it well. Strike, for that broad and goodly land, Blow after blow, till men shall see That Might and Right move hand in hand, And glorious must their triumph be! William Cullen Bryant.
Southrons, hear your country call you! Up, lest worse than death befall you! To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie! Lo! all the beacon-fires are lighted,— Let all hearts be now united! To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie! Advance the flag of Dixie! Hurrah! hurrah! For Dixie's land we take our stand, And live and die for Dixie! To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie! To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie! Hear the Northern thunders mutter! Northern flags in South winds flutter! Send them back your fierce defiance! Stamp upon the accursed alliance! Fear no danger! Shun no labor! Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre! Shoulder pressing close to shoulder, Let the odds make each heart bolder! How the South's great heart rejoices At your cannons' ringing voices! For faith betrayed, and pledges broken, Wrongs inflicted, insults spoken. Strong as lions, swift as eagles, Back to their kennels hunt these beagles! Cut the unequal bonds asunder! Let them hence each other plunder! Swear upon your country's altar Never to submit or falter, Till the spoilers are defeated, Till the Lord's work is completed! Halt not till our Federation Secures among earth's powers its station! Then at peace, and crowned with glory, Hear your children tell the story! If the loved ones weep in sadness, Victory soon shall bring them gladness,— To arms! Exultant pride soon vanish sorrow; Smiles chase tears away to-morrow. To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie! Advance the flag of Dixie! Hurrah! hurrah! For Dixie's land we take our stand, And live or die for Dixie! To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie! To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie! Albert Pike. Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side! Ho, dwellers in the vales! Have roughened in the gales! Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot, Lay by the bloodless spade; Let desk and case and counter rot, And burn your books of trade! The despot roves your fairest lands; And till he flies or fears, Your fields must grow but armÈd bands, Your sheaves be sheaves of spears! Give up to mildew and to rust The useless tools of gain, And feed your country's sacred dust With floods of crimson rain! Come with the weapons at your call— With musket, pike, or knife; He wields the deadliest blade of all Who lightest holds his life. The arm that drives its unbought blows With all a patriot's scorn, Might brain a tyrant with a rose Or stab him with a thorn. Does any falter? Let him turn To some brave maiden's eyes, And catch the holy fires that burn In those sublunar skies. Oh, could you like your women feel, And in their spirit march, A day might see your lines of steel Beneath the victor's arch! What hope, O God! would not grow warm When thoughts like these give cheer? The lily calmly braves the storm, And shall the palm-tree fear? No! rather let its branches court The rack that sweeps the plain; And from the lily's regal port Learn how to breast the strain. Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side! Ho, dwellers in the vales! Ho, ye who by the roaring tide Have roughened in the gales! Come, flocking gayly to the fight, From forest, hill, and lake; We battle for our country's right, And for the lily's sake! Henry Timrod. "WE CONQUER OR DIE" The war drum is beating, prepare for the fight, The stern bigot Northman exults in his might; Gird on your bright weapons, your foemen are nigh, And this be our watchword, "We conquer or die." The trumpet is sounding from mountain to shore, Your swords and your lances must slumber no more, Fling forth to the sunlight your banner on high, Inscribed with the watchword, "We conquer or die." March on the battlefield, there to do or dare, With shoulder to shoulder, all danger to share, And let your proud watchword ring up to the sky, Till the blue arch reËchoes, "We conquer or die." Press forward undaunted nor think of retreat, The enemy's host on the threshold to meet; Strike firm, till the foeman before you shall fly, Appalled by the watchword, "We conquer or die." Go forth in the pathway our forefathers trod; We, too, fight for freedom—our Captain is God, Their blood in our veins, with their honors we vie, Theirs, too, was the watchword, "We conquer or die." We strike for the South—Mountain, Valley, and Plain, For the South we will conquer again and again; Her day of salvation and triumph is nigh, Ours, then, be the watchword, "We conquer or die." James Pierpont. "CALL ALL" Whoop! the Doodles have broken loose, Roaring round like the very deuce! Lice of Egypt, a hungry pack,— After 'em, boys, and drive 'em back. Bull-dog, terrier, cur, and fice, Back to the beggarly land of ice; Worry 'em, bite 'em, scratch and tear Everybody and everywhere. Old Kentucky is caved from under, Tennessee is split asunder, Alabama awaits attack, And Georgia bristles up her back. Old John Brown is dead and gone! Still his spirit is marching on,— Lantern-jawed, and legs, my boys, Long as an ape's from Illinois! Want a weapon? Gather a brick, Club or cudgel, or stone or stick; Anything with a blade or butt, Anything that can cleave or cut. Anything heavy, or hard, or keen! Any sort of slaying machine! Anything with a willing mind, And the steady arm of a man behind. Want a weapon? Why, capture one! Every Doodle has got a gun, Belt, and bayonet, bright and new; Kill a Doodle, and capture two! Shoulder to shoulder, son and sire! All, call all! to the feast of fire! Mother and maiden, and child and slave, A common triumph or a single grave. Rockingham, Va., Register, 1861. THE BONNIE BLUE FLAG Come, brothers! rally for the right! The bravest of the brave Sends forth her ringing battle-cry Beside the Atlantic wave! She leads the way in honor's path; Come, brothers, near and far, Come rally round the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star! We've borne the Yankee trickery, The Yankee gibe and sneer, Till Yankee insolence and pride Know neither shame nor fear; But ready now with shot and steel Their brazen front to mar, We hoist aloft the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star. Now Georgia marches to the front, And close beside her come Her sisters by the Mexique Sea, With pealing trump and drum; Till answering back from hill and glen The rallying cry afar, A Nation hoists the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star. By every stone in Charleston Bay, By each beleaguered town, We swear to rest not, night nor day, But hunt the tyrants down! Till bathed in valor's holy blood The gazing world afar Shall greet with shouts the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears the cross and star! Annie Chambers Ketchum.
"I GIVE MY SOLDIER BOY A BLADE!" I give my soldier boy a blade, In fair Damascus fashioned well: Who first the glittering falchion swayed, Who first beneath its fury fell, I know not; but I hope to know, That, for no mean or hireling trade. To guard no feeling base or low— I give my soldier boy the blade! Cool, calm, and clear—the lucid flood In which its tempering work was done;— As calm, as clear, in wind and wood, Be thou where'er it sees the sun! For country's claim at honor's call, For outraged friend, insulted maid, At mercy's voice to bid it fall— I give my soldier boy the blade! The eye which marked its peerless edge, The hand that weighed its balanced poise, Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge, Are gone with all their flame and noise; Yet still the gleaming sword remains! So, when in dust I low am laid, Remember by these heartfelt strains, I give my soldier boy the blade! CHAPTER IIITHE NORTH GETS ITS LESSON
THE NINETEENTH OF APRIL [1861] This year, till late in April, the snow fell thick and light: Thy truce-flag, friendly Nature, in clinging drifts of white, Hung over field and city: now everywhere is seen, In place of that white quietness, a sudden glow of green. The verdure climbs the Common, beneath the leafless trees, To where the glorious Stars and Stripes are floating on the breeze. There, suddenly as spring awoke from winter's snow-draped gloom, The Passion-Flower of Seventy-Six is bursting into bloom. Dear is the time of roses, when earth to joy is wed, And garden-plat and meadow wear one generous flush of red; But now in dearer beauty, to her ancient colors true, Blooms the old town of Boston in red and white and blue. Along the whole awakening North are those bright emblems spread; A summer noon of patriotism is burning overhead: No party badges flaunting now, no word of clique or clan; But "Up for God and Union!" is the shout of every man. Oh, peace is dear to Northern hearts; our hard-earned homes more dear; But Freedom is beyond the price of any earthly cheer; And Freedom's flag is sacred; he who would work it harm, Let him, although a brother, beware our strong right arm! A brother! ah, the sorrow, the anguish of that word! The fratricidal strife begun, when will its end be heard? Not this the boon that patriot hearts have prayed and waited for;— We loved them, and we longed for peace: but they would have it war. Yes; war! on this memorial day, the day of Lexington, A lightning-thrill along the wires from heart to heart has run. Brave men we gazed on yesterday, to-day for us have bled: Again is Massachusetts blood the first for Freedom shed. To war,—and with our brethren, then,—if only this can be! Life hangs as nothing in the scale against dear Liberty! Though hearts be torn asunder, for Freedom we will fight: Our blood may seal the victory, but God will shield the Right! Lucy Larcom.
THROUGH BALTIMORE [April 19, 1861] 'Twas Friday morn: the train drew near The city and the shore. Far through the sunshine, soft and clear, We saw the dear old flag appear, And in our hearts arose a cheer For Baltimore. Across the broad Patapsco's wave, Old Fort McHenry bore The starry banner of the brave, As when our fathers went to save, Or in the trenches find a grave At Baltimore. Before us, pillared in the sky, We saw the statue soar Of Washington, serene and high:— Could traitors view that form, nor fly? Could patriots see, nor gladly die For Baltimore? "O city of our country's song! By that swift aid we bore When sorely pressed, receive the throng Who go to shield our flag from wrong, And give us welcome, warm and strong, In Baltimore!" We had no arms; as friends we came, As brothers evermore, To rally round one sacred name— The charter of our power and fame: We never dreamed of guilt and shame In Baltimore. The coward mob upon us fell: McHenry's flag they tore: Surprised, borne backward by the swell, Beat down with mad, inhuman yell, Before us yawned a traitorous hell In Baltimore! The streets our soldier-fathers trod Blushed with their children's gore; We saw the craven rulers nod, And dip in blood the civic rod— Shall such things be, O righteous God, In Baltimore? No, never! By that outrage black, A solemn oath we swore, To bring the Keystone's thousands back, Strike down the dastards who attack, And leave a red and fiery track Through Baltimore! Bow down, in haste, thy guilty head! God's wrath is swift and sore: The sky with gathering bolts is red,— Cleanse from thy skirts the slaughter shed, Or make thyself an ashen bed, O Baltimore! Bayard Taylor.
The despot's heel is on thy shore, Maryland! His torch is at thy temple door, Maryland! Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, And be the battle-queen of yore, Maryland, my Maryland! Hark to an exiled son's appeal, Maryland! My Mother State, to thee I kneel, Maryland! For life and death, for woe and weal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland, my Maryland! Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland! Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland! Remember Carroll's sacred trust, Remember Howard's warlike thrust, And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland, my Maryland! Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day, Maryland! Come with thy panoplied array, Maryland! With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, With Watson's blood at Monterey, With fearless Lowe and dashing May, Maryland, my Maryland! Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain, Maryland! Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland! She meets her sisters on the plain,— "Sic semper!" 'tis the proud refrain That baffles minions back amain, Maryland! Arise in majesty again, Maryland, my Maryland! Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, Maryland! Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, Maryland! Come to thine own heroic throng Stalking with Liberty along, And chant thy dauntless slogan-song, Maryland, my Maryland! I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland! For thou wast ever bravely meek, Maryland! But lo! there surges forth a shriek, From hill to hill, from creek to creek, Potomac calls to Chesapeake, Maryland, my Maryland! Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, Maryland! Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland! Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland, my Maryland! I hear the distant thunder hum, Maryland! The Old Line's bugle, fife, and drum, Maryland! She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb; Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum! She breathes! She burns! She'll come! She'll come! Maryland, my Maryland! James Ryder Randall.
ELLSWORTH [May 24, 1861] Who is this ye say is slain? Whose voice answers not again? Ellsworth, shall we call in vain On thy name to-day? No! from every vale and hill Our response all hearts shall thrill, "Ellsworth's fame is with us still, Ne'er to pass away!" Bring that rebel banner low, Hoisted by a treacherous foe: 'Twas for that they dealt the blow, Laid him in the dust. Raise aloft, that all may see His loved flag of Liberty. Forward, then, to victory, Or perish if we must! Hark to what Columbia saith: "Mourn not for his early death, With each patriot's dying breath Strength renewed is given To the cause of truth and right, To the land for which they fight. After darkness cometh light,— Such the law of Heaven." So we name him not in vain, Though he comes not back again! For his country he was slain; Ellsworth's blood shall rise To our gracious Saviour—King: 'Tis a holy gift we bring; Such a sacred offering God will not despise. COLONEL ELLSWORTH It fell upon us like a crushing woe, Sudden and terrible. "Can it be?" we said, "That he from whom we hoped so much, is dead, Most foully murdered ere he met the foe?" Why not? The men that would disrupt the State By such base plots as theirs—frauds, thefts, and lies— What code of honor do they recognize? They thirst for blood to satisfy their hate, Our blood: so be it; but for every blow Woe shall befall them; not in their wild way, But stern and pitiless, we will repay, Until, like swollen streams, their blood shall flow; And should we pause; the thought of Ellsworth slain, Richard Henry Stoddard. ON THE DEATH OF "JACKSON" [May 24, 1861] Not where the battle red Covers with fame the dead,— Not where the trumpet calls Vengeance for each that falls,— Not with his comrades dear, Not there—he fell not there. He grasps no brother's hand, He sees no patriot band; Daring alone the foe He strikes—then waits the blow, Counting his life not dear, His was no heart to fear! Shout! shout, his deed of glory! Tell it in song and story; Tell it where soldiers brave Rush fearless to their grave; Tell it—a magic spell In that great deed shall dwell. Yes! he hath won a name Deathless for aye to fame; Our flag baptized in blood, Always, as with a flood, Shall sweep the tyrant band Whose feet pollute our land. Then, freemen, raise the cry, As freemen live or die! Arm! arm you for the fight! His banner in your sight; And this your battle-cry, "Jackson and victory!"
THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY The knightliest of the knightly race That, since the days of old, Have kept the lamp of chivalry Alight in hearts of gold; The kindliest of the kindly band That, rarely hating ease, Yet rode with Spotswood round the land, And Raleigh round the seas; Who climbed the blue Virginian hills Against embattled foes, And planted there, in valleys fair, The lily and the rose; Whose fragrance lives in many lands, Whose beauty stars the earth, And lights the hearths of happy homes With loveliness and worth. We thought they slept!—the sons who kept The names of noble sires, And slumbered while the darkness crept Around their vigil-fires; But aye the "Golden Horseshoe" knights Their old Dominion keep, Whose foes have found enchanted ground, But not a knight asleep! Francis Orrery Ticknor.
BETHEL [June 10, 1861] We mustered at midnight, in darkness we formed, And the whisper went round of a fort to be stormed; But no drum-beat had called us, no trumpet we heard, And no voice of command, but our colonel's low word— "Column! Forward!" And out, through the mist, and the murk of the morn, From the beaches of Hampton our barges were borne; And we heard not a sound, save the sweep of the oar, Till the word of our colonel came up from the shore— "Column! Forward!" With hearts bounding bravely, and eyes all alight, As ye dance to soft music, so trod we that night; Through the aisles of the greenwood, with vines overarched, Tossing dew-drops, like gems, from our feet, as we marched— "Column! Forward!" As ye dance with the damsels, to viol and flute, So we skipped from the shadows, and mocked their pursuit; But the soft zephyrs chased us, with scents of the morn, As we passed by the hay-fields and green waving corn— "Column! Forward!" For the leaves were all laden with fragrance of June, And the flowers and the foliage with sweets were in tune; And the air was so calm, and the forest so dumb, That we heard our own heart-beats, like taps of a drum— "Column! Forward!" Till the lull of the lowlands was stirred by the breeze, And the buskins of morn brushed the tops of the trees, And the glintings of glory that slid from her track By the sheen of our rifles were gayly flung back— "Column! Forward!" And the woodlands grew purple with sunshiny mist, And the blue-crested hill-tops with roselight were kissed, And the earth gave her prayers to the sun in perfumes, Till we marched as through gardens, and trampled on blooms— "Column! Forward!" Ay, trampled on blossoms, and seared the sweet breath Of the greenwood with low-brooding vapors of death; O'er the flowers and the corn we were borne like a blast, And away to the forefront of battle we passed— "Column! Forward!" For the cannon's hoarse thunder roared out from the glades, And the sun was like lightning on banners and blades, When the long line of chanting Zouaves, like a flood, From the green of the woodlands rolled, crimson as blood— "Column! Forward!" While the sound of their song, like the surge of the seas, With the "Star-Spangled Banner" swelled over the leas; And the sword of Duryea, like a torch, led the way, Bearing down on the batteries of Bethel that day— "Column! Forward!" Through green tasselled cornfields our columns were thrown, And like corn by the red scythe of fire we were mown; While the cannon's fierce ploughings new-furrowed the plain, That our blood might be planted for Liberty's grain— "Column! Forward!" Oh! the fields of fair June have no lack of sweet flowers, But their rarest and best breathe no fragrance like ours; And the sunshine of June, sprinkling gold on the corn, Hath no harvest that ripeneth like Bethel's red morn— "Column! Forward!" When our heroes, like bridegrooms, with lips and with breath, Drank the first kiss of Danger and clasped her in death; And the heart of brave Winthrop grew mute with his lyre, When the plumes of his genius lay moulting in fire— "Column! Forward!" Where he fell shall be sunshine as bright as his name, And the grass where he slept shall be green as his fame; For the gold of the pen and the steel of the sword Write his deeds—in his blood—on the land he adored— "Column! Forward!" And the soul of our comrade shall sweeten the air, And the flowers and the grass-blades his memory upbear; While the breath of his genius, like music in leaves, With the corn-tassels whispers, and sings in the sheaves— "Column! Forward!" A. J. H. Duganne.
DIRGE FOR ONE WHO FELL IN BATTLE [June 10, 1861] About fifty thousand Union troops had meanwhile been collected along the Potomac—a force which seemed to most people at the North quite sufficient to crush the rebellion. "On to Richmond!" was the cry, and popular clamor demanded that the advance be begun at once. WAIT FOR THE WAGON [July 1, 1861] A hundred thousand Northmen, In glittering war array, Shout, "Onward now to Richmond! We'll brook no more delay; Why give the traitors time and means To fortify the way With stolen guns, in ambuscades? Oh! answer us, we pray." You must wait for the wagons, The real army wagons, The fat contract wagons, Bought in the red-tape way. Now, if for army wagons, Not for compromise you wait, Just ask them of the farmers Of any Union state; And if you need ten thousand, Sound, sound, though second-hand, You'll find upon the instant A supply for your demand. Chorus— No! wait for the wagons, The new army wagons, The fat contract wagons, Till the fifteenth of July. No swindling fat contractors Shall block the people's way, Nor rebel compromisers— 'Tis treason's reckoning day. Then shout again our war-cry, To Richmond onward move! We now can crush the traitors, And that we mean to prove! Chorus— No! wait for the wagons, The fat contract wagons; If red-tape so wills it, Wait till the Judgment-day.
UPON THE HILL BEFORE CENTREVILLE [July 21, 1861] I'll tell you what I heard that day: I heard the great guns far away, Boom after boom. Their sullen sound Shook all the shuddering air around; And shook, ah me! my shrinking ear, And downward shook the hanging tear That, in despite of manhood's pride, Rolled o'er my face a scalding tide. And then I prayed. O God! I prayed, As never stricken saint, who laid His hot cheek to the holy tomb Of Jesus, in the midnight gloom. "What saw I?" Little. Clouds of dust; Great squares of men, with standards thrust Against their course; dense columns crowned With billowing steel. Then bound on bound, The long black lines of cannon poured Behind the horses, streaked and gored With sweaty speed. Anon shot by, Like a lone meteor of the sky, A single horseman; and he shone His bright face on me, and was gone. All these with rolling drums, with cheers, With songs familiar to my ears, Passed under the far-hanging cloud, And vanished, and my heart was proud! For mile on mile the line of war Extended; and a steady roar, As of some distant stormy sea, On the south wind came up to me. And high in air, and over all, Grew, like a fog, that murky pall, Beneath whose gloom of dusty smoke The cannon flamed, the bombshell broke. And the sharp rattling volley rang, And shrapnel roared, and bullets sang, And fierce-eyed men, with panting breath, Toiled onward at the work of death. I could not see, but knew too well, That underneath that cloud of hell, Which still grew more by great degrees, Man strove with man in deeds like these. But when the sun had passed his stand At noon, behold! on every hand The dark brown vapor backward bore, From the huge sea of striving men. Thus spoke my rising spirit then: "Take comfort from that dying sound, Faint heart, the foe is giving ground!" And one, who taxed his horse's powers, Flung at me, "Ho! the day is ours!" And scoured along. So swift his pace, I took no memory of his face. Then turned I once again to Heaven; All things appeared so just and even; So clearly from the highest Cause Traced I the downward-working laws— Those moral springs, made evident, In the grand, triumph-crowned event. So half I shouted, and half sang, Like Jephtha's daughter, to the clang Of my spread, cymbal-striking palms, Some fragments of thanksgiving psalms. Meanwhile a solemn stillness fell Upon the land. O'er hill and dell Failed every sound. My heart stood still, Waiting before some coming ill. The silence was more sad and dread, Under that canopy of lead, Than the wild tumult of the war That raged a little while before. All Nature, in her work of death, Paused for one last, despairing breath; And, cowering to the earth, I drew From her strong breast my strength anew. When I arose, I wondering saw Another dusty vapor draw, From the far right, its sluggish way Toward the main cloud, that frowning lay Against the western sloping sun: And all the war was re-begun, Ere this fresh marvel of my sense Caught from my mind significance. And then—why ask me? O my God! Would I had lain beneath the sod, A patient clod, for many a day, And from my bones and mouldering clay The rank field grass and flowers had sprung, Ere the base sight, that struck and stung My very soul, confronted me, Shamed at my own humanity. O happy dead! who early fell, Ye have no wretched tale to tell Of causeless fear and coward flight, Of victory snatched beneath your sight, Of martial strength and honor lost, Of mere life bought at any cost, Of the deep, lingering mark of shame, Forever scorched on brow and name, That no new deeds, however bright, Shall banish from men's loathful sight! Ye perished in your conscious pride, Ere this vile scandal opened wide A wound that cannot close nor heal. Ye perished steel to levelled steel, Stern votaries of the god of war, Filled with his godhead to the core! Ye died to live, these lived to die, Beneath the scorn of every eye! How eloquent your voices sound From the low chambers under ground! How clear each separate title burns From your high-set and laurelled urns! While these, who walk about the earth, Are blushing at their very birth! And, though they talk, and go, and come, Their moving lips are worse than dumb. Ye sleep beneath the valley's dew, And all the nation mourns for you; So sleep till God shall wake the lands! For angels, armed with fiery brands, Await to take you by the hands. The right-hand vapor broader grew; It rose, and joined itself unto The main cloud with a sudden dash. Loud and more near the cannon's crash Came toward me, and I heard a sound As if all hell had broken bound— A cry of agony and fear. Still the dark vapor rolled more near, Till at my very feet it tossed, The vanward fragments of our host. Can man, Thy image, sink so low, Thou, who hast bent Thy tinted bow Across the storm and raging main; Whose laws both loosen and restrain The powers of earth, without whose will No sparrow's little life is still? Was fear of hell, or want of faith, Or the brute's common dread of death The passion that began a chase, Whose goal was ruin and disgrace? What tongue the fearful sight may tell? What horrid nightmare ever fell Upon the restless sleep of crime— What history of another time— What dismal vision, darkly seen By the stern-featured Florentine, Can give a hint to dimly draw The likeness of the scene I saw? I saw, yet saw not. In that sea, That chaos of humanity, No more the eye could catch and keep A single point, than on the deep The eye may mark a single wave, Where hurrying myriads leap and rave. Men of all arms, and all costumes, Bare-headed, decked with broken plumes; Soldiers and officers, and those Who wore but civil-suited clothes; On foot or mounted—some bestrode Steeds severed from their harnessed load; Wild mobs of white-topped wagons, cars, Of wounded, red with bleeding scars; The whole grim panoply of war Surged on me with a deafening roar! All shades of fear, disfiguring man, Glared through their faces' brazen tan. Not one a moment paused, or stood To see what enemy pursued. With shrieks of fear, and yells of pain, With every muscle on the strain, Onward the struggling masses bore. Oh! had the foemen lain before, They'd trampled them to dust and gore, And swept their lines and batteries As autumn sweeps the windy trees! Here one cast forth his wounded friend, And with his sword or musket-end Urged on the horses; there one trod Upon the likeness of his God, As if 'twere dust; a coward here Grew valiant with his very fear, And struck his weaker comrade prone, And struggled to the front alone. All had one purpose, one sole aim, That mocked the decency of shame,— To fly, by any means to fly; They cared not how, they asked not why. I found a voice. My burning blood Flamed up. Upon a mound I stood; I could no more restrain my voice Than could the prophet of God's choice. "Back, animated dirt!" I cried, "Back, on your wretched lives, and hide Your shame beneath your native clay! Or if the foe affrights you, slay Your own base selves; and, dying, leave Your children's tearful cheeks to grieve, Not quail and blush, when you shall come, Alive, to their degraded home! Your wives will look askance with scorn; Your boys, and infants yet unborn, Will curse you to God's holy face! Heaven holds no pardon in its grace For cowards. Oh! are such as ye The guardians of our liberty? Back, if one trace of manhood still May nerve your arm and brace your will! You stain your country in the eyes Of Europe and her monarchies! The despots laugh, the peoples groan; Man's cause is lost and overthrown! I curse you, by the sacred blood That freely poured its purple flood Down Bunker's heights, on Monmouth's plain, From Georgia to the rocks of Maine! I curse you, by the patriot band Whose bones are crumbling in the land! By those who saved what these had won In the high name of Washington!" Then I remember little more. As the tide's rising waves, that pour Over some low and rounded rock, The coming mass, with one great shock, Flowed o'er the shelter of my mound, And raised me helpless from the ground. As the huge shouldering billows bear, Half in the sea and half in air, A swimmer on their foaming crest, So the foul throng beneath me pressed, Swept me along, with curse and blow, And flung me—where, I ne'er shall know. When I awoke, a steady rain Made rivulets across the plain; And it was dark—oh, very dark. I was so stunned as scarce to mark The ghostly figures of the trees, Or hear the sobbing of the breeze That flung the wet leaves to and fro. Upon me lay a dismal woe, A boundless, superhuman grief, That drew no promise of relief From any hope. Then I arose, As one who struggles up from blows By unseen hands; and as I stood Alone, I thought that God was good, To hide, in clouds and driving rain, Our low world from the angel train, Whose souls filled heroes when the earth Was worthy of their noble birth. By that dull instinct of the mind, Which leads aright the helpless blind, I struggled onward, till the dawn Across the eastern clouds had drawn A narrow line of watery gray; And full before my vision lay The great dome's gaunt and naked bones Her queenly person. On I stole, With hanging head and abject soul, Across the high embattled ridge, And o'er the arches of the bridge. So freshly pricked my sharp disgrace, I feared to meet the human face, Skulking, as any woman might, Who'd lost her virtue in the night, And sees the dreadful glare of day Prepare to light her homeward way, Alone, heart-broken, shamed, undone, I staggered into Washington! Since then long sluggish days have passed, And on the wings of every blast Have come the distant nations' sneers To tingle in our blushing ears. In woe and ashes, as was meet, We wore the penitential sheet. But now I breathe a purer air, And from the depths of my despair Awaken to a cheering morn, Just breaking through the night forlorn, A morn of hopeful victory. Awake, my countrymen, with me! Redeem the honor which you lost. With any blood, at any cost! I ask not how the war began, Nor how the quarrel branched and ran To this dread height. The wrong or right Stands clear before God's faultless sight. I only feel the shameful blow, I only see the scornful foe, And vengeance burns in every vein To die, or wipe away the stain. The war-wise hero of the west, Wearing his glories as a crest, Of trophies gathered in your sight, Is arming for the coming fight. Full well his wisdom apprehends The duty and its mighty ends; The great occasion of the hour, That never lay in human power Since over Yorktown's tented plain The red cross fell, nor rose again. My humble pledge of faith I lay, Dear comrade of my school-boy day, Before thee, in the nation's view, And if thy prophet prove untrue, And from our country's grasp be thrown The sceptre and the starry crown. And thou, and all thy marshalled host Be baffled and in ruin lost; Oh! let me not outlive the blow That seals my country's overthrow! And, lest this woful end come true, Men of the North, I turn to you. Display your vaunted flag once more, Southward your eager columns pour! Sound trump, and fife, and rallying drum; From every hill and valley come. Old men, yield up your treasured gold! Can liberty be priced and sold? Fair matrons, maids, and tender brides Gird weapons to your lovers' sides; And though your hearts break at the deed, Give them your blessing and God-speed; Then point them to the field of flame, With words like those of Sparta's dame; And when the ranks are full and strong, And the whole army moves along, A vast result of care and skill, Obedient to the master will; And your young hero draws the sword, And gives the last commanding word That hurls your strength upon the foe— Oh! let them need no second blow. Strike, as your fathers struck of old; Through summer's heat, and winter's cold; Through pain, disaster, and defeat; Through marches tracked with bloody feet; Through every ill that could befall The holy cause that bound them all! Strike as they struck for liberty! Strike as they struck to make you free! Strike for the crown of victory! George Henry Boker. MANASSAS [July 21, 1861] They have met at last—as storm-clouds Meet in heaven, And the Northmen back and bleeding Have been driven; And their thunders have been stilled, And their leaders crushed or killed, And their ranks with terror thrilled, Rent and riven! Like the leaves of Vallambrosa They are lying; In the moonlight, in the midnight, Dead and dying; Like those leaves before the gale, Swept their legions, wild and pale; While the host that made them quail Stood, defying. When aloft in morning sunlight Flags were flaunted, And "swift vengeance on the rebel" Proudly vaunted: Little did they think that night Should close upon their shameful flight, And rebels, victors in the fight, Stand undaunted. But peace to those who perished In our passes! Light be the earth above them; Green the grasses! Long shall Northmen rue the day When they met our stern array, And shrunk from battle's wild affray At Manassas. Catherine M. Warfield. A BATTLE BALLAD A summer Sunday morning, July the twenty-first, In eighteen hundred sixty-one, The storm of battle burst. For many a year the thunder Had muttered deep and low, And many a year, through hope and fear, The storm had gathered slow. Now hope had fled the hopeful, And fear was with the past; And on Manassas' cornfields The tempest broke at last. A wreath above the pine-tops, The booming of a gun; A ripple on the cornfields, And the battle was begun. A feint upon our centre, While the foeman massed his might, For our swift and sure destruction, With his overwhelming "right." All the summer air was darkened With the tramping of their host; All the Sunday stillness broken By the clamor of their boast. With their lips of savage shouting, And their eyes of sullen wrath, Goliath, with the weaver-beam, The champion of Gath. Are they men who guard the passes, On our "left" so far away? In the cornfields, O Manassas! Are they men who fought to-day? Our boys are brave and gentle, And their brows are smooth and white; Have they grown to men, Manassas, In the watches of a night? Beyond the grassy hillocks There are tents that glimmer white; Beneath the leafy covert There is steel that glistens bright. There are eyes of watchful reapers Beneath the summer leaves, With a glitter as of sickles Impatient for the sheaves. They are men who guard the passes, They are men who bar the ford; Stands our David at Manassas, The champion of the Lord. They are men who guard our altars, And beware, ye sons of Gath, The deep and dreadful silence Of the lion in your path. Lo! the foe was mad for slaughter, And the whirlwind hurtled on; But our boys had grown to heroes, They were lions, every one. And they stood a wall of iron, And they shone a wall of flame, And they beat the baffled tempest To the caverns whence it came. And Manassas' sun descended On their armies crushed and torn, On a battle bravely ended, On a nation grandly born. The laurel and the cypress, The glory and the grave, We pledge to thee, O Liberty! The life-blood of the brave. Francis Orrery Ticknor.
THE RUN FROM MANASSAS JUNCTION [July 21, 1861] Yankee Doodle went to war, On his little pony; What did he go fighting for, Everlasting goney! Yankee Doodle was a chap Who bragged and swore tarnation, He stuck a feather in his cap, And called it Federation. Yankee Doodle, keep it up, Yankee Doodle, dandy, Mind the music and the step, And with the girls be handy. Yankee Doodle, he went forth To conquer the seceders, All the journals of the North, In most ferocious leaders, Breathing slaughter, fire, and smoke, Especially the latter, His rage and fury to provoke, And vanity to flatter. Yankee Doodle, having floored His separated brothers, He reckoned his victorious sword Would turn against us others; Secession first he would put down, Wholly and forever, And afterward, from Britain's crown, He Canada would sever. England offering neutral sauce To goose as well as gander, Was what made Yankee Doodle cross, And did inflame his dander. As though with choler drunk he fumed, And threatened vengeance martial, Because Old England had presumed To steer a course impartial. Yankee Doodle bore in mind, When warfare England harassed, How he, unfriendly and unkind, Beset her and embarrassed; He put himself in England's place, And thought this injured nation Must view his trouble with a base Vindictive exultation. We for North and South alike Entertain affection; These for negro slavery strike; Those for forced protection. Yankee Doodle is the pot, Southerner the kettle; Equal morally, if not Men of equal mettle. Yankee Doodle, near Bull Run, Met his adversary. First he thought the fight he'd won, Fact proved quite contrary. Panic-struck he fled, with speed Of lightning glib with unction, Of slippery grease, in full stampede, From famed Manassas Junction. As he bolted, no ways slow, Yankee Doodle hallooed, "We are whipped!" and fled, although No pursuer followed. Sword and gun right slick he threw Both away together, In his cap, to public view, Showing the white feather. Yankee Doodle, Doodle, do, Whither are you flying, "A cocked hat we've been licked into, And knocked to Hades," crying? Well, to Canada, sir-ree, Now that, by secession, I am driven up a tree, To seize that there possession. Yankee Doodle, be content, You've had a lenient whipping; Court not further punishment By enterprise of stripping Those neighbors, whom if you assail, They'll surely whip you hollow; Moreover, when you've turned your tail, Won't hesitate to follow.
ON TO RICHMOND AFTER SOUTHEY'S "MARCH TO MOSCOW" Major-General Scott An order had got To push on the column to Richmond; For loudly went forth, From all parts of the North, The cry that an end of the war must be made In time for the regular yearly Fall Trade: Mr. Greeley spoke freely about the delay, The Yankees "to hum" were all hot for the fray; The chivalrous Grow Declared they were slow,— And therefore the order To march from the border And make an excursion to Richmond. Major-General Scott Most likely was not Very loth to obey this instruction, I wot; In his private opinion The Ancient Dominion Deserved to be pillaged, her sons to be shot, And the reason is easily noted; Though this part of the earth Had given him birth, And medals and swords, Inscribed in fine words, It never for Winfield had voted. Besides, you must know, that our First of Commanders Had sworn quite as hard as the army in Flanders, With his finest of armies and proudest of navies, To wreak his old grudge against Jefferson Davis. Then, "Forward the column," he said to McDowell; And the Zouaves with a shout, Most fiercely cried out, "To Richmond or h-ll!" (I omit here the vowel) And Winfield he ordered his carriage and four, A dashing turnout, to be brought to the door, For a pleasant excursion to Richmond. Major-General Scott Had there on the spot A splendid array To plunder and slay; In the camp he might boast Such a numerous host, As he never had yet In the battlefield set; Every class and condition of Northern society Were in for the trip, a most varied variety: In the camp he might hear every lingo in vogue, "The sweet German accent, the rich Irish brogue." The buthiful boy From the banks of the Shannon Was there to employ His excellent cannon; And besides the long files of dragoons and artillery, The Zouaves and Hussars, All the children of Mars— There were barbers and cooks, And writers of books,— The chef de cuisine with his French bill of fare, And the artists to dress the young officers' hair. And the scribblers were ready at once to prepare An eloquent story Of conquest and glory; And servants with numberless baskets of Sillery, Though Wilson, the Senator, followed the train, At a distance quite safe, to "conduct the Champagne!" While the fields were so green and the sky was so blue, There was certainly nothing more pleasant to do, On this pleasant excursion to Richmond. In Congress the talk, as I said, was of action, To crush out instanter the traitorous faction. In the press, and the mess, They would hear nothing less And at once put an end to the insolent treason. There was Greeley, And Ely, And bloodthirsty Grow, And Hickman (the rowdy, not Hickman the beau), And that terrible Baker Who would seize of the South every acre, And Webb, who would drive us all into the Gulf, or Some nameless locality smelling of sulphur; And with all this bold crew, Nothing would do, While the fields were so green, and the sky was so blue, But to march on directly to Richmond. Then the gallant McDowell Drove madly the rowel Of spur that had never been "won" by him, In the flank of his steed, To accomplish a deed, Such as never before had been done by him; And the battery called Sherman's Was wheeled into line While the beer-drinking Germans From Neckar and Rhine, With minie and yager, Come on with a swagger, Full of fury and lager (The day and the pageant were equally fine). Oh! the fields were so green, and the sky was so blue, Indeed 'twas a spectacle pleasant to view, As the column pushed onward to Richmond. Ere the march was begun, In a spirit of fun, General Scott in a speech Said the army should teach The Southrons the lesson the laws to obey, And just before dusk of the third or fourth day, Should joyfully march into Richmond. He spoke of their drill, And their courage and skill, And declared that the ladies of Richmond would rave O'er such matchless perfection, and gracefully wave In rapture their delicate kerchiefs in air At their morning parades on the Capitol Square. But alack! and alas! Mark what soon came to pass, When this army, in spite of his flatteries, Amid war's loudest thunder, Must stupidly blunder Upon those accursed "masked batteries." Then Beauregard came, Like a tempest of flame, To consume them in wrath, In their perilous path; And Johnson bore down in a whirlwind to sweep Their ranks from the field, Where their doom had been sealed, As the storm rushes over the face of the deep; While swift on the centre our President pressed, And the foe might descry, In the glance of his eye, The light that once blazed upon Diomede's crest. McDowell! McDowell! weep, weep for the day, When the Southrons you met in their battle array; To your confident hosts with its bullets and steel, 'Twas worse than Culloden to luckless Lochiel. Oh! the generals were green, and old Scott is now blue, And a terrible business, McDowell, to you, Was that pleasant excursion to Richmond. John R. Thompson.
CAST DOWN, BUT NOT DESTROYED The North soon had another bitter pill to swallow. On May 13, 1861, Great Britain issued a proclamation of neutrality, recognizing the Confederacy as a belligerent power. England's sympathy, because of close trade relations, was with the South, and the Southern people counted on her eventually recognizing their independence. SHOP AND FREEDOM [May 13, 1861] Though with the North we sympathize, It must not be forgotten That with the South we've stronger ties, Which are composed of cotton, Whereof our imports 'mount unto A sum of many figures; And where would be our calico, Without the toil of niggers? The South enslaves those fellow-men Whom we love all so dearly; The North keeps commerce bound again, Which touches us more nearly. Thus a divided duty we Perceive in this hard matter— Free trade, or sable brothers free? Oh, will we choose the latter! London Punch.
THE C. S. A. COMMISSIONERS [November, 1861] Ye jolly Yankee gentlemen, who live at home in ease, How little do ye think upon the dangers of the seas! The winds and waves, the whales and sharks, you've heard of long ago, But there are things much worse than these, as presently I'll show. If you're a true-bred Union man, go joyful where you please; Beneath the glorious Stars and Stripes cross safe the stormy seas; But look out for San Jacintos that may catch you on your way, If you're acting as Commissioner for the noble C. S. A. And now you'll guess my subject, and what my song's about; But I'd not have put them into rhyme, if they hadn't first put out; For they put out of Charleston, when the night was drear and dark, And then they put out all the lights, that they might not be a mark; And then they did put out to sea (though here there seems a hitch, For what could they expect to see when the night was black as pitch?), But they somehow 'scaped the Union ships, and hoped on some fine day To land in Europe and to "blow" about the C. S. A. They safely got to Cuba and landed in Havana; Described the power and glory of New Orleans and Savannah; Declared that running the blockade was a thing by no means hard, And boasted of the vic'tries won by their valiant Beauregard; Davis's skill in government could never be surpassed— The amazing strokes of genius by which he cash amassed; That the true financial paradise was in the C. S. A. * * * * * Some days are passed, and pleasantly, upon Bermuda's Isle, The sun is shining bright and fair, and nature seems to smile; The breezes moved the British flag that fluttered o'er the Trent, And the ripples rose to lave her sides, as proudly on she went. Mason and Slidell, on deck, thought all their dangers past, And poked each other's ribs and laughed, as they leant against the mast: "Haven't the Yankees just been done uncommonly nice, eh? They've got most money, but the brains are in the C. S. A.!" You have heard the ancient proverb, and, though old, it's very good, Which hints "it's better not to crow until you've left the wood." And so it proved with these two gents; for at that moment—souse! A cannon-shot fell splash across the steamer's bows. The San Jacinto came up close, and though rather rude, 'tis true, Good Wilkes he hailed the Trent and said, "I'll thank you to heave to; If you don't give up two rascals, I must blow you right away. Mason and Slidell they're named, and they're from the C. S. A." The British captain raged and swore; but then what could he do? It scarcely would be worth his while to be blown up, he knew; Wilkes's marines, with bayonets fixed, were standing on the Trent, So he gave up the traitors, and o'er the side they went. Wilkes, having got them, wished they'd feel pleasant and at home, So offered his best cabins, if their ladies chose to come; But they shook their heads and merely smiled, I'm sorry for to say, Conjugality's at a discount down in the C. S. A. They coolly said unto their lords, "Our dresses all are new; What on earth would be the use of going back with you? And though we're very sorry that your plans are undone, We mean to pass the winter in Paris and in London. 'Stead of bothering you, and sharing your prison beds and fetters, We'll write each mail from Europe the most delightful letters; Tell you of all we've done and seen, at party, ball, or play, To cheer your hearts, poor martyrs, to cotton and C. S. A." So the two vessels parted; the San Jacinto went To unload her precious cargo, while the captain of the Trent, Having lost a (probable) douceur which had seemed within his grip, We presume, for consolation, retired and took a nip. The ladies talked of the affair less with a tear than smile; Their lords and masters took their way to Warren's Fort the while; And gratis lodged and boarded there, they may think for many a day That brains are sometimes northward found as well's in C. S. A.
DEATH OF THE LINCOLN DESPOTISM 'Twas out upon mid ocean that the San Jacinto hailed An English neutral vessel, while on her course she sailed; They sent her traitor Fairfax, to board her with his crew, And beard the "British lion" with his "Yankee-doodle-doo." The Yankees took her passengers, and put them on their ship, But England says she'll have them, if Washington must fall, So Lincoln and his "nigger craft" must certainly feel small. Of all the "Yankee notions" that ever had their birth, The one of searching neutrals affords the greatest mirth— To the Southrons; but the Yankees will ever hate the fame Which gives to Wilkes and Fairfax their never-dying name. Throughout the North their Captain Wilkes received his meed of praise, For doing—in these civilized—the deeds of darker days; But England's guns will thunder along the Yankee coast, And show the abolitionists too soon they made their boast. Then while Old England's cannon are booming on the sea, Our Johnson, Smith, and Beauregard dear Maryland will free, And Johnston in Kentucky will whip the Yankees too, And start them to the lively tune of "Yankee-doodle-doo." Then down at Pensacola, where the game is always "Bragg," The "Stars and Stripes" will be pulled down and in the dust be dragged; For Pickens can't withstand us when Braxton is the cry, And there you'll see the Yankees, with their usual speed, will fly. On the coast of Dixie's kingdom there are batteries made by Lee, And covered up with cotton, which the Yankees want to see; But when they go to take it, they'll find it will not do, And start upon the "double-quick" to "Yankee-doodle-doo." Then Evans and his cavalry will follow in their track, And drive them in the Atlantic, or safely bring them back, And hold them till Abe Lincoln and all his Northern scum Shall own our independence of "Yankee-Doodledom." Richmond Dispatch.
JONATHAN TO JOHN [December, 1861] It don't seem hardly right, John, When both my hands was full, To stump me to a fight, John,— Your cousin, tu, John Bull! Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess We know it now," sez he, "The Lion's paw is all the law, Accordin' to J. B., Thet's fit for you an' me!" You wonder why we're hot, John? Your mark wuz on the guns, The neutral guns, thet shot, John, Our brothers an' our sons: Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess There's human blood," sez he, "By fits an' starts, in Yankee hearts, Though 't may surprise J. B. More 'n it would you an' me." Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John, On your front-parlor stairs, Would it jest meet your views, John, To wait an' sue their heirs? Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, I on'y guess," sez he, "Thet ef Vattel on his toes fell, 'Twould kind o' rile J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" Who made the law thet hurts, John, Heads I win—ditto tails? "J. B." was on his shirts, John, Onless my memory fails. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess (I'm good at thet)," sez he, For ganders with J. B., No more 'n with you or me!" When your rights was our wrongs, John, You didn't stop for fuss,— Britanny's trident prongs, John, Was good 'nough law for us. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Though physic's good," sez he, "It doesn't foller thet he can swaller Prescriptions signed 'J. B.,' Put up by you an' me." We own the ocean, tu, John: You mus'n' take it hard, Ef we can't think with you, John, It's jest your own back yard. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess Ef thet's his claim," sez he, "The fencin'-stuff 'll cost enough To bust up friend J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" Why talk so dreffle big, John, Of honor when it meant You didn't care a fig, John, But jest for ten per cent? Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess He's like the rest," sez he: "When all is done, it's number one Thet's nearest to J. B., Ez wal ez t' you an' me!" We give the critters back, John, Cos Abram thought 'twas right; It warn't your bullyin' clack, John, Provokin' us to fight. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess We've a hard row," sez he, "To hoe jest now; but thet, somehow, May happen to J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" We ain't so weak an' poor, John, With twenty million people, An' close to every door, John, A school-house an' a steeple. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess It is a fact," sez he, "The surest plan to make a Man Is, think him so, J. B., Ez much ez you or me!" Our folks believe in Law, John; An' it's fer her sake, now, They've left the axe an' saw, John, The anvil an' the plough. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Ef 'twarn't fer law," sez he, "There'd be one shindy from here to Indy; An' thet don't suit J. B. (When 't ain't 'twixt you an' me!)" We know we've got a cause, John, Thet's honest, just, an' true; We thought 'twould win applause, John, If nowheres else, from you. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess His love of right," sez he, "Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton: There's natur' in J. B., Ez wal ez in you an' me!" The South says, "Poor folks down!" John, An' "All men up!" say we,— White, yaller, black, an' brown, John: Now which is your idee? Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess John preaches wal," sez he; "But, sermon thru, an' come to du, Why, there's the old J. B. A-crowdin' you an' me!" Shall it be love, or hate, John? It's you thet's to decide; Ain't your bonds held by Fate, John, Like all the world's beside? Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess Wise men forgive," sez he, "But not forgit; an' some time yit Thet truth may strike J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" God means to make this land, John, Clear thru, from sea to sea, Believe an' understand, John, The wuth o' bein' free. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess God's price is high," sez he; "But nothin' else than wut he sells Wears long, an' thet J. B. May larn, like you an' me!" James Russell Lowell.
A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE John Bull, Esquire, my jo John, When we were first acquent, You acted very much as now You act about the Trent. You stole my bonny sailors, John, My bonny ships also, You're aye the same fierce beast to me, John Bull, Esquire, my jo! John Bull, Esquire, my jo John, Since we were linked together, Full many a jolly fight, John, We've had with one another. Now must we fight again, John? Then at it let us go! And God will help the honest heart, John Bull, Esquire, my jo. John Bull, Esquire, my jo John, A century has gone by, Since you called me your slave, John, Since I at you let fly. You want to fight it out again— That war of waste and woe; You'll find me much the same old coon, John Bull, Esquire, my jo. John Bull, Esquire, my jo John, If lying loons have told That I have lost my pluck, John, And fight not as of old; You'd better not believe it, John, Nor scorn your ancient foe; For I've seen weaker days than this, John Bull, Esquire, my jo. John Bull, Esquire, my jo John, Hear this my language plain: I never smote you unprovoked, I never smote in vain. If you want peace, peace let it be! If war, be pleased to know, Shots in my locker yet remain, John Bull, Esquire, my jo! CHAPTER IVTHE GRAND ARMY OF THE POTOMAC
CIVIL WAR "Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette; Ring me a ball in the glittering spot That shines on his breast like an amulet!" "Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead, There's music around when my barrel's in tune!" Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped, And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon. "Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood; A button, a loop, or that luminous patch That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud!" "O captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track, When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette, For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back, That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet. "But I snatched off the trinket,—this locket of gold; An inch from the centre my lead broke its way, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." "Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket!—'tis she, My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoon Was her husband—Hush! soldier, 'twas Heaven's decree, We must bury him there, by the light of the moon! "But, hark! the far bugles their warnings unite; War is a virtue,—weakness a sin; There's a lurking and loping around us to-night Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!" Charles Dawson Shanly.
THE PICKET-GUARD [November, 1861] "All quiet along the Potomac," they say, "Except now and then a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 'Tis nothing: a private or two, now and then, Will not count in the news of the battle; Not an officer lost—only one of the men, Moaning out, all alone, the death rattle." All quiet along the Potomac to-night, Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, Or the light of the watch-fire, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh of the gentle night-wind Through the forest leaves softly is creeping, While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard, for the army is sleeping. There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep— For their mother—may Heaven defend her! The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night, when the love yet unspoken Leaped up to his lips—when low-murmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken. Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling, And gathers his gun closer up to its place As if to keep down the heart-swelling. He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree; The footstep is lagging and weary; Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Towards the shade of the forest so dreary. Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looked like a rifle ... "Ha! Mary, good-by!" The red life-blood is ebbing and plashing. All quiet along the Potomac to-night— No sound save the rush of the river, While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead— The picket's off duty forever! Ethel Lynn Beers.
TARDY GEORGE [January, 1862] What are you waiting for, George, I pray? To scour your cross-belts with fresh pipe-clay? To burnish your buttons, to brighten your guns; Or wait you for May-day and warm spring suns? Or catching your breath ere you take a hold? Is the mud knee-deep in valley and gorge? What are you waiting for, tardy George? Want you a thousand more cannon made, To add to the thousand now arrayed? Want you more men, more money to pay? Are not two millions enough per day? Wait you for gold and credit to go, Before we shall see your martial show; Till Treasury Notes will not pay to forge? What are you waiting for, tardy George? Are you waiting for your hair to turn, Your heart to soften, your bowels to yearn A little more toward "our Southern friends," As at home and abroad they work their ends? "Our Southern friends!" whom you hold so dear That you do no harm and give no fear, As you tenderly take them by the gorge— What are you waiting for, tardy George? Now that you've marshalled your whole command, Planned what you would, and changed what you planned; Practised with shot and practised with shell, Know to a hair where every one fell, Made signs by day and signals by night; Was it all done to keep out of a fight? Is the whole matter too heavy a charge? What are you waiting for, tardy George? Shall we have more speeches, more reviews? Or are you waiting to hear the news; To hold up your hands in mute surprise, When France and England shall "recognize"? Are you too grand to fight traitors small? Must you have a nation to cope withal? Well, hammer the anvil and blow the forge— You'll soon have a dozen, tardy George. Suppose for a moment, George, my friend— Just for a moment—you condescend To use the means that are in your hands, The eager muskets and guns and brands; Take one bold step on the Southern sod, And leave the issue to watchful God! For now the nation raises its gorge, Waiting and watching you, tardy George. I should not much wonder, George, my boy, If Stanton get in his head a toy, And some fine morning, ere you are out, He send you all "to the right about"— You and Jomini, and all the crew Who think that war is nothing to do But to drill and cypher, and hammer and forge— What are you waiting for, tardy George?
HOW McCLELLAN TOOK MANASSAS [March 10, 1862] Heard ye how the bold McClellan, He, the wether with the bell on; He, the head of all the asses— Heard ye how he took Manassas? When the Anaconda plucky Flopped its tail in old Kentucky; When up stream the gunboats paddled, And the thieving Floyd skedaddled, Then the chief of all the asses Heard the word: Go, take Manassas! Forty brigades wait around him, Forty blatant trumpets sound him, As the pink of all the heroes Since the time of fiddling Neros. "Now's the time," cry out the masses, "Show your pluck and take Manassas!" Contrabands come flocking to him: "Lo! the enemy flies—pursue him!" "No," says George, "don't start a trigger On the word of any nigger; Let no more of the rascals pass us, I know all about Manassas." When at last a prowling Yankee— No doubt long, and lean, and lanky— Looking out for new devices, Took the wooden guns as prizes, Says he: "I sweow, ere daylight passes I'll take a peep at famed Manassas." Then up to the trenches boldly Marched he—they received him coldly; Nary reb was there to stop him. Gathering courage, in he passes: "Jerusalem! I've took Manassas." Bold McClellan heard the story: "Onward, men, to fields of glory; Let us show the rebel foemen, When we're READY we're not slow, men; Wait no more for springing grasses— Onward! onward! to Manassas!" Baggage trains were left behind him, In his eagerness to find them; Upward the balloons ascended, To see which way the rebels trended; Thirty miles away his glasses Swept the horizon round Manassas. Out of sight, the foe, retreating, Answered back no hostile greeting; None could tell, as off he paddled, Whitherward he had skedaddled. Then the chief of all the asses Cried: "Hurrah! I've got Manassas." Future days will tell the wonder, How the mighty Anaconda Lay supine along the border, With the mighty Mac to lord her: Tell on shaft and storied brasses How he took the famed Manassas.
Back from the trebly crimsoned field Terrible words are thunder-tost; Full of the wrath that will not yield, Full of revenge for battles lost! Hark to their echo, as it crost The Capital, making faces wan: "End this murderous holocaust; Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN! "Give us a man of God's own mould, Born to marshal his fellow-men; One whose fame is not bought and sold At the stroke of a politician's pen; Give us the man of thousands ten, Fit to do as well as to plan; Give us a rallying-cry, and then, Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN! "No leader to shirk the boasting foe, And to march and countermarch our brave, Till they fall like ghosts in the marshes low, And swamp-grass covers each nameless grave; Nor another, whose fatal banners wave Aye in Disaster's shameful van; Nor another, to bluster, and lie, and rave;— Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN! "Hearts are mourning in the North, While the sister rivers seek the main, Red with our life-blood flowing forth— Who shall gather it up again? Though we march to the battle-plain Firmly as when the strife began, Shall all our offering be in vain?— Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN! "Is there never one in all the land, One on whose might the Cause may lean? Are all the common ones so grand, And all the titled ones so mean? What if your failure may have been In trying to make good bread from bran, From worthless metal a weapon keen?— Abraham Lincoln, find us a MAN! "Oh, we will follow him to the death, Where the foeman's fiercest columns are! Oh, we will use our latest breath, Cheering for every sacred star! His to marshal us high and far; Ours to battle, as patriots can When a Hero leads the Holy War!— Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!" Edmund Clarence Stedman.
THE GALLANT FIGHTING "JOE" [May 4, 5, 1862] From Yorktown on the fourth of May The rebels did skedaddle, And to pursue them on their way Brave Hooker took the saddle. "I'll lead you on, brave boys," he said, "Where danger points the way;" And drawing forth his shining blade, "Move onward!" he did say. Chorus—Then we'll shout hurrah for Hooker, boys, The gallant fighting Joe; We'll follow him with heart and hand, Wherever he does go. "Forward, March!" then was the word That passed from front to rear, When all the men with one accord Gave a loud and hearty cheer. And then with Hooker at our head, We marched in order good, Till darkness all around us spread, When we lay down in the wood. Early next morn by break of day, The rain in torrents fell; "This day," brave Hooker he did say, "Your valor it will tell. Williamsburg is very near, Be steady every man, Let every heart be filled with cheer, And I will take the van." The gallant Massachusetts men Fought well and nobly, too, As did the men from good old Penn., And Jersey, ever true, And Sickles' men like lions brave, Their courage did display, For gallantly they did behave On the battle-field that day. The men from Mass. and good old Penn. That morn the fight began, And like true, noble-hearted men, Most nobly they did stand. When Jersey's sons, the bold, the brave, Not fearing lead nor steel, Their gallant comrades for to save, Dashed boldly to the field. By every means the rebels sought To stand the Jerseys' fire, But soon for them it was too hot, And they quickly did retire. But getting reËnforced again With numbers very great, The gallant band of Jerseymen Were forced for to retreat. "Now, Sickles' men," Hooker did say, "Move out to the advance; If you your courage would display, Now you have got a chance. The foe have forced us to give way, They number six to one, But still, my lads, we'll gain the day, And I will lead you on." Excelsior then the foremost stood, Not knowing dread nor fear, And met the rebels in the woods, With a loud and hearty cheer. Volley after volley flew, Like hail the balls did fly, And Hooker cried: "My heroes true, We'll conquer or we'll die." Our ammunition being gone, Brave Hooker then did say: "ReËnforcements fast are coming on, My lads, do not give way. Keep good your ground, our only chance Is t' remain upon the field. And if the rebels dare advance, We'll meet them with the steel." 'Twas then brave Kearny did appear, Who ne'er to foe would yield, To him we gave a hearty cheer, As he rushed on the field. "Now, charge! my lads," then Hooker cried, "Our work will soon be done, For with brave Kearny by our side, The rebels we'll make run." And since that time we all do know The battles he hath won; He beat the rebels at Bristow, And chased them to Bull Run; And had we a few more loyal men Like the gallant fighting "Joe," The war would soon be at an end, Then home we all would go. Singing, hurrah, hurrah, for Hooker's boys, The gallant Fighting Joe, We'll follow him with heart and hand, Wherever he does go. James Stevenson.
KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES [May 31, 1862] For nearly a month after this battle, the Army of the Potomac lay along the Chickahominy, within a few miles of Richmond, while the Confederates concentrated their forces, under Robert E. Lee, for the defence of the city. On June 14, 1862, General J. E. B. Stuart, with a force of fifteen hundred cavalry, circled the Union position, destroyed stores, seized mules and horses, took nearly two hundred prisoners, and returned leisurely to Richmond. Captain LatanÉ was killed in a skirmish during this expedition. THE BURIAL OF LATANÉ [June 14, 1862] The combat raged not long, but ours the day; And, through the hosts that compassed us around, Our little band rode proudly on its way, Leaving one gallant comrade, glory-crowned, Unburied on the field he died to gain— Single of all his men, amid the hostile slain. One moment on the battle's edge he stood— Hope's halo, like a helmet, round his hair; Prostrate in death—and yet, in death how fair! Even thus he passed through the red gates of strife, From earthly crowns and palms, to an immortal life. A brother bore his body from the field, And gave it unto strangers' hands, that closed The calm blue eyes on earth forever sealed, And tenderly the slender limbs composed: Strangers, yet sisters, who, with Mary's love, Sat by the open tomb, and, weeping, looked above. A little child strewed roses on his bier— Pale roses, not more stainless than his soul, Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere, That blossomed with good actions—brief, but whole; The aged matron and the faithful slave Approached with reverent feet the hero's lowly grave. No man of God might say the burial rite Above the "rebel"—thus declared the foe That blanched before him in the deadly fight; But woman's voice, with accents soft and low, Trembling with pity—touched with pathos—read Over his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead. "'Tis sown in weakness, it is raised in power!" Softly the promise floated on the air, While the low breathings of the sunset hour Came back responsive to the mourner's prayer. Gently they laid him underneath the sod, And left him with his fame, his country, and his God! Let us not weep for him, whose deeds endure! So young, so brave, so beautiful! He died As he had wished to die; the past is sure; Whatever yet of sorrow may betide Those who still linger by the stormy shore, Change cannot harm him now, nor fortune touch him more. John R. Thompson.
THE CHARGE BY THE FORD Eighty and nine with their captain Rode on the enemy's track, Rode in the gray of the morning: Nine of the ninety came back. Slow rose the mist from the river, Lighter each moment the way: Careless and tearless and fearless Galloped they on to the fray. Singing in tune, how the scabbards Loud on the stirrup-irons rang, Clinked as the men rose in saddle, Fell as they sank with a clang. What is it moves by the river, Jaded and weary and weak, Gray-backs—a cross on their banner— Yonder the foe whom they seek. Silence! They see not, they hear not, Tarrying there by the marge: Forward! Draw sabre! Trot! Gallop! Charge! like a hurricane, charge! Ah! 'twas a man-trap infernal— Fire like the deep pit of hell! Volley on volley to meet them, Mixed with the gray rebel's yell. Ninety had ridden to battle, Tracing the enemy's track,— Ninety had ridden to battle, Nine of the ninety came back. Honor the name of the ninety; Honor the heroes who came Scatheless from five hundred muskets, Safe from the lead-bearing flame. Eighty and one of the troopers Lie on the field of the slain— Lie on the red field of honor: Honor the nine who remain! Cold are the dead there, and gory, There where their life-blood was spilt, Back come the living, each sabre Red from the point to the hilt. Give them three cheers and a tiger! Let the flags wave as they come! Give them the blare of the trumpet! Give them the roll of the drum! Thomas Dunn English.
DIRGE FOR ASHBY [June 6, 1862] Heard ye that thrilling word— Accent of dread— Flash like a thunderbolt, Bowing each head,— Crash through the battle dun, Over the booming gun,— "Ashby, our bravest one,— Ashby is dead!" Saw ye the veterans— Hearts that had known Never a quail of fear, Never a groan,— Sob 'mid the fight they win,— Tears their stern eyes within,— "Ashby, our Paladin, Ashby is gone!" Dash—dash the tear away,— Crush down the pain! "Dulce et decus" be Fittest refrain! Why should the dreary pall Round him be flung at all? Did not our hero fall Gallantly slain? Catch the last word of cheer Dropt from his tongue; Over the volley's din, Loud be it rung,— "Follow me! follow me!"— Soldier, oh! could there be PÆan or dirge for thee Loftier sung! Bold as the Lion-heart, Dauntless and brave; Knightly as knightliest Bayard could crave; Sweet with all Sidney's grace, Tender as Hampden's face;— Who—who shall fill the space Void by his grave? 'Tis not one broken heart, Wild with dismay; Crazed with her agony, Weeps o'er his clay: Ah! from a thousand eyes Flow the pure tears that rise; Widowed Virginia lies Stricken to-day! Yet though that thrilling word— Accent of dread— Falls like a thunderbolt, Bowing each head,— Heroes! be battle done Bravelier every one, Nerved by the thought alone— Ashby is dead! Margaret Junkin Preston.
MALVERN HILL [July 1, 1862] Ye elms that wave on Malvern Hill In prime of morn and May, Recall ye how McClellan's men Here stood at bay? While deep within yon forest dim Our rigid comrades lay— Some with the cartridge in their mouth, Others with fixed arms lifted South— Invoking so The cypress glades? Ah wilds of woe! The spires of Richmond, late beheld Through rifts in musket-haze, Were closed from view in clouds of dust On leaf-walled ways, Where streamed our wagons in caravan; And the Seven Nights and Days Pinched our grimed faces to ghastly plight— Does the elm wood Recall the haggard beards of blood? The battle-smoked flag, with stars eclipsed, We followed (it never fell!)— In silence husbanded our strength— Received their yell; Till on this slope we patient turned With cannon ordered well; Reverse we proved was not defeat; But ah, the sod what thousands meet!— Does Malvern Wood Bethink itself, and muse and brood? We elms of Malvern Hill Remember everything; But sap the twig will fill: Wag the world how it will, Leaves must be green in Spring. Herman Melville. A MESSAGE [July 1, 1882] Was there ever message sweeter Than that one from Malvern Hill, From a grim old fellow,—you remember? Dying in the dark at Malvern Hill. With his rough face turned a little, On a heap of scarlet sand, They found him, just within the thicket, With a picture in his hand,— With a stained and crumpled picture Of a woman's aged face; Yet there seemed to leap a wild entreaty, Young and living—tender—from the face When they flashed a lantern on it, Gilding all the purple shade, And stooped to raise him softly,— "That's my mother, sir," he said. "Tell her"—but he wandered, slipping Into tangled words and cries,— Something about Mac and Hooker, Something dropping through the cries About the kitten by the fire, And mother's cranberry-pies; and there The words fell, and an utter Silence brooded in the air. Just as he was drifting from them, Out into the dark, alone (Poor old mother, waiting for your message, Waiting with the kitten, all alone!), Through the hush his voice broke,—"Tell her— Thank you, Doctor—when you can,— Tell her that I kissed her picture, And wished I'd been a better man." Ah, I wonder if the red feet Of departed battle-hours May not leave for us their searching Message from those distant hours. Sisters, daughters, mothers, think you, Would your heroes now or then, Dying, kiss your pictured faces, Wishing they'd been better men? Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.
THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE [July 2, 1862] We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more, From Mississippi's winding stream and from New England's shore; We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear, With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear; We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more! If you look across the hill-tops that meet the northern sky, Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry; And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside, And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride, We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more! If you look all up our valleys where the growing harvests shine, You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line; And children from their mother's knees are pulling at the weeds, And learning how to reap and sow against their country's needs; And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more! You have called us, and we're coming, by Richmond's bloody tide To lay us down, for Freedom's sake, our brothers' bones beside, Or from foul treason's savage grasp to wrench the murderous blade, And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade. Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more! James Sloan Gibbons.
CEDAR MOUNTAIN [August 9, 1862] Ring the bells, nor ring them slowly; Toll them not,—the day is holy! Golden-flooded noon is poured In grand libation to the Lord. No mourning mothers come to-day Whose hopeless eyes forget to pray: They each hold high the o'erflowing urn, And bravely to the altar turn. Ye limners of the ancient saint! To-day another virgin paint; Where with the lily once she stood Show now the new beatitude. To-day a mother crowned with pain, Of silver beauty beyond stain, Clasping a flower for our land A-sheathÈd in her hand. Each pointed leaf with sword-like strength, Guarding the flower throughout its length; Each sword has won a sweet release To the flower of beauty and of peace. Ring the bells, nor ring them slowly, To the Lord the day is holy; To the young dead we consecrate These lives that now we dedicate. Annie Fields.
"OUR LEFT" [August 30, 1862] From dawn to dark they stood That long midsummer day, While fierce and fast The battle blast Swept rank on rank away. From dawn to dark they fought, With legions torn and cleft; And still the wide Black battle tide Poured deadlier on "Our Left." They closed each ghastly gap; They dressed each shattered rank; They knew—how well— That freedom fell With that exhausted flank. "Oh, for a thousand men Like these that melt away!" And down they came, With steel and flame, Four thousand to the fray! Right through the blackest cloud Their lightning path they cleft; And triumph came With deathless fame To our unconquered "Left." Ye of your sons secure, Ye of your dead bereft— Honor the brave Who died to save Your all upon "Our Left." Francis Orrery Ticknor.
DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER [September 1, 1862] Close his eyes; his work is done! What to him is friend or foeman, Rise of moon, or set of sun, Hand of man, or kiss of woman? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he cannot know: Lay him low! As man may, he fought his fight, Proved his truth by his endeavor; Let him sleep in solemn night, Sleep forever and forever. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he cannot know: Lay him low! Fold him in his country's stars, Roll the drum and fire the volley! What to him are all our wars, What but death-bemocking folly? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he cannot know: Lay him low! Leave him to God's watching eye; Trust him to the hand that made him. Mortal love weeps idly by: God alone has power to aid him. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he cannot know: Lay him low! George Henry Boker.
THE REVEILLE Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands, And of armÈd men the hum; Lo! a nation's hosts have gathered Round the quick-alarming drum,— Saying: "Come, Freemen, come! Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quick-alarming drum. "Let me of my heart take counsel: War is not of life the sum; Who shall stay and reap the harvest When the autumn days shall come?" But the drum Echoed: "Come! Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the solemn-sounding drum. "But when won the coming battle, What of profit springs therefrom? What if conquest, subjugation, Even greater ills become?" But the drum Answered: "Come! You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yankee-answering drum. "What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder, Whistling shot and bursting bomb, When my brothers fall around me, Should my heart grow cold and numb?" But the drum Answered: "Come! Better there in death united than in life a recreant,—Come!" Thus they answered—hoping, fearing, Some in faith and doubting some, Said: "My chosen people, come!" Then the drum, Lo! was dumb; For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered: "Lord, we come!" Bret Harte.
BEYOND THE POTOMAC [September 7, 1862] They slept on the field which their valor had won, But arose with the first early blush of the sun, For they knew that a great deed remained to be done, When they passed o'er the river. They arose with the sun, and caught life from his light,— Those giants of courage, those Anaks in fight,— And they laughed out aloud in the joy of their might, Marching swift for the river. On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills; On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills; And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and thrills, At the thought of the river. Oh, the sheen of their swords! the fierce gleam of their eyes! It seemed as on earth a new sunlight would rise, And, king-like, flash up to the sun in the skies, O'er their path to the river. But their banners, shot-scarred, and all darkened with gore, On a strong wind of morning streamed wildly before, Like the wings of death-angels swept fast to the shore, The green shore of the river. As they march, from the hillside, the hamlet, the stream, Gaunt throngs whom the foemen had manacled, teem, Like men just aroused from some terrible dream, To cross sternly the river. They behold the broad banners, blood-darkened, yet fair, And a moment dissolves the last spell of despair, While a peal, as of victory, swells on the air, Rolling out to the river. And that cry, with a thousand strange echoings, spread, Till the ashes of heroes were thrilled in their bed, And the deep voice of passion surged up from the dead, "Ay, press on to the river!" On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills, On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills, And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and thrills, As they pause by the river. Then the wan face of Maryland, haggard and worn, At this sight lost the touch of its aspect forlorn, And she turned on the foemen, full-statured in scorn, Pointing stern to the river. And Potomac flowed calmly, scarce heaving her breast, With her low-lying billows all bright in the west, For a charm as from God lulled the waters to rest Of the fair rolling river. Passed! passed! the glad thousands march safe through the tide; Hark, foeman, and hear the deep knell of your pride, Ringing weird-like and wild, pealing up from the side Of the calm-flowing river! 'Neath a blow swift and mighty the tyrant may fall; Vain! vain! to his gods swells a desolate call; Hath his grave not been hollowed, and woven his pall, Since they passed o'er the river? Paul Hamilton Hayne.
[September 13, 1862] Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep, Fair as the garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee marched over the mountain-wall; Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town. Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapped in the morning wind: the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one. Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down; In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced; the old flag met his sight. "Halt!"—the dust-brown ranks stood fast. "Fire!"—out blazed the rifle-blast. It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will. "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came; The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word; "Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog! March on!" he said. All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet: All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the rebel host. Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well; And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. Honor to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, Flag of Freedom and Union, wave! Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law; And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town! John Greenleaf Whittier.
MARTHY VIRGINIA'S HAND [September 17, 1862] "There, on the left!" said the colonel; the battle had shuddered and faded away, Wraith of a fiery enchantment that left only ashes and blood-sprinkled clay— "Ride to the left and examine that ridge, where the enemy's sharpshooters stood. Lord, how they picked off our men, from the treacherous vantage-ground of the wood! But for their bullets, I'll bet, my batteries sent them something as good. Go and explore, and report to me then, and tell me how many we killed. Never a wink shall I sleep till I know our vengeance was duly fulfilled." Fiercely the orderly rode down the slope of the cornfield—scarred and forlorn, Rutted by violent wheels, and scathed by the shot that had ploughed it in scorn; Fiercely, and burning with wrath for the sight of his comrades crushed at a blow, Flung in broken shapes on the ground like ruined memorials of woe; These were the men whom at daybreak he knew, but never again could know. Thence to the ridge, where roots out-thrust, and twisted branches of trees Clutched the hill like clawing lions, firm their prey to seize. "What's your report?" and the grim colonel smiled when the orderly came back at last. Strangely the soldier paused: "Well, they were punished." And strangely his face looked, aghast. "Yes, our fire told on them; knocked over fifty—laid out in line of parade. Brave fellows, Colonel, to stay as they did! But one I 'most wished hadn't stayed. Mortally wounded, he'd torn off his knapsack; and then, at the end, he prayed— Easy to see, by his hands that were clasped; and the dull, dead fingers yet held This little letter—his wife's—from the knapsack. A pity those woods were shelled!" Silent the orderly, watching with tears in his eyes as his officer scanned Four short pages of writing. "What's this, about 'Marthy Virginia's hand'?" Swift from his honeymoon he, the dead soldier, had gone from his bride to the strife; Never they met again, but she had written him, telling of that new life, Born in the daughter, that bound her still closer and closer to him as his wife. Laying her baby's hand down on the letter, around it she traced a rude line: "If you would kiss the baby," she wrote, "you must kiss this outline of mine." There was the shape of the hand on the page, with the small, chubby fingers outspread. "Marthy Virginia's hand, for her pa,"—so the words on the little palm said. Never a wink slept the colonel that night, for the vengeance so blindly fulfilled. Never again woke the old battle-glow when the bullets their death-note shrilled. Long ago ended the struggle, in union of brotherhood happily stilled; Yet from that field of Antietam, in warning and token of love's command, See! there is lifted the hand of a baby—Marthy Virginia's hand! George Parsons Lathrop.
THE VICTOR OF ANTIETAM [September 17, 1862] When tempest winnowed grain from bran, And men were looking for a man, Authority called you to the van, McClellan! Along the line the plaudits ran, As later when Antietam's cheers began. Through storm-cloud and eclipse must move Each cause and man, dear to the stars and Jove; Nor always can the wisest tell Deferred fulfilment from the hopeless knell— The struggler from the floundering ne'er-do-well. A pall-cloth on the Seven Days fell, McClellan— Unprosperously heroical! Who could Antietam's wreath foretell? Authority called you; then, in mist And loom of jeopardy—dismissed. But staring peril soon appalled; You, the Discarded, she recalled— Recalled you, nor endured delay; And forth you rode upon a blasted way, Arrayed Pope's rout, and routed Lee's array, McClellan! Your tent was choked with captured flags that day, McClellan. Antietam was a telling fray. Recalled you; and she heard your drum Advancing through the ghastly gloom. You manned the wall, you propped the Dome, You stormed the powerful stormer home, McClellan! Antietam's cannon long shall boom. At Alexandria, left alone, McClellan— Your veterans sent from you, and thrown To fields and fortunes all unknown— What thoughts were yours, revealed to none, While faithful still you labored on— Hearing the far Manassas gun! McClellan, Only Antietam could atone. You fought in the front (an evil day, McClellan)— The forefront of the first assay; The Cause went sounding, groped its way; The leadsmen quarrelled in the bay; Quills thwarted swords; divided sway; The rebel flushed in his lusty May; You did your best, as in you lay, McClellan. Antietam's sun-burst sheds a ray. Your medalled soldiers love you well, McClellan! Name your name, their true hearts swell; With you they shook dread Stonewall's spell, With you they braved the blended yell Of rebel and maligner fell; With you in fame or shame they dwell, McClellan! Antietam-braves a brave can tell. And when your comrades (now so few, McClellan,— Such ravage in deep files they rue) Meet round the board, and sadly view The empty places; tribute due They render to the dead—and you! Absent and silent o'er the blue; The one-armed lift the wine to you, McClellan, And great Antietam's cheers renew. Herman Melville.
THE CROSSING AT FREDERICKSBURG [December 11, 1862] On the morning of December 13, 1862, the Union army advanced to the attack. The Confederate advance lines were driven back, but rallied and drove back their assailants with heavy loss. Assault after assault was repulsed, and Burnside was finally compelled to withdraw with a loss of fifteen thousand men. He was relieved of command soon afterwards. AT FREDERICKSBURG [December 13, 1862] God send us peace, and keep red strife away; But should it come, God send us men and steel! When foreign danger threats the common weal. Defenders strong are they that homes defend; From ready arms the spoiler keeps afar. Well blest the country that has sons to lend From trades of peace to learn the trade of war. Thrice blest the nation that has every son A soldier, ready for the warning sound; Who marches homeward when the fight is done, To swing the hammer and to till the ground. Call back that morning, with its lurid light, When through our land the awful war-bell tolled; When lips were mute, and women's faces white As the pale cloud that out from Sumter rolled. Call back that morn: an instant all were dumb, As if the shot had struck the Nation's life; Then cleared the smoke, and rolled the calling drum, And men streamed in to meet the coming strife. They closed the ledger and they stilled the loom, The plough left rusting in the prairie farm; They saw but "Union" in the gathering gloom; The tearless women helped the men to arm; Brigades from towns—each village sent its band: German and Irish—every race and faith; There was no question then of native land, But—love the Flag and follow it to death. No need to tell their tale: through every age The splendid story shall be sung and said; But let me draw one picture from the page— For words of song embalm the hero dead. * * * * * The smooth hill is bare, and the cannons are planted, Like Gorgon fates shading its terrible brow; The word has been passed that the stormers are wanted, And Burnside's battalions are mustering now. The armies stand by to behold the dread meeting; The work must be done by a desperate few; The black-mouthÈd guns on the height give them greeting— From gun-mouth to plain every grass blade in view. Strong earthworks are there, and the rifles behind them Are Georgia militia—an Irish brigade— Their caps have green badges, as if to remind them Of all the brave record their country has made. The stormers go forward—the Federals cheer them; They breast the smooth hillside—the black mouths are dumb; The riflemen lie in the works till they near them, And cover the stormers as upward they come. Was ever a death-march so grand and so solemn? At last, the dark summit with flame is enlined; The great guns belch doom on the sacrificed column, That reels from the height, leaving hundreds behind. The armies are hushed—there is no cause for cheering: The fall of brave men to brave men is a pain. Again come the stormers! and as they are nearing The flame-sheeted rifle-lines, reel back again. And so till full noon come the Federal masses— Flung back from the height, as the cliff flings a wave; Brigade on brigade to the death-struggle passes, No wavering rank till it steps on the grave. Then comes a brief lull, and the smoke-pall is lifted, The green of the hillside no longer is seen; The earthworks still held by the badges of green. Have they quailed? is the word. No: again they are forming— Again comes a column to death and defeat! What is it in these who shall now do the storming That makes every Georgian spring to his feet? "O God! what a pity!" they cry in their cover, As rifles are readied and bayonets made tight; "'Tis Meagher and his fellows! their caps have green clover; 'Tis Greek to Greek now for the rest of the fight!" Twelve hundred the column, their rent flag before them, With Meagher at their head, they have dashed at the hill! Their foemen are proud of the country that bore them; But, Irish in love, they are enemies still. Out rings the fierce word, "Let them have it!" the rifles Are emptied point-blank in the hearts of the foe: It is green against green, but a principle stifles The Irishman's love in the Georgian's blow. The column has reeled, but it is not defeated; In front of the guns they re-form and attack; Six times they have done it, and six times retreated; Twelve hundred they came, and two hundred go back. Two hundred go back with the chivalrous story; The wild day is closed in the night's solemn shroud; A thousand lie dead, but their death was a glory That calls not for tears—the Green Badges are proud! Bright honor be theirs who for honor were fearless, Who charged for their flag to the grim cannon's mouth; And honor to them who were true, though not tearless,— Who bravely that day kept the cause of the South. The quarrel is done—God avert such another; The lesson it brought we should evermore heed: Who loveth the Flag is a man and a brother, No matter what birth or what race or what creed. John Boyle O'Reilly. FREDERICKSBURG The increasing moonlight drifts across my bed, And on the churchyard by the road, I know It falls as white and noiselessly as snow.... 'Twas such a night two weary summers fled; The stars, as now, were waning overhead. Listen! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow Where the swift currents of the river flow Past Fredericksburg; far off the heavens are red With sudden conflagration: on yon height, Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath; A signal-rocket pierces the dense night, Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath: Hark!—the artillery massing on the right, Hark!—the black squadrons wheeling down to Death! Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
BY THE POTOMAC The soft new grass is creeping o'er the graves By the Potomac; and the crisp ground-flower Tilts its blue cup to catch the passing shower; The pine-cone ripens, and the long moss waves Its tangled gonfalons above our braves. Hark, what a burst of music from yon bower!— The Southern nightingale that hour by hour In its melodious summer madness raves. Ah, with what delicate touches of her hand, With what sweet voice of bird and rivulet And drowsy murmur of the rustling leaf Would Nature soothe us, bidding us forget The awful crime of this distracted land And all our heavy heritage of grief. Thomas Bailey Aldrich. THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD Along a river-side, I know not where, I walked one night in mystery of dream; A chill creeps curdling yet beneath my hair, To think what chanced me by the pallid gleam Of a moon-wraith that waned through haunted air. Pale fireflies pulsed within the meadow-mist Their halos, wavering thistle downs of light; The loon, that seemed to mock some goblin tryst, Laughed; and the echoes, huddling in affright, Like Odin's hounds, fled baying down the night. Then all was silent, till there smote my ear A movement in the stream that checked my breath: Was it the slow plash of a wading deer? But something said, "This water is of Death! The Sisters wash a shroud,—ill thing to hear!" I, looking then, beheld the ancient Three Known to the Greek's and to the Northman's creed, That sit in shadow of the mystic Tree, Still crooning, as they weave their endless brede, One song: "Time was, Time is, and Time shall be." No wrinkled crones were they, as I had deemed, But fair as yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, To mourner, lover, poet, ever seemed; Something too high for joy, too deep for sorrow, Thrilled in their tones, and from their faces gleamed. "Still men and nations reap as they have strawn," So sang they, working at their task the while; "The fatal raiment must be cleansed ere dawn: For Austria? Italy? the Sea-Queen's isle? O'er what quenched grandeur must our shroud be drawn? "Or is it for a younger, fairer corse, That gathered States like children round his knees, That tamed the waves to be his posting-horse, Feller of forests, linker of the seas, Bridge-builder, hammerer, youngest son of Thor's? "What make we, murmur'st thou? and what are we? When empires must be wound, we bring the shroud, The time-old web of the implacable Three: Is it too coarse for him, the young and proud? Earth's mightiest deigned to wear it,—why not he?" "Is there no hope?" I moaned, "so strong, so fair! Our Fowler whose proud bird would brook erewhile No rival's swoop in all our western air! Gather the ravens, then, in funeral file For him, life's morn yet golden in his hair? "Leave me not hopeless, ye unpitying dames! I see, half seeing. Tell me, ye who scanned The stars, Earth's elders, still must noblest aims Be traced upon oblivious ocean-sands? Must Hesper join the wailing ghosts of names?" "When grass-blades stiffen with red battle-dew, Ye deem we choose the victor and the slain: Say, choose we them that shall be leal and true To the heart's longing, the high faith of brain? Yet there the victory lies, if ye but knew. "Three roots bear up Dominion: Knowledge, Will,— These twain are strong, but stronger yet the third,— Obedience,—'tis the great tap-root that still, Knit round the rock of Duty, is not stirred, Though Heaven-loosed tempests spend their utmost skill. "Is the doom sealed for Hesper? 'Tis not we Denounce it, but the Law before all time: The brave makes danger opportunity; The waverer, paltering with the chance sublime, Dwarfs it to peril: which shall Hesper be? "Hath he let vultures climb his eagle's seat To make Jove's bolts purveyors of their maw? Hath he the Many's plaudits found more sweet Than Wisdom? held Opinion's wind for Law? Then let him hearken for the doomster's feet! "Rough are the steps, slow-hewn in flintiest rock, States climb to power by; slippery those with gold Down which they stumble to eternal mock: No chafferer's hand shall long the sceptre hold, Who, given a Fate to shape, would sell the block. "We sing old Sagas, songs of weal and woe, Mystic because too cheaply understood; Dark sayings are not ours; men hear and know, See Evil weak, see strength alone in Good, Yet hope to stem God's fire with walls of tow. "Time Was unlocks the riddle of Time Is, That offers choice of glory or of gloom; The solver makes Time Shall Be surely his. But hasten, Sisters! for even now the tomb Grates its slow hinge and calls from the abyss." "But not for him," I cried, "not yet for him, Whose large horizon, westering, star by star Wins from the void to where on Ocean's rim The sunset shuts the world with golden bar, Not yet his thews shall fail, his eye grow dim! "His shall be larger manhood, saved for those That walk unblenching through the trial-fires; Not suffering, but faint heart, is worst of woes, And he no base-born son of craven sires, Whose eye need blench confronted with his foes. "Tears may be ours, but proud, for those who win Death's royal purple in the foeman's lines; Peace, too, brings tears; and mid the battle-din, The wiser ear some text of God divines, For the sheathed blade may rust with darker sin. "God, give us peace! not such as lulls to sleep, But sword on thigh, and brow with purpose knit! And let our Ship of State to harbor sweep, Her ports all up, her battle-lanterns lit, And her leashed thunders gathering for their leap!" So cried I with clenched hands and passionate pain, Thinking of dear ones by Potomac's side; Again the loon laughed mocking, and again The echoes bayed far down the night and died, While waking I recalled my wandering brain. James Russell Lowell. October, 1861. CHAPTER VTHE WAR IN THE WEST
THE LITTLE DRUMMER 'Tis of a little drummer, The story I shall tell; Of how he marched to battle, Of all that there befell, Out in the west with Lyon (For once the name was true!) For whom the little drummer beat His rat-tat-too. Our army rose at midnight, Ten thousand men as one, Each slinging off his knapsack And snatching up his gun. "Forward!" and off they started, As all good soldiers do, When the little drummer beats for them The rat-tat-too. Across a rolling country, Where the mist began to rise; Past many a blackened farmhouse, Till the sun was in the skies; Then we met the rebel pickets, Who skirmished and withdrew, While the little drummer beat, and beat The rat-tat-too. Along the wooded hollows The line of battle ran, Our centre poured a volley, And the fight at once began; For the rebels answered shouting, And a shower of bullets flew; But still the little drummer beat His rat-tat-too. He stood among his comrades, As they quickly formed the line, And when they raised their muskets He watched the barrels shine. When the volley rang, he started, For war to him was new; But still the little drummer beat His rat-tat-too. It was a sight to see them, That early autumn day, Our soldiers in their blue coats, And the rebel ranks in gray; The smoke that rolled between them, The balls that whistled through, And the little drummer as he beat His rat-tat-too! His comrades dropped around him,— By fives and tens they fell, Some pierced by minie bullets, Some torn by shot and shell; They played against our cannon, And a caisson's splinters flew; But still the little drummer beat His rat-tat-too! The right, the left, the centre,— The fight was everywhere; They pushed us here,—we wavered,— We drove and broke them there. The graybacks fixed their bayonets, And charged the coats of blue, But still the little drummer beat His rat-tat-too! "Where is our little drummer?" His nearest comrades say, When the dreadful fight is over, And the smoke has cleared away. As the rebel corps was scattering He urged them to pursue, So furiously he beat, and beat The rat-tat-too! He stood no more among them, For a bullet, as it sped, Had glanced and struck his ankle, And stretched him with the dead! He crawled behind a cannon, And pale and paler grew; But still the little drummer beat His rat-tat-too! They bore him to the surgeon, A busy man was he: "A drummer boy—what ails him?" His comrades answered, "See!" As they took him from the stretcher A heavy breath he drew, And his little fingers strove to beat The rat-tat-too! The ball had spent its fury: "A scratch!" the surgeon said, As he wound the snowy bandage Which the lint was staining red. "I must leave you now, old fellow!" "Oh, take me back with you, For I know the men are missing me And the rat-tat-too!" Upon his comrade's shoulder They lifted him so grand, With his dusty drum before him, And his drumsticks in his hand! To the fiery front of battle, That nearer, nearer drew,— And evermore he beat, and beat His rat-tat-too! The wounded as he passed them Looked up and gave a cheer; And one in dying blessed him, Between a smile and tear. And the graybacks—they are flying Before the coats of blue, For whom the little drummer beats His rat-tat-too. When the west was red with sunset, The last pursuit was o'er; Brave Lyon rode the foremost, And looked the name he bore. As a weary child would do, Sat the little drummer, fast asleep, With his rat-tat-too. Richard Henry Stoddard.
THE DEATH OF LYON [August 10, 1861] Sing, bird, on green Missouri's plain, The saddest song of sorrow; Drop tears, O clouds, in gentlest rain Ye from the winds can borrow; Breathe out, ye winds, your softest sigh, Weep, flowers, in dewy splendor, For him who knew well how to die, But never to surrender. Up rose serene the August sun Upon that day of glory; Up curled from musket and from gun The war-cloud, gray and hoary; It gathered like a funeral pall, Now broken, and now blended, Where rang the bugle's angry call, And rank with rank contended. Four thousand men, as brave and true As e'er went forth in daring, Upon the foe that morning threw The strength of their despairing. They feared not death—men bless the field That patriot soldiers die on; Fair Freedom's cause was sword and shield, And at their head was Lyon. Their leader's troubled soul looked forth From eyes of troubled brightness; Sad soul! the burden of the North Had pressed out all its lightness. He gazed upon the unequal fight, His ranks all rent and gory, And felt the shadows close like night Round his career of glory. "General, come lead us!" loud the cry From a brave band was ringing— "Lead us, and we will stop, or die, That battery's awful singing!" He spurred to where his heroes stood— Twice wounded, no one knowing— The fire of battle in his blood And on his forehead glowing. Oh! cursed for aye that traitor's hand, And cursed that aim so deadly, Which smote the bravest of the land, And dyed his bosom redly. Serene he lay, while past him pressed The battle's furious billow, As calmly as a babe may rest Upon its mother's pillow. So Lyon died; and well may flowers His place of burial cover, For never had this land of ours A more devoted lover. Living, his country was his bride; His life he gave her, dying; Life, fortune, love, he nought denied To her, and to her sighing. Rest, patriot, in thy hillside grave, Beside her form who bore thee! Long may the land thou diedst to save Her bannered stars wave o'er thee! Upon her history's brightest page, And on fame's glowing portal, She'll write thy grand, heroic age, And grave thy name immortal. Henry Peterson.
ZAGONYI [October 25, 1861] Bold Captain of the Body-Guard, I'll troll a stave to thee! My voice is somewhat harsh and hard, And rough my minstrelsy. I've cheered until my throat is sore For how Dupont at Beaufort bore; Yet here's a cheer for thee! I hear thy jingling spurs and reins, Thy sabre at thy knee; The blood runs lighter through my veins, As I before me see Thy hundred men with thrusts and blows Ride down a thousand stubborn foes, The foremost led by thee. With pistol snap and rifle crack— Mere salvos fired to honor thee— Ye plunge, and stamp, and shoot, and hack The way your swords make free; Then back again,—the path is wide This time,—ye gods! it was a ride, The ride they took with thee! No guardsman of the whole command Halts, quails, or turns to flee; With bloody spur and steady hand They gallop where they see Thy daring plume stream out ahead O'er flying, wounded, dying, dead; They can but follow thee. So, Captain of the Body-Guard, I pledge a health to thee! I hope to see thy shoulders starred, My Paladin; and we Shall laugh at fortune in the fray Whene'er you lead your well-known way To death or victory! George Henry Boker.
BATTLE OF SOMERSET [January 19, 1862] I gazed, and lo! Afar and near, With hastening speed, now there, now here, The horseman rode with glittering spear— 'Twas awful to behold! Ten thousand men, in dread array— On every hill and mound they lay— A dreadful sight it was that day To see the front they formed. The polished sabres, waving high, Flashed brightly in the morning sky; While, beaming on the dazzled eye, The glittering bayonets shone. All, all was hushed among the trees, Save now and then a gentle breeze, Which stirr'd the brown and serried leaves That in the forest lay. But what is that which greets mine eye? Is it Columbia's sons I spy? Hark! hark! I hear their battle cry— Their shouts of victory! Still hotter does the conflict grow; While dealing death in every blow, McCook charged on the routed foe His daring little band. Rest, patriots, rest; the conflict's o'er, Your erring brethren punished sore; Oh, would they'd fight their friends no more, And cease this bloody strife. Cornelius C. Cullen.
ZOLLICOFFER [January 19, 1862] First in the fight, and first in the arms Of the white-winged angels of glory, With the heart of the South at the feet of God, And his wounds to tell the story; For the blood that flowed from his hero heart, On the spot where he nobly perished, Was drunk by the earth as a sacrament In the holy cause he cherished! In Heaven a home with the brave and blessed, And for his soul's sustaining The apocalyptic eyes of Christ— And nothing on earth remaining, But a handful of dust in the land of his choice, A name in song and story— And fame to shout with immortal voice Dead on the field of Glory! Henry Lynden Flash.
BOY BRITTAN [February 6, 1862] I Boy Brittan—only a lad—a fair-haired boy—sixteen, In his uniform, Into the storm—into the roaring jaws of grim Fort Henry— Boldly bears the Federal flotilla— Into the battle storm! II Boy Brittan is master's mate aboard of the Essex— There he stands, buoyant and eager-eyed, By the brave captain's side; Ready to do and dare. Aye, aye, sir! always ready— In his country's uniform. Boom! Boom! and now the flag-boat sweeps, and now the Essex, Into the battle storm! III Boom! Boom! till river and fort and field are overclouded By battle's breath; then from the fort a gleam And a crashing gun, and the Essex is wrapt and shrouded In a scalding cloud of steam! IV But victory! victory! Unto God all praise be ever rendered, Unto God all praise and glory be! See, Boy Brittan! see, boy, see! They strike! Hurrah! the fort has just surrendered! Shout! Shout! my boy, my warrior boy! And wave your cap and clap your hands for joy! Cheer answer cheer and bear the cheer about— Hurrah! Hurrah! for the fiery fort is ours; And "Victory!" "Victory!" "Victory!" Is the shout. Shout—for the fiery fort, and the field, and the day are ours— The day is ours—thanks to the brave endeavor Of heroes, boy, like thee! The day is ours—the day is ours! Glory and deathless love to all who shared with thee, And bravely endured and dared with thee— The day is ours—the day is ours— Forever! Glory and Love for one and all; but—but—for thee— Home! Home! a happy "Welcome—welcome home" for thee! And kisses of love for thee— And a mother's happy, happy tears, and a virgin's bridal wreath of flowers— For thee! V Victory! Victory!... But suddenly wrecked and wrapt in seething steam, the Essex Slowly drifted out of the battle's storm; Slowly, slowly down—laden with the dead and the dying; And there, at the captain's feet, among the dead and the dying, The shot-marred form of a beautiful boy is lying— There in his uniform! VI Laurels and tears for thee, boy, Laurels and tears for thee! Laurels of light, moist with the precious dew Of the inmost heart of the nation's loving heart, And blest by the balmy breath of the beautiful and the true; Moist—moist with the luminous breath of the singing spheres And the nation's starry tears! And tremble-touched by the pulse-like gush and start Of the universal music of the heart, And all deep sympathy. Laurels and tears for thee, boy, Laurels and tears for thee— Laurels of light and tears of love forever more— For thee! VII And laurels of light, and tears of truth, And the mantle of immortality; And the tender heart-tokens of all true ruth— And the everlasting victory! And the breath and bliss of Liberty; And the loving kiss of Liberty; And the welcoming light of heavenly eyes, And the over-calm of God's canopy; And the infinite love-span of the skies That cover the valleys of Paradise— For all of the brave who rest with thee; And for one and all who died with thee, And now sleep side by side with thee; And for every one who lives and dies, On the solid land or the heaving sea, Dear warrior-boy—like thee. VIII O the victory—the victory Belongs to thee! God ever keeps the brightest crown for such as thou— He gives it now to thee! O young and brave, and early and thrice blest— Thrice, thrice, thrice blest! Thy country turns once more to kiss thy youthful brow, And takes thee—gently—gently to her breast; And whispers lovingly, "God bless thee—bless thee now— My darling, thou shalt rest!" Forceythe Willson.
ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON [April 6, 1862] ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON SHILOH His soul to God! on a battle-psalm! A soldier's plea to Heaven! From the victor wreath to the shining Palm; From the battle's core to the central calm, And peace of God in Heaven. Oh, Land! in your midnight of mistrust The golden gates flew wide, And the kingly soul of your wise and just Passed in light from the house of dust To the Home of the Glorified! Francis Orrery Ticknor.
BEAUREGARD Our trust is now in thee, Beauregard! In thy hand the God of Hosts Hath placed the sword; And the glory of thy fame Has set the world aflame— Hearts kindle at thy name, Beauregard! The way that lies before Is cold and hard; We are led across the desert By the Lord! To guide our steps aright, Is the pillar of thy might, Beauregard! Thou hast watched the southern heavens Evening starred, And chosen thence thine emblems, Beauregard; And upon thy banner's fold Is that starry cross enrolled, Which no Northman shall behold Shamed or scarred. By the blood that crieth loudly From the sword, We have sworn to keep around it Watch and ward, And the standard of thine hand Yet shall shine above a land, Like its leader, free and grand, Beauregard! Mrs. C. A. Warfield.
[October 3, 4, 1862] Did you hear of the fight at Corinth, How we whipped out Price and Van Dorn? Ah, that day we earned our rations (Our cause was God's and the Nation's, Or we'd have come out forlorn!)— A long and terrible day! And at last, when night grew gray, By the hundreds, there they lay (Heavy sleepers, you'd say), That wouldn't wake on the morn. Our staff was bare of a flag, We didn't carry a rag In those brave marching days;— Ah, no, but a finer thing! With never a cord or string, An eagle of ruffled wing, And an eye of awful gaze. The grape it rattled like hail, The minies were dropping like rain, The first of a thunder shower; The wads were blowing like chaff (There was pounding like floor and flail, All the front of our line!), So we stood it hour after hour; But our eagle, he felt fine! 'Twould have made you cheer and laugh, To see, through that iron gale, How the old fellow'd swoop and sail Above the racket and roar,— To right and to left he'd soar, But ever came back, without fail, And perched on his standard-staff. All that day, I tell you true, They had pressed us steady and fair, Till we fought in street and square (The affair, you might think, looked blue),— But we knew we had them there! Our batteries were few, Every gun, they'd have sworn, they knew, But, you see, there were one or two We had fixed for them, unaware. They reckon they've got us now! For the next half hour 'twill be warm— Aye, aye, look yonder!—I vow, If they weren't Secesh, how I'd love them! Only see how grandly they form (Our eagle whirling above them), To take Robinett by storm! They're timing!—it can't be long— Now for the nub of the fight! (You may guess that we held our breath.) By the Lord, 'tis a splendid sight! A column two thousand strong Marching square to the death! On they came in solid column, For once no whooping nor yell (Ah, I dare say they felt solemn!)— Front and flank, grape and shell, Our batteries pounded away! And the minies hummed to remind 'em They had started on no child's play! Steady they kept a-going, But a grim wake settled behind 'em From the edge of the abattis (Where our dead and dying lay Under fence and fallen tree), Up to Robinett, all the way The dreadful swath kept growing! 'Twas butternut mixed with gray. Now for it, at Robinett! Muzzle to muzzle we met (Not a breath of bluster or brag, Not a lisp for quarter or favor)— Three times, there, by Robinett, With a rush, their feet they set On the logs of our parapet, And waved their bit of a flag— What could be finer or braver! But our cross-fire stunned them in flank, They melted, rank after rank (O'er them, with terrible poise, Our Bird did circle and wheel!)— Their whole line began to waver— Now for the bayonet, boys! On them with the cold steel! Ah, well—you know how it ended— We did for them, there and then, But their pluck throughout was splendid. (As I said before, I could love them!) They stood to the last, like men— Only a handful of them Found the way back again. Red as blood, o'er the town, The angry sun went down, Firing flagstaff and vane— And our eagle,—as for him, There, all ruffled and grim, He sat, o'erlooking the slain! Next morning, you'd have wondered How we had to drive the spade! There, in great trenches and holes (Ah, God rest their poor souls!), We piled some fifteen hundred, Where that last charge was made! Sad enough, I must say. No mother to mourn and search, No priest to bless or to pray— We buried them where they lay, Without a rite of the church— But our eagle, all that day, Stood solemn and still on his perch. 'Tis many a stormy day Since, out of the cold bleak north, Our great war-eagle sailed forth To swoop o'er battle and fray. Many and many a day O'er charge and storm hath he wheeled, Foray and foughten field, Tramp, and volley, and rattle!— Over crimson trench and turf, Over climbing clouds of surf, Through tempest and cannon-wrack, Have his terrible pinions whirled (A thousand fields of battle! A million leagues of foam!);— But our bird shall yet come back, He shall soar to his eyrie-home, And his thunderous wings be furled, In the gaze of a gladdened world, On the nation's loftiest dome. Henry Howard Brownell.
THE BATTLE OF MURFREESBORO [December 31, 1862] Ere Murfreesboro's thunders rent the air— With cannon booming 'mid the trumpet's blare— Cane Hill and David Mills, stern battles, too, Had carried death to hosts in Gray and Blue. But here, more deadly, war's wild torrent rushed, And victory, at first, the Rebels flushed. The "right wing" gone, and troops in panic, lo! The battle seemed already lost. But, No. Brave Rosecrans cried out—"Now stop retreat! We'll turn to victory this sore defeat! We must and shall this battle—Soldiers!—win! Now silence yonder batt'ry, to begin! And all re-form and meet the yelling foe! Stand firm and fire a volley! Back he'll go. If not, present your bayonets, and Charge! 'Tis needless on these orders to enlarge; But—Comrades!—here we conquer or we die!" And all that Rosecrans desired was done; And Murfreesboro's battle thus was won. Hail! to that New Year's Day in 'Sixty-three, And to that morrow which brought victory. Hail! to the courage of the Boys in Blue, Who fought so grandly, to their Country true. Kinahan Cornwallis.
LITTLE GIFFEN Out of the focal and foremost fire, Out of the hospital walls as dire, Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene (Eighteenth battle and he sixteen)— Spectre such as you seldom see, Little Giffen of Tennessee. "Take him—and welcome!" the surgeons said, "Little the doctor can help the dead!" So we took him and brought him where The balm was sweet on the summer air; And we laid him down on a wholesome bed— Utter Lazarus, heel to head! And we watched the war with bated breath— Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death. Months of torture, how many such! Weary weeks of the stick and crutch; And still a glint in the steel-blue eye Told of a spirit that wouldn't die. And didn't. Nay, more! in death's despite The crippled skeleton learned to write. "Dear Mother," at first of course; and then "Dear Captain," inquiring about "the men." Captain's answer: "Of eighty and five, Giffen and I are left alive." Word of gloom from the war one day: "Johnston's pressed at the front, they say!" Little Giffen was up and away; A tear—his first—as he bade good-by, Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye. "I'll write, if spared!" There was news of the fight; But none of Giffen—he did not write. I sometimes fancy that, were I king Of the princely knights of the Golden Ring, With the song of the minstrel in mine ear, And the tender legend that trembles here, I'd give the best, on his bended knee, The whitest soul of my chivalry, For Little Giffen of Tennessee. Francis Orrery Ticknor.
THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862 The flags of war like storm-birds fly, The charging trumpets blow; Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, No earthquake strives below. And, calm and patient, Nature keeps Her ancient promise well, Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps The battle's breath of hell. And still she walks in golden hours Through harvest-happy farms, And still she wears her fruits and flowers Like jewels on her arms. What mean the gladness of the plain, This joy of eve and morn, The mirth that shakes the beard of grain And yellow locks of corn? Ah! eyes may well be full of tears, And hearts with hate are hot; But even-paced come round the years, And Nature changes not. She meets with smiles our bitter grief, With songs our groans of pain; She mocks with tint of flower and leaf The war-field's crimson stain. Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm; Too near to God for doubt or fear, She shares the eternal calm. She knows the seed lies safe below The fires that blast and burn; For all the tears of blood we sow She waits the rich return. She sees with clearer eye than ours The good of suffering born,— The hearts that blossom like her flowers, And ripen like her corn. Oh, give to us, in times like these, The vision of her eyes; And make her fields and fruited trees Our golden prophecies! Oh, give to us her finer ear! Above this stormy din, We too would hear the bells of cheer Ring peace and freedom in. John Greenleaf Whittier. CHAPTER VITHE COAST AND THE RIVER
AT PORT ROYAL [November 7, 1861] The tent-lights glimmer on the land, The ship-lights on the sea; The night-wind smooths with drifting sand Our track on lone Tybee. At last our grating keels outslide, Our good boats forward swing; And while we ride the land-locked tide, Our negroes row and sing. For dear the bondman holds his gifts Of music and of song: The gold that kindly Nature sifts Among his sands of wrong; The power to make his toiling days And poor home-comforts please; The quaint relief of mirth that plays With sorrow's minor keys. Another glow than sunset's fire Has filled the west with light, Where field and garner, barn and byre, Are blazing through the night. The land is wild with fear and hate, The rout runs mad and fast; From hand to hand, from gate to gate The flaming brand is passed. The lurid glow falls strong across Dark faces broad with smiles: Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss That fire yon blazing piles. With oar-strokes timing to their song, They weave in simple lays The pathos of remembered wrong, The hope of better days,— The triumph-note that Miriam sung, The joy of uncaged birds: Softening with Afric's mellow tongue Their broken Saxon words. John Greenleaf Whittier.
Loaded with gallant soldiers, A boat shot in to the land, And lay at the right of Rodman's Point, With her keel upon the sand. Lightly, gayly, they came to shore, And never a man afraid; When sudden the enemy opened fire, From his deadly ambuscade. Each man fell flat on the bottom Of the boat; and the captain said: "If we lie here, we all are captured, And the first who moves is dead!" Then out spoke a negro sailor, No slavish soul had he: "Somebody's got to die, boys, And it might as well be me!" Firmly he rose, and fearlessly Stepped out into the tide; He pushed the vessel safely off, Then fell across her side: Fell, pierced by a dozen bullets, As the boat swung clear and free;— But there wasn't a man of them that day Who was fitter to die than he! Phoebe Cary.
THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT (FIFTH RHODE ISLAND) [March 14, 1862] Who with the soldiers was stanch danger-sharer,— Marched in the ranks through the shriek of the shell? Who was their comrade, their brave color-bearer? Who but the resolute Kady Brownell! Over the marshland and over the highland, Where'er the columns wound, meadow or dell, Fared she, this daughter of little Rhode Island,— She, the intrepid one, Kady Brownell! While the mad rout at Manassas was surging, When those around her fled wildly, or fell, And the bold Beauregard onward was urging, Who so undaunted as Kady Brownell! When gallant Burnside made dash upon Newberne, Sailing the Neuse 'gainst the sweep of the swell, Watching the flag on the heaven's broad blue burn, Who higher hearted than Kady Brownell? In the deep slough of the springtide debarking, Toiling o'er leagues that are weary to tell, Time with the sturdiest soldiery marking, Forward, straight forward, strode Kady Brownell. Reaching the lines where the army was forming, Forming to charge on those ramparts of hell, When from the wood came her regiment swarming, What did she see there—this Kady Brownell? See! why she saw that their friends thought them foemen; Muskets were levelled, and cannon as well! Save them from direful destruction would no men? Nay, but this woman would,—Kady Brownell! Waving her banner she raced for the clearing; Fronted them all, with her flag as a spell; Ah, what a volley—a volley of cheering— Greeted the heroine, Kady Brownell! Gone (and thank God!) are those red days of slaughter! Brethren again we in amity dwell; Just one more cheer for the Regiment's Daughter!— Just one more cheer for her, Kady Brownell! Clinton Scollard.
THE TURTLE [March 8, 1862] CÆsar, afloat with his fortunes! And all the world agog Straining its eyes At a thing that lies In the water, like a log! It's a weasel! a whale! I see its tail! It's a porpoise! a pollywog! Tarnation! it's a turtle! And blast my bones and skin, My hearties, sink her, Or else you'll think her A regular terror-pin! The frigate poured a broadside! The bombs they whistled well, But—hit old Nick With a sugar stick! It didn't phase her shell! Piff, from the creature's larboard— And dipping along the water A bullet hissed From a wreath of mist Into a Doodle's quarter! Raff, from the creature's starboard— Rip, from his ugly snorter, And the Congress and The Cumberland Sunk, and nothing—shorter. Now, here's to you, Virginia, And you are bound to win! By your rate of bobbing round And your way of pitchin' in— For you are a cross Of the old sea-hoss And a regular terror-pin.
THE ATTACK [March 8, 1862] In Hampton Roads, the airs of March were bland, Peace on the deck and in the fortress sleeping, Till, in the look-out of the Cumberland, The sailor, with his well-poised glass in hand, Descried the iron island downward creeping. A sudden wonder seized on land and bay, And Tumult, with her train, was there to follow; For still the stranger kept its seaward way, Looking a great leviathan blowing spray, Seeking with steady course his ocean wallow. And still it came, and largened on the sight; A floating monster; ugly and gigantic; In shape, a wave, with long and shelving height, As if a mighty billow, heaved at night, Should turn to iron in the mid-Atlantic. Then ship and fortress gazed with anxious stare, Until the Cumberland's cannon, silence breaking, Thundered its guardian challenge, "Who comes there?" But, like a rock-flung echo in the air, The shot rebounded, no impression making. Then roared a broadside; though directed well, On, like a nightmare, moved the shape defiant; The tempest of our pounding shot and shell Crumbled to harmless nothing, thickly fell From off the sounding armor of the giant! Unchecked, still onward through the storm it broke, With beak directed at the vessel's centre; Then through the constant cloud of sulphurous smoke Drove, till it struck the warrior's wall of oak, Making a gateway for the waves to enter. Struck, and to note the mischief done, withdrew, And then, with all a murderer's impatience, Rushed on again, crushing her ribs anew, Cleaving the noble hull well-nigh in two, And on it sped its fiery imprecations. Swift through the vessel swept the drowning swell, With splash, and rush, and guilty rise appalling; While sinking cannon rung their own loud knell. Then, cried the traitor, from his sulphurous cell, "Do you surrender?" Oh, those words were galling! How spake our captain to his comrades then? It was a shout from out a soul of splendor, Echoed from lofty maintop, and again Between-decks, from the lips of dying men, "Sink! sink, boys, sink! but never say surrender!" Down went the ship! Down, down; but never down Her sacred flag to insolent dictator. Weep for the patriot heroes, doomed to drown; Pledge to the sunken Cumberland's renown. She sank, thank God! unsoiled by foot of traitor! Thomas Buchanan Read. THE CUMBERLAND [March 8, 1862] At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port. We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster's hide. "Strike your flag!" the rebel cries In his arrogant old plantation strain. "Never!" our gallant Morris replies: "It is better to sink than to yield!" And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men. Then, like a kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. Lord, how beautiful was Thy day! Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead. Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream; Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND [March 8, 1862] "Stand to your guns, men!" Morris cried. Small need to pass the word; Our men at quarters ranged themselves, Before the drum was heard. And then began the sailors' jests: "What thing is that, I say?" "A long-shore meeting-house adrift Is standing down the bay!" A frown came over Morris' face; The strange, dark craft he knew; "That is the iron Merrimac, Manned by a rebel crew. "So shot your guns, and point them straight; Before this day goes by, We'll try of what her metal's made." A cheer was our reply. "Remember, boys, this flag of ours Has seldom left its place; And where it falls, the deck it strikes Is covered with disgrace. "I ask but this: or sink or swim, Or live or nobly die, My last sight upon earth may be To see that ensign fly!" Meanwhile the shapeless iron mass Came moving o'er the wave, As gloomy as a passing hearse, As silent as the grave. Her ports were closed, from stem to stern No sign of life appeared. We wondered, questioned, strained our eyes, Joked,—everything but feared. She reached our range. Our broadside rang, Our heavy pivots roared; And shot and shell, a fire of hell, Against her sides we poured. God's mercy! from her sloping roof The iron tempest glanced, As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch, And round her leaped and danced; Or, when against her dusky hull We struck a fair, full blow, The mighty, solid iron globes Were crumbled up like snow. On, on, with fast increasing speed, The silent monster came; Though all our starboard battery Was one long line of flame. She heeded not, nor gun she fired, Straight on our bow she bore; Through riving plank and crashing frame Her furious way she tore. Alas! our beautiful, keen bow, That in the fiercest blast So gently folded back the seas, They hardly felt we passed! Alas! Alas! My Cumberland, That ne'er knew grief before, To be so gored, to feel so deep The tusk of that sea-boar! Once more she backward drew a space, Once more our side she rent; Then, in the wantonness of hate, Her broadside through us sent. The dead and dying round us lay, But our foeman lay abeam; Her open portholes maddened us; We fired with shout and scream. We felt our vessel settling fast, We knew our time was brief; "The pumps, the pumps!" But they who pumped, And fought not, wept with grief. "Oh, keep us but an hour afloat! Oh, give us only time To be the instruments of heaven Against the traitors' crime!" From captain down to powder-boy, No hand was idle then; Two soldiers, but by chance aboard, Fought on like sailor-men. And when a gun's crew lost a hand, Some bold marine stepped out, And jerked his braided jacket off, And hauled the gun about. Our forward magazine was drowned; And up from the sick-bay Crawled out the wounded, red with blood, And round us gasping lay. Yes, cheering, calling us by name, Struggling with failing breath, To keep their shipmates at the port, While glory strove with death. With decks afloat, and powder gone, The last broadside we gave From the guns' heated iron lips Burst out beneath the wave. So sponges, rammers, and handspikes— As men-of-war's men should— We placed within their proper racks, And at our quarters stood. "Up to the spar-deck! Save yourselves!" Cried Selfridge. "Up, my men! God grant that some of us may live To fight yon ship again!" We turned—we did not like to go; Yet staying seemed but vain, Knee-deep in water; so we left; Some swore, some groaned with pain. We reached the deck. Here Randall stood: "Another turn, men—so!" Calmly he aimed his pivot-gun: "Now, Tenney, let her go!" It did our sore hearts good to hear The song our pivot sang, As rushing on, from wave to wave, The whirring bomb-shell sprang. Brave Randall leaped upon the gun, And waved his cap in sport; "Well done! well aimed! I saw that shell Go through an open port." It was our last, our deadliest shot; The deck was overflown; The poor ship staggered, lurched to port, And gave a living groan. Down, down, as headlong through the waves Our gallant vessel rushed, A thousand gurgling, watery sounds Around my senses gushed. Then I remember little more; One look to heaven I gave, Where, like an angel's wing, I saw Our spotless ensign wave. I tried to cheer, I cannot say Whether I swam or sank; A blue mist closed around my eyes, And everything was blank. When I awoke, a soldier-lad, All dripping from the sea, With two great tears upon his cheeks, Was bending over me. I tried to speak. He understood The wish I could not speak. He turned me. There, thank God! the flag Still fluttered at the peak! And there, while thread shall hang to thread, O let that ensign fly! The noblest constellation set Against our northern sky. A sign that we who live may claim The peerage of the brave; A monument, that needs no scroll, For those beneath the wave! George Henry Boker. THE CUMBERLAND The Merrimac then drew off and subjected the Congress to such a terrific fire that the frigate was forced to surrender. After heavily damaging the other vessels of the fleet, the Merrimac withdrew, intending to complete their destruction in the morning. HOW THE CUMBERLAND WENT DOWN [March 8, 1862] Gray swept the angry waves O'er the gallant and the true, Rolled high in mounded graves O'er the stately frigate's crew— Over cannon, over deck, Over all that ghastly wreck,— When the Cumberland went down. Such a roar the waters rent As though a giant died, When the wailing billows went Above those heroes tried; And the sheeted foam leaped high, Like white ghosts against the sky,— As the Cumberland went down. O shrieking waves that gushed Above that loyal band, Your cold, cold burial rushed O'er many a heart on land! And from all the startled North A cry of pain broke forth, When the Cumberland went down. And forests old, that gave A thousand years of power To her lordship of the wave And her beauty's regal dower, Bent, as though before a blast, When plunged her pennoned mast, And the Cumberland went down. And grimy mines that sent To her their virgin strength, And iron vigor lent To knit her lordly length, Wildly stirred with throbs of life, Echoes of that fatal strife, As the Cumberland went down. Beneath the ocean vast, Full many a captain bold, By many a rotting mast, And admiral of old, Rolled restless in his grave As he felt the sobbing wave, When the Cumberland went down. And stern Vikings that lay A thousand years at rest, In many a deep blue bay Beneath the Baltic's breast, Leaped on the silver sands, And shook their rusty brands, As the Cumberland went down. S. Weir Mitchell.
[March 9, 1862] Out of a Northern city's bay, 'Neath lowering clouds, one bleak March day, Glided a craft—the like, I ween, On ocean's crest was never seen Since Noah's float, that ancient boat, Could o'er a conquered deluge gloat. No raking masts, with clouds of sail, Bent to the breeze, or braved the gale; No towering chimney's wreaths of smoke Betrayed the mighty engine's stroke; But low and dark, like the crafty shark, Moved in the waters this novel bark. The fishers stared as the flitting sprite Passed their huts in the misty light, Bearing a turret huge and black, And said, "The old sea-serpent's back, Carting away by light of day, Uncle Sam's fort from New York Bay." Forth from a Southern city's dock, Our frigates' strong blockade to mock, Crept a monster of rugged build, The work of crafty hands, well skilled— Old Merrimac, with an iron back Wooden ships would find hard to crack. Straight to where the Cumberland lay, The mail-clad monster made its way; Its deadly prow struck deep and sure, And the hero's fighting days were o'er. Ah! many the braves who found their graves, With that good ship, beneath the waves! But with their fate is glory wrought, Those hearts of oak like heroes fought With desperate hope to win the day, And crush the foe that 'fore them lay. Our flag up run, the last-fired gun, Tokens how bravely duty was done. Flushed with success, the victor flew, Furious, the startled squadron through: Sinking, burning, driving ashore, Until that Sabbath day was o'er, Resting at night to renew the fight With vengeful ire by morning's light. Out of its den it burst anew, When the gray mist the sun broke through, Steaming to where, in clinging sands, The frigate Minnesota stands, A sturdy foe to overthrow, But in woful plight to receive a blow. But see! Beneath her bow appears A champion no danger fears; A pigmy craft, that seems to be To this new lord who rules the sea, Like David of old to Goliath bold— Youth and giant, by Scripture told. Round the roaring despot playing, With willing spirit, helm obeying, Spurning the iron against it hurled, While belching turret rapid whirled, And swift shot's seethe, with smoky wreath, Told that the shark was showing his teeth— The Monitor fought. In grim amaze The Merrimacs upon it gaze, Cowering 'neath the iron hail, Crashing into their coat of mail; They swore "this craft, the devil's shaft, Looked like a cheese-box on a raft." Hurrah! little giant of '62! Bold Worden with his gallant crew Forces the fight; the day is won; Back to his den the monster's gone With crippled claws and broken jaws, Defeated in a reckless cause. Hurrah for the master mind that wrought, With iron hand, this iron thought! Strength and safety with speed combined, Ericsson's gift to all mankind; To curb abuse, and chains to loose, Hurrah for the Monitor's famous cruise! George Henry Boker.
THE SINKING OF THE MERRIMACK [May, 1862] Gone down in the flood, and gone out in the flame! What else could she do, with her fair Northern name? Her font was a river whose last drop is free: That river ran boiling with wrath to the sea, To hear of her baptismal blessing profaned; A name that was Freedom's, by treachery stained. 'Twas the voice of our free Northern mountains that broke In the sound of her guns, from her stout ribs of oak: 'Twas the might of the free Northern hand you could feel In her sweep and her moulding, from topmast to keel: When they made her speak treason (does Hell know of worse?), How her strong timbers shook with the shame of her curse! Let her go! Should a deck so polluted again Ever ring to the tread of our true Northern men? Let the suicide-ship thunder forth, to the air And the sea she has blotted, her groan of despair! Let her last heat of anguish throb out into flame! Then sink them together,—the ship and the name! Lucy Larcom.
[April 18, 1862] Do you know of the dreary land, If land such region may seem, Where 'tis neither sea nor strand, Ocean, nor good, dry land, But the nightmare marsh of a dream? Where the Mighty River his death-road takes, 'Mid pools and windings that coil like snakes, A hundred leagues of bayous and lakes, To die in the great Gulf Stream? No coast-line clear and true, Granite and deep-sea blue, On that dismal shore you pass, Surf-worn boulder or sandy beach,— But ooze-flats as far as the eye can reach, With shallows of water-grass; Reedy Savannahs, vast and dun, Huge, rotting trunks and roots that lie Like the blackened bones of shapes gone by, And miles of sunken morass. No lovely, delicate thing Of life o'er the waste is seen But the cayman couched by his weedy spring, And the pelican, bird unclean, Or the buzzard, flapping with heavy wing, Like an evil ghost o'er the desolate scene. Ah! many a weary day With our Leader there we lay. In the sultry haze and smoke, Tugging our ships o'er the bar, Till the spring was wasted far, Till his brave heart almost broke. For the sullen river seemed As if our intent he dreamed,— All his sallow mouths did spew and choke. But ere April fully passed All ground over at last And we knew the die was cast,— Knew the day drew nigh To dare to the end one stormy deed, Might save the land at her sorest need, Or on the old deck to die! Anchored we lay,—and a morn the more, To his captains and all his men Thus wrote our old commodore (He wasn't Admiral then):— "General Orders: Send your to'gallant masts down, Rig in each flying jib-boom! Clear all ahead for the loom Of traitor fortress and town, Or traitor fleet bearing down. "In with your canvas high; We shall want no sail to fly! Topsail, foresail, spanker, and jib (With the heart of oak in the oaken rib), Shall serve us to win or die! "Trim every sail by the head (So shall you spare the lead), Lest if she ground, your ship swing round, Bows in shore, for a wreck. See your grapnels all clear with pains, And a solid kedge in your port main-chains, With a whip to the main yard: Drop it heavy and hard When you grapple a traitor deck! "On forecastle and on poop Mount guns, as best you may deem. If possible, rouse them up (For still you must bow the stream). Also hoist and secure with stops Howitzers firmly in your tops, To fire on the foe abeam. "Look well to your pumps and hose; Have water tubs fore and aft, For quenching flame in your craft, And the gun crew's fiery thirst. See planks with felt fitted close, To plug every shot-hole tight. Stand ready to meet the worst! For, if I have reckoned aright, They will serve us shot, Both cold and hot, Freely enough to-night. "Mark well each signal I make (Our life-long service at stake, And honor that must not lag!),— Whate'er the peril and awe, In the battle's fieriest flaw, Let never one ship withdraw Till the orders come from the flag!" * * * * * Would you hear of the river fight? It was two of a soft spring night; God's stars looked down on all; And all was clear and bright But the low fog's clinging breath; Up the River of Death Sailed the great Admiral. On our high poop-deck he stood, And round him ranged the men Who have made their birthright good Of manhood once and again,— Lords of helm and of sail, Tried in tempest and gale, Bronzed in battle and wreck. Bell and Bailey grandly led Each his line of the Blue and Red; Wainwright stood by our starboard rail; Thornton fought the deck. And I mind me of more than they, Of the youthful, steadfast ones, That have shown them worthy sons Of the seamen passed away. Watson stood by his guns. What thought our Admiral then, Looking down on his men? Since the terrible day (Day of renown and tears!),— When at anchor the Essex lay,— Holding her foes at bay,— When a boy by Porter's side he stood, Till deck and plank-sheer were dyed with blood; 'Tis half a hundred years,— Half a hundred years to a day! Who could fail with him? Who reckon of life or limb? Not a pulse but beat the higher! There had you seen, by the starlight dim, Five hundred faces strong and grim: The Flag is going under fire! Right up by the fort, With her helm hard aport, The Hartford is going under fire! The way to our work was plain. Caldwell had broken the chain (Two hulks swung down amain Soon as 'twas sundered). Under the night's dark blue, Steering steady and true, Ship after ship went through, Till, as we hove in view, "Jackson" out-thundered! Back echoed "Philip!" ah! then Could you have seen our men. How they sprung in the dim night haze, To their work of toil and of clamor! How the boarders, with sponge and rammer And their captains, with cord and hammer, Kept every muzzle ablaze. How the guns, as with cheer and shout— Our tackle-men hurled them out— Brought up on the water-ways! First, as we fired at their flash, 'Twas lightning and black eclipse, With a bellowing roll and crash. But soon, upon either bow, What with forts and fire-rafts and ships (The whole fleet was hard at it now), All pounding away!—and Porter Still thundering with shell and mortar,— 'T was the mighty sound and form! (Such you see in the far South, After long heat and drought, As day draws nigh to even, Arching from north to south, Blinding the tropic sun, The great black bow comes on, Till the thunder-veil is riven,— When all is crash and levin, And the cannonade of heaven Rolls down the Amazon!) But, as we worked along higher, Just where the river enlarges, Down came a pyramid of fire,— It was one of your long coal barges. (We had often had the like before.) 'T was coming down on us to larboard, Well in with the eastern shore; And our pilot, to let it pass round (You may guess we never stopped to sound), Giving us a rank sheer to starboard, Ran the Flag hard and fast aground! 'T was nigh abreast of the Upper Fort, And straightway a rascal ram (She was shaped like the Devil's dam) Puffed away for us, with a snort, And shoved it, with spiteful strength, Right alongside of us to port. It was all of our ship's length,— A huge, crackling Cradle of the Pit! Pitch-pine knots to the brim, Belching flame red and grim, What a roar came up from it! Well, for a little it looked bad: But these things are, somehow, shorter, In the acting than in the telling; There was no singing out or yelling, Or any fussing and fretting, No stampede, in short; But there we were, my lad, All afire on our port quarter, Hammocks ablaze in the netting, Flames spouting in at every port, Our fourth cutter burning at the davit (No chance to lower away and save it). In a twinkling, the flames had risen Halfway to maintop and mizzen, Darting up the shrouds like snakes! Ah, how we clanked at the brakes, And the deep, steaming pumps throbbed under, Sending a ceaseless flow. Our topmen, a dauntless crowd, Swarmed in rigging and shroud: There ('twas a wonder!) The burning ratlines and strands They quenched with their bare, hard hands; But the great guns below Never silenced their thunder. At last, by backing and sounding, When we were clear of grounding, And under headway once more, The whole rebel fleet came rounding The point. If we had it hot before, 'Twas now from shore to shore, One long, loud, thundering roar,— Such crashing, splintering, and pounding, And smashing as you never heard before! But that we fought foul wrong to wreck, And to save the land we loved so well, You might have deemed our long gun-deck Two hundred feet of hell! For above all was battle, Broadside, and blaze, and rattle, Smoke and thunder alone (But, down in the sick-bay, Where our wounded and dying lay, There was scarce a sob or a moan). And at last, when the dim day broke, And the sullen sun awoke, Drearily blinking O'er the haze and the cannon smoke, That ever such morning dulls,— There were thirteen traitor hulls On fire and sinking! Now, up the river!—though mad Chalmette Sputters a vain resistance yet, Small helm we gave her our course to steer,— 'Twas nicer work than you well would dream, With cant and sheer to keep her clear Of the burning wrecks that cumbered the stream. The Louisiana, hurled on high, Mounts in thunder to meet the sky! Then down to the depths of the turbid flood,— Fifty fathom of rebel mud! The Mississippi comes floating down, A mighty bonfire from off the town; And along the river, on stocks and ways, A half-hatched devil's brood is ablaze,— The great Anglo-Norman is all in flames (Hark to the roar of her trembling frames!), And the smaller fry that Treason would spawn Are lighting Algiers like an angry dawn! From stem to stern, how the pirates burn, Fired by the furious hands that built! So to ashes forever turn The suicide wrecks of wrong and guilt! But as we neared the city, By field and vast plantation (Ah! millstone of our nation!), With wonder and with pity, What crowds we there espied Of dark and wistful faces, Mute in their toiling places, Strangely and sadly eyed. Haply 'mid doubt and fear, Deeming deliverance near (One gave the ghost of a cheer!). And on that dolorous strand, To greet the victor brave, One flag did welcome wave— Raised, ah me! by a wretched hand, All outworn on our cruel land,— The withered hand of a slave! But all along the levee, In a dark and drenching rain (By this 'twas pouring heavy), Stood a fierce and sullen train, A strange and frenzied time! There were scowling rage and pain, Curses, howls, and hisses, Out of Hate's black abysses,— Their courage and their crime All in vain—all in vain! For from the hour that the Rebel Stream With the Crescent City lying abeam, Shuddered under our keel, Smit to the heart with self-struck sting, Slavery died in her scorpion-ring And Murder fell on his steel. 'Tis well to do and dare; But ever may grateful prayer Follow, as aye it ought, When the good fight is fought, When the true deed is done. Aloft in heaven's pure light (Deep azure crossed on white), Our fair Church pennant waves Bareheaded in God's bright sun. Lord of mercy and frown, Ruling o'er sea and shore, Send us such scene once more! All in line of battle When the black ships bear down On tyrant fort and town, 'Mid cannon cloud and rattle; And the great guns once more Thunder back the roar Of the traitor walls ashore, And the traitor flags come down. Henry Howard Brownell. THE BALLAD OF NEW ORLEANS [April 24, 1862] Just as the hour was darkest, Just between night and day, From the flag-ship shone the signal, "Get the squadrons under way." Not a sound but the tramp of sailors, And the wheeling capstan's creak, Arose from the busy vessels As the anchors came apeak. The men worked on in silence, With never a shout or cheer, Till 'twas whispered from bow to quarter: "Start forward! all is clear." Then groaned the ponderous engine, Then floundered the whirling screw; And as ship joined ship, the comrades Their lines of battle drew. The moon through the fog was casting A blur of lurid light, As the captain's latest order Was flashed into the night. "Steam on! and whatever fortune May follow the attack, Sink with your bows still northward No vessel must turn back!" 'Twas hard when we heard that order To smother a rising shout; For it wakened the life within us, And we burned to give it out. All wrapped in the foggy darkness, Brave Bailey moved ahead; And stem after stern, his gunboats To the starboard station led. Next Farragut's stately flag-ship To port her head inclined; And midmost, and most in danger, Bell's squadron closed behind. Ah! many a prayer was murmured For the homes we ne'er might see; And the silence and night grew dreadful With the thought of what must be. For many a tall, stout fellow Who stood at his quarters then, In the damp and dismal moonlight, Never saw the sun again. Close down by the yellow river In their oozy graves they rot; Strange vines and strange weeds grow o'er them, And their far homes know them not. But short was our time of musing; For the rebel forts discerned That the whole great fleet was moving, And their batteries on us turned. Then Porter burst out from his mortars, In jets of fiery spray, As if a volcano had opened Where his leaf-clad vessels lay. Howling and screeching and whizzing The bomb-shells arched on high, And then, like gigantic meteors, Dropped swiftly from the sky. Dropped down on the low, doomed fortress A plague of iron death, Shattering earth and granite to atoms With their puffs of sulphurous breath. The whole air quaked and shuddered As the huge globes rose and fell, And the blazing shores looked awful As the open gates of hell. Fort Jackson and Fort Saint Philip, And the battery on the right, By this time were flashing and thundering Out into the murky night. Through the hulks and the cables, sundered By the bold Itasca's crew, Went Bailey in silence, though round him The shells and the grape-shot flew. No answer he made to their welcome, Till abeam Saint Philip bore, Then, oh, but he sent them a greeting In his broadsides' steady roar! Meanwhile, the old man, in the Hartford, Had ranged to Fort Jackson's side; What a sight! he slowed his engines Till he barely stemmed the tide; Yes, paused in that deadly tornado Of case-shot and shell and ball, Not a cable's length from the fortress, And he lay there, wood to wall. Have you any notion, you landsmen, Who have seen a field-fight won, Of canister, grape-shot, and shrapnel Hurled out from a ten-inch gun? I tell you, the air is nigh solid With the howling iron flight; And 'twas such a tempest blew o'er us Where the Hartford lay that night. Perched aloft in the forward rigging, With his restless eyes aglow, Sat Farragut, shouting his orders To the men who fought below. And the fort's huge faces of granite Were splintered and rent in twain, And the masses seemed slowly melting, Like snow in a torrid rain. Now quicker and quicker we fired, Till between us and the foe A torrent of blazing vapor Was leaping to and fro; While the fort, like a mighty caldron, Was boiling with flame and smoke, And the stone flew aloft in fragments, And the brick into powder broke. So thick fell the clouds o'er the river, You hardly could see your hand; When we heard, from the foremast rigging, Old Farragut's sharp command: "Full ahead! Steam across to Saint Philip! Starboard battery, mind your aim! Forecastle there, shift your pivots! Now, Give them a taste of the same!" Saint Philip grew faint in replying, Its voice of thunder was drowned; "But ha! what is this? Back the engines! Back, back, the ship is aground!" Straight down the swift current came sweeping A raft, spouting sparks and flame; Pushed on by an iron-clad rebel, Under our port side it came. At once the good Hartford was blazing, Below, aloft, fore and aft. "We are lost!" "No, no; we are moving!" Away whirled the crackling raft. The fire was soon quenched. One last broadside We gave to the surly fort; For above us the rebel gunboats Were wheeling like devils at sport. And into our vacant station Had glided a bulky form; 'Twas Craven's stout Brooklyn, demanding Her share of the furious storm. We could hear the shot of Saint Philip Ring on her armor of chain, And the crash of her answering broadside, Taking and giving again. We could hear the low growl of Craven, And Lowry's voice clear and calm, While they swept off the rebel ramparts As clean as your open palm. Then ranging close under our quarter, Out burst from the smoky fogs The queen of the waves, the Varuna, The ship of bold Charley Boggs. He waved his blue cap as he passed us; The blood of his glorious race, Of Lawrence, the hero, was burning Once more in a living face. Right and left flashed his heavy pieces, Rams, gunboats—it mattered not; Wherever a rebel flag floated Was a target for his shot. All burning and sinking around him Lay five of the foe; but he, The victor, seemed doomed with the vanquished, When along dashed gallant Lee. And he took up the bloody conflict, And so well his part he bore, That the river ran fire behind him, And glimmered from shore to shore. But while powder would burn in a cannon, Till the water drowned his deck, Boggs pounded away with his pivots From his slowly settling wreck. I think our great captains in Heaven, As they looked upon those deeds, Were proud of the flower of that navy, Of which they planted the seeds. Paul Jones, the knight-errant of ocean, Decatur, the lord of the seas, Hull, Lawrence, and Bainbridge, and Biddle, And Perry, the peer of all these! If Porter beheld his descendant, With some human pride on his lip, I trust, through the mercy of Heaven, His soul was forgiven that slip. And thou, living veteran, Old Ironsides, The last of the splendid line, Thou link 'twixt the old and new glory, I know what feelings were thine! When the sun looked over the tree-tops, We found ourselves—Heaven knows how— Above the grim forts; and that instant A smoke broke from Farragut's bow. And over the river came floating The sound of the morning gun; And the stars and stripes danced up the halyards, And glittered against the sun. Oh, then what a shout from the squadrons! As flag followed flag, till the day Was bright with the beautiful standard, And wild with the victors' huzza! But three ships were missing. The others Had passed through that current of flame; And each scar on their shattered bulwarks Was touched by the finger of Fame. Below us, the forts of the rebels Lay in the trance of despair; Above us, uncovered and helpless, New Orleans clouded the air. Again, in long lines we went steaming Away towards the city's smoke; And works were deserted before us, And columns of soldiers broke. In vain the town clamored and struggled; The flag at our peak ruled the hour; And under its shade, like a lion, Were resting the will and the power. George Henry Boker.
THE VARUNA [Sunk April 24, 1862] New Orleans was panic-stricken. Many of the better class of citizens fled, and the town was given over to the mob. Drums were beaten, soldiers scampered hither and thither, and women ran through the streets demanding that the city be burned. The cotton on the levee was set on fire, and the torch was put to the wharves and shipping. Finally, on April 29, 1862, after a lot of silly rhodomontade, the city surrendered. THE SURRENDER OF NEW ORLEANS [April 29, 1862] All day long the guns at the forts, With far-off thunders and faint retorts, Had told the city that down the bay The fleet of Farragut's war-ships lay; But now St. Philip and Jackson grim Were black and silent below the rim Of the southern sky, where the river sped Like a war-horse scenting the fight ahead. And we of the city, the women, and men Too old for facing the battle then, Saw all the signs of our weakness there With a patience born of a great despair. The river gnawed its neglected bank, The weeds in the unused streets grew rank, And flood and famine threatened those Who stayed there braving greater woes. Under the raking of shot and shell The river fortresses fighting fell; The Chalmette batteries then boomed forth, But the slim, straight spars of the ships of the North Moved steadily on in their river-road, Like a tide that up from the ocean flowed. Then load after load, and pile upon pile, Lining the wharves for many a mile, Out of the cotton-presses and yards, With a grim industry which naught retards, The bales were carried and swiftly placed By those who knew there was need of haste, And the torch was laid to the cotton so. Up from that bonfire the glare and glow Was seen by the watchers far away, And weeping and wailing those watchers say, "The city is lost! O men at the front, Braving the fortunes of war, and the brunt Of battle bearing with fearful cost, The city you loved and left is lost!" Ah, memories crowding so thick and fast, Ye were the first; is this the last? We gave with clamor our first great gift, With shouts which up to the heavens lift; We gave with silence our last best yield, Our last, best gleaning for Shiloh's field. With mute devotion we saw them go; But when the banners were furled and low, And the solid columns were thinned by war, We wondered what we had given for. And oh, the day when with muffled drum We saw our dear, dead Johnston come! The blood of our slain ones seemed to pour From the eyes that should see them come no more. We measured our grief by each gallant deed; We measured our loss by our direful need; Our dead dreams rose from the vanquished past, And across the future their shadows cast. Our brave young hope, like a fallen tear, We laid on the grave of our Chevalier. And that last wild night! the east was red So long 'fore the day had left its bed. With white, set faces, and smileless lips, We fired our vessels, we fired our ships. We saw the sails of the red flame lift O'er each fire-cargo we set adrift; To Farragut's fleet we sent them down, A warm, warm welcome from the town. But, alas, how quickly came the end! For down the river, below the bend, Like a threatening finger shook each mast Of the Yankee ships as they steamed up fast. Grim and terrible, black with men, Oh, for the Mississippi then! And—God be merciful!—there she came, A drifting wreck, a ship of flame. What a torch to light the stripes and stars That had braved our forts and harbor bars! What a light, by which we saw vainly slip Our hopes to their death in that sinking ship! We shrieked with rage, and defeat, and dread, As down the river that phantom sped; But on the deck of a Yankee ship, One grim old tar, with a smiling lip, Patted the big black breech of his gun, As one who silently says, "Well done!" To-day the graves that were new are old, And a story done is a story told; But we of the city, the women and men, And boys unfitted for fighting then, Remember the day when our flag went down, And the stars and stripes waved over the town. Ah me! the bitter goes with the sweet, And a victory means another defeat; For, bound in Nature's inflexible laws, A glory for one is another's Lost Cause. Marion Manville.
MUMFORD THE MARTYR OF NEW ORLEANS [May, 1862] Where murdered Mumford lies Bewailed in bitter sighs, Low bowed beneath the flag he loved Martyrs of Liberty, Defenders of the Free! Come, humbly nigh, And learn to die! Ah, Freedom on that day Turned fearfully away, While pitying angels lingered near, To gaze upon the sod Red with a martyr's blood; And woman's tear Fell on his bier! Oh, God! that he should die Beneath a Southern sky! Upon a felon's gallows swinging, Murdered by tyrant hand,— While round a helpless band, On Butler's name Poured scorn and shame. But hark! loud pÆans fly From earth to vaulted sky, He's crowned at Freedom's holy throne! List! sweet-voiced Israfel Tolls for the martyr's knell! Shout Southrons high, Our battle cry! Come all of Southern blood, Come kneel to Freedom's God! Here at her crimson altar swear! Accursed forever more The flag that Mumford tore, And o'er his grave Our colors wave. Ina M. Porter.
BUTLER'S PROCLAMATION [May 15, 1862] Ay! drop the treacherous mask! throw by The cloak that veiled thine instincts fell, Stand forth, thou base, incarnate Lie, Stamped with the signet brand of hell! At last we view thee as thou art, A trickster with a demon's heart. Off with disguise! no quarter now To rebel honor! thou wouldst strike Hot blushes up the anguished brow, And murder Fame and Strength alike. Beware! ten million hearts aflame Will burn with hate thou canst not tame! We know thee now! we know thy race! Thy dreadful purpose stands revealed Naked, before the nation's face! Comrades! let Mercy's font be sealed, While the black banner courts the wind, And cursed be he who lags behind! O soldiers, husbands, brothers, sires! Think that each stalwart blow ye give Shall quench the rage of lustful fires, And bid your glorious women live Pure from a wrong whose tainted breath Were fouler than the foulest death. O soldiers, lovers, Christians, men! Think that each breeze that floats and dies O'er the red field, from mount or glen, Is burdened with a maiden's sighs— And each false soul that turns to flee, Consigns his love to infamy! Think! and strike home! the fabled might Of Titans were a feeble power To that with which your arms should smite In the next awful battle-hour! And deadlier than the bolts of heaven Should flash your fury's fatal leven! No pity! let your thirsty bands Drink their warm fill at caitiff veins; Dip deep in blood your wrathful hands, Nor pause to wipe those crimson stains. Slay! slay! with ruthless sword and will— The God of vengeance bids you "kill!" Yes! but there's one who shall not die In battle harness! One for whom Lurks in the darkness silently Another and a sterner doom! A warrior's end should crown the brave— For him, swift cord! and felon grave! As loathsome, charnel vapors melt, Swept by invisible winds to naught, So, may this fiend of lust and guilt Die like nightmare's hideous thought! Naught left to mark the mother's name, Save—immortality of shame! Paul Hamilton Hayne. CHAPTER VIIEMANCIPATION
TO JOHN C. FRÉMONT [August 31, 1861] Thy error, FrÉmont, simply was to act A brave man's part, without the statesman's tact, And, taking counsel but of common sense, To strike at cause as well as consequence. Oh, never yet since Roland wound his horn At Roncesvalles, has a blast been blown Far-heard, wide-echoed, startling as thine own, Heard from the van of freedom's hope forlorn! It had been safer, doubtless, for the time, To flatter treason, and avoid offence To that Dark Power whose underlying crime Heaves upward its perpetual turbulence. But if thine be the fate of all who break The ground for truth's seed, or forerun their years Till lost in distance, or with stout hearts make A lane for freedom through the level spears, Still take thou courage! God has spoken through thee, Irrevocable, the mighty words, Be free! The land shakes with them, and the slave's dull ear Turns from the rice-swamp stealthily to hear. Who would recall them now must first arrest The winds that blow down from the free Northwest, Ruffling the Gulf; or like a scroll roll back The Mississippi to its upper springs. Such words fulfil their prophecy, and lack But the full time to harden into things. John Greenleaf Whittier.
ASTRÆA AT THE CAPITOL ABOLITION OF SLAVERY IN THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA, 1862 [April 16, 1862] When first I saw our banner wave Above the nation's council-hall, I heard beneath its marble wall The clanking fetters of the slave! In the foul market-place I stood, And saw the Christian mother sold, And childhood with its locks of gold, Blue-eyed and fair with Saxon blood. I shut my eyes, I held my breath, And, smothering down the wrath and shame That set my Northern blood aflame, Stood silent,—where to speak was death. Beside me gloomed the prison-cell Where wasted one in slow decline For uttering simple words of mine, And loving freedom all too well. The flag that floated from the dome Flapped menace in the morning air; I stood a perilled stranger where The human broker made his home. For crime was virtue: Gown and Sword And Law their threefold sanction gave, And to the quarry of the slave Went hawking with our symbol-bird. On the oppressor's side was power; And yet I knew that every wrong, However old, however strong, But waited God's avenging hour. I knew that truth would crush the lie,— Somehow, sometime, the end would be; Yet scarcely dared I hope to see The triumph with my mortal eye. But now I see it! In the sun A free flag floats from yonder dome, And at the nation's hearth and home The justice long delayed is done. Not as we hoped, in calm of prayer, The message of deliverance comes, But heralded by roll of drums On waves of battle-troubled air! Midst sounds that madden and appall, The song that Bethlehem's shepherds knew! The harp of David melting through The demon-agonies of Saul! Not as we hoped; but what are we? Above our broken dreams and plans God lays, with wiser hand than man's, The corner-stones of liberty. I cavil not with Him: the voice That freedom's blessed gospel tells Is sweet to me as silver bells, Rejoicing! yea, I will rejoice! Dear friends still toiling in the sun; Ye dearer ones who, gone before, Are watching from the eternal shore The slow work by your hands begun, Rejoice with me! The chastening rod Blossoms with love; the furnace heat Grows cool beneath His blessed feet Whose form is as the Son of God! Rejoice! Our Marah's bitter springs Are sweetened; on our ground of grief Rise day by day in strong relief The prophecies of better things. Rejoice in hope! The day and night Are one with God, and one with them Who see by faith the cloudy hem Of Judgment fringed with Mercy's light! John Greenleaf Whittier.
BOSTON HYMN [January 1, 1863] The word of the Lord by night To the watching Pilgrims came, And filled their hearts with flame. God said, I am tired of kings, I suffer them no more; Up to my ear the morning brings The outrage of the poor. Think ye I made this ball A field of havoc and war, Where tyrants great and tyrants small Might harry the weak and poor? My angel—his name is Freedom— Choose him to be your king; He shall cut pathways east and west, And fend you with his wing. Lo! I uncover the land, Which I hid of old time in the West, As the sculptor uncovers the statue When he has wrought his best; I show Columbia, of the rocks Which dip their foot in the seas, And soar to the air-borne flocks Of clouds and the boreal fleece. I will divide my goods; Call in the wretch and slave; None shall rule but the humble, And none but Toil shall have. I will have never a noble, No lineage counted great; Fishers and choppers and ploughmen Shall constitute a state. Go, cut down trees in the forest And trim the straightest boughs; Cut down trees in the forest And build me a wooden house. Call the people together, The young men and the sires, The digger in the harvest-field, Hireling and him that hires; And here in a pine state-house They shall choose men to rule In every needful faculty, In church and state and school. Lo, now! if these poor men Can govern the land and sea, And make just laws below the sun, As planets faithful be. And ye shall succor men; 'Tis nobleness to serve; Help them who cannot help again: Beware from right to swerve. I break your bonds and masterships, And I unchain the slave: Free be his heart and hand henceforth As wind and wandering wave. I cause from every creature His proper good to flow; As much as he is and doeth, So much he shall bestow. But, laying hands on another, To coin his labor and sweat, He goes in pawn to his victim For eternal years in debt. To-day unbind the captive, So only are ye unbound; Lift up a people from the dust, Trump of their rescue, sound! Pay ransom to the owner And fill the bag to the brim. Who is the owner? The slave is owner And ever was. Pay him. O North! give him beauty for rags, And honor, O South! for his shame; Nevada! coin thy golden crags With Freedom's image and name. Up! and the dusky race That sat in darkness long,— Be swift their feet as antelopes, And as behemoth strong. Come, East and West and North, By races, as snowflakes, And carry my purpose forth, Which neither halts nor shakes. My will fulfilled shall be, For, in daylight or in dark, My thunderbolt has eyes to see His way home to the mark. Ralph Waldo Emerson. THE PROCLAMATION [January 1, 1863] Saint Patrick, slave to Milcho of the herds Of Ballymena, wakened with these words: "Arise, and flee Out from the land of bondage, and be free!" Glad as a soul in pain, who hears from heaven The angels singing of his sins forgiven, And, wondering, sees His prison opening to their golden keys, He rose a man who laid him down a slave, Shook from his locks the ashes of the grave, And outward trod Into the glorious liberty of God. He cast the symbols of his shame away; And, passing where the sleeping Milcho lay, Though back and limb Smarted with wrong, he prayed, "God pardon him!" So went he forth; but in God's time he came To light on Uilline's hills a holy flame; And, dying, gave The land a saint that lost him as a slave. O dark, sad millions, patiently and dumb Waiting for God, your hour, at last, has come, And freedom's song Breaks the long silence of your night of wrong! Arise and flee! shake off the vile restraint Of ages; but, like Ballymena's saint, The oppressor spare, Heap only on his head the coals of prayer. Go forth, like him! like him return again, To bless the land whereon in bitter pain Ye toiled at first, And heal with freedom what your slavery cursed. John Greenleaf Whittier.
TREASON'S LAST DEVICE [January 19, 1863] "Who deserves greatness Deserves your hate.... Yon common cry of curs, whose breath I loathe As reek o' the rotten fens." Coriolanus. "Hark! hark! the dogs do bark." Nursery Rhyme. Sons of New England, in the fray, Do you hear the clamor behind your back? Do you hear the yelping of Blanche and Tray? Sweetheart, and all the mongrel pack? Girded well with her ocean crags, Little our mother heeds their noise; Her eyes are fixed on crimsoned flags: But you—do you hear it, Yankee boys? Do you hear them say that the patriot fire Burns on her altars too pure and bright, To the darkened heavens leaping higher, Though drenched with the blood of every fight? That in the light of its searching flame Treason and tyrants stand revealed, And the yielding craven is put to shame On Capitol floor or foughten field? Do you hear the hissing voice, which saith That she—who bore through all the land The lyre of Freedom, the torch of Faith, And young Invention's mystic wand— Should gather her skirts and dwell apart, With not one of her sisters to share her fate,— A Hagar, wandering sick at heart? A pariah, bearing the Nation's hate? Sons, who have peopled the distant West, And planted the Pilgrim vine anew, Where, by a richer soil carest, It grows as ever its parent grew,— Say, do you hear,—while the very bells Of your churches ring with her ancient voice, And the song of your children sweetly tells How true was the land of your fathers' choice,— Do you hear the traitors who bid you speak The word that shall sever the sacred tie? Has the subtle whisper glided by? Has it crost the immemorial plains To coasts where the gray Pacific roars, And the Pilgrim blood in the people's veins Is pure as the wealth of their mountain ores? Spirits of sons who, side by side, In a hundred battles fought and fell, Whom now no East and West divide, In the isles where the shades of heroes dwell,— Say, has it reached your glorious rest, And ruffled the calm which crowns you there,— The shame that recreants have confest The plot that floats in the troubled air? Sons of New England, here and there, Wherever men are still holding by The honor our fathers left so fair,— Say, do you hear the cowards' cry? Crouching among her grand old crags, Lightly our mother heeds their noise, With her fond eyes fixed on distant flags; But you—do you hear it, Yankee boys? Edmund Clarence Stedman.
LAUS DEO! On hearing the bells ring It is done! Clang of bell and roar of gun Send the tidings up and down. How the belfries rock and reel! How the great guns, peal on peal, Fling the joy from town to town! Ring, O bells! Every stroke exulting tells Of the burial hour of crime. Loud and long, that all may hear, Ring for every listening ear Of Eternity and Time! Let us kneel: God's own voice is in that peal, And this spot is holy ground. Lord, forgive us! What are we, That our eyes this glory see, That our ears have heard the sound! For the Lord On the whirlwind is abroad; In the earthquake He has spoken; He has smitten with His thunder The iron walls asunder, And the gates of brass are broken! Loud and long Lift the old exulting song; Sing with Miriam by the sea, He has cast the mighty down; Horse and rider sink and drown; "He hath triumphed gloriously!" Did we dare, In our agony of prayer, Ask for more than He has done? When was ever His right hand Over any time or land Stretched as now beneath the sun? How they pale, Ancient myth and song and tale, In this wonder of our days, When the cruel rod of war Blossoms white with righteous law And the wrath of man is praise! Blotted out! All within and all about Shall a fresher life begin; Freer breathe the universe As it rolls its heavy curse On the dead and buried sin! It is done! In the circuit of the sun Shall the sound thereof go forth. It shall bid the sad rejoice, It shall give the dumb a voice, It shall belt with joy the earth! Ring and swing, Bells of joy! On morning's wing Send the song of praise abroad! With a sound of broken chains Tell the nations that He reigns, Who alone is Lord and God! John Greenleaf Whittier. CHAPTER VIIITHE "GRAND ARMY'S" SECOND CAMPAIGN
MOSBY AT HAMILTON [March 16, 1863] Down Loudon Lanes, with swinging reins And clash of spur and sabre, And bugling of the battle horn, Six score and eight we rode at morn, Six score and eight of Southern born, All tried in love and labor. Full in the sun at Hamilton, We met the South's invaders; Who, over fifteen hundred strong, 'Mid blazing homes had marched along All night, with Northern shout and song To crush the rebel raiders. Down Loudon Lanes, with streaming manes, We spurred in wild March weather; And all along our war-scarred way The graves of Southern heroes lay, Our guide-posts to revenge that day, As we rode grim together. Old tales still tell some miracle Of saints in holy writing— But who shall say while hundreds fled Before the few that Mosby led, Unless the noblest of our dead Charged with us then when fighting? While Yankee cheers still stunned our ears, Of troops at Harper's Ferry, While Sheridan led on his Huns, And Richmond rocked to roaring guns, We felt the South still had some sons She would not scorn to bury. Madison Cawein.
JOHN PELHAM [March 17, 1863] Just as the spring came laughing through the strife, With all its gorgeous cheer, In the bright April of historic life, Fell the great cannoneer. The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath His bleeding country weeps; Hushed in the alabaster arms of Death, Our young Marcellus sleeps. Nobler and grander than the Child of Rome Curbing his chariot steeds, The knightly scion of a Southern home Dazzled the land with deeds. Gentlest and bravest in the battle-brunt, The champion of the truth, He bore his banner to the very front Of our immortal youth. A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow, The fiery pang of shells,— And there's a wail of immemorial woe In Alabama dells. The pennon drops that led the sacred band Along the crimson field; The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand Over the spotless shield. We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face; While round the lips and eyes, Couched in their marble slumber, flashed the grace Of a divine surprise. O mother of a blessed soul on high! Thy tears may soon be shed; Think of thy boy with princes of the sky Among the Southern dead! How must he smile on this dull world beneath, Fevered with swift renown,— He, with the martyr's amaranthine wreath Twining the victor's crown! James Ryder Randall.
HOOKER'S ACROSS [May 1, 1863] Lee at once prepared to fight, and a little past midnight on May 1, 1863, he put Stonewall Jackson's column in motion toward Chancellorsville. Jackson had long since proved himself one of the South's most able generals, and his command had been increased to thirty-three thousand men, every one of whom fairly idolized him. Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails, Stir up the camp-fire bright; No growling if the canteen fails, We'll make a roaring night. Here Shenandoah brawls along, There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, To swell the Brigade's rousing song Of "Stonewall Jackson's way." We see him now—the queer slouched hat Cocked o'er his eye askew; The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat, So calm, so blunt, so true. The "Blue-Light Elder" knows 'em well; Says he, "That's Banks—he's fond of shell; Lord save his soul! we'll give him—" well! That's "Stonewall Jackson's way." Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off! Old Massa's goin' to pray. Strangle the fool that dares to scoff! Attention! it's his way. Appealing from his native sod, In forma pauperis to God: "Lay bare Thine arm; stretch forth Thy rod! Amen!" That's "Stonewall's way." He's in the saddle now. Fall in! Steady! the whole brigade! Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win His way out, ball and blade! What matter if our shoes are worn? What matter if our feet are torn? "Quick step! we're with him before morn!" That's "Stonewall Jackson's way." The sun's bright lances rout the mists Of morning, and, by George! Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists, Hemmed in an ugly gorge. Pope and his Dutchmen, whipped before; "Bay'nets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar; "Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score!" In "Stonewall Jackson's way." Ah! Maiden, wait and watch and yearn For news of Stonewall's band! Ah! Widow, read, with eyes that burn, That ring upon thy hand. Ah! Wife, sew on, pray on, hope on; Thy life shall not be all forlorn; The foe had better ne'er been born That gets in "Stonewall's way." John Williamson Palmer.
KEENAN'S CHARGE [May 2, 1863] The sun had set; The leaves with dew were wet— Down fell a bloody dusk On the woods, that second of May, Where "Stonewall's" corps, like a beast of prey, Tore through with angry tusk. "They've trapped us, boys!" Rose from our flank a voice. With rush of steel and smoke On came the rebels straight, Eager as love and wild as hate; And our line reeled and broke; Broke and fled. Not one stayed,—but the dead! With curses, shrieks, and cries, Horses and wagons and men Tumbled back through the shuddering glen, And above us the fading skies. There's one hope, still,— Those batteries parked on the hill! "Battery, wheel!" ('mid the roar), "Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fire Retiring. Trot!" In the panic dire A bugle rings "Trot!"—and no more. The horses plunged, The cannon lurched and lunged, To join the hopeless rout. But suddenly rose a form Calmly in front of the human storm, With a stern commanding shout: "Align those guns!" (We knew it was Pleasanton's.) The cannoneers bent to obey, And worked with a will at his word, And the black guns moved as if they had heard. But, ah, the dread delay! "To wait is crime; O God, for ten minutes' time!" The general looked around. There Keenan sat, like a stone, With his three hundred horse alone, Less shaken than the ground. "Major, your men?" "Are soldiers, general." "Then, Charge, major! Do your best; Hold the enemy back at all cost, Till my guns are placed;—else the army is lost. You die to save the rest!" By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, Brave Keenan looked into Pleasanton's eyes For an instant—clear, and cool, and still; Then, with a smile, he said: "I will." "Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank. Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, Rose joyously, with a willing breath,— Rose like a greeting hail to death. Then forward they sprang, and spurred, and clashed; Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed; Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow, In their faded coats of the blue and yellow; And above in the air, with an instinct true, Like a bird of war their pennon flew. With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds, And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, For fear their proud attempt shall fail, Three hundred Pennsylvanians close On twice ten thousand gallant foes. Line after line the troopers came To the edge of the wood that was ringed with flame; Rode in, and sabred, and shot,—and fell: Nor came one back his wounds to tell. And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall, While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung 'Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung. Line after line, aye, whole platoons, Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons, By the maddened horses were onward borne And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn; As Keenan fought with his men, side by side. So they rode, till there were no more to ride. But over them, lying there shattered and mute, What deep echo rolls? 'Tis a death-salute From the cannon in place; for, heroes, you braved Your fate not in vain; the army was saved! Over them now,—year following year,— Over their graves the pine-cones fall, And the whippoorwill chants his spectre-call; But they stir not again; they raise no cheer: They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease, Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace. The rush of their charge is resounding still, That saved the army at Chancellorsville. George Parsons Lathrop.
"THE BRIGADE MUST NOT KNOW, SIR!" [May 2, 1863] "Who've ye got there?"—"Only a dying brother, Hurt in the front just now." "Good boy! he'll do. Somebody tell his mother Where he was killed, and how." "Whom have you there?"—"A crippled courier, Major, Shot by mistake, we hear. He was with Stonewall." "Cruel work they've made here; Quick with him to the rear!" "Well, who comes next?"—"Doctor, speak low, speak low, sir; Don't let the men find out! It's Stonewall!"—"God!"—"The brigade must not know, sir, While there's a foe about!" Whom have we here—shrouded in martial manner, Crowned with a martyr's charm? A grand dead hero, in a living banner, Born of his heart and arm: The heart whereon his cause hung—see how clingeth That banner to his bier! The arm wherewith his cause struck—hark! how ringeth His trumpet in their rear! What have we left? His glorious inspiration, His prayers in council met. Living, he laid the first stones of a nation; And dead, he builds it yet.
STONEWALL JACKSON [May 10, 1863] Not midst the lightning of the stormy fight, Nor in the rush upon the vandal foe, Did kingly Death, with his resistless might, Lay the great leader low. His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke In the full sunshine of a peaceful town; When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak That propped our cause went down. Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, Recalling all his grand, heroic deeds, Freedom herself is writhing in the wound, And all the country bleeds. He entered not the nation's Promised Land At the red belching of the cannon's mouth, But broke the House of Bondage with his hand— The Moses of the South! O gracious God! not gainless is the loss: A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest frown; And while his country staggers 'neath the Cross, He rises with the Crown! Henry Lynden Flash. THE DYING WORDS OF STONEWALL JACKSON "Order A. P. Hill to prepare for battle." "Tell Major Hawks to advance the commissary train." "Let us cross the river and rest in the shade." The stars of Night contain the glittering Day And rain his glory down with sweeter grace Upon the dark World's grand, enchanted face— All loth to turn away. And so the Day, about to yield his breath, Utters the stars unto the listening Night, To stand for burning fare-thee-wells of light Said on the verge of death. O hero-life that lit us like the sun! O hero-words that glittered like the stars And stood and shone above the gloomy wars When the hero-life was done! The phantoms of a battle came to dwell I' the fitful vision of his dying eyes— Yet even in battle-dreams, he sends supplies To those he loved so well. His army stands in battle-line arrayed: His couriers fly: all's done: now God decide! —And not till then saw he the Other Side Or would accept the shade. Thou Land whose sun is gone, thy stars remain! Still shine the words that miniature his deeds. O thrice-beloved, where'er thy great heart bleeds, Solace hast thou for pain! Sidney Lanier. UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES What are the thoughts that are stirring his breast? What is the mystical vision he sees? —"Let us pass over the river, and rest Under the shade of the trees." Has he grown sick of his toils and his tasks? Sighs the worn spirit for respite or ease? Is it a moment's cool halt that he asks Under the shade of the trees? Is it the gurgle of waters whose flow Ofttime has come to him, borne on the breeze, Memory listens to, lapsing so low, Under the shade of the trees? Nay—though the rasp of the flesh was so sore, Faith, that had yearnings far keener than these, Saw the soft sheen of the Thitherward Shore Under the shade of the trees;— Caught the high psalms of ecstatic delight— Heard the harps harping, like soundings of seas— Under the shade of the trees. Oh, was it strange he should pine for release, Touched to the soul with such transports as these,— He who so needed the balsam of peace, Under the shade of the trees? Yea, it was noblest for him—it was best (Questioning naught of our Father's decrees), There to pass over the river and rest Under the shade of the trees! Margaret Junkin Preston.
THE BALLAD OF ISHMAEL DAY [June, 1863] One summer morning a daring band Of Rebels rode into Maryland, Over the prosperous, peaceful farms, Sending terror and strange alarms, The clatter of hoofs and the clang of arms. Fresh from the South, where the hungry pine They ate like Pharaoh's starving kine; They swept the land like devouring surge, And left their path, to the farthest verge, Bare as the track of the locust scourge. "The Rebels are coming!" far and near Rang the tidings of dread and fear; Some paled and cowered and sought to hide; Some stood erect in their fearless pride; And women shuddered and children cried. But others—vipers in human form Stinging the bosom that kept them warm— Welcomed with triumph the thievish band, Hurried to offer the friendly hand, As the Rebels rode into Maryland. Made them merry with food and wine, Clad them in garments, rich and fine, For rags and hunger to make amends, Flattered them, praised them with selfish ends; "Leave us scathless, for we are friends." Could traitors trust a traitor? No! Little they favor friend or foe, But gathered the cattle the farms across, Flinging back, with a scornful toss, "If ye are friends ye can bear the loss!" Flushed with triumph, and wine, and prey, They neared the dwelling of Ishmael Day, A sturdy veteran, gray and old, With heart of a patriot, firm and bold, Strong and steadfast—unbribed, unsold. And Ishmael Day, his brave head bare, His white locks tossed by the morning air, Fearless of danger, or death, or scars, Went out to raise by the farm-yard bars The dear old flag of the stripes and stars. Proudly, steadily, up it flew, Gorgeous with crimson, white and blue, His withered hand as he shook it freer, May have trembled, but not with fear, While shouting the rebels drew more near. "Halt!" They had seen the hated sign Floating free from old Ishmael's line— "Lower that rag!" was their wrathful cry; "Never!" rung Ishmael Day's reply, "Fire if it please you—I can but die." One, with a loud, defiant laugh, Left his comrades and neared the staff. "Down!" came the fearless patriot's cry, "Dare to lower that flag and die! One must bleed for it—you or I." But caring not for the stern command, He drew the halliards with daring hand; Ping! went the rifle ball—down he came, Under the flag he had tried to shame— Old Ishmael Day took careful aim! Seventy winters and three had shed Their snowy glories on Ishmael's head. Though cheeks may wither and locks grow gray, His fame shall be fresh and young alway— Honor be to old Ishmael Day!
RIDING WITH KILPATRICK [June 17, 1863] Dawn peered through the pines as we dashed at the ford; Afar the grim guns of the infantry roared; There were miles yet of dangerous pathway to pass, And Mosby might menace, and Stuart might mass; But we mocked every doubt, laughing danger to scorn, As we quaffed with a shout from the wine of the morn. Those who rode with Kilpatrick to valor were born! How we chafed at delay! How we itched to be on! How we yearned for the fray where the battle-reek shone! It was forward, not halt, stirred the fire in our veins, When our horses' feet beat to the click of the reins; It was charge, not retreat, we were wonted to hear; It was charge, not retreat, that was sweet to the ear; Those who rode with Kilpatrick had never felt fear! At last the word came, and troop tossed it to troop; Two squadrons deployed with a falcon-like swoop; While swiftly the others in echelons formed, For there, just ahead, was the line to be stormed. The trumpets rang out; there were guidons a-blow; The white summer sun set our sabres a-glow; Those who rode with Kilpatrick charged straight at the foe! We swept like a whirlwind; we closed; at the shock The sky seemed to reel and the earth seemed to rock; Steel clashed upon steel with a deafening sound, While a redder than rose-stain encrimsoned the ground; If we gave back a space from the fierce pit of hell, We were rallied again by a voice like a bell. Those who rode with Kilpatrick rode valiantly well! Rang sternly his orders from out of the wrack: Re-form there, New Yorkers! You, "Harris Light," back! Come on, men of Maine! We will conquer or fall! Now, forward, boys, forward! and follow me all! A Bayard in boldness, a Sidney in grace, A lion to lead and a stag-hound to chase— Those who rode with Kilpatrick looked Death in the face! Though brave were our foemen, they faltered and fled; Yet that was no marvel when such as he led! Long ago, long ago, was that desperate day! Long ago, long ago, strove the Blue and the Gray! Praise God that the red sun of battle is set! That our hand-clasp is loyal and loving—and yet, Those who rode with Kilpatrick can never forget! Clinton Scollard.
GETTYSBURG [July 3, 1863] Wave, wave your glorious battle-flags, brave soldiers of the North, And from the field your arms have won to-day go proudly forth! For none, O comrades dear and leal,—from whom no ills could part, Through the long years of hopes and fears, the nation's constant heart,— Men who have driven so oft the foe, so oft have striven in vain, Yet ever in the perilous hour have crossed his path again,— At last we have our hearts' desire, from them we met have wrung A victory that round the world shall long be told and sung! It was the memory of the past that bore us through the fray, That gave the grand old Army strength to conquer on this day! O now forget how dark and red Virginia's rivers flow, The Rappahannock's tangled wilds, the glory and the woe; The fever-hung encampments, where our dying knew full sore How sweet the north-wind to the cheek it soon shall cool no more; The fields we fought, and gained, and lost; the lowland sun and rain That wasted us, that bleached the bones of our unburied slain! There was no lack of foes to meet, of deaths to die no lack, And all the hawks of heaven learned to follow on our track; But henceforth, hovering southward, their flight shall mark afar The paths of yon retreating hosts that shun the northern star. At night, before the closing fray, when all the front was still, We lay in bivouac along the cannon-crested hill. Ours was the dauntless Second Corps; and many a soldier knew How sped the fight, and sternly thought of what was yet to do. Guarding the centre there, we lay, and talked with bated breath Of Buford's stand beyond the town, of gallant Reynold's death, Of cruel retreats through pent-up streets by murderous volleys swept,— How well the Stone, the Iron, Brigades their bloody outposts kept: 'Twas for the Union, for the Flag, they perished, heroes all, And we swore to conquer in the end, or even like them to fall. And passed from mouth to mouth the tale of that grim day just done, The fight by Round Top's craggy spur,—of all the deadliest one; It saved the left: but on the right they pressed us back too well, And like a field in Spring the ground was ploughed with shot and shell. There was the ancient graveyard, its hummocks crushed and red, And there, between them, side by side, the wounded and the dead: The mangled corpses fallen above,—the peaceful dead below, Laid in their graves, to slumber here, a score of years ago; It seemed their waking, wandering shades were asking of our slain, What brought such hideous tumult now where they so still had lain! Bright rose the sun of Gettysburg that morrow morning-tide, And call of trump and roll of drum from height to height replied. Hark! from the east already goes up the rattling din; The Twelfth Corps, winning back their ground, right well the day begin! They whirl fierce Ewell from their front! Now we of the Second pray, As right and left the brunt have borne, the centre might to-day. But all was still from hill to hill for many a breathless hour, While for the coming battle-shock Lee gathered in his power; And along the lines, where'er they came, went up the ringing cheer. 'Twas past the hour of nooning; the Summer skies were blue; Behind the covering timber the foe was hid from view; So fair and sweet with waving wheat the pleasant valley lay, It brought to mind our Northern homes and meadows far away; When the whole western ridge at once was fringed with fire and smoke; Against our lines from sevenscore guns the dreadful tempest broke! Then loud our batteries answer, and far along the crest, And to and fro the roaring bolts are driven east and west; Heavy and dark around us glooms the stifling sulphur-cloud, And the cries of mangled men and horse go up beneath its shroud. The guns are still: the end is nigh: we grasp our arms anew; O now let every heart be stanch and every aim be true! For look! from yonder wood that skirts the valley's further marge, The flower of all the Southern host move to the final charge. By Heaven! it is a fearful sight to see their double rank Come with a hundred battle-flags,—a mile from flank to flank! Tramping the grain to earth, they come, ten thousand men abreast; Their standards wave,—their hearts are brave,—they hasten not, nor rest, But close the gaps our cannon make, and onward press, and nigher, And, yelling at our very front, again pour in their fire! Now burst our sheeted lightnings forth, now all our wrath has vent! They die, they wither; through and through their wavering lines are rent. But these are gallant, desperate men, of our own race and land. Who charge anew, and welcome death, and fight us hand to hand: Vain, vain! give way, as well ye may—the crimson die is cast! Their bravest leaders bite the dust, their strength is failing fast; They yield, they turn, they fly the field: we smite them as they run; Their arms, their colors are our spoil; the furious fight is done! Across the plain we follow far and backward push the fray; Cheer! cheer! the grand old Army at last has won the day! Hurrah! the day has won the cause! No gray-clad host henceforth Shall come with fire and sword to tread the highways of the North! 'Twas such a flood as when ye see along the Atlantic shore, The great Spring-tide roll grandly in with swelling surge and roar: It seems no wall can stay its leap or balk its wild desire Beyond the bound that Heaven hath fixed to higher mount, and higher; But now, when whitest lifts its crest, most loud its billows call, Touched by the Power that led them on, they fall, and fall, and fall. Even thus, unstayed upon his course, to Gettysburg the foe His legions led, and fought, and fled, and might no further go. Full many a dark-eyed Southern girl shall weep her lover dead; But with a price the fight was ours,—we too have tears to shed! The bells that peal our triumph forth anon shall toll the brave, Above whose heads the cross must stand, the hillside grasses wave! Alas! alas! the trampled grass shall thrive another year, The blossoms on the apple-boughs with each new Spring appear, But when our patriot-soldiers fall, Earth gives them up to God; Though their souls rise in clearer skies, their forms are as the sod; Only their names and deeds are ours,—but, for a century yet, The dead who fell at Gettysburg the land shall not forget. God send us peace! and where for aye the loved and lost recline Let fall, O South, your leaves of palm,—O North, your sprigs of pine! But when, with every ripened year, we keep the harvest-home, And to the dear Thanksgiving-feast our sons and daughters come,— When children's children throng the board in the old homestead spread, And the bent soldier of these wars is seated at the head, Long, long the lads shall listen to hear the gray-beard tell Of those who fought at Gettysburg and stood their ground so well: "'Twas for the Union and the Flag," the veteran shall say, "Our grand old Army held the ridge, and won that glorious day!" Edmund Clarence Stedman. THE HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG [July 3, 1863] A cloud possessed the hollow field, The gathering battle's smoky shield: Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed, And through the cloud some horsemen dashed, And from the heights the thunder pealed. Then, at the brief command of Lee, Moved out that matchless infantry, With Pickett leading grandly down, To rush against the roaring crown Of those dread heights of destiny. Far heard above the angry guns, A cry of tumult runs: The voice that rang through Shiloh's woods, And Chickamauga's solitudes: The fierce South cheering on her sons! Ah, how the withering tempest blew Against the front of Pettigrew! A Khamsin wind that scorched and singed, Like that infernal flame that fringed The British squares at Waterloo! A thousand fell where Kemper led; A thousand died where Garnett bled; In blinding flame and strangling smoke, The remnant through the batteries broke, And crossed the works with Armistead. "Once more in Glory's van with me!" Virginia cried to Tennessee: "We two together, come what may, Shall stand upon those works to-day!" The reddest day in history. Brave Tennessee! In reckless way Virginia heard her comrade say: "Close round this rent and riddled rag!" What time she set her battle flag Amid the guns of Doubleday. But who shall break the guards that wait Before the awful face of Fate? The tattered standards of the South Were shrivelled at the cannon's mouth, And all her hopes were desolate. In vain the Tennesseean set His breast against the bayonet; In vain Virginia charged and raged, A tigress in her wrath uncaged, Till all the hill was red and wet! Above the bayonets, mixed and crossed, Men saw a gray, gigantic ghost Receding through the battle-cloud, And heard across the tempest loud The death-cry of a nation lost! The brave went down! Without disgrace They leaped to Ruin's red embrace; They only heard Fame's thunders wake, And saw the dazzling sunburst break In smiles on Glory's bloody face! They fell, who lifted up a hand And bade the sun in heaven to stand; They smote and fell, who set the bars Against the progress of the stars, And stayed the march of Motherland. They stood, who saw the future come On through the fight's delirium; They smote and stood, who held the hope Of nations on that slippery slope, Amid the cheers of Christendom! God lives! He forged the iron will, That clutched and held that trembling hill! God lives and reigns! He built and lent The heights for Freedom's battlement, Where floats her flag in triumph still! Fold up the banners! Smelt the guns! Love rules. Her gentler purpose runs. A mighty mother turns in tears, The pages of her battle years, Lamenting all her fallen sons! Will Henry Thompson. GETTYSBURG [July 1, 2, 3, 1863] Lee commenced his retreat next morning, and was able to gain the Potomac, with his whole train, virtually without molestation. But the North was too rejoiced by the withdrawal of the invaders to mourn at their escape. THE BATTLE-FIELD GETTYSBURG Those were the conquered, still too proud to yield— These were the victors, yet too poor for shrouds! Here scarlet Slaughter slew her countless crowds Heaped high in ranks where'er the hot guns pealed. The brooks that wandered through the battlefield Flowed slowly on in ever-reddening streams; Here where the rank wheat waves and golden gleams, The dreadful squadrons, thundering, charged and reeled. Within the blossoming clover many a bone While gentlest hearts that only love had known, Have ached with anguish at the awful sight; And War's gaunt Vultures that were lean, have grown Gorged in the darkness in a single night! Lloyd Mifflin.
JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG Have you heard the story that gossips tell Of Burns of Gettysburg? No? Ah, well: Brief is the glory that hero earns, Briefer the story of poor John Burns: He was the fellow who won renown,— The only man who didn't back down When the rebels rode through his native town; But held his own in the fight next day, When all his townsfolk ran away. That was in July, sixty-three,— The very day that General Lee, Flower of Southern chivalry, Baffled and beaten, backward reeled From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. I might tell how, but the day before, John Burns stood at his cottage door, Looking down the village street, Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, He heard the low of his gathered kine, And felt their breath with incense sweet; Or I might say, when the sunset burned The old farm gable, he thought it turned The milk that fell like a babbling flood Into the milk-pail, red as blood! Or how he fancied the hum of bees Were bullets buzzing among the trees. But all such fanciful thoughts as these Were strange to a practical man like Burns, Who minded only his own concerns, Troubled no more by fancies fine Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine, Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact, Slow to argue, but quick to act. That was the reason, as some folks say, He fought so well on that terrible day. And it was terrible. On the right Raged for hours the heady fight, Thundered the battery's double bass,— Difficult music for men to face; While on the left—where now the graves Undulate like the living waves That all that day unceasing swept Up to the pits the rebels kept— Round-shot ploughed the upland glades, Sown with bullets, reaped with blades; Shattered fences here and there Tossed their splinters in the air; The very trees were stripped and bare; The barns that once held yellow grain Were heaped with harvests of the slain; The cattle bellowed on the plain, The turkeys screamed with might and main, The brooding barn-fowl left their rest With strange shells bursting in each nest. Just where the tide of battle turns, Erect and lonely, stood old John Burns. How do you think the man was dressed? He wore an ancient, long buff vest, Yellow as saffron,—but his best; And, buttoned over his manly breast, Was a bright blue coat with a rolling collar, And large gilt buttons,—size of a dollar,— With tails that the country-folk called "swaller." He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, White as the locks on which it sat. Never had such a sight been seen For forty years on the village green, Since old John Burns was a country beau, And went to the "quiltings" long ago. Close at his elbows all that day, Veterans of the Peninsula, Sunburnt and bearded, charged away; And striplings, downy of lip and chin,— Clerks that the Home-Guard mustered in,— Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore, Then at the rifle his right hand bore; And hailed him, from out their youthful lore, With scraps of a slangy repertoire: "How are you, White Hat?" "Put her through!" "Your head's level!" and "Bully for you!" Called him "Daddy,"—begged he'd disclose The name of his tailor who made his clothes, And what was the value he set on those; Stood there picking the rebels off,— With his long brown rifle, and bell-crowned hat, And the swallow-tails they were laughing at. 'Twas but a moment, for that respect Which clothes all courage their voices checked; And something the wildest could understand Spake in the old man's strong right hand, And his corded throat, and the lurking frown Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown; Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw, In the antique vestments and long white hair, The Past of the Nation in battle there; And some of the soldiers since declare That the gleam of his old white hat afar, Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, That day was their oriflamme of war. So raged the battle. You know the rest: How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed, Broke at the final charge and ran. At which John Burns—a practical man— Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, And then went back to his bees and cows. That is the story of old John Burns; This is the moral the reader learns: In fighting the battle, the question's whether You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather. Bret Harte.
KENTUCKY BELLE Summer of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone away— Gone to the county-town, sir, to sell our first load of hay— We lived in the log house yonder, poor as you've ever seen; RÖschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen. Conrad, he took the oxen, but he left Kentucky Belle. How much we thought of Kentuck, I couldn't begin to tell— Came from the Blue-Grass country; my father gave her to me When I rode North with Conrad, away from Tennessee. Conrad lived in Ohio—a German he is, you know— The house stood in broad corn-fields, stretching on, row after row. The old folks made me welcome; they were kind as kind could be; But I kept longing, longing, for the hills of Tennessee. Oh! for a sight of water, the shadowed slope of a hill! Clouds that hang on the summit, a wind that never is still! But the level land went stretching away to meet the sky— Never a rise, from north to south, to rest the weary eye! From east to west no river to shine out under the moon, Nothing to make a shadow in the yellow afternoon: Only the breathless sunshine, as I looked out, all forlorn; Only the "rustle, rustle," as I walked among the corn. When I fell sick with pining, we didn't wait any more, But moved away from the corn-lands, out to this river shore— The Tuscarawas it's called, sir—off there's a hill, you see— And now I've grown to like it next best to the Tennessee. I was at work that morning. Some one came riding like mad Over the bridge and up the road—Farmer Rouf's little lad. "Morgan's men are coming, Frau; they're galloping on this way. "I'm sent to warn the neighbors. He isn't a mile behind; He sweeps up all the horses—every horse that he can find. Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men, With bowie-knives and pistols, are galloping up the glen!" The lad rode down the valley, and I stood still at the door; The baby laughed and prattled, playing with spools on the floor; Kentuck was out in the pasture; Conrad, my man, was gone. Near, nearer, Morgan's men were galloping, galloping on! Sudden I picked up baby, and ran to the pasture-bar. "Kentuck!" I called—"Kentucky!" She knew me ever so far! I led her down the gully that turns off there to the right, And tied her to the bushes; her head was just out of sight. As I ran back to the log house, at once there came a sound— The ring of hoofs, galloping hoofs, trembling over the ground— Coming into the turnpike, out from the White-Woman Glen— Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men. As near they drew and nearer, my heart beat fast in alarm; But still I stood in the doorway with baby on my arm. They came; they passed; with spur and whip in haste they sped along— Morgan, Morgan the raider, and his band, six hundred strong. Weary they looked and jaded, riding through night and through day; Pushing on East to the river, many long miles away, To the border-strip where Virginia runs up into the West, And fording the Upper Ohio before they could stop to rest. On like the wind they hurried, and Morgan rode in advance; Bright were his eyes like live coals, as he gave me a sideways glance; I was just breathing freely, after my choking pain, When the last one of the troopers suddenly drew his rein. Frightened I was to death, sir; I scarce dared look in his face, As he asked for a drink of water, and glanced around the place. I gave him a cup and he smiled—'twas only a boy, you see; Faint and worn, with dim blue eyes; and he'd sailed on the Tennessee. Only sixteen he was, sir—a fond mother's only son— Off and away with Morgan before his life has begun! The damp drops stood on his temples—drawn was the boyish mouth; And I thought me of the mother waiting down in the South. Oh! pluck was he to the backbone, and clear grit through and through; Boasted and bragged like a trooper, but the big words wouldn't do;— The boy was dying, sir, dying, as plain as plain could be, Worn out by his ride with Morgan up from the Tennessee. But when I told the laddie that I too was from the South, Water came in his dim eyes, and quivers around his mouth. "Do you know the Blue-Grass country?" he wistful began to say; Then swayed like a willow-sapling, and fainted dead away. I had him into the log house, and worked and brought him to; I fed him and I coaxed him, as I thought his mother'd do; Morgan's men were miles away, galloping, galloping on. "Oh, I must go," he muttered; "I must be up and away! Morgan—Morgan is waiting for me! Oh, what will Morgan say?" But I heard a sound of tramping and kept him back from the door— The ringing sound of horses' hoofs that I had heard before. And on, on, came the soldiers—the Michigan cavalry— And fast they rode, and black they looked, galloping rapidly,— They had followed hard on Morgan's track; they had followed day and night; But of Morgan and Morgan's raiders they had never caught a sight. And rich Ohio sat startled through all those summer days; For strange, wild men were galloping over her broad highways— Now here, now there, now seen, now gone, now north, now east, now west, Through river-valleys and corn-land farms, sweeping away her best. A bold ride and a long ride! But they were taken at last. They almost reached the river by galloping hard and fast; But the boys in blue were upon them ere ever they gained the ford, And Morgan, Morgan the raider, laid down his terrible sword. Well, I kept the boy till evening—kept him against his will— But he was too weak to follow, and sat there pale and still. When it was cool and dusky—you'll wonder to hear me tell— But I stole down to that gully, and brought up Kentucky Belle. I kissed the star on her forehead—my pretty gentle lass— But I knew that she'd be happy back in the old Blue Grass. A suit of clothes of Conrad's, with all the money I had, And Kentuck, pretty Kentuck, I gave to the worn-out lad. I guided him to the southward as well as I knew how; The boy rode off with many thanks, and many a backward bow; And then the glow it faded, and my heart began to swell, As down the glen away she went, my lost Kentucky Belle! When Conrad came in the evening, the moon was shining high; Baby and I were both crying—I couldn't tell him why— But a battered suit of rebel gray was hanging on the wall, And a thin old horse, with drooping head, stood in Kentucky's stall. Well, he was kind, and never once said a hard word to me; He knew I couldn't help it—'twas all for the Tennessee. But, after the war was over, just think what came to pass— A letter, sir; and the two were safe back in the old Blue Grass. The lad had got across the border, riding Kentucky Belle; And Kentuck she was thriving, and fat, and hearty, and well; He cared for her, and kept her, nor touched her with whip or spur. Ah! we've had many horses since, but never a horse like her! Constance Fenimore Woolson.
THE DRAFT RIOT IN THE UNIVERSITY TOWER: NEW YORK, July, 1863 Is it the wind, the many-tongued, the weird, That cries in sharp distress about the eaves? With voice of peoples myriad like the leaves? Is it the wind? Fly to the casement, quick, And when the roar comes thick, Fling wide the sash, Await the crash! Nothing. Some various solitary cries,— Some sauntering woman's short hard laugh, Or honester, a dog's bark,—these arise From lamplit street up to this free flagstaff: Nothing remains of that low threatening sound; The wind raves not the eaves around. Clasp casement to,— You heard not true. Hark there again! a roar that holds a shriek! But not without—no, from below it comes: What pulses up from solid earth to wreck A vengeful word on towers and lofty domes? What angry booming doth the trembling ear, Glued to the stone wall, hear— So deep, no air Its weight can bear? Grieve! 'tis the voice of ignorance and vice,— The rage of slaves who fancy they are free: Men who would keep men slaves at any price, Too blind their own black manacles to see. Grieve! 'tis that grisly spectre with a torch, Riot—that bloodies every porch, Hurls justice down And burns the town. Charles de Kay.
LINCOLN AT GETTYSBURG From the "Gettysburg Ode" [November 19, 1863] After the eyes that looked, the lips that spake Here, from the shadows of impending death, Those words of solemn breath, What voice may fitly break The silence, doubly hallowed, left by him? We can but bow the head, with eyes grown dim, And, as a Nation's litany, repeat The phrase his martyrdom hath made complete, Noble as then, but now more sadly sweet; "Let us, the Living, rather dedicate Ourselves to the unfinished work, which they Thus far advanced so nobly on its way, And save the perilled State! Let us, upon this field where they, the brave, Their last full measure of devotion gave, Highly resolve they have not died in vain!— That, under God, the Nation's later birth Of Freedom, and the people's gain Of their own Sovereignty, shall never wane And perish from the circle of the earth!" From such a perfect text, shall Song aspire To light her faded fire, And into wandering music turn Its virtue, simple, sorrowful, and stern? His voice all elegies anticipated; For, whatsoe'er the strain, We hear that one refrain: "We consecrate ourselves to them, the Consecrated!" Bayard Taylor. CHAPTER IXWITH GRANT ON THE MISSISSIPPI
RUNNING THE BATTERIES (As observed from the anchorage above Vicksburg, April, 1863) A moonless night—a friendly one; A haze dimmed the shadowy shore As the first lampless boat slid silent on; Hist! and we spake no more; We but pointed, and stilly, to what we saw. We felt the dew, and seemed to feel The secret like a burden laid. The first boat melts; and a second keel Is blent with the foliaged shade— Their midnight rounds have the rebel officers made? Unspied as yet. A third—a fourth— Gunboat and transport in Indian file Upon the war-path, smooth from the North; But the watch may they hope to beguile? The manned river-batteries stretch far mile on mile. A flame leaps out; they are seen; Another and another gun roars; We tell the course of the boats through the screen By each further fort that pours, And we guess how they jump from their beds on those shrouded shores. Converging fires. We speak, though low: "That blastful furnace can they thread?" "Why, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego Came out all right, we read; The Lord, be sure, he helps his people, Ned." How we strain our gaze. On bluffs they shun A golden growing flame appears— Confirms to a silvery steadfast one: "The town is afire!" crows Hugh; "three cheers!" Lot stops his mouth: "Nay, lad, better three tears." A purposed light; it shows our fleet; Yet a little late in its searching ray, So far and strong that in phantom cheat Lank on the deck our shadows lay; The shining flag-ship stings their guns to furious play. How dread to mark her near the glare And glade of death the beacon throws Athwart the racing waters there; One by one each plainer grows, Then speeds a blazoned target to our gladdened foes. The impartial cresset lights as well The fixed forts to the boats that run; And, plunged from the ports, their answers swell Back to each fortress dun; Ponderous words speaks every monster gun. Fearless they flash through gates of flame, The salamanders hard to hit, Though vivid shows each bulky frame; And never the batteries intermit, Nor the boat's huge guns; they fire and flit. Anon a lull. The beacon dies. "Are they out of that strait accurst?" But other flames now dawning rise, Not mellowly brilliant like the first, But rolled in smoke, whose whitish volumes burst. A baleful brand, a hurrying torch Whereby anew the boats are seen— A burning transport all alurch! Breathless we gaze; yet still we glean Glimpses of beauty as we eager lean. The effulgence takes an amber glow Which bathes the hillside villas far; Affrighted ladies mark the show Painting the pale magnolia— The fair, false, Circe light of cruel War. The barge drifts doomed, a plague-struck one, Shoreward in yawls the sailors fly. But the gauntlet now is nearly run, The spleenful forts by fits reply, And the burning boat dies down in morning's sky. All out of range. Adieu, Messieurs! Jeers, as it speeds, our parting gun. So burst we through their barriers And menaces every one; So Porter proves himself a brave man's son. Herman Melville.
BEFORE VICKSBURG [May 18-July 4, 1863] While Sherman stood beneath the hottest fire, That from the lines of Vicksburg gleamed, And bomb-shells tumbled in their smoky gyre, And grape-shot hissed, and case-shot screamed; Back from the front there came, Weeping and sorely lame, The merest child, the youngest face Man ever saw in such a fearful place. Stifling his tears, he limped his chief to meet; But when he paused, and tottering stood, Around the circle of his little feet There spread a pool of bright, young blood. Shocked at his doleful case, Sherman cried, "Halt! front face! Who are you? Speak, my gallant boy!" "A drummer, sir:—Fifty-fifth Illinois." "Are you not hit?" "That's nothing. Only send Some cartridges: our men are out; And the foe press us." "But, my little friend—" "Don't mind me! Did you hear that shout? What if our men be driven? Oh, for the love of Heaven, Send to my Colonel, General dear!" "But you?" "Oh, I shall easily find the rear." "I'll see to that," cried Sherman; and a drop, Angels might envy, dimmed his eye, As the boy, toiling towards the hill's hard top, Turned round, and with his shrill child's cry Shouted, "Oh, don't forget! We'll win the battle yet! But let our soldiers have some more, More cartridges, sir,—calibre fifty-four!" George Henry Boker.
VICKSBURG For sixty days and upwards, A storm of shell and shot Rained round us in a flaming shower, But still we faltered not. "If the noble city perish," Our grand young leader said, "Let the only walls the foe shall scale Be ramparts of the dead!" For sixty days and upwards, The eye of heaven waxed dim; And e'en throughout God's holy morn, O'er Christian prayer and hymn, Arose a hissing tumult, As if the fiends in air Strove to engulf the voice of faith In the shrieks of their despair. There was wailing in the houses, There was trembling on the marts, While the tempest raged and thundered, 'Mid the silent thrill of hearts; But the Lord, our shield, was with us, And ere a month had sped, Our very women walked the streets With scarce one throb of dread. And the little children gambolled, Their faces purely raised, Just for a wondering moment, As the huge bombs whirled and blazed; Then turned with silvery laughter To the sports which children love, Thrice-mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought That the good God watched above. Yet the hailing bolts fell faster, From scores of flame-clad ships, And about us, denser, darker, Grew the conflict's wild eclipse, Till a solid cloud closed o'er us, Like a type of doom and ire, Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues Of forked and vengeful fire. But the unseen hands of angels Those death-shafts warned aside, And the dove of heavenly mercy Ruled o'er the battle tide: In the houses ceased the wailing, And through the war-scarred marts The people strode, with step of hope, To the music in their hearts. Paul Hamilton Hayne.
Yes, we'll rally round the flag, boys, we'll rally once again, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom, We will rally from the hill-side, we'll gather from the plain, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. Chorus—The Union forever, hurrah! boys, hurrah! Down with the traitor, up with the star, While we rally round the flag, boys, rally once again, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. We are springing to the call of our brothers gone before, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom, And we'll fill the vacant ranks with a million freemen more, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. We will welcome to our numbers the loyal, true, and brave, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom, And altho' they may be poor, not a man shall be a slave, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. So we're springing to the call from the East and from the West, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom, And we'll hurl the rebel crew from the land we love the best, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. George Frederick Root.
THE BLACK REGIMENT [May 27, 1863] Dark as the clouds of even, Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dead mass, and drifts Tempest and falling brand Over a ruined land,— So still and orderly, Arm to arm, knee to knee, Waiting the great event, Stands the black regiment. Down the long dusky line Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine; And the bright bayonet, Bristling and firmly set, Flashed with a purpose grand, Long ere the sharp command Of the fierce rolling drum Told them their time had come, Told them what work was sent For the black regiment. "Now," the flag-sergeant cried, "Though death and hell betide, If we are fit to be Free in this land; or bound Down, like the whining hound,— Bound with red stripes of pain In our old chains again!" Oh, what a shout there went From the black regiment! "Charge!" trump and drum awoke; Onward the bondmen broke; Bayonet and sabre-stroke Vainly opposed their rush. Through the wild battle's crush, With but one thought aflush, Driving their lords like chaff, In the guns' mouths they laugh; Or at the slippery brands, Leaping with open hands, Down they tear man and horse, Down in their awful course; Trampling with bloody heel Over the crashing steel, All their eyes forward bent, Rushed the black regiment. "Freedom!" their battle-cry,— "Freedom! or leave to die!" Ah! and they meant the word, Not as with us 'tis heard, Not a mere party shout: They gave their spirits out; Trusted the end to God, And on the gory sod Rolled in triumphant blood. Glad to strike one free blow, Whether for weal or woe; Glad to breathe one free breath, Though on the lips of death; Praying,—alas! in vain! That they might fall again, So they could once more see That burst to liberty! This was what "freedom" lent To the black regiment. Hundreds on hundreds fell; But they are resting well; Scourges, and shackles strong Never shall do them wrong. Oh, to the living few, Soldiers, be just and true! Hail them as comrades tried; Fight with them side by side; Never, in field or tent, Scorn the black regiment! George Henry Boker.
THE BALLAD OF CHICKAMAUGA [September 19, 20, 1863] THOMAS AT CHICKAMAUGA [September 19, 20, 1863] It was that fierce contested field when Chickamauga lay Beneath the wild tornado that swept her pride away; Her dimpling dales and circling hills dyed crimson with the flood That had its sources in the springs that throb with human blood. "Go say to General Hooker to reinforce his right!" Said Thomas to his aide-de-camp, when wildly went the fight; In front the battle thundered, it roared both right and left, But like a rock "Pap" Thomas stood upon the crested cleft. "Where will I find you, General, when I return?" The aide Leaned on his bridle-rein to wait the answer Thomas made; The old chief like a lion turned, his pale lips set and sere, And shook his mane, and stamped his foot, and fiercely answered, "Here!" The floodtide of fraternal strife rolled upward to his feet, And like the breakers on the shore the thunderous clamors beat; The sad earth rocked and reeled with woe, the woodland shrieked in pain, And hill and vale were groaning with the burden of the slain. Who does not mind that sturdy form, that steady heart and hand, That calm repose and gallant mien, that courage high and grand?— O God, who givest nations men to meet their lofty needs, Vouchsafe another Thomas when our country prostrate bleeds! They fought with all the fortitude of earnest men and true— The men who wore the rebel gray, the men who wore the blue; And those, they fought most valiantly for petty state and clan, And these, for truer Union and the brotherhood of man. They come, those hurling legions, with banners crimson-splashed, Against our stubborn columns their rushing ranks are dashed, Go scurrying from their forest haunts to plunge in wilder fear. Beyond, our lines are broken; and now in frenzied rout The flower of the Cumberland has swiftly faced about; And horse and foot and color-guard are reeling, rear and van, And in the awful panic man forgets that he is man. Now Bragg, with pride exultant above our broken wings, The might of all his army against "Pap" Thomas brings; They're massing to the right of him, they're massing to the left, Ah, God be with our hero, who holds the crested cleft! Blow, blow, ye echoing bugles! give answer, screaming shell! Go, belch your murderous fury, ye batteries of hell! Ring out, O impious musket! spin on, O shattering shot,— Our smoke-encircled hero, he hears but heeds ye not! Now steady, men! now steady! make one more valiant stand, For gallant Steedman's coming, his forces well in hand! Close up your shattered columns, take steady aim and true, The chief who loves you as his life will live or die with you! By solid columns, on they come; by columns they are hurled, As down the eddying rapids the storm-swept booms are whirled; And when the ammunition fails—O moment drear and dread— The heroes load their blackened guns from rounds of soldiers dead. God never set His signet on the hearts of braver men, Or fixed the goal of victory on higher heights than then; With bayonets and muskets clubbed, they close the rush and roar; Their stepping-stones to glory are their comrades gone before. O vanished majesty of days not all forgotten yet, We consecrate unto thy praise one hour of deep regret; One hour to them whose days were years of glory that shall flood The Nation's sombre night of tears, of carnage, and of blood! O vanished majesty of days, when men were gauged by worth, Set crowned and dowered in the way to judge the sons of earth; When all the little great fell down before the great unknown, And priest put off the hampering gown and coward donned his own! O vanished majesty of days that saw the sun shine on The deeds that wake sublimer praise than Ghent or Marathon; When patriots in homespun rose—where one was called for, ten— And heroes sprang full-armored from the humblest walks of men! O vanished majesty of days! Rise, type and mould to-day. And teach our sons to follow on where duty leads the way; That whatsoever trial comes, defying doubt and fear, They in the thickest fight shall stand and proudly answer, "Here!" Kate Brownlee Sherwood.
GARFIELD'S RIDE AT CHICKAMAUGA [September 20, 1863] Again the summer-fevered skies, The breath of autumn calms; Again the golden moons arise On harvest-happy farms. Among the falling leaves, And wandering breezes sigh, and bring The harp-notes of the sheaves. Peace smiles upon the hills and dells; Peace smiles upon the seas; And drop the notes of happy bells Upon the fruited trees. The broad Missouri stretches far Her commerce-gathering arms, And multiply on Arkansas The grain-encumbered farms. Old Chattanooga, crowned with green, Sleeps 'neath her walls in peace; The Argo has returned again, And brings the Golden Fleece. O nation! free from sea to sea, In union blessed forever, Fair be their fame who fought for thee By Chickamauga River. The autumn winds were piping low, Beneath the vine-clad eaves; We heard the hollow bugle blow Among the ripened sheaves. And fast the mustering squadrons passed Through mountain portals wide, And swift the blue brigades were massed By Chickamauga's tide. It was the Sabbath; and in awe We heard the dark hills shake, And o'er the mountain turrets saw The smoke of battle break. And 'neath the war-cloud, gray and grand, The hills o'erhanging low, The Army of the Cumberland, Unequal, met the foe! Again, O fair September night! Beneath the moon and stars, I see, through memories dark and bright, The altar-fires of Mars. The morning breaks with screaming guns From batteries dark and dire. And where the Chickamauga runs Red runs the muskets' fire. I see bold Longstreet's darkening host Sweep through our lines of flame, And hear again, "The right is lost!" Swart Rosecrans exclaim. "But not the left!" young Garfield cries; "From that we must not sever, While Thomas holds the field that lies On Chickamauga River!" Oh! on that day of clouded gold, How, half of hope bereft, The cannoneers, like Titans, rolled Their thunders on the left! I see the battle-clouds again, With glowing autumn splendors blending: It seemed as if the gods with men Were on Olympian heights contending. Through tongues of flame, through meadows brown, Dry valley roads concealed, Ohio's hero dashes down Upon the rebel field. And swift, on reeling charger borne, He threads the wooded plain, By twice a hundred cannon mown, And reddened with the slain. But past the swathes of carnage dire, The Union guns he hears, And gains the left, begirt with fire, And thus the heroes cheers— "While stands the left, yon flag o'erhead, Shall Chattanooga stand!" "Let the Napoleons rain their lead!" Was Thomas's command. Back swept the gray brigades of Bragg; The air with victory rung; And Wurzel's "Rally round the flag!" 'Mid Union cheers was sung. The flag on Chattanooga's height In twilight's crimson waved, And all the clustered stars of white Were to the Union saved. O chief of staff! the nation's fate That red field crossed with thee, The triumph of the camp and state, The hope of liberty! O nation! free from sea to sea, With union blessed forever, Not vainly heroes fought for thee By Chickamauga River. In dreams I stand beside the tide Where those old heroes fell: Above the valleys long and wide Sweet rings the Sabbath bell. I hear no more the bugle blow, As on that fateful day! Where shaded waters stray. On Mission Ridge the sunlight streams Above the fields of fall, And Chattanooga calmly dreams Beneath her mountain-wall. Old Lookout Mountain towers on high, As in heroic days, When 'neath the battle in the sky Were seen its summits blaze. 'T was ours to lay no garlands fair Upon the graves "unknown": Kind Nature sets her gentians there, And fall the sear leaves lone. Those heroes' graves no shaft of Mars May mark with beauty ever; But floats the flag of forty stars By Chickamauga River. Hezekiah Butterworth.
THE BATTLE OF LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN [November 24, 1863] "Give me but two brigades," said Hooker, frowning at fortified Lookout; "And I'll engage to sweep yon mountain clear of that mocking rebel rout." At early morning came an order, that set the General's face aglow: "Now," said he to his staff, "draw out my soldiers! Grant says that I may go." Hither and thither dashed each eager Colonel, to join his regiment, While a low rumor of the daring purpose ran on from tent to tent. For the long roll was sounding through the valley, and the keen trumpet's bray, And the wild laughter of the swarthy veterans, who cried, "We fight to-day!" The solid tramp of infantry, the rumble of the great jolting gun, The sharp, clear order, and the fierce steeds neighing, "Why's not the fight begun?" All these plain harbingers of sudden conflict broke on the startled ear; And last arose a sound that made your blood leap, the ringing battle-cheer. The lower works were carried at one onset; like a vast roaring sea Of steel and fire, our soldiers from the trenches swept out the enemy; And we could see the gray-coats swarming up from the mountain's leafy base, To join their comrades in the higher fastness,—for life or death the race! Then our long line went winding up the mountain, in a huge serpent-track, And the slant sun upon it flashed and glimmered as on a dragon's back. Higher and higher the column's head pushed onward, ere the rear moved a man; And soon the skirmish-lines their straggling volleys and single shots began. Then the bald head of Lookout flamed and bellowed, and all its batteries woke, And down the mountain poured the bomb-shells, puffing into our eyes their smoke; And balls and grape-shot rained upon our column, that bore the angry shower As if it were no more than that soft dropping which scarcely stirs the flower. Oh, glorious courage that inspires the hero, and runs through all his men! The heart that failed beside the Rappahannock, it was itself again! The star that circumstance and jealous faction shrouded in envious night Here shone with all the splendor of its nature, and with a freer light! Hark, hark! there go the well-known crashing volleys, the long-continued roar That swells and falls, but never ceases wholly until the fight is o'er. As if they sought to try their cause together before God's very feet. We saw our troops had gained a footing almost beneath the topmost ledge, And back and forth the rival lines went surging upon the dizzy edge. We saw, sometimes, our men fall backward slowly, and groaned in our despair; Or cheered when now and then a stricken rebel plunged out in open air, Down, down, a thousand empty fathoms dropping,—his God alone knows where! At eve thick haze upon the mountain gathered, with rising smoke stained black, And not a glimpse of the contending armies shone through the swirling rack. Night fell o'er all; but still they flashed their lightnings and rolled their thunders loud, Though no man knew upon which side was going that battle in the cloud. Night—what a night!—of anxious thought and wonder, but still no tidings came From the bare summit of the trembling mountain, still wrapped in mist and flame. But towards the sleepless dawn, stillness, more dreadful than the fierce sound of war, Settled o'er Nature, as if she stood breathless before the morning star. As the sun rose, dense clouds of smoky vapor boiled from the valley's deeps, Dragging their torn and ragged edges slowly up through the tree-clad steeps; And rose and rose, till Lookout, like a vision, above us grandly stood, And over his bleak crags and storm-blanched headlands burst the warm golden flood. Thousands of eyes were fixed upon the mountain, and thousands held their breath, And the vast army, in the valley watching, seemed touched with sudden death. High o'er us soared great Lookout, robed in purple, a glory on his face, A human meaning in his hard, calm features, beneath that heavenly grace. Out on a crag walked something—what? an eagle, that treads yon giddy height? Surely no man! but still he clambered forward into the full, rich light. Then up he started, with a sudden motion, and from the blazing crag Flung to the morning breeze and sunny radiance the dear old starry flag! Ah! then what followed? Scarred and war-worn soldiers, like girls, flushed through their tan, And down the thousand wrinkles of the battles a thousand tear-drops ran. Men seized each other in returned embraces, and sobbed for very love; A spirit, which made all that moment brothers, seemed falling from above. And as we gazed, around the mountain's summit our glittering files appeared, Into the rebel works we saw them moving; and we—we cheered, we cheered! And they above waved all their flags before us, and joined our frantic shout, Standing, like demigods, in light and triumph upon their own Lookout! George Henry Boker. [November 24, 1863] Where the dews and the rains of heaven have their fountain, Like its thunder and its lightning our brave burst on the foe, Up above the clouds on Freedom's Lookout Mountain Raining life-blood like water on the valleys down below. Oh, green be the laurels that grow, Oh, sweet be the wild-buds that blow, In the dells of the mountain where the brave are lying low. Light of our hope and crown of our story, Bright as sunlight, pure as starlight shall their deed of daring glow. While the day and the night out of heaven shed their glory, On Freedom's Lookout Mountain whence they routed Freedom's foe. Through the pines on the summit where they blow, Chanting solemn music for the souls that passed below. William Dean Howells.
CHARLESTON [April, 1863] Calm as that second summer which precedes The first fall of the snow, In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds, The city bides the foe. As yet, behind their ramparts, stern and proud, Her bolted thunders sleep,— Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud, Looms o'er the solemn deep. No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scaur To guard the holy strand; But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war Above the level sand. And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched, Unseen, beside the flood,— Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched, That wait and watch for blood. Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade, Walk grave and thoughtful men, Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade As lightly as the pen. And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim Over a bleeding hound, Seem each one to have caught the strength of him Whose sword she sadly bound. Thus girt without and garrisoned at home, Day patient following day, Old Charleston looks from roof and spire and dome, Across her tranquil bay. Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands And spicy Indian ports, Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands, And summer to her courts. But still, along yon dim Atlantic line, The only hostile smoke Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine, From some frail floating oak. Shall the spring dawn, and she, still clad in smiles, And with an unscathed brow, Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles, As fair and free as now? We know not; in the temple of the Fates God has inscribed her doom: And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits The triumph or the tomb. Henry Timrod.
THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTON HARBOR [April 7, 1863] Two hours, or more, beyond the prime of a blithe April day, The Northmen's mailed "Invincibles" steamed up fair Charleston Bay; They came in sullen file, and slow, low-breasted on the wave, Black as a midnight front of storm, and silent as the grave. A thousand warrior-hearts beat high as those dread monsters drew More closely to the game of death across the breezeless blue, And twice ten thousand hearts of those who watch the scene afar, Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle's broadening star. Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect stands, The reedy linstocks firmly grasped in bold, untrembling hands, They look like forms of statued stone with burning human eyes! Our banners on the outmost walls, with stately rustling fold, Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight's ruddy gold,— They mount to the deep roll of drums, and widely echoing cheers, And then, once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait the grim cannoneers. Onward, in sullen file, and slow, low-glooming on the wave, Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the grave, When shivering the portentous calm o'er startled flood and shore, Broke from the sacred Island Fort the thunder-wrath of yore! Ha! brutal Corsairs! though ye come thrice-cased in iron mail, Beware the storm that's opening now, God's vengeance guides the hail! Ye strive, the ruffian types of Might, 'gainst law and truth and Right; Now quail beneath a sturdier Power, and own a mightier Might! The storm has burst! and while we speak, more furious, wilder, higher, Dart from the circling batteries a hundred tongues of fire; The waves gleam red, the lurid vault of heaven seems rent above— Fight on, O knightly gentlemen! for faith, and home, and love! There's not, in all that line of flame, one soul that would not rise To seize the victor's wreath of blood, though death must give the prize; There's not, in all this anxious crowd that throngs the ancient town, A maid who does not yearn for power to strike one foeman down! The conflict deepens! ship by ship the proud Armada sweeps, Where fierce from Sumter's raging breast the volleyed lightning leaps; And ship by ship, raked, overborne, ere burned the sunset light, Crawls in the gloom of baffled hate beyond the field of fight! O glorious Empress of the Main! from out thy storied spires Thou well mayst peal thy bells of joy, and light thy festal fires,— Since Heaven this day hath striven for thee, hath nerved thy dauntless sons, And thou in clear-eyed faith hast seen God's angels near the guns! Paul Hamilton Hayne.
BURY THEM (Wagner, July 18, 1863) Bury the Dragon's Teeth! Bury them deep and dark! The incisors swart and stark, The molars heavy and dark— And the one white Fang underneath! Bury the Hope Forlorn! Never shudder to fling, With its fellows dusky and worn, The strong and beautiful thing (Pallid ivory and pearl!) Into the horrible Pit— Hurry it in, and hurl All the rest over it! Trample them, clod by clod, Stamp them in dust amain! The cuspids, cruent and red, That the Monster, Freedom, shed On the sacred, strong Slave-Sod— They never shall rise again! Never?—what hideous growth Is sprouting through clod and clay? What Terror starts to the day? A crop of steel, on our oath! How the burnished stamens glance!— How they burst from the bloody shade, And spindle to spear and lance! There are tassels of blood-red Maize— How the horrible Harvest grows! 'Tis sabres that glint and daze— 'Tis bayonets all ablaze Uprearing in dreadful rows! For one that we buried there, A thousand are come to air! Ever, by door-stone and hearth, They break from the angry earth— And out of the crimson sand, Where the cold white Fang was laid, Rises a terrible Shade, The Wraith of a sleepless Brand! And our hearts wax strange and chill, With an ominous shudder and thrill, Even here, on the strong Slave-Sod, Lest, haply, we be found (Ah, dread no brave hath drowned!) Fighting against Great God. Henry Howard Brownell.
TWILIGHT ON SUMTER [1863] Still and dark along the sea Sumter lay; A light was overhead, As from burning cities shed, And the clouds were battle-red, Far away. Not a solitary gun Left to tell the fort had won Or lost the day! Nothing but the tattered rag Of the drooping rebel flag, And the sea-birds screaming round it in their play. How it woke one April morn Fame shall tell; As from Moultrie, close at hand, And the batteries on the land, Round its faint but fearless band Shot and shell Raining hid the doubtful light; But they fought the hopeless fight Long and well (Theirs the glory, ours the shame!), Till the walls were wrapped in flame, Then their flag was proudly struck, and Sumter fell! Now—oh, look at Sumter now, In the gloom! Mark its scarred and shattered walls. (Hark! the ruined rampart falls!) There's a justice that appals In its doom; For this blasted spot of earth Where rebellion had its birth Is its tomb! And when Sumter sinks at last From the heavens, that shrink aghast, Hell shall rise in grim derision and make room! Richard Henry Stoddard. CHAPTER XTHE FINAL STRUGGLE
PUT IT THROUGH [1864] Come, Freemen of the land, Come, meet the last demand,— Here's a piece of work in hand; Put it through! We have stumbled on all day; Here's a ploughshare in the clay,— Put it through! Here's a country that's half free, And it waits for you and me To say what its fate shall be; Put it through! While one traitor thought remains, While one spot its banner stains, One link of all its chains,— Put it through! Hear our brothers in the field, Steel your swords as theirs are steeled, Learn to wield the arms they wield,— Put it through! Lock the shop and lock the store, And chalk this upon the door,— "We've enlisted for the war!" Put it through! For the birthrights yet unsold, For the history yet untold, For the future yet unrolled, Put it through! Lest our children point with shame On the fathers' dastard fame, Who gave up a nation's name, Put it through! Edward Everett Hale.
A VETERAN'S STORY [July 20, 1864] You know that day at Peach Tree Creek, When the Rebs with their circling, scorching wall Of smoke-hid cannon and sweep of flame Drove in our flanks, back! back! and all Our toil seemed lost in the storm of shell— That desperate day McPherson fell! Our regiment stood in a little glade Set round with half-grown red oak trees— An awful place to stand, in full fair sight, While the minie bullets hummed like bees, And comrades dropped on either side— That fearful day McPherson died! The roar of the battle, steady, stern, Rung in our ears. Upon our eyes The belching cannon smoke, the half-hid swing Of deploying troops, the groans, the cries, The hoarse commands, the sickening smell— That blood-red day McPherson fell! But we stood there!—when out from the trees, Out of the smoke and dismay to the right Burst a rider—His head was bare, his eye Had a blaze like a lion fain for fight; His long hair, black as the deepest night, Streamed out on the wind. And the might Of his plunging horse was a tale to tell, And his voice rang high like a bugle's swell; "Men, the enemy hem us on every side; We'll whip 'em yet! Close up that breach— Remember your flag—don't give an inch! The right flank's gaining and soon will reach— Forward boys, and give 'em hell!"— Said Logan after McPherson fell. We laughed and cheered and the red ground shook, As the general plunged along the line Through the deadliest rain of screaming shells; For the sound of his voice refreshed us all, And we filled the gap like a roaring tide, And saved the day McPherson died! But that was twenty years ago, And part of a horrible dream now past. For Logan, the lion, the drums throb low And the flag swings low on the mast; He has followed his mighty chieftain through The mist-hung stream, where gray and blue One color stand, And North to South extends the hand. It's right that deeds of war and blood Should be forgot, but, spite of all, I think of Logan, now, as he rode That day across the field; I hear the call Of his trumpet voice—see the battle shine In his stern, black eyes, and down the line Of cheering men I see him ride, As on the day McPherson died. Hamlin Garland.
A DIRGE FOR McPHERSON KILLED IN FRONT OF ATLANTA [July 22, 1864] Hostilities continued about Atlanta for nearly a month, and finally, on September 2, 1864, the Confederates evacuated the city. A few days later, they suddenly attacked Allatoona, where General Corse was stationed with a small garrison. Sherman heard the thunder of the guns from the top of Kenesaw Mountain, and signalled Corse the famous message, "Hold out; relief is coming!" Corse did hold out and the Confederates finally withdrew. WITH CORSE AT ALLATOONA [October 5, 1864] It was less than two thousand we numbered, In the fort sitting up on the hill; That night not a soldier that slumbered; We watched by the starlight until Daybreak showed us all of their forces; About us their gray columns ran, To left and to right they were round us, Five thousand if there was a man. "Surrender your fort," bawled the rebel; "Five minutes I give, or you're dead." "Not a man," answered Corse, in his treble, "Perhaps you can take us instead!" Then pealed forth their cannon infernal; We fought them outside of the pass, Two hours, the time seemed eternal; The dead lay in lines on the grass. But who cared for dead or for dying? The fort we were there to defend, And across from yon far mountain flying, Came a message, "Hold on to the end; Hold on to the fort." It was Sherman, Who signalled from Kenesaw's height, Far over the heads of our foemen, "Hold on—I am coming to-night." Quick fluttered our flag to the signal, We answered him back with a will, And fired on the gray-coated rebels That charged up the slope of the hill. "Load double," cried Corse, "every cannon; Who cares for their ten to our one?" We looked at the swift-coming rebels, And answered their yell with a gun. With the grape from our fort in their faces, They rush to the ramparts, but stop; Ah! few of the gray-columned army That day left alive at the top. On the parapets, too, lie our wounded, Each porthole a grave for the dead; No room for our cannon, the corpses Fill up the embrasures instead. Again through the cannon's red weather They charge up the hill and the pass, Their dead and our dead lie together Out there on the slope in the grass. A crash from our rifles—they falter; A gleam from our steel—it is by. We cheer from the fort as they fly. Once more and the signal is flying— "How many the wounded and dead?" "Six hundred," says Corse, "with the dying," The blood streaming down from his head. "But what of that? Look! the old banner Shines out there as peaceful and still As if there had not been a battle This morning up there on the hill." Samuel H. M. Byers. ALLATOONA [October 5, 1864] Winds that sweep the southern mountains, And the leafy river shore, Bear ye now a prouder burden Than ye ever learned before! And the heart blood fills The heart, till it thrills At the story Of the terror and the glory Of this battle of the Allatoona hills! Echo it from the purple mountain To the gray resounding shore! 'Tis as sad and proud a burden As ye ever learned before. How they fell like grass When the mowers pass! And the dying, When the foe were flying, Swelled the cheering of the heroes of the pass. Sweep it o'er the hills of Georgia, To the mountains of the north! Teach the coward and the doubter What the blood of man is worth! Toss the flags as ye pass! Let their stained and tattered mass Tell the story Of the terror and the glory Of the battle of the Allatoona Pass!
Our camp-fires shone bright on the mountain That frowned on the river below, As we stood by our guns in the morning, And eagerly watched for the foe; When a rider came out of the darkness That hung over mountain and tree, And shouted: "Boys, up and be ready! For Sherman will march to the sea." Then cheer upon cheer for bold Sherman Went up from each valley and glen, And the bugles reËchoed the music That came from the lips of the men; For we knew that the stars in our banner More bright in their splendor would be, And that blessings from Northland would greet us When Sherman marched down to the sea. Then forward, boys! forward to battle! We marched on our wearisome way, We stormed the wild hills of Resaca, God bless those who fell on that day! Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory, Frowned down on the flag of the free, And the East and the West bore our standard And Sherman marched on to the sea. Still onward we pressed till our banners Swept out from Atlanta's grim walls, And the blood of the patriot dampened The soil where the traitor flag falls. We paused not to weep for the fallen, Who slept by each river and tree, Yet we twined them a wreath of the laurel As Sherman marched down to the sea. Oh, proud was our army that morning, That stood where the pine darkly towers, When Sherman said: "Boys, you are weary, But to-day fair Savannah is ours!" Then sang we the song of our chieftain, That echoed o'er river and lea, And the stars in our banner shone brighter When Sherman marched down to the sea. Samuel H. M. Byers.
THE SONG OF SHERMAN'S ARMY A pillar of fire by night, A pillar of smoke by day, Some hours of march—then a halt to fight, And so we hold our way; Some hours of march—then a halt to fight, As on we hold our way. Over mountain and plain and stream, To some bright Atlantic bay, With our arms aflash in the morning beam, We hold our festal way; With our arms aflash in the morning beam, We hold our checkless way! There is terror wherever we come, There is terror and wild dismay When they see the Old Flag and hear the drum Announce us on our way; When they see the Old Flag and hear the drum Beating time to our onward way. Never unlimber a gun For those villainous lines in gray; Draw sabres! and at 'em upon the run! 'Tis thus we clear our way; Draw sabres, and soon you will see them run, As we hold our conquering way. The loyal, who long have been dumb, Are loud in their cheers to-day; And the old men out on their crutches come, To see us hold our way; And the old men out on their crutches come, To bless us on our way. Around us in rear and flanks, Their futile squadrons play, With a sixty-mile front of steady ranks, We hold our checkless way; With a sixty-mile front of serried ranks, Our banner clears the way. Hear the spattering fire that starts From the woods and the copses gray, There is just enough fighting to quicken our hearts, As we frolic along the way! There is just enough fighting to warm our hearts, As we rattle along the way. Upon different roads, abreast, The heads of our columns gay, With fluttering flags, all forward pressed, Hold on their conquering way; With fluttering flags to victory pressed, We hold our glorious way. Ah, traitors! who bragged so bold In the sad war's early day, Did nothing predict you should ever behold The Old Flag come this way? Did nothing predict you should yet behold Our banner come back this way? By heaven! 'tis a gala march, 'Tis a picnic or a play; Of all our long war 'tis the crowning arch, Hip, hip! for Sherman's way! Of all our long war this crowns the arch— For Sherman and Grant, hurrah! Charles Graham Halpine. Bring the good old bugle, boys, we'll sing another song— Sing it with a spirit that will start the world along— Sing it as we used to sing it fifty thousand strong, While we were marching through Georgia. Chorus—"Hurrah! Hurrah! we bring the jubilee! Hurrah! Hurrah! the flag that makes you free!" So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea, While we were marching through Georgia. How the darkeys shouted when they heard the joyful sound! How the turkeys gobbled which our commissary found! How the sweet potatoes even started from the ground, While we were marching through Georgia. Yes, and there were Union men who wept with joyful tears, When they saw the honored flag they had not seen for years; Hardly could they be restrained from breaking forth in cheers, While we were marching through Georgia. "Sherman's dashing Yankee boys will never reach the coast!" So the saucy rebels said—and 'twas a handsome boast, Had they not forgot, alas! to reckon on a host, While we were marching through Georgia. So we made a thoroughfare for Freedom and her train, Sixty miles in latitude—three hundred to the main; Treason fled before us, for resistance was in vain, While we were marching through Georgia. Henry Clay Work. ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLORS Who are you dusky woman, so ancient hardly human, With your woolly-white and turban'd head, and bare bony feet? Why rising by the roadside here, do you the colors greet? ('Tis while our army lines Carolina's sands and pines, Forth from thy hovel door thou Ethiopia com'st to me, As under doughty Sherman I march toward the sea.) Me master years a hundred since from my parents sunder'd, A little child, they caught me as the savage beast is caught, Then hither me across the sea the cruel slaver brought. No further does she say, but lingering all the day, Her high-borne turban'd head she wags, and rolls her darkling eye, And courtesies to the regiments, the guidons moving by. What is it fateful woman, so blear, hardly human? Why wag your head with turban bound, yellow, red and green? Are the things so strange and marvellous you see or have seen? Walt Whitman.
SHERMAN'S IN SAVANNAH [December 22, 1864] Like the tribes of Israel, Fed on quails and manna, Sherman and his glorious band Journeyed through the rebel land, Fed from Heaven's all-bounteous hand, Marching on Savannah! As the moving pillar shone, Streamed the starry banner All day long in rosy light, Flaming splendor all the night, Till it swooped in eagle flight Down on doomed Savannah! Glory be to God on high! Shout the loud Hosanna! Treason's wilderness is past, Canaan's shore is won at last, Peal a nation's trumpet-blast,— Sherman's in Savannah! Soon shall Richmond's tough old hide Find a tough old tanner! Soon from every rebel wall Shall the rag of treason fall, Till our banner flaps o'er all As it crowns Savannah! Oliver Wendell Holmes. SAVANNAH [December 23, 1864] Thou hast not drooped thy stately head, Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed! But with the lion's monarch tread, Thou comest to thy battle bed, Savannah! O Savannah! Thine arm of flesh is girded strong; The blue veins swell beneath thy wrong; To thee the triple cords belong Of woe and death and shameless wrong, And spirit vaunted long, too long! Savannah! O Savannah! No blood-stains spot thy forehead fair; Only the martyrs' blood is there; It gleams upon thy bosom bare, It moves thy deep, deep soul to prayer, And tunes a dirge for thy sad ear, Savannah! O Savannah! Thy clean white hand is opened wide For weal or woe, thou Freedom Bride; The sword-sheath sparkles at thy side, Thy plighted troth, whate'er betide, Thou hast but Freedom for thy guide, Savannah! O Savannah! What though the heavy storm-cloud lowers, Still at thy feet the old oak towers; Still fragrant are thy jessamine bowers, And things of beauty, love, and flowers Are smiling o'er this land of ours, My sunny home, Savannah! There is no film before thy sight,— Thou seest woe and death and night, And blood upon thy banner bright; But in thy full wrath's kindled might What carest thou for woe or night? My rebel home, Savannah! Come—for the crown is on thy head! Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed; Not like a lamb to slaughter led, But with the lion's monarch tread, Oh! come unto thy battle bed, Savannah! O Savannah! Alethea S. Burroughs.
CAROLINA [January, 1865] The despot treads thy sacred sands, Thy pines give shelter to his bands, Thy sons stand by with idle hands, Carolina! He breathes at ease thy airs of balm, He scorns the lances of thy palm; Oh! who shall break thy craven calm, Carolina! Thy ancient fame is growing dim, A spot is on thy garment's rim; Give to the winds thy battle-hymn, Carolina! Call on thy children of the hill, Wake swamp and river, coast and rill, Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill, Carolina! Cite wealth and science, trade and art, Touch with thy fire the cautious mart, And pour thee through the people's heart, Carolina! Till even the coward spurns his fears, And all thy fields, and fens, and meres Shall bristle like thy palm with spears, Carolina! I hear a murmur as of waves That grope their way through sunless caves, Like bodies struggling in their graves, Carolina! And now it deepens; slow and grand It swells, as, rolling to the land, An ocean broke upon thy strand, Carolina! Shout! Let it reach the startled Huns! And roar with all thy festal guns! It is the answer of thy sons, Carolina! Henry Timrod.
CHARLESTON [February, 1865] Calmly beside her tropic strand, An empress, brave and loyal, With aspect sternly royal; She knows her mortal foe draws near, Armored by subtlest science, Yet deep, majestical, and clear, Rings out her grand defiance. Oh, glorious is thy noble face, Lit up by proud emotion, And unsurpassed thy stately grace, Our warrior Queen of Ocean! First from thy lips the summons came, Which roused our South to action, And, with the quenchless force of flame Consumed the demon, Faction; First, like a rush of sovereign wind, That rends dull waves asunder, Thy prescient warning struck the blind, And woke the deaf with thunder; They saw, with swiftly kindling eyes, The shameful doom before them, And heard, borne wild from northern skies, The death-gale hurtling o'er them: Wilt thou, whose virgin banner rose, A morning star of splendor, Quail when the war-tornado blows, And crouch in base surrender? Wilt thou, upon whose loving breast Our noblest chiefs are sleeping, Yield thy dead patriots' place of rest To scornful alien keeping? No! while a life-pulse throbs for fame, Thy sons will gather round thee, Welcome the shot, the steel, the flame, If honor's hand hath crowned thee. Then fold about thy beauteous form The imperial robe thou wearest, And front with regal port the storm Thy foe would dream thou fearest; If strength, and will, and courage fail To cope with ruthless numbers, And thou must bend, despairing, pale, Where thy last hero slumbers, Lift the red torch, and light the fire Amid those corpses gory, And on thy self-made funeral pyre, Pass from the world to glory. Paul Hamilton Hayne.
ROMANCE "Talk of pluck!" pursued the Sailor, Set at euchre on his elbow, "I was on the wharf at Charleston, Just ashore from off the runner. "It was gray and dirty weather, And I heard a drum go rolling, Rub-a-dubbing in the distance, Awful dour-like and defiant. "In and out among the cotton, Mud, and chains, and stores, and anchors, Tramped a squad of battered scarecrows— Poor old Dixie's bottom dollar! "Some had shoes, but all had rifles, Them that wasn't bald was beardless, And the drum was rolling 'Dixie,' And they stepped to it like men, sir! "Rags and tatters, belts and bayonets, On they swung, the drum a-rolling, Mum and sour. It looked like fighting, And they meant it too, by thunder!" William Ernest Henley.
THE FOE AT THE GATES [Charleston, 1865] Ring round her! children of her glorious skies, Whom she hath nursed to stature proud and great; Catch one last glance from her imploring eyes, Then close your ranks and face the threatening fate. Ring round her! with a wall of horrent steel Confront the foe, nor mercy ask nor give; And in her hour of anguish let her feel That ye can die whom she has taught to live. Ring round her! swear, by every lifted blade, To shield from wrong the mother who gave you birth; That never violent hand on her be laid, Nor base foot desecrate her hallowed hearth. Curst be the dastard who shall halt or doubt! And doubly damned who casts one look behind! Ye who are men! with unsheathed sword, and shout, Up with her banner! give it to the wind! Peal your wild slogan, echoing far and wide, Till every ringing avenue repeat The gathering cry, and Ashley's angry tide Calls to the sea-waves beating round her feet. Sons, to the rescue! spurred and belted, come! Kneeling, with clasp'd hands, she invokes you now By the sweet memories of your childhood's home, By every manly hope and filial vow, To save her proud soul from that loathÈd thrall Which yet her spirit cannot brook to name; Or, if her fate be near, and she must fall, Spare her—she sues—the agony and shame. From all her fanes let solemn bells be tolled; Heap with kind hands her costly funeral pyre, And thus, with pÆan sung and anthem rolled, Give her unspotted to the God of Fire. Gather around her sacred ashes then, Sprinkle the cherished dust with crimson rain, Die! as becomes a race of free-born men, Who will not crouch to wear the bondman's chain. So, dying, ye shall win a high renown, If not in life, at least by death, set free; And send her fame through endless ages down— The last grand holocaust of Liberty. John Dickson Bruns.
ULRIC DAHLGREN [March 2, 1864] A flash of light across the night, An eager face, an eye afire! O lad so true, you yet may rue The courage of your deep desire! "Nay, tempt me not; the way is plain— 'Tis but the coward checks his rein; For there they lie, And there they cry, For whose dear sake 'twere joy to die!" He bends unto his saddlebow, The steeds they follow two and two; Their flanks are wet with foam and sweat, Their riders' locks are damp with dew. "O comrades, haste! the way is long, The dirge it drowns the battle-song; The hunger preys, The famine slays, An awful horror veils our ways!" Beneath the pall of prison wall The rush of hoofs they seem to hear; From loathsome guise they lift their eyes, And beat their bars and bend their ear. "Ah, God be thanked! our friends are nigh; He wills it not that thus we die; O fiends accurst Of Want and Thirst, Our comrades gather,—do your worst!" A sharp affright runs through the night, An ambush stirred, a column reined; The hurrying steed has checked his speed, His smoking flanks are crimson stained. O noble son of noble sire, Thine ears are deaf to our desire! O knightly grace Of valiant race, The grave is honor's trysting-place! O life so pure! O faith so sure! O heart so brave, and true, and strong! With tips of flame is writ your name, In annaled deed and storied song! It flares across the solemn night, It glitters in the radiant light; A jewel set, Unnumbered yet, In our Republic's coronet! Kate Brownlee Sherwood.
LEE TO THE REAR [May 6, 1864] Dawn of a pleasant morning in May Broke through the Wilderness cool and gray; While perched in the tallest tree-tops, the birds Were carolling Mendelssohn's "Songs without Words." Far from the haunts of men remote, The brook brawled on with a liquid note; And Nature, all tranquil and lovely, wore The smile of the spring, as in Eden of yore. Little by little, as daylight increased, And deepened the roseate flush in the East— Little by little did morning reveal Two long glittering lines of steel; Where two hundred thousand bayonets gleam, Tipped with the light of the earliest beam, And the faces are sullen and grim to see In the hostile armies of Grant and Lee. All of a sudden, ere rose the sun, Pealed on the silence the opening gun— A little white puff of smoke there came, And anon the valley was wreathed in flame. Down on the left of the Rebel lines, Where a breastwork stands in a copse of pines, Before the Rebels their ranks can form, The Yankees have carried the place by storm. Stars and Stripes on the salient wave, Where many a hero has found a grave, And the gallant Confederates strive in vain The ground they have drenched with their blood, to regain. Yet louder the thunder of battle roared— Yet a deadlier fire on the columns poured; Slaughter infernal rode with Despair, Furies twain, through the murky air. Not far off, in the saddle there sat A gray-bearded man in a black slouched hat; Not much moved by the fire was he, Calm and resolute Robert Lee. Quick and watchful he kept his eye On the bold Rebel brigades close by,— Reserves that were standing (and dying) at ease, While the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees. For still with their loud, deep, bull-dog bay, The Yankee batteries blazed away, And with every murderous second that sped A dozen brave fellows, alas! fell dead. The grand old graybeard rode to the space Where Death and his victims stood face to face, And silently waved his old slouched hat— A world of meaning there was in that! "Follow me! Steady! We'll save the day!" This was what he seemed to say; And to the light of his glorious eye The bold brigades thus made reply: "We'll go forward, but you must go back"— And they moved not an inch in the perilous track: "Go to the rear, and we'll send them to hell!" And the sound of the battle was lost in their yell. Turning his bridle, Robert Lee Rode to the rear. Like waves of the sea, Bursting the dikes in their overflow, Madly his veterans dashed on the foe. And backward in terror that foe was driven, Their banners rent and their columns riven, Wherever the tide of battle rolled Over the Wilderness, wood and wold. Sunset out of a crimson sky Streamed o'er a field of ruddier dye, And the brook ran on with a purple stain, From the blood of ten thousand foemen slain. Seasons have passed since that day and year— Again o'er its pebbles the brook runs clear, And the field in a richer green is drest Where the dead of a terrible conflict rest. Hushed is the roll of the Rebel drum, The sabres are sheathed, and the cannon are dumb; And Fate, with his pitiless hand, has furled The flag that once challenged the gaze of the world; But the fame of the Wilderness fight abides; And down into history grandly rides, Calm and unmoved as in battle he sat, The gray-bearded man in the black slouched hat. John Randolph Thompson.
CAN'T Grant used his cavalry most effectively, and he had a dashing leader in "Phil" Sheridan. Early in May, 1864, Sheridan and a strong force was sent on a raid around the Confederate lines, and on the 12th encountered General J. E. B. Stuart in force at Yellow Tavern. A sharp engagement followed, in which Stuart was killed. OBSEQUIES OF STUART [May 12, 1864] We could not pause, while yet the noontide air Shook with the cannonade's incessant pealing, The funeral pageant fitly to prepare— A nation's grief revealing. The smoke, above the glimmering woodland wide That skirts our southward border in its beauty, Marked where our heroes stood and fought and died For love and faith and duty. And still, what time the doubtful strife went on, We might not find expression for our sorrow; We could but lay our dear dumb warrior down, And gird us for the morrow. One weary year agone, when came a lull With victory in the conflict's stormy closes, When the glad Spring, all flushed and beautiful, First mocked us with her roses, With dirge and bell and minute-gun, we paid Some few poor rites—an inexpressive token Of a great people's pain—to Jackson's shade, In agony unspoken. No wailing trumpet and no tolling bell, No cannon, save the battle's boom receding, When Stuart to the grave we bore, might tell, With hearts all crushed and bleeding. The crisis suited not with pomp, and she Whose anguish bears the seal of consecration Had wished his Christian obsequies should be Thus void of ostentation. Only the maidens came, sweet flowers to twine Above his form so still and cold and painless, Whose deeds upon our brightest records shine, Whose life and sword were stainless. They well remembered how he loved to dash Into the fight, festooned from summer bowers; Leaped from a mass of flowers. And so we carried to his place of rest All that of our great Paladin was mortal: The cross, and not the sabre, on his breast, That opes the heavenly portal. No more of tribute might to us remain; But there will still come a time when Freedom's martyrs A richer guerdon of renown shall gain Than gleams in stars and garters. I hear from out that sunlit land which lies Beyond these clouds that gather darkly o'er us, The happy sounds of industry arise In swelling peaceful chorus. And mingling with these sounds, the glad acclaim Of millions undisturbed by war's afflictions, Crowning each martyr's never-dying name With grateful benedictions. In some fair future garden of delights, Where flowers shall bloom and song-birds sweetly warble, Art shall erect the statues of our knights In living bronze and marble. And none of all that bright heroic throng Shall wear to far-off time a semblance grander, Shall still be decked with fresher wreaths of song, Than this beloved commander. The Spanish legend tells us of the Cid, That after death he rode, erect, sedately, Along his lines, even as in life he did, In presence yet more stately; And thus our Stuart, at this moment, seems To ride out of our dark and troubled story Into the region of romance and dreams, A realm of light and glory; And sometimes, when the silver bugles blow, That ghostly form, in battle reappearing, Shall lead his horsemen headlong on the foe, In victory careering! John Randolph Thompson.
A CHRISTOPHER OF THE SHENANDOAH ISLAND FORD, SNICKER'S GAP, JULY 18, 1864 TOLD BY THE ORDERLY Mute he sat in the saddle,—mute 'midst our full acclaim, As three times over we gave to the mountain echo his name. Then, "But I couldn't do less!" in a murmur remonstrant came. This was the deed his spirit set and his hand would not shun, When the vale of the Shenandoah had lost the glow of the sun, And the evening cloud and the battle smoke were blending in one. Retreating and ever retreating, the bank of the river we gained, Hope of the field was none, and choice but of flight remained, When there at the brink of the ford his horse he suddenly reined. For his vigilant eye had marked where, close by the oozy marge, Half-parted its moorings, there lay a battered and oarless barge. "Quick! gather the wounded in!" and the flying stayed at his charge. They gathered the wounded in whence they fell by the river-bank, Lapped on the gleaming sand, or aswoon, 'mid the rushes dank; And they crowded the barge till its sides low down in the water sank. The river was wide, was deep, and heady the current flowed, A burdened and oarless craft!—straight into the stream he rode By the side of the barge, and drew it along with its moaning load. A moaning and ghastly load—the wounded—the dying—the dead! For ever upon their traces followed the whistling lead, Our bravest the mark, yet unscathed and undaunted, he pushed ahead. Alone? Save for one that from love of his leader or soldierly pride (Hearing his call for aid, and seeing that none replied), Plunged and swam by the crazy craft on the other side. But Heaven! what weary toil! for the river is wide, is deep; The current is swift, and the bank on the further side is steep. 'Tis reached at last, and a hundred of ours to the rescue leap. Oh, they cheered as he rose from the stream and the water-drops flowed away! "But I couldn't do less!" in the silence that followed we heard him say; Then the wounded cheered, and the swooning awoke in the barge where they lay. And I?—Ah, well, I swam by the barge on the other side; But an orderly goes wherever his leader chooses to ride. Come life or come death I couldn't do less than follow his guide. Edith M. Thomas.
SHERIDAN AT CEDAR CREEK [October 19, 1864] Shoe the steed with silver That bore him to the fray, When he heard the guns at dawning— Miles away; When he heard them calling, calling— Mount! nor stay: Quick, or all is lost; They've surprised and stormed the post, They push your routed host— Gallop! retrieve the day. House the horse in ermine— For the foam-flake blew White through the red October; He thundered into view; They cheered him in the looming, Horseman and horse they knew. The turn of the tide began, The rally of bugles ran, He swung his hat in the van; The electric hoof-spark flew. Wreathe the steed and lead him— For the charge he led Touched and turned the cypress Into amaranths for the head Of Philip, king of riders, Who raised them from the dead. The camp (at dawning lost) By eve, recovered—forced, Rang with laughter of the host As belated Early fled. Shroud the horse in sable— For the mounds they heap! There is firing in the Valley, And yet no strife they keep; It is the parting volley, It is the pathos deep. There is glory for the brave Who lead, and nobly save, But no knowledge in the grave Where the nameless followers sleep. Herman Melville.
SHERIDAN'S RIDE [October 19, 1864] Up from the South, at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door, The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away. And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon's bar; And louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold, As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, With Sheridan twenty miles away. But there is a road from Winchester town, A good, broad highway leading down: And there, through the flush of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight; As if he knew the terrible need, He stretched away with his utmost speed. Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away. Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south, The dust like smoke from the cannon's mouth, Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away. Under his spurning feet, the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape sped away behind Like an ocean flying before the wind; And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire; But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire; He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away. The first that the general saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; What was done? what to do? a glance told him both. Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath, He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play, He seemed to the whole great army to say: "I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down to save the day." Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! And when their statues are placed on high Under the dome of the Union sky, The American soldier's Temple of Fame, There, with the glorious general's name, Be it said, in letters both bold and bright: "Here is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the fight, From Winchester—twenty miles away!" Thomas Buchanan Read.
[Sung by the negro troops as they entered Richmond] Say, darkeys, hab you seen de massa, Wid de muffstash on he face, Go long de road some time dis mornin', Like he gwine leabe de place? He see de smoke way up de ribber Whar de Lincum gunboats lay; He took he hat an' leff berry sudden, And I spose he's runned away. De massa run, ha, ha! De darkey stay, ho, ho! It mus' be now de kingdum comin', An' de yar ob jubilo. He six foot one way an' two foot todder, An' he weigh six hundred poun'; His coat so big he couldn't pay de tailor, An' it won't reach half way roun'; An' he git so mighty tanned, I spec he'll try to fool dem Yankees, For to tink he contraband. De massa run, ha, ha! De darkey stay, ho, ho! It mus' be now de kingdum comin', An' de yar ob jubilo. De darkeys got so lonesome libb'n In de log hut on de lawn, Dey moved dere tings into massa's parlor For to keep it while he gone. Dar's wine an' cider in de kitchin, An' de darkeys dey hab some, I spec it will be all fiscated. When de Lincum sojers come. De massa run, ha, ha! De darkey stay, ho, ho! It mus' be now de kingdum comin', An' de yar ob jubilo. De oberseer he makes us trubble, An' he dribe us roun' a spell, We lock him up in de smoke-house cellar, Wid de key flung in de well. De whip am lost, de han'-cuff broke, But de massy hab his pay; He big an' ole enough for to know better Dan to went an' run away. De massa run, ha, ha! De darkey stay, ho, ho! It mus' be now de kingdum comin', An' de yar ob jubilo. Henry Clay Work. VIRGINIA CAPTA APRIL, 1865 Unconquer'd captive!—close thine eye, And draw the ashen sackcloth o'er, And in thy speechless woe deplore The fate that would not let thee die! The arm that wore the shield, strip bare; The hand that held the martial rein, And hurled the spear on many a plain,— Stretch—till they clasp the shackles there! The foot that once could crush the crown, Must drag the fetters, till it bleed Beneath their weight:—thou dost not need It now, to tread the tyrant down. Thou thought'st him vanquished—boastful trust!— His lance, in twain—his sword, a wreck,— But with his heel upon thy neck, He holds thee prostrate in the dust! Bend though thou must, beneath his will, Let not one abject moan have place; But with majestic, silent grace, Maintain thy regal bearing still. Look back through all thy storied past, And sit erect in conscious pride: No grander heroes ever died— No sterner, battled to the last! Weep, if thou wilt, with proud, sad mien, Thy blasted hopes—thy peace undone,— Yet brave, live on,—nor seek to shun Thy fate, like Egypt's conquer'd Queen. Though forced a captive's place to fill In the triumphal train,—yet there, Superbly, like Zenobia, wear Thy chains,—Virginia Victrix still! Margaret Junkin Preston.
THE FALL OF RICHMOND THE TIDINGS RECEIVED IN THE NORTHERN METROPOLIS (APRIL, 1865) What mean these peals from every tower, And crowds like seas that sway? The cannon reply; they speak the heart Of the People impassioned, and say— A city in flags for a city in flames, Richmond goes Babylon's way— Sing and pray. O weary years and woeful wars, And armies in the grave; But hearts unquelled at last deter The helmed dilated Lucifer— Honor to Grant the brave, Whose three stars now like Orion's rise When wreck is on the wave— Bless his glaive. Well that the faith we firmly kept, And never our aim forswore For the Terrors that trooped from each recess When fainting we fought in the Wilderness, And Hell made loud hurrah; But God is in Heaven, and Grant in the Town, And Right through Might is Law— God's way adore. Herman Melville.
[April 9, 1865] As billows upon billows roll, On victory victory breaks; Ere yet seven days from Richmond's fall And crowning triumph wakes The loud joy-gun, whose thunders run By sea-shore, streams, and lakes. The hope and great event agree In the sword that Grant received from Lee. The warring eagles fold the wing, But not in CÆsar's sway; Not Rome o'ercome by Roman arms we sing, As on Pharsalia's day, But Treason thrown, though a giant grown, And Freedom's larger play. All human tribes glad token see In the close of the wars of Grant and Lee. Herman Melville.
"Well, General Grant, have you heard the news? How the orders are issued and ready to send For Lee, and the men in his staff-command, To be under arrest,—now the war's at an end?" "How so? Arrested for what?" he cried. "Oh, for trial as traitors, to be shot, or hung." The chief's eye flashed with a sudden ire, And his face grew crimson as up he sprung. "Orderly, fetch me my horse," he said. Then into the saddle and up the street, As if the battle were raging ahead, Went the crash of the old war-charger's feet. "What is this I am told about Lee's arrest,— Is it true?"—and the keen eyes searched his soul. "It is true, and the order will be enforced!" "My word was given in their parole At Richmond, and that parole Has not been broken,—nor has my word, Nor will be until there is better cause For breaking than this I have lately heard." "Do you know, sir, whom you have thus addressed? I am the War Department's head—" "And I—am General Grant! At your peril order arrests!" he said. * * * * * A friend is a friend, as we reckon worth, Who will throw the gauntlet in friendship's fight; But a man is a man in peace or war Who will stake his all for an enemy's right. 'Twas a hard-fought battle, but quickly won,— As a fight must be when 'tis soul to soul,— And 'twas years ago; but that honored word Preserved the North in the South's parole. Marion Manville.
ROBERT E. LEE A gallant foeman in the fight, A brother when the fight was o'er, The hand that led the host with might The blessed torch of learning bore. No shriek of shells nor roll of drums, No challenge fierce, resounding far, When reconciling Wisdom comes To heal the cruel wounds of war. Thought may the minds of men divide, Love makes the heart of nations one, And so, thy soldier grave beside, We honor thee, Virginia's son. Julia Ward Howe. CHAPTER XIWINSLOW AND FARRAGUT
THE EAGLE AND VULTURE [June, 1864] In Cherbourg Roads the pirate lay One morn in June, like a beast at bay, Feeling secure in the neutral port, Under the guns of the Frenchman's fort; A thieving vulture; a coward thing; Sheltered beneath a despot's wing. But there outside, in the calm blue bay, Our ocean-eagle, the Kearsarge, lay; Lay at her ease on the Sunday morn, Holding the Corsair ship in scorn; With captain and crew in the might of their right, Willing to pray, but more eager to fight. Four bells are struck, and this thing of night, Like a panther, crouching with fierce affright, Must leap from his cover, and, come what may, Must fight for his life, or steal away! So, out of the port with his braggart air, With flaunting flags, sailed the proud Corsair. The Cherbourg cliffs were all alive With lookers-on, like a swarming hive; While compelled to do what he dared not shirk, The pirate went to his desperate work; And Europe's tyrants looked on in glee, As they thought of our Kearsarge sunk in the sea. But our little bark smiled back at them A smile of contempt, with that Union gem, The American banner, far floating and free, Proclaiming her champions were out on the sea; Were out on the sea, and abroad on the land, Determined to win under God's command. Down came the vulture; our eagle sat still, Waiting to strike with her iron-clad bill; Convinced by the glow of his glorious cause, He could crumple his foe in the grasp of his claws. "Clear the decks," then said Winslow, words measured and slow; "Point the guns, and prepare for the terrible blow; And whatever the fate to ourselves may be, We will sink in the ocean this pest of the sea." The decks were all cleared, and the guns were all manned, Awaiting to meet this Atlantic brigand; When, lo! roared a broadside; the ship of the thief Was torn, and wept blood in that moment of grief. Another! another! another! And still The broadsides went in with a hearty good will, Till the pirate reeled wildly, as staggering and drunk, And down to his own native regions he sunk. Down, down, forty fathoms beneath the blue wave, And the hopes of old Europe lie in the same grave; While Freedom, more firm, stands upon her own sod, And for heroes like Winslow is shouting, "Thank God!" Thomas Buchanan Read. KEARSARGE AND ALABAMA [June 19, 1864] It was early Sunday morning, in the year of sixty-four, The Alabama she steam'd out along the Frenchman's shore. Long time she cruised about, Long time she held her sway, But now beneath the Frenchman's shore she lies off Cherbourg Bay. Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave Over the Union, the home of the brave. Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave, God bless America, the home of the brave! The Yankee cruiser hove in view, the Kearsarge was her name, It ought to be engraved in full upon the scroll of fame; Her timbers made of Yankee oak, And her crew of Yankee tars. And o'er her mizzen peak she floats the glorious stripes and stars. A challenge unto Captain Semmes, bold Winslow he did send! "Bring on your Alabama, and to her we will attend, For we think your boasting privateer Is not so hard to whip; And we'll show you that the Kearsarge is not a merchant ship." It was early Sunday morning, in the year of sixty-four, The Alabama she stood out and cannons loud did roar; The Kearsarge stood undaunted, and quickly she replied And let a Yankee 'leven-inch shell go tearing through her side. The Kearsarge then she wore around and broadside on did bear, With shot and shell and right good-will, her timbers she did tear; When they found that they were sinking, down came the stars and bars, For the rebel gunners could not stand the glorious stripes and stars. The Alabama she is gone, she'll cruise the seas no more, She met the fate she well deserved along the Frenchman's shore; Then here is luck to the Kearsarge, we know what she can do, Likewise to Captain Winslow and his brave and gallant crew. Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave Over the Union, the home of the brave! Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave, God bless America, the home of the brave! [June 19, 1864] Sunday in Old England: In gray churches everywhere The calm of low responses, The sacred hush of prayer. Sunday in Old England: And summer winds that went O'er the pleasant fields of Sussex, The garden lands of Kent, Stole into dim church windows And passed the oaken door, And fluttered open prayer-books With the cannon's awful roar. Sunday in New England: Upon a mountain gray The wind-bent pines are swaying Like giants at their play; Across the barren lowlands, Where men find scanty food, The north wind brings its vigor To homesteads plain and rude. Ho, land of pine and granite! Ho, hardy northland breeze! Well have you trained the manhood That shook the Channel seas, When o'er those storied waters The iron war-bolts flew, And through Old England's churches The summer breezes blew; While in our other England Stirred one gaunt rocky steep, When rode her sons as victors, Lords of the lonely deep. S. Weir Mitchell. London, July 20, 1864. THE ALABAMA She has gone to the bottom! the wrath of the tide Now breaks in vain insolence o'er her; No more the rough seas like a queen shall she ride, While the foe flies in terror before her! Now captive or exiled, or silent in death, The forms that so bravely did man her; Her deck is untrod, and the gale's stirring breath Flouts no more the red cross of her banner! She is down 'neath the waters, but still her bright name Is in death, as in life, ever glorious, And a sceptre all barren the conqueror must claim, Though he boasts the proud title "Victorious." Her country's lone champion, she shunned not the fight, Though unequal in strength, bold and fearless; And proved in her fate, though not matchless in might, In daring at least she was peerless. No trophy hung high in the foe's hated hall Shall speak of her final disaster, Nor tell of the danger that could not appall, Nor the spirit that nothing could master! The death-shot has sped—she has grimly gone down, But left her destroyer no token, And the mythical wand of her mystic renown, Though the waters o'erwhelm, is unbroken. For lo! ere she settles beneath the dark wave On her enemies' cheeks spreads a pallor, As another deck summons the swords of the brave To gild a new name with their valor. Her phantom will yet haunt the wild roaring breeze, Causing foemen to start and to shudder, While their commerce still steals like a thief o'er the seas, And trembles from bowsprit to rudder. The spirit that shed on the wave's gleaming crest The light of a legend romantic Shall live while a sail flutters over the breast Of thy far-bounding billows, Atlantic! And as long as one swift keel the strong surges stems, Or "poor Jack" loves his song and his story, Shall shine in tradition the valor of Semmes And the brave ship that bore him to glory! Maurice Bell.
[August 5, 1864] Farragut, who had lashed himself to the shrouds of his flagship, the Hartford, observed the Brooklyn, which preceded him, recoil as the Tecumseh sank. "What's the trouble?" he signalled. "Torpedoes!" answered the Brooklyn. "Damn the torpedoes!" shouted Farragut. "Go ahead, Captain Drayton! Four bells!" and the Hartford cleared the Brooklyn and took the lead. FARRAGUT (Mobile Bay, August 5, 1864) Farragut, Farragut, Old Heart of Oak, Daring Dave Farragut, Thunderbolt stroke, Watches the hoary mist Lift from the bay, Till his flag, glory-kissed, Greets the young day. Far, by gray Morgan's walls, Looms the black fleet. Hark, deck to rampart calls With the drums' beat! Buoy your chains overboard, While the steam hums; Men! to the battlement, Farragut comes. See, as the hurricane Hurtles in wrath Squadrons of clouds amain Back from its path! Back to the parapet, To the guns' lips, Thunderbolt Farragut Hurls the black ships. Now through the battle's roar Clear the boy sings, "By the mark fathoms four," While his lead swings. Steady the wheelmen five "Nor' by East keep her," "Steady," but two alive: How the shells sweep her! Lashed to the mast that sways Over red decks, Over the flame that plays Round the torn wrecks, Over the dying lips Framed for a cheer, Farragut leads his ships, Guides the line clear. On by heights cannon-browed, While the spars quiver; Onward still flames the cloud Where the hulks shiver. See, yon fort's star is set, Storm and fire past. Cheer him, lads—Farragut, Lashed to the mast! Oh! while Atlantic's breast Bears a white sail, While the Gulf's towering crest Tops a green vale, Men thy bold deeds shall tell, Old Heart of Oak, Daring Dave Farragut, Thunderbolt stroke! William Tuckey Meredith.
THROUGH FIRE IN MOBILE BAY [August 5, 1864] I'd weave a wreath for those who fought In blue upon the waves, I drop a tear for all who sleep Down in the coral caves, And proudly do I touch my cap Whene'er I meet to-day A man who sail'd with Farragut Thro' fire in Mobile Bay. Oh, what a gallant sight it was As toward the foe we bore! Lashed to the mast, unflinching, stood Our grand old Commodore. I see him now above the deck, Though time has cleared away The battle smoke that densely hung Above old Mobile Bay. Torpedoes to the right and left, Torpedoes straight ahead! The stanch Tecumseh sinks from sight, The waves receive her dead. But on we press, thro' lead and iron, On, on with pennons gay, Whilst glory holds her wreath above Immortal Mobile Bay. The rebel forts belch fire and death, But what care we for them? Our onward course, with Farragut To guide us, nought can stem. The Hartford works her dreaded guns, The Brooklyn pounds away, And proudly flies the flag of stars Aloft o'er Mobile Bay. Behold yon moving mass of iron Beyond the Ossipee; To fight the fleet with courage grim Steams forth the Tennessee. We hem her in with battle fire— How furious grows the fray, Until Surrender's flag she flies Above red Mobile Bay. We count our dead, we count our scars, The proudest ever won; We cheer the flag that gayly flies Victorious in the sun. No longer in the rigging stands The hero of the day, For he has linked his name fore'er To deathless Mobile Bay. Thus I would weave a wreath for all Who fought with us that time, And I'd embalm that glorious day Forevermore in rhyme. The stars above will rise and set, The years will pass away, But brighter all the time shall grow The fame of Mobile Bay. He sleeps, the bluff old Commodore Who led with hearty will; But ah! methinks I see him now, Lashed to the rigging still. I know that just beyond the tide, In God's own glorious day, He waits to greet the gallant tars Who fought in Mobile Bay.
(Mobile Harbor, August 5, 1864) Three days through sapphire seas we sailed, The steady Trade blew strong and free, The Northern Light his banners paled, The Ocean Stream our channels wet, We rounded low Canaveral's lee, And passed the isles of emerald set In blue Bahama's turquoise sea. By reef and shoal obscurely mapped, The hauntings of the gray sea-wolf, The palmy Western Key lay lapped In the warm washing of the Gulf. But weary to the hearts of all The burning glare, the barren reach Of Santa Rosa's withered beach, And Pensacola's ruined wall. And weary was the long patrol, The thousand miles of shapeless strand, From Brazos to San Blas that roll Their drifting dunes of desert sand. Yet coastwise as we cruised or lay, The land-breeze still at nightfall bore, By beach and fortress-guarded bay, Sweet odors from the enemy's shore, Fresh from the forest solitudes, Unchallenged of his sentry lines,— The bursting of his cypress buds, And the warm fragrance of his pines. Ah, never braver bark and crew, Nor bolder Flag a foe to dare, Had left a wake on ocean blue Since Lion-Heart sailed Trenc-le-mer! But little gain by that dark ground Was ours, save, sometime, freer breath For friend or brother strangely found, 'Scaped from the drear domain of death. And little venture for the bold, Or laurel for our valiant Chief, Save some blockaded British thief, Full fraught with murder in his hold, Caught unawares at ebb or flood, Or dull bombardment, day by day, With fort and earthwork, far away, Low couched in sullen leagues of mud. A weary time,—but to the strong The day at last, as ever, came; And the volcano, laid so long, Leaped forth in thunder and in flame! "Man your starboard battery!" Kimberly shouted;— The ship, with her hearts of oak, Was going, 'mid roar and smoke, On to victory; None of us doubted, No, not our dying— Farragut's Flag was flying! Gaines growled low on our left, Morgan roared on our right; Before us, gloomy and fell, With breath like the fume of hell, Lay the dragon of iron shell, Driven at last to the fight! Ha, old ship! do they thrill, The brave two hundred scars You got in the River-Wars? That were leeched with clamorous skill (Surgery savage and hard), Splinted with bolt and beam, Probed in scarfing and seam, Rudely linted and tarred With oakum and boiling pitch, And sutured with splice and hitch, At the Brooklyn Navy Yard! Our lofty spars were down, To bide the battle's frown (Wont of old renown)— But every ship was drest In her bravest and her best, As if for a July day; Sixty flags and three, As we floated up the bay— At every peak and mast-head flew The brave Red, White, and Blue,— We were eighteen ships that day. With hawsers strong and taut, The weaker lashed to port, On we sailed two by two— That if either a bolt should feel Crash through caldron or wheel, Fin of bronze, or sinew of steel, Her mate might bear her through. Forging boldly ahead, The great Flag-Ship led, Grandest of sights! On her lofty mizzen flew Our leader's dauntless Blue, That had waved o'er twenty fights. So we went with the first of the tide, Slowly, 'mid the roar Of the rebel guns ashore And the thunder of each full broadside. Ah, how poor the prate Of statute and state We once held these fellows! Here on the flood's pale green, Hark how he bellows, Each bluff old Sea-Lawyer! Talk to them, Dahlgren, Parrott, and Sawyer! On, in the whirling shade Of the cannon's sulphury breath, We drew to the Line of Death That our devilish Foe had laid,— Meshed in a horrible net, And baited villainous well, Right in our path were set Three hundred traps of hell! And there, O sight forlorn! There, while the cannon Hurtled and thundered (Ah, what ill raven Flapped o'er the ship that morn!),— Caught by the under-death, In the drawing of a breath Down went dauntless Craven, He and his hundred! A moment we saw her turret, A little heel she gave, And a thin white spray went o'er her, Like the crest of a breaking wave;— In that great iron coffin, The channel for their grave, The fort their monument (Seen afar in the offing), Ten fathom deep lie Craven And the bravest of our brave. Then in that deadly track A little the ships held back, Closing up in their stations;— There are minutes that fix the fate Of battles and of nations (Christening the generations), When valor were all too late. If a moment's doubt be harbored;— From the main-top, bold and brief, Came the word of our grand old chief: "Go on!"—'twas all he said,— Our helm was put to starboard, And the Hartford passed ahead. Ahead lay the Tennessee, On our starboard bow he lay, With his mail-clad consorts three (The rest had run up the bay): There he was, belching flame from his bow, And the steam from his throat's abyss Was a Dragon's maddened hiss; In sooth a most cursed craft!— In a sullen ring, at bay, By the Middle-Ground they lay, Raking us fore and aft. Trust me, our berth was hot, Ah, wickedly well they shot— How their death-bolts howled and stung! And the water-batteries played With their deadly cannonade Till the air around us rung; So the battle raged and roared;— Ah, had you been aboard To have seen the fight we made! How they leapt, the tongues of flame, From the cannon's fiery lip! How the broadsides, deck and frame, Shook the great ship! And how the enemy's shell Came crashing, heavy and oft, Clouds of splinters flying aloft And falling in oaken showers;— But ah, the pluck of the crew! Had you stood on that deck of ours, You had seen what men may do. Still, as the fray grew louder, Boldly they worked and well— Steadily came the powder, Steadily came the shell. Quickly they cleared the wreck— And the dead were laid to port, All a-row, on our deck. Never a nerve that failed, Never a cheek that paled, Not a tinge of gloom or pallor;— There was bold Kentucky's grit, And the old Virginian valor, And the daring Yankee wit. There were blue eyes from turfy Shannon, There were black orbs from palmy Niger,— But there alongside the cannon, Each man fought like a tiger! A little, once, it looked ill, Our consort began to burn— They quenched the flames with a will, But our men were falling still, And still the fleet were astern. Right abreast of the Fort In an awful shroud they lay, Broadsides thundering away, And lightning from every port; Scene of glory and dread! A storm-cloud all aglow With flashes of fiery red, The thunder raging below, And the forest of flags o'erhead! So grand the hurly and roar, So fiercely their broadsides blazed, The regiments fighting ashore Forgot to fire as they gazed. There, to silence the foe, Moving grimly and slow, They loomed in that deadly wreath, Where the darkest batteries frowned,— Death in the air all round, And the black torpedoes beneath! And now, as we looked ahead, All for'ard, the long white deck Was growing a strange dull red,— But soon, as once and again Fore and aft we sped (The firing to guide or check), You could hardly choose but tread On the ghastly human wreck (Dreadful gobbet and shred That a minute ago were men!) Red, from mainmast to bitts! Red, on bulwark and wale, Red, by combing and hatch, Red, o'er netting and vail! And ever, with steady con, The ship forged slowly by,— And ever the crew fought on, And their cheers rang loud and high. Grand was the sight to see How by their guns they stood, Right in front of our dead, Fighting square abreast— Each brawny arm and chest All spotted with black and red, Chrism of fire and blood! Worth our watch, dull and sterile, Worth all the weary time, Worth the woe and the peril, To stand in that strait sublime! Fear? A forgotten form! Death? A dream of the eyes! We were atoms in God's great storm That roared through the angry skies. One only doubt was ours, One only dread we knew,— Could the day that dawned so well Go down for the Darker Powers? Would the fleet get through? And ever the shot and shell Came with the howl of hell, The splinter-clouds rose and fell, And the long line of corpses grew,— Would the fleet win through? They are men that never will fail (How aforetime they've fought!), But Murder may yet prevail,— They may sink as Craven sank. Therewith one hard fierce thought, Burning on heart and lip, Ran like fire through the ship; Fight her, to the last plank! A dimmer renown might strike If Death lay square alongside,— But the old Flag has no like, She must fight, whatever betide;— When the War is a tale of old, And this day's story is told, They shall hear how the Hartford died! But as we ranged ahead, And the leading ships worked in, Losing their hope to win, The enemy turned and fled— And one seeks a shallow reach! And another, winged in her flight, Our mate, brave Jouett, brings in;— And one, all torn in the fight, Runs for a wreck on the beach, Where her flames soon fire the night. And the Ram, when well up the Bay, And we looked that our stems should meet (He had us fair for a prey), Shifting his helm midway, Sheered off, and ran for the fleet; There, without skulking or sham, He fought them gun for gun; And ever he sought to ram, But could finish never a one. From the first of the iron shower Till we sent our parting shell, 'Twas just one savage hour Of the roar and the rage of hell. With the lessening smoke and thunder, Our glasses around we aim,— What is that burning yonder? Our Philippi—aground and in flame! Below, 'twas still all a-roar, As the ships went by the shore, But the fire of the Fort had slacked (So fierce their volleys had been),— And now with a mighty din, The whole fleet came grandly in, Though sorely battered and wracked. So, up the Bay we ran, The Flag to port and ahead,— And a pitying rain began To wash the lips of our dead. A league from the Fort we lay, And deemed that the end must lag,— When lo! looking down the Bay, There flaunted the Rebel Rag;— The Ram is again under way And heading dead for the Flag! Steering up with the stream, Boldly his course he lay, Though the fleet all answered his fire, And, as he still drew nigher, Ever on bow and beam Our Monitors pounded away; How the Chickasaw hammered away! Quickly breasting the wave, Eager the prize to win, First of us all the brave Monongahela went in Under full head of steam;— Twice she struck him abeam, Till her stem was a sorry work (She might have run on a crag!), The Lackawanna hit fair, He flung her aside like cork, And still he held for the Flag. High in the mizzen shroud (Lest the smoke his sight o'erwhelm), Our Admiral's voice rang loud; "Hard-a-starboard your helm! Starboard, and run him down!" Starboard it was,—and so, Like a black squall's lifting frown, Our mighty bow bore down On the iron beak of the Foe. We stood on the deck together, Men that had looked on death In battle and stormy weather; Yet a little we held our breath, When, with the hush of death, The great ships drew together. Our Captain strode to the bow, Drayton, courtly and wise, Kindly cynic, and wise (You hardly had known him now, The flame of fight in his eyes!),— His brave heart eager to feel How the oak would tell on the steel! But, as the space grew short, A little he seemed to shun us; Out peered a form grim and lanky, And a voice yelled, "Hard-a-port! Hard-a-port!—here's the damned Yankee Coming right down on us!" He sheered, but the ships ran foul With a gnarring shudder and growl; He gave us a deadly gun; But as he passed in his pride (Rasping right alongside!), The old Flag, in thunder-tones Poured in her port broadside, Rattling his iron hide And cracking his timber-bones! Just then, at speed on the Foe, With her bow all weathered and brown, The great Lackawanna came down Full tilt, for another blow;— We were forging ahead, She reversed—but, for all our pains, Rammed the old Hartford, instead, Just for'ard the mizzen chains! Ah! how the masts did buckle and bend, And the stout hull ring and reel, As she took us right on end! (Vain were engine and wheel, She was under full steam)— With the roar of a thunder-stroke Her two thousand tons of oak Brought up on us, right abeam! A wreck, as it looked, we lay (Rib and plank-sheer gave way To the stroke of that giant wedge!)— Here, after all, we go— The old ship is gone!—ah, no, But cut to the water's edge. Never mind then,—at him again! His flurry now can't last long; He'll never again see land,— Try that on him, Marchand! On him again, brave Strong! Heading square at the hulk, Full on his beam we bore; But the spine of the huge Sea-Hog Lay on the tide like a log, He vomited flame no more. By this, he had found it hot;— Half the fleet, in an angry ring, Closed round the hideous thing, Hammering with solid shot, And bearing down, bow on bow; He has but a minute to choose,— Life or renown?—which now Will the Rebel Admiral lose? Cruel, haughty, and cold, He ever was strong and bold; Shall he shrink from a wooden stem? He will think of that brave band He sank in the Cumberland; Ay, he will sink like them. Nothing left but to fight Boldly his last sea-fight! Can he strike? By Heaven, 'tis true! Down comes the traitor Blue, And up goes the captive White! Up went the White! Ah, then The hurrahs that once and again Rang from three thousand men All flushed and savage with fight! Our dead lay cold and stark; But our dying, down in the dark, Answered as best they might, Lifting their poor lost arms, And cheering for God and Right! Ended the mighty noise, Thunder of forts and ships. Down we went to the hold, Oh, our dear dying boys! How we pressed their poor brave lips (Ah, so pallid and cold!) And held their hands to the last (Those who had hands to hold). Still thee, O woman heart! (So strong an hour ago); If the idle tears must start, 'Tis not in vain they flow. They died, our children dear. On the drear berth-deck they died,— Do not think of them here— Even now their footsteps near The immortal, tender sphere (Land of love and cheer! Home of the Crucified!). And the glorious deed survives; Our threescore, quiet and cold, Lie thus, for a myriad lives And treasure-millions untold (Labor of poor men's lives, Hunger of weans and wives, Such is war-wasted gold). Our ship and her fame to-day Shall float on the storied Stream When mast and shroud have crumbled away, And her long white deck is a dream. One daring leap in the dark, Three mortal hours, at the most,— And hell lies stiff and stark On a hundred leagues of coast. For the mighty Gulf is ours,— The bay is lost and won, An Empire is lost and won! Land, if thou yet hast flowers, Of tenderest white and red (Twin buds of glory and death!), For the brows of our brave dead, For thy Navy's noblest son. Joy, O Land, for thy sons, Victors by flood and field! The traitor walls and guns Have nothing left but to yield (Even now they surrender!). And the ships shall sail once more, And the cloud of war sweep on To break on the cruel shore;— But Craven is gone, He and his hundred are gone. The flags flutter up and down At sunrise and twilight dim, The cannons menace and frown,— But never again for him, Him and the hundred. The Dahlgrens are dumb, Dumb are the mortars; Never more shall the drum Beat to colors and quarters,— The great guns are silent. O brave heart and loyal! Let all your colors dip;— Mourn him proud ship! From main deck to royal. God rest our Captain, Rest our lost hundred! Droop, flag and pennant! What is your pride for? Heaven, that he died for, Rest our Lieutenant, Rest our brave threescore! * * * * * O Mother Land! this weary life We led, we lead, is 'long of thee; Thine the strong agony of strife, And thine the lonely sea. Thine the long decks all slaughter-sprent, The weary rows of cots that lie With wrecks of strong men, marred and rent, 'Neath Pensacola's sky. And thine the iron caves and dens Wherein the flame our war-fleet drives; The fiery vaults, whose breath is men's Most dear and precious lives! Ah, ever when with storm sublime Dread Nature clears our murky air, Thus in the crash of falling crime Some lesser guilt must share. Full red the furnace fires must glow That melt the ore of mortal kind; The mills of God are grinding slow, But ah, how close they grind! To-day the Dahlgren and the drum Are dread Apostles of His Name; His kingdom here can only come By chrism of blood and flame. Be strong: already slants the gold Athwart these wild and stormy skies: From out this blackened waste, behold What happy homes shall rise! But see thou well no traitor gloze, No striking hands with Death and Shame, Betray the sacred blood that flows So freely for thy name. And never fear a victor foe— Thy children's hearts are strong and high; Nor mourn too fondly; well they know On deck or field to die. Nor shalt thou want one willing breath, Though, ever smiling round the brave, The blue sea bear us on to death, The green were one wide grave. Henry Howard Brownell.
[October 27, 1864] Joy in rebel Plymouth town, in the spring of sixty-four, When the Albemarle down on the Yankee frigates bore, When she smote the Southfield dead, and the stout Miami quailed, And the fleet in terror fled when their mighty cannon hailed Shot and shell on her iron back in vain, Till she slowly steamed away to her berth at Plymouth pier, And their quick eyes saw her sway with her great beak out of gear, And the color of their courage rose again. All the summer lay the ram, Like a wounded beast at bay, While the watchful squadron swam In the harbor night and day, Till the broken beak was mended, and the weary vigil ended, And her time was come again to smite and slay. Must they die, and die in vain, Like a flock of shambled sheep? Then the Yankee grit and brain Must be dead or gone to sleep, And our sailors' gallant story of a hundred years of glory Let us sell for a song, selling cheap! Cushing, scarce a man in years, But a sailor thoroughbred, "With a dozen volunteers I will sink the ram," he said. "At the worst 'tis only dying." And the old commander, sighing, "'Tis to save the fleet and flag—go ahead!" * * * * * Bright the rebel beacons blazed On the river left and right; Wide awake their sentries gazed Through the watches of the night; Sharp their challenge rang, and fiery came the rifle's quick inquiry, As the little launch swung into the light. Listening ears afar had heard; Ready hands to quarters sprung, The Albemarle awoke and stirred, And her howitzers gave tongue; Till the river and the shore echoed back the mighty roar, When the portals of her hundred-pounders swung. Will the swordfish brave the whale, Doubly girt with boom and chain? Face the shrapnel's iron hail? Dare the livid leaden rain? Ah! that shell has done its duty; it has spoiled the Yankee's beauty; See her turn and fly with half her madmen slain. High the victor's taunting yell Rings above the battle roar, And they bid her mock farewell As she seeks the farther shore, Till they see her sudden swinging, crouching for the leap and springing Back to boom and chain and bloody fray once more. Now the Southern captain, stirred By the spirit of his race, Stops the firing with a word, Bids them yield, and offers grace. Cushing, laughing, answers, "No! we are here to fight!" and so Swings the dread torpedo spar to its place. Then the great ship shook and reeled, With a wounded, gaping side, But her steady cannon pealed Ere she settled in the tide, And the Roanoke's dull flood ran full red with Yankee blood, When the fighting Albemarle sunk and died. Woe in rebel Plymouth town when the Albemarle fell, And the saucy flag went down that had floated long and well, Nevermore from her stricken deck to wave. For the fallen flag a sigh, for the fallen foe a tear! Never shall their glory die while we hold our glory dear, And the hero's laurels live on his grave. Link their Cooke's with Cushing's name; proudly call them both our own; Claim their valor and their fame for America alone— Joyful mother of the bravest of the brave! James Jeffrey Roche. AT THE CANNON'S MOUTH DESTRUCTION OF THE RAM ALBEMARLE BY THE TORPEDO-LAUNCH, OCTOBER 27, 1864 THE MARTYR PRESIDENT
LINCOLN Chained by stern duty to the rock of state, His spirit armed in mail of rugged mirth, Ever above, though ever near to earth, Yet felt his heart the cruel tongues that sate Base appetites, and foul with slander, wait Till the keen lightnings bring the awful hour When wounds and suffering shall give them power. Most was he like to Luther, gay and great, Solemn and mirthful, strong of heart and limb. Tender and simple too; he was so near To all things human that he cast out fear, And, ever simpler, like a little child, Lived in unconscious nearness unto Him Who always on earth's little ones hath smiled. S. Weir Mitchell.
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! [April 14, 1865] O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. Walt Whitman. THE DEAD PRESIDENT Were there no crowns on earth, No evergreen to wreathe a hero's wreath, That he must pass beyond the gates of death, Our hero, our slain hero, to be crowned? Could there on our unworthy earth be found Naught to befit his worth? The noblest soul of all! When was there ever, since our Washington, A man so pure, so wise, so patient—one Who walked with this high goal alone in sight, To speak, to do, to sanction only Right, Though very heaven should fall! Ah, not for him we weep; What honor more could be in store for him? Who would have had him linger in our dim And troublesome world, when his great work was done— Who would not leave that worn and weary one Gladly to go to sleep? For us the stroke was just; We were not worthy of that patient heart; We might have helped him more, not stood apart, And coldly criticised his works and ways— Too late now, all too late—our little praise Sounds hollow o'er his dust. Be merciful, O our God! Forgive the meanness of our human hearts, That never, till a noble soul departs, See half the worth, or hear the angel's wings Till they go rustling heavenward as he springs Up from the mounded sod. Yet what a deathless crown Of Northern pine and Southern orange-flower, For victory, and the land's new bridal-hour, Would we have wreathed for that beloved brow! Sadly upon his sleeping forehead now We lay our cypress down. O martyred one, farewell! Thou hast not left thy people quite alone, Out of thy beautiful life there comes a tone Of power, of love, of trust, a prophecy, Whose fair fulfilment all the earth shall be, And all the Future tell. Edward Rowland Sill. ABRAHAM LINCOLN ASSASSINATED GOOD FRIDAY, 1865 "Forgive them, for they know not what they do!" He said, and so went shriven to his fate,— Unknowing went, that generous heart and true. Even while he spoke, the slayer lay in wait, And when the morning opened Heaven's gate There passed the whitest soul a nation knew. Henceforth all thoughts of pardon are too late; They, in whose cause that arm its weapon drew, Have murdered Mercy. Now alone shall stand Blind Justice, with the sword unsheathed she wore. Hark, from the eastern to the western strand, The swelling thunder of the people's roar: What words they murmur,—Fetter not her hand! So let it smite, such deeds shall be no more! Edmund Clarence Stedman.
WILKES BOOTH—APRIL 26, 1865 Pains the sharp sentence the heart in whose wrath it was uttered, Now thou art cold; Vengeance, the headlong, and Justice, with purpose close muttered, Loosen their hold. Death brings atonement; he did that whereof ye accuse him,— Murder accurst; But from that crisis of crime in which Satan did lose him, Suffered the worst. Harshly the red dawn arose on a deed of his doing, Never to mend; But harsher days he wore out in the bitter pursuing And the wild end. So lift the pale flag of truce, wrap those mysteries round him, In whose avail Madness that moved, and the swift retribution that found him, Falter and fail. So the soft purples that quiet the heavens with mourning, Willing to fall, Lend him one fold, his illustrious victim adorning With wider pall. Back to the cross, where the Saviour uplifted in dying Bade all souls live, Turns the reft bosom of Nature, his mother, low sighing, Greatest, forgive! Julia Ward Howe.
THE DEAR PRESIDENT Abraham Lincoln, the Dear President, Lay in the Round Hall at the Capitol, And there the people came to look their last. There came the widow, weeded for her mate; There came the mother, sorrowing for her son; There came the orphan, moaning for its sire. There came the soldier, bearing home his wound; There came the slave, who felt his broken chain; There came the mourners of a blacken'd Land. Through the dark April day, a ceaseless throng, They pass'd the coffin, saw the sleeping face, And, blessing it, in silence moved away. And one, a poet, spoke within his heart: "It harm'd him not to praise him when alive, And me it cannot harm to praise him dead. "Too oft the muse has blush'd to speak of men— No muse shall blush to speak her best of him, And still to speak her best of him is dumb. "O lofty wisdom's low simplicity! O awful tenderness of noted power!— No man e'er held so much of power so meek. "He was the husband of the husbandless, He was the father of the fatherless: Within his heart he weigh'd the common woe. "His call was like a father's to his sons! As to a father's voice, they, hearing, came— Eager to offer, strive, and bear, and die. "The mild bond-breaker, servant of his Lord, He took the sword, but in the name of Peace, And touched the fetter, and the bound was free. "Oh, place him not among the historic kings, Strong, barbarous chiefs and bloody conquerors, But with the Great and pure Republicans: "Those who have been unselfish, wise, and good, Bringers of Light and Pilots in the dark, Bearers of Crosses, Servants of the World. "And always, in his Land of birth and death, Be his fond name—warm'd in the people's hearts— Abraham Lincoln, the Dear President." John James Piatt. ABRAHAM LINCOLN Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, Gentle and merciful and just! Who, in the fear of God, didst bear The sword of power, a nation's trust! In sorrow by thy bier we stand, Amid the awe that hushes all, And speak the anguish of a land That shook with horror at thy fall. Thy task is done; the bond are free: We bear thee to an honored grave, Whose proudest monument shall be The broken fetters of the slave. Pure was thy life; its bloody close Hath placed thee with the sons of light, Among the noble host of those Who perished in the cause of Right. William Cullen Bryant.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN Not as when some great Captain falls, In battle, where his Country calls, Beyond the struggling lines That push his dread designs To doom, by some stray ball struck dead: Or, in the last charge, at the head Of his determined men, Who must be victors then. Nor as when sink the civic great, The safer pillars of the State, Whose calm, mature, wise words Suppress the need of swords. With no such tears as e'er were shed Above the noblest of our dead Do we to-day deplore The Man that is no more. Our sorrow hath a wider scope, Too strange for fear, too vast for hope, A wonder, blind and dumb, That waits—what is to come! Not more astounded had we been If Madness, that dark night, unseen, Had in our chambers crept, And murdered while we slept! We woke to find a mourning earth, Our Lares shivered on the hearth, The roof-tree fallen, all That could affright, appall! Such thunderbolts, in other lands, Have smitten the rod from royal hands, But spared, with us, till now, Each laurelled CÆsar's brow. No CÆsar he whom we lament, A Man without a precedent, Sent, it would seem, to do His work, and perish, too. Not by the weary cares of State, The endless tasks, which will not wait, Which, often done in vain, Must yet be done again: Not in the dark, wild tide of war, Which rose so high, and rolled so far, Sweeping from sea to sea In awful anarchy: Four fateful years of mortal strife, Which slowly drained the nation's life (Yet for each drop that ran There sprang an armÈd man!). Not then; but when, by measures meet By victory, and by defeat, By courage, patience, skill, The people's fixed, "We will!" Had pierced, had crushed Rebellion dead, Without a hand, without a head, At last, when all was well, He fell, O how he fell! The time, the place, the stealing shape, The coward shot, the swift escape, The wife, the widow's scream,— It is a hideous Dream! A dream? What means this pageant, then? These multitudes of solemn men, Who speak not when they meet, But throng the silent street? The flags half-mast that late so high Flaunted at each new victory? (The stars no brightness shed, But bloody looks the red!) The black festoons that stretch for miles, And turn the streets to funeral aisles? (No house too poor to show The nation's badge of woe.) The cannon's sudden, sullen boom, The bells that toll of death and doom, The rolling of the drums, The dreadful car that comes? Cursed be the hand that fired the shot, The frenzied brain that hatched the plot, Thy country's Father slain By thee, thou worse than Cain! Tyrants have fallen by such as thou, And good hath followed—may it now! (God lets bad instruments Produce the best events.) But he, the man we mourn to-day, No tyrant was: so mild a sway In one such weight who bore Was never known before. Cool should he be, of balanced powers, The ruler of a race like ours, Impatient, headstrong, wild, The Man to guide the Child. And this he was, who most unfit (So hard the sense of God to hit) Did seem to fill his place; With such a homely face, Such rustic manners, speech uncouth (That somehow blundered out the truth), Untried, untrained to bear The more than kingly care. Ah! And his genius put to scorn The proudest in the purple born, Whose wisdom never grew To what, untaught, he knew, The People, of whom he was one: No gentleman, like Washington (Whose bones, methinks, make room, To have him in their tomb!). A laboring man, with horny hands, Who swung the axe, who tilled his lands, Who shrank from nothing new, But did as poor men do. One of the People! born to be Their curious epitome; To share yet rise above Their shifting hate and love. Common his mind (it seemed so then), His thoughts the thoughts of other men: Plain were his words, and poor, But now they will endure! No hasty fool, of stubborn will, But prudent, cautious, pliant still; Who since his work was good Would do it as he could. Doubting, was not ashamed to doubt, And, lacking prescience, went without: Often appeared to halt, And was, of course, at fault; Heard all opinions, nothing loath, And, loving both sides, angered both: Was—not like Justice, blind, But watchful, clement, kind. No hero this of Roman mould, Nor like our stately sires of old: Perhaps he was not great, But he preserved the State! O honest face, which all men knew! O tender heart, but known to few! O wonder of the age, Cut off by tragic rage! Peace! Let the long procession come, For hark, the mournful, muffled drum, The trumpet's wail afar, And see, the awful car! Peace! Let the sad procession go, While cannon boom and bells toll slow. And go, thou sacred car, Bearing our woe afar! Go, darkly borne, from State to State, Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait To honor all they can The dust of that good man. Go, grandly borne, with such a train As greatest kings might die to gain. The just, the wise, the brave, Attend thee to the grave. And you, the soldiers of our wars, Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars, Salute him once again, Your late commander—slain! Yes, let your tears indignant fall, But leave your muskets on the wall; Your country needs you now Beside the forge—the plough. (When Justice shall unsheathe her brand, If Mercy may not stay her hand, Nor would we have it so, She must direct the blow.) And you, amid the master-race, Who seem so strangely out of place, Know ye who cometh? He Who hath declared ye free. Bow while the body passes—nay, Fall on your knees, and weep, and pray! Weep, weep—I would ye might— Your poor black faces white! And, children, you must come in bands, With garlands in your little hands, Of blue and white and red, To strew before the dead. So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes The Fallen to his last repose. Beneath no mighty dome, But in his modest home; The churchyard where his children rest, The quiet spot that suits him best, There shall his grave be made, And there his bones be laid. And there his countrymen shall come, With memory proud, with pity dumb, And strangers far and near, For many and many a year. For many a year and many an age, While History on her ample page The virtues shall enroll Of that Paternal Soul. Richard Henry Stoddard.
PARRICIDE ABRAHAM LINCOLN—APRIL 14, 1865 O'er the warrior gauntlet grim Late the silken glove we drew, Bade the watch-fires slacken dim In the dawn's auspicious hue. Stayed the armÈd heel; Stilled the clanging steel; Joys unwonted thrilled the silence through. Glad drew near the Easter tide; And the thoughts of men anew Turned to Him who spotless died For the peace that none shall rue. Out of mortal pain This abiding strain Issued: "Peace, my peace, I give to you." Musing o'er the silent strings, By their apathy opprest, Waiting for the spirit wings, To be touched and soul-possessed, "I am dull," I said: "Treason is not dead; Still in ambush lurks that shivering guest." Then a woman's shriek of fear Smote us in its arrowy flight; Did the hearts of men unite. Has the seed of crime Reached its flowering-time, That it shoots to this audacious height? Then, as frosts the landscape change, Stiffening from the summer's glow, Grew the jocund faces strange, Lay the loftiest emblem low: Kings are of the past, Suffered still to last; These twin crowns the present did bestow. Fair assassin, murder white, With thy serpent speed avoid Each unsullied household light, Every conscience unalloyed. Neither heart nor home Where good angels come Suffer thee in nearness to abide. Slanderer of the gracious brow, The untiring blood of youth, Servant of an evil now, Of a crime that beggars ruth, Treason was thy dam, Wolfling, when the Lamb, The Anointed, met thy venomed tooth. With the righteous did he fall, With the sainted doth he lie; While the gibbet's vultures call Thee, that, 'twixt the earth and sky, Disavowed of both In their Godward troth, Thou mayst make thy poor amend, and die. If it were my latest breath, Doomed his bloody end to share, I would brand thee with his death As a deed beyond despair. Since the Christ was lost For a felon's cost, None like thee of vengeance should beware. Leave the murderer, noble song, Helpless in the toils of fate: To the just thy meeds belong, To the martyr, to the state. When the storm beats loud Over sail and shroud, Tunefully the seaman cheers his mate. Never tempest lashed the wave But to leave it fresher calm; Never weapon scarred the brave But their blood did purchase balm. God hath writ on high Such a victory As uplifts the nation with its psalm. Honor to the heart of love, Honor to the peaceful will, Slow to threaten, strong to move, Swift to render good for ill! Glory crowns his end, And the captive's friend From his ashes makes us freemen still. Julia Ward Howe.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier, You, who, with mocking pencil, wont to trace, Broad for the self-complaisant British sneer, His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face, His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, His lack of all we prize as debonair, Of power or will to shine, of art to please; You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, Judging each step as though the way were plain; Reckless, so it could point its paragraph Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain,— Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew, Between the mourners at his head and feet, Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you? Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer, To lame my pencil, and confute my pen; To make me own this hind of Princes peer, This rail-splitter a true-born king of men. My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, Noting how to occasion's height he rose, How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true, How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows; How humble, yet how hopeful, he could be; How, in good fortune and in ill, the same; Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. He went about his work—such work as few Ever had laid on head and heart and hand— As one who knows, where there's a task to do, Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command; Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, That God makes instruments to work His will, If but that will we can arrive to know, Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill. So he went forth to battle, on the side That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, As in his peasant boyhood he had plied His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting mights,— The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe, The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil, The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks, The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear,— Such were the needs that helped his youth to train: Rough culture—but such trees large fruit may bear, If but their stocks be of right girth and grain. So he grew up, a destined work to do, And lived to do it: four long-suffering years' Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through, And then he heard the hisses change to cheers, The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, And took both with the same unwavering mood; Till, as he came on light, from darkling days, And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood, A felon hand, between the goal and him, Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest— And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest. The words of mercy were upon his lips, Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse To thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men. The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, Utter one voice of sympathy and shame. Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high! Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came! A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt If more of horror or disgrace they bore; But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out, Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife, Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven, And with the martyr's crown, crownest a life With much to praise, little to be forgiven. Tom Taylor. CHAPTER XIIIPEACE
"STACK ARMS!" "Stack Arms!" I've gladly heard the cry When, weary with the dusty tread Of marching troops, as night drew nigh, I sank upon my soldier bed, And calmly slept; the starry dome Of heaven's blue arch my canopy, And mingled with my dreams of home The thoughts of Peace and Liberty. "Stack Arms!" I've heard it when the shout Exulting ran along our line, Of foes hurled back in bloody rout, Captured, dispersed; its tones divine Then came to mine enraptured ear, Guerdon of duty nobly done, And glistened on my cheek the tear Of grateful joy for victory won. "Stack Arms!" In faltering accents, slow And sad, it creeps from tongue to tongue, A broken, murmuring wail of woe, From manly hearts by anguish wrung. Like victims of a midnight dream, We move, we know not how nor why; For life and hope like phantoms seem, And it would be relief—to die! Joseph Blynth Alston.
JEFFERSON DAVIS "Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee, are all with thee." Longfellow. Calm martyr of a noble cause, Upon thy form in vain The Dungeon shuts its cankered jaws, And clasps its cankered chain; For thy free spirit walks abroad, And every pulse is stirred With the old deathless glory thrill, Whene'er thy name is heard. The same that lit each Grecian eye, Whene'er it rested on The wild pass of ThermopylÆ— The plain of Marathon; And made the Roman's ancient blood Bound fiercely as he told, "How well Horatio kept the bridge, In the brave days of old." The same that makes the Switzer's heart With silent rapture swell, When in each Alpine height he sees A monument to Tell: The same that kindles Irish veins When Emmet's name is told; What Bruce to Caledonia is, Kosciusko to the Pole— Art thou to us!—thy deathless fame, With Washington entwined, Forever in each Southern heart Is hallowed and enshrined;— And though the tyrant give thy form To shameful death—'twere vain; It would but shed a splendor round The gibbet and the chain. Only less sacred in our eyes, Thus blest and purified, Than the dear cross on which our Lord Was shamed and crucified, Would the vile gallows tree become, And through all ages shine, Linked with the glory of thy name, A relic and a shrine! Walker Meriwether Bell.
IN THE LAND WHERE WE WERE DREAMING ACCEPTATION I We do accept thee, heavenly Peace! Albeit thou comest in a guise Unlooked for—undesired, our eyes Welcome through tears the sweet release From war, and woe, and want,—surcease, For which we bless thee, blessÈd Peace! II We lift our foreheads from the dust; And as we meet thy brow's clear calm, There falls a freshening sense of balm Upon our spirits. Fear—distrust— The hopeless present on us thrust— We'll meet them as we can, and must. III War has not wholly wrecked us: still Strong hands, brave hearts, high souls are ours— Proud consciousness of quenchless powers— A Past whose memory makes us thrill— Futures uncharactered, to fill With heroisms—if we will. IV Then courage, brothers!—Though each breast Feel oft the rankling thorn, despair, That failure plants so sharply there— No pain, no pang shall be confest: We'll work and watch the brightening west, And leave to God and Heaven the rest. Margaret Junkin Preston. THE CONQUERED BANNER Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary; Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary; Furl it, fold it—it is best; For there's not a man to wave it, And there's not a sword to save it, And there's not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it; And its foes now scorn and brave it; Furl it, hide it—let it rest! Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered; Broken is its staff and shattered, And the valiant hosts are scattered Over whom it floated high. Oh, 'tis hard for us to fold it, Hard to think there's none to hold it, Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh! Furl that Banner—furl it sadly; Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, And ten thousands wildly, madly Swore it should forever wave— Swore that foeman's sword should never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, And that flag should float forever O'er their freedom, or their grave! Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low; And that Banner—it is trailing, While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe; For, though conquered, they adore it— Love the cold, dead hands that bore it! Weep for those who fell before it! Pardon those who trailed and tore it! But, oh, wildly they deplore it, Now who furl and fold it so! Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory, Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, And 'twill live in song and story Though its folds are in the dust! For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages— Furl its folds though now we must! Furl that Banner, softly, slowly; Treat it gently—it is holy, For it droops above the dead; Touch it not—unfold it never; Let it droop there, furled forever,— For its people's hopes are fled. Abram J. Ryan.
PEACE Daybreak upon the hills! Slowly, behind the midnight murk and trail Of the long storm, light brightens, pure and pale, And the horizon fills. Not bearing swift release,— Not with quick feet of triumph, but with tread August and solemn, following her dead, Cometh, at last, our Peace. Over thick graves grown green, Over pale bones that graveless lie and bleach, Over torn human hearts her path doth reach, And Heaven's dear pity lean. O angel sweet and grand! White-footed, from beside the throne of God, Thou movest, with the palm and olive-rod, And day bespreads the land! His Day we waited for! With faces to the East, we prayed and fought; And a faint music of the dawning caught, All through the sounds of War. Our souls are still with praise! It is the dawning; there is work to do: When we have borne the long hours' burden through, Then we will pÆans raise. God give us, with the time, His strength for His large purpose to the world! To bear before Him, in its face unfurled, His gonfalon sublime! Ay, we are strong! Both sides The misty river stretch His army's wings: Heavenward, with glorious wheel, one flank He flings; And one front still abides! Strongest where most bereft! His great ones He doth call to more command. For whom He hath prepared it, they shall stand On the Right Hand and Left! Adeline D. T. Whitney. PEACE O Land, of every land the best— O Land, whose glory shall increase; Now in your whitest raiment drest For the great festival of Peace: Take from your flag its fold of gloom, And let it float undimmed above, Till over all our vales shall bloom The sacred colors that we love. On mountain high, in valley low, Set Freedom's living fires to burn; Until the midnight sky shall show A redder pathway than the morn. Welcome, with shouts of joy and pride, Your veterans from the war-path's track; You gave your boys, untrained, untried; You bring them men and heroes back! And shed no tear, though think you must With sorrow of the martyred band; Not even for him whose hallowed dust Has made our prairies holy land. Though by the places where they fell, The places that are sacred ground, Death, like a sullen sentinel, Paces his everlasting round. Yet when they set their country free And gave her traitors fitting doom, They left their last great enemy, Baffled, beside an empty tomb. Not there, but risen, redeemed, they go Where all the paths are sweet with flowers; They fought to give us Peace and lo! They gained a better Peace than ours. Phoebe Cary.
A SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY [May 24, 1865] I read last night of the Grand Review In Washington's chiefest avenue,— Two hundred thousand men in blue, I think they said was the number,— Till I seemed to hear their trampling feet, The bugle blast and the drum's quick beat, The clatter of hoofs in the stony street, The cheers of people who came to greet, And the thousand details that to repeat Would only my verse encumber,— And then to a fitful slumber. When, lo! in a vision I seemed to stand In the lonely Capitol. On each hand Far stretched the portico, dim and grand Its columns ranged, like a martial band Of sheeted spectres, whom some command Had called to a last reviewing. And the streets of the city were white and bare; No footfall echoed across the square; But out of the misty midnight air I heard in the distance a trumpet blare, And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear The sound of a far tattooing. Then I held my breath with fear and dread; For into the square, with a brazen tread, There rode a figure whose stately head O'erlooked the review that morning, That never bowed from its firm-set seat When the living column passed its feet, Yet now rode steadily up the street To the phantom bugle's warning: Till it reached the Capitol square, and wheeled, And there in the moonlight stood revealed A well-known form that in State and field Had led our patriot sires: Whose face was turned to the sleeping camp, Afar through the river's fog and damp, That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp, Nor wasted bivouac fires. And I saw a phantom army come, With never a sound of fife or drum, But keeping time to a throbbing hum Of wailing and lamentation: The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill, Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville, The men whose wasted figures fill The patriot graves of the nation. And there came the nameless dead,—the men Who perished in fever-swamp and fen, The slowly-starved of the prison-pen; And, marching beside the others, Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's fight, With limbs enfranchised and bearing bright: I thought—perhaps 'twas the pale moonlight— They looked as white as their brothers! And so all night marched the Nation's dead, With never a banner above them spread, Nor a badge, nor a motto brandishÈd; No mark—save the bare uncovered head Of the silent bronze Reviewer; With never an arch save the vaulted sky; With never a flower save those that lie On the distant graves—for love could buy No gift that was purer or truer. So all night long swept the strange array; So all night long, till the morning gray, I watch'd for one who had passed away, With a reverent awe and wonder,— Till a blue cap waved in the lengthening line, And I knew that one who was kin of mine Had come; and I spake—and lo! that sign Awakened me from my slumber. Bret Harte.
WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME When Johnny comes marching home again, Hurrah! hurrah! We'll give him a hearty welcome then, Hurrah! hurrah! The men will cheer, the boys will shout, The ladies, they will all turn out, And we'll all feel gay, When Johnny comes marching home. The old church-bell will peal with joy, Hurrah! hurrah! To welcome home our darling boy, Hurrah! hurrah! The village lads and lasses say, With roses they will strew the way; And we'll all feel gay, When Johnny comes marching home. Get ready for the jubilee, Hurrah! hurrah! We'll give the hero three times three, Hurrah! hurrah! The laurel-wreath is ready now To place upon his loyal brow, And we'll all feel gay, When Johnny comes marching home. Let love and friendship on that day, Hurrah! hurrah! Their choicest treasures then display, Hurrah! hurrah! And let each one perform some part, To fill with joy the warrior's heart; And we'll all feel gay, When Johnny comes marching home. Patrick Sarsfield Gilmore. DRIVING HOME THE COWS Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass, He turned them into the river-lane; One after another he let them pass, Then fastened the meadow-bars again. Under the willows, and over the hill, He patiently followed their sober pace; The merry whistle for once was still, And something shadowed the sunny face. Only a boy! and his father had said He never could let his youngest go: Two already were lying dead Under the feet of the trampling foe. But after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun, And stealthily followed the foot-path damp, Across the clover, and through the wheat, With resolute heart and purpose grim, Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, And the blind bat's flitting startled him. Thrice since then had the lanes been white, And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom; And now, when the cows came back at night, The feeble father drove them home. For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain; And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son's again. The summer day grew cold and late. He went for the cows when the work was done; But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming, one by one,— Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind; Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,— But who was it following close behind? Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue; And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, Looked out a face that the father knew. For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, And yield their dead unto life again; And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn In golden glory at last may wane. The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb; And under the silent evening skies, Together they followed the cattle home. Kate Putnam Osgood.
ODE RECITED AT THE HARVARD COMMEMORATION [July 21, 1865] I Weak-winged is song, Nor aims at that clear-ethered height Whither the brave deed climbs for light: We seem to do them wrong, Bringing our robin's-leaf to deck their hearse Who in warm life-blood wrote their nobler verse, Our trivial song to honor those who come With ears attuned to strenuous trump and drum, And shaped in squadron-strophes their desire, Live battle-odes whose lines were steel and fire: Yet sometimes feathered words are strong, A gracious memory to buoy up and save From Lethe's dreamless ooze, the common grave Of the unventurous throng. II To-day our Reverend Mother welcomes back Her wisest Scholars, those who understood The deeper teaching of her mystic tome, And offered their fresh lives to make it good: No lore of Greece or Rome, No science peddling with the names of things, Or reading stars to find inglorious fates, Can lift our life with wings Far from Death's idle gulf that for the many waits, And lengthen out our dates With that clear fame whose memory sings In manly hearts to come, and nerves them and dilates: Nor such thy teaching, Mother of us all! Not such the trumpet-call Of thy diviner mood, That could thy sons entice From happy homes and toils, the fruitful nest Of those half-virtues which the world calls best, Into War's tumult rude; But rather far that stern device The sponsors chose that round thy cradle stood In the dim, unventured wood, The Veritas that lurks beneath The letter's unprolific sheath, Life of whate'er makes life worth living, Seed-grain of high emprise, immortal food, One heavenly thing whereof earth hath the giving. III Many loved Truth, and lavished life's best oil Amid the dust of books to find her, Content at last, for guerdon of their toil, With the cast mantle she hath left behind her. Many in sad faith sought for her, Many with crossed hands sighed for her; But these, our brothers, fought for her, At life's dear peril wrought for her, So loved her that they died for her, Tasting the raptured fleetness Of her divine completeness: Their higher instinct knew Those love her best who to themselves are true, And what they dare to dream of, dare to do; They followed her and found her Where all may hope to find, Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind, But beautiful, with danger's sweetness round her. Where faith made whole with deed Breathes its awakening breath Into the lifeless creed, They saw her plumed and mailed, With sweet, stern face unveiled, And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them in death. IV Our slender life runs rippling by, and glides Into the silent hollow of the past; What is there that abides To make the next age better for the last? Is earth too poor to give us Something to live for here that shall outlive us? Some more substantial boon Than such as flows and ebbs with Fortune's fickle moon? The little that we see From doubt is never free; The little that we do Is but half-nobly true; With our laborious hiving What men call treasure, and the gods call dross, Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving, Only secure in every one's conniving, A long account of nothings paid with loss, Where we poor puppets, jerked by unseen wires, After our little hour of strut and rave, With all our pasteboard passions and desires, Loves, hates, ambitions, and immortal fires, Are tossed pell-mell together in the grave. But stay! no age was e'er degenerate, Unless men held it at too cheap a rate, For in our likeness still we shape our fate. Ah, there is something here Unfathomed by the cynic's sneer, Something that gives our feeble light A high immunity from Night, Something that leaps life's narrow bars To claim its birthright with the hosts of heaven; A seed of sunshine that can leaven Our earthy dulness with the beams of stars And glorify our clay With light from fountains elder than the Day; A conscience more divine than we, A gladness fed with secret tears, Of some more noble permanence; A light across the sea, Which haunts the soul and will not let it be, Still beaconing from the heights of undegenerate years. V Whither leads the path To ampler fates that leads? Not down through flowery meads, To reap an aftermath Of youth's vainglorious weeds, But up the steep, amid the wrath And shock of deadly-hostile creeds, Where the world's best hope and stay By battle's flashes gropes a desperate way, And every turf the fierce foot clings to bleeds. Peace hath her not ignoble wreath, Ere yet the sharp, decisive word Light the black lips of cannon, and the sword Dreams in its easeful sheath; But some day the live coal behind the thought, Whether from BaÄl's stone obscene, Or from the shrine serene Of God's pure altar brought, Bursts up in flame; the war of tongue and pen Learns with what deadly purpose it was fraught, And, helpless in the fiery passion caught, Shakes all the pillared state with shock of men: Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed Confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued, And cries reproachful: "Was it, then, my praise, And not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth; I claim of thee the promise of thy youth; Give me thy life, or cower in empty phrase, The victim of thy genius, not its mate!" Life may be given in many ways, And loyalty to Truth be sealed As bravely in the closet as the field, So bountiful is Fate; But then to stand beside her, When craven churls deride her, To front a lie in arms and not to yield, This shows, methinks, God's plan And measure of a stalwart man, Limbed like the old heroic breeds, Who stands self-poised on manhood's solid earth, Not forced to frame excuses for his birth, Fed from within with all the strength he needs. VI Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, Whom late the Nation he had led, With ashes on her head, Wept with the passion of an angry grief: Forgive me, if from present things I turn To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn. Nature, they say, doth dote, And cannot make a man Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating us by rote: For him her Old-World moulds aside she threw, And, choosing sweet clay from the breast Of the unexhausted West, With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true How beautiful to see Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed, Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead; One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, Not lured by any cheat of birth, But by his clear-grained human worth, And brave old wisdom of sincerity! They knew that outward grace is dust; They could not choose but trust In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, And supple-tempered will That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust. His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind; Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars, Nothing of Europe here, Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, Ere any names of Serf and Peer Could Nature's equal scheme deface And thwart her genial will; Here was a type of the true elder race, And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face. I praise him not; it were too late; And some innative weakness there must be In him who condescends to victory Safe in himself as in a fate. So always firmly he: He knew to bide his time, And can his fame abide, Still patient in his simple faith sublime, Till the wise years decide. Great captains, with their guns and drums, Disturb our judgment for the hour, But at last silence comes; These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, Our children shall behold his fame, The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, New birth of our new soil, the first American. VII Long as man's hope insatiate can discern Or only guess some more inspiring goal Outside of Self, enduring as the pole, Along whose course the flying axles burn Of spirits bravely-pitched, earth's manlier brood; Long as below we cannot find The meed that stills the inexorable mind; So long this faith to some ideal Good, Under whatever mortal names it masks, Freedom, Law, Country, this ethereal mood That thanks the Fates for their severer tasks, Feeling its challenged pulses leap, While others skulk in subterfuges cheap, And, set in Danger's van, has all the boon it asks, Shall win man's praise and woman's love, Shall be a wisdom that we set above All other skills and gifts to culture dear, A virtue round whose forehead we inwreathe Laurels that with a living passion breathe When other crowns grow, while we twine them, sear. What brings us thronging these high rites to pay, And seal these hours the noblest of our year, Save that our brothers found this better way? VIII We sit here in the Promised Land That flows with Freedom's honey and milk; But 'twas they won it, sword in hand, Making the nettle danger soft for us as silk. We welcome back our bravest and our best;— Ah me! not all! some come not with the rest, Who went forth brave and bright as any here! I strive to mix some gladness with my strain, But the sad strings complain, And will not please the ear: I sweep them for a pÆan, but they wane Again and yet again Into a dirge, and die away, in pain. In these brave ranks I only see the gaps, Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb turf wraps, Dark to the triumph which they died to gain: Fitlier may others greet the living, For me the past is unforgiving; I with uncovered head Salute the sacred dead, Who went, and who return not.—Say not so! 'Tis not the grapes of Canaan that repay, But the high faith that failed not by the way; Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave; No ban of endless night exiles the brave; And to the saner mind We rather seem the dead that stayed behind. Blow, trumpets, all your exultations blow! For never shall their aureoled presence lack; I see them muster in a gleaming row, With ever-youthful brows that nobler show; We find in our dull road their shining track; In every nobler mood We feel the orient of their spirit glow, Part of our life's unalterable good, Of all our saintlier aspiration; They come transfigured back, Secure from change in their high-hearted ways, Beautiful evermore, and with the rays Of morn on their white Shields of Expectation! IX But is there hope to save Even this ethereal essence from the grave? What ever 'scaped Oblivion's subtle wrong Save a few clarion names, or golden threads of song? Before my musing eye The mighty ones of old sweep by, DisvoicÈd now and insubstantial things, As noisy once as we; poor ghosts of kings, Shadows of empire wholly gone to dust, And many races, nameless long ago, To darkness driven by that imperious gust Of ever-rushing Time that here doth blow: O visionary world, condition strange, Where naught abiding is but only Change, Shall we to more continuance make pretence? Renown builds tombs; a life-estate is Wit; And, bit by bit, The cunning years steal all from us but woe; Leaves are we, whose decays no harvest sow. But, when we vanish hence, Shall they lie forceless in the dark below, Save to make green their little length of sods, Or deepen pansies for a year or two, Who now to us are shining-sweet as gods? Was dying all they had the skill to do? That were not fruitless: but the Soul resents Such short-lived service, as if blind events Ruled without her, or earth could so endure; She claims a more divine investiture Of longer tenure than Fame's airy rents; Whate'er she touches doth her nature share; Her inspiration haunts the ennobled air, Gives eyes to mountains blind, Ears to the deaf earth, voices to the wind, And her clear trump sings succor everywhere By lonely bivouacs to the wakeful mind; For soul inherits all that soul could dare: Yea, Manhood hath a wider span And larger privilege of life than man. The single deed, the private sacrifice, So radiant now through proudly-hidden tears, Is covered up erelong from mortal eyes With thoughtless drift of the deciduous years; But that high privilege that makes all men peers, That leap of heart whereby a people rise Up to a noble anger's height, And, flamed on by the Fates, not shrink, but grow more bright, That swift validity in noble veins, Of choosing danger and disdaining shame, Of being set on flame By the pure fire that flies all contact base, But wraps its chosen with angelic might, These are imperishable gains, Sure as the sun, medicinal as light, These hold great futures in their lusty reins And certify to earth a new imperial race. X Who now shall sneer? Who dare again to say we trace Our lines to a plebeian race? Roundhead and Cavalier! Dumb are those names erewhile in battle loud; Dream-footed as the shadow of a cloud, They flit across the ear: That is best blood that hath most iron in 't. To edge resolve with, pouring without stint For what makes manhood dear. Tell us not of Plantagenets, Hapsburgs, and Guelfs, whose thin bloods crawl Down from some victor in a border-brawl! How poor their outworn coronets, Matched with one leaf of that plain civic wreath Our brave for honor's blazon shall bequeath, Through whose desert a rescued Nation sets Her heel on treason, and the trumpet hears Shout victory, tingling Europe's sullen ears With vain resentments and more vain regrets! XI Not in anger, not in pride, Pure from passion's mixture rude Ever to base earth allied, But with far-heard gratitude, Still with heart and voice renewed, To heroes living and dear martyrs dead, The strain should close that consecrates our brave. Lift the heart and lift the head! Lofty be its mood and grave, Not without a martial ring, Not without a prouder tread And a peal of exultation: Little right has he to sing Through whose heart in such an hour Beats no march of conscious power, Sweeps no tumult of elation! 'Tis no Man we celebrate, By his country's victories great, A hero half, and half the whim of Fate, But the pith and marrow of a Nation Drawing force from all her men, Highest, humblest, weakest, all, For her time of need, and then Pulsing it again through them, Till the basest can no longer cower. Feeling his soul spring up divinely tall, Come back, then, noble pride, for 'tis her dower! How could poet ever tower, If his passions, hopes, and fears, If his triumphs and his tears, Kept not measure with his people? Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and waves! Clash out, glad bells, from every rocking steeple! Banners, adance with triumph, bend your staves! And from every mountain-peak, Let beacon-fire to answering beacon speak, Katahdin tell Monadnock, Whiteface he, And so leap on in light from sea to sea, Till the glad news be sent Across a kindling continent, Making earth feel more firm and air breathe braver: "Be proud! for she is saved, and all have helped to save her! She that lifts up the manhood of the poor, She of the open soul and open door, With room about her hearth for all mankind! The fire is dreadful in her eyes no more; From her bold front the helm she doth unbind, Sends all her handmaid armies back to spin, And bids her navies, that so lately hurled Their crashing battle, hold their thunders in, Swimming like birds of calm along the unharmful shore. No challenge sends she to the elder world. That looked askance and hated; a light scorn Plays o'er her mouth, as round her mighty knees She calls her children back, and waits the morn Of nobler day, enthroned between her subject seas." XII Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast found release! Thy God, in these distempered days, Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of His ways, And through thine enemies hath wrought thy peace! Bow down in prayer and praise! No poorest in thy borders but may now Lift to the juster skies a man's enfranchised brow. O Beautiful! my Country! ours once more! Smoothing thy gold of war-dishevelled hair O'er such sweet brows as never other wore, And letting thy set lips, Freed from wrath's pale eclipse, The rosy edges of their smile lay bare, What words divine of lover or of poet Could tell our love and make thee know it, Among the Nations bright beyond compare? What were our lives without thee? What all our lives to save thee? We reck not what we gave thee; We will not dare to doubt thee, But ask whatever else, and we will dare! James Russell Lowell.
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