Chapter II: Part 2

Now, up the river!--through mad Chalmette
Sputters a vain resistance yet,
Small helm we gave her our course to steer,--
’Twas nicer work then 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
O’er a thousand thankful braves,
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.

SHERIDAN’S RIDE.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Up from the south, at break of day,
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
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
Thunder’d along the horizon’s bar;
And louder yet into Winchester roll’d
The roar of that red sea uncontroll’d,
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 stretch’d 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 flow’d
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 dash’d down the line, ’mid a storm of huzzas,
And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because
The sight of the master compell’d 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 seem’d 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!”

KEARNEY AT SEVEN PINES.

BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

So that soldierly legend is still on its journey--
That story of Kearney who knew not to yield!
’Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and Birney,
Against twenty thousand he rallied the field.
Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest,
Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine,
Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,
No charge like Phil Kearney’s along the whole line.

When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn,
Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground,
He rode down the length of the withering column,
And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound.
He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the powder,--
His sword waved us on, and we answered the sign;
Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder:
“There’s the devil’s own fun, boys, along the whole line!”

How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten
In the one hand still left--and the reins in his teeth!
He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten,
But a soldier’s glance shot from his visor beneath.
Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal,
Asking where to go in--through the clearing or pine?
“Oh, anywhere! Forward! ’Tis all the same, Colonel:
You’ll find lovely fighting along the whole line!”

Oh, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly,
That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried!
Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily,
The flower of our knighthood, the whole army’s pride!
Yet we dream that he still--in that shadowy region
Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer’s sign--
Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion,
And the word still is Forward! along the whole line.

STONEWALL JACKSON’S WAY.

BY J. W. PALMER.

[Mr. William Gilmore Simms tells us that this poem,
stained with blood, was found on the person of a dead
soldier of the Stonewall brigade after one of Jackson’s
battles in the Shenandoah Valley. Its authorship,
long unknown, has been discovered by Mr. Francis F.
Browne.--EDITOR.]

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 Bank’s--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 Blue Light’s goin’ to pray.
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!
Attention! it’s his way.
Appealing from his native sod,
In _forma pauperïs_ 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.”

[Southern.]

MARCHING ALONG.

BY WILLIAM B. BRADBURY.

[During the Civil War this song was frequently sung upon
the march by the soldiers of the Army of the Potomac.
Except “When this Cruel War is Over” and the doggerel about
“John Brown’s Body,” there was scarcely any song so often
heard. The name of the leader was changed, from time to
time, to accord with the facts.--EDITOR.]

The army is gathering from near and from far;
The trumpet is sounding the call for the war;
McClellan’s our leader, he’s gallant and strong;
We’ll gird on our armor and be marching along.

_Chorus._--Marching along, we are marching along,
Gird on the armor and be marching along;
McClellan’s our leader, he’s gallant and strong;
For God and our country we are marching along.

The foe is before us in battle array,
But let us not waver, or turn from the way;
The Lord is our strength, and the Union’s our song;
With courage and faith we are marching along.

_Chorus._--Marching along, etc.

Our wives and our children we leave in your care;
We feel you will help them with sorrow to bear:
’Tis hard thus to part, but we hope ’twon’t be long:
We’ll keep up our heart as we’re marching along.

_Chorus._--Marching along, etc.

We sigh for our country, we mourn for our dead;
For them now our last drop of blood we will shed;
Our cause is the right one--our foe’s in the wrong;
Then gladly we’ll sing as we’re marching along.

_Chorus._--Marching along, etc.

The flag of our country is floating on high;
We’ll stand by that flag till we conquer or die;
McClellan’s our leader, he’s gallant and strong;
We’ll gird on our armor and be marching along.

_Chorus._--Marching along, etc.

THE BURIAL OF LATANÉ.

BY JOHN R. THOMPSON.

[Captain Latané, of Stuart’s Confederate cavalry was
killed during the Pamunkey expedition in 1862. He was
buried by a company of women, one of whom read the service
for the dead, while a little girl strewed flowers on the
grave.--EDITOR.]

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;
The next beheld him, dabbled in his blood,
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.

[Southern.]

TARDY GEORGE.

[This poem was written at a time when the impatience of
the Northern people with the delay of McClellan to make use
of the means so lavishly provided for him, was scarcely
to be restrained. For many months McClellan had been in
command of a vast army, perfectly equipped and thoroughly
disciplined, yet month after month went by with nothing
done and nothing attempted. The discontent of the people
found much angrier expression than was given to it in these
stanzas, but this is one of the best metrical protests that
appeared.--EDITOR.]

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?
Are you blowing your fingers because they are cold,
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 cipher, and hammer and forge--
What are you waiting for, tardy George?

January, 1862.

WANTED--A MAN.

BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

[This virile cry for a fit leader for the Army of the
Potomac was inspired by an editorial article of Henry J.
Raymond in the _New York Times_. It was written in 1862,
when the popular feeling of chagrin and humiliation over
McClellan’s failure and Pope’s disaster at Manassas was
most intense. Mr. Lincoln was so strongly impressed by the
poem that he read it to his Cabinet.--EDITOR.]

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!”

OVERTURES FROM RICHMOND.

A NEW LILLIBULERO.

BY F. J. CHILD.

“Well, Uncle Sam,” says Jefferson D.,
Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam,
“You’ll have to join my Confed’racy,”
Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam.
“Lero, lero, that don’t appear O, that don’t appear,”
Says old Uncle Sam,
“Lero, lero, fillibustero, that don’t appear,”
Says old Uncle Sam.

“So, Uncle Sam, just lay down your arms,”
Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam,
“Then you shall hear my reas’nable terms,”
Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam.
“Lero, lero, I’d like to hear O, I’d like to hear,”
Says old Uncle Sam,
“Lero, lero, fillibustero, I’d like to hear,”
Says old Uncle Sam.

“First, you must own I’ve beat you in fight,”
Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam,
“Then, that I always have been in the right,”
Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam.
“Lero, lero, rather severe O, rather severe,”
Says old Uncle Sam,
“Lero, lero, fillibustero, rather severe,”
Says old Uncle Sam.

“Then you must pay my national debts,”
Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam,
“No questions asked about my assets,”
Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam.
“Lero, lero, that’s very dear O, that’s very dear,”
Says old Uncle Sam,
“Lero, lero, fillibustero, that’s very dear,”
Says old Uncle Sam.

“Also, some few I. O. U.’s and bets,”
Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam,
“Mine and Bob Toombs’s and Slidell’s and Rhett’s,”
Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam.
“Lero, lero, that leaves me zero, that leaves me zero,”
Says old Uncle Sam,
“Lero, lero, fillibustero, that leaves me zero,”
Says old Uncle Sam.

“And, by the way, one little thing more,”
Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam,
“You’re to refund the cost of the war,”
Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam.
“Lero, lero, just what I fear O, just what I fear,”
Says old Uncle Sam,
“Lero, lero, fillibustero, just what I fear,”
Says old Uncle Sam.

“Next, you must own our cavalier blood!”
Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam,
“And that your Puritans sprang from the mud!”
Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam.
“Lero, lero, that mud is clear O, that mud is clear,”
Says old Uncle Sam,
“Lero, lero, fillibustero, that mud is clear,”
Says old Uncle Sam.

“Slavery’s of course the chief corner-stone,”
Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam,
“Of our NEW CIV-IL-I-ZA-TION!”
Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam.
“Lero, lero, that’s quite sincere O, that’s quite sincere,”
Says old Uncle Sam,
“Lero, lero, fillibustero, that’s quite sincere,”
Says old Uncle Sam.

“You’ll understand, my recreant tool,”
Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam,
“You’re to submit, and we are to rule,”
Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam.
“Lero, lero, aren’t you a hero! aren’t you a hero!”
Says old Uncle Sam,
“Lero, lero, fillibustero, aren’t you a hero!”
Says old Uncle Sam.

“If to these terms you fully consent,”
Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam,
“I’ll be perpetual King-President,”
Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam.
“Lero, lero, take your sombrero, off to your swamps!”
Says old Uncle Sam,
“Lero, lero, fillibustero, cut, double-quick!”
Says old Uncle Sam.

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,

The cluster’d spires of Frederick stand
Green-wall’d by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple- and peach-trees fruited deep.

Fair as the garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famish’d rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall,
When Lee march’d 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,

Flapp’d in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon look’d down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bow’d with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men haul’d 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 slouch’d 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 shiver’d the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell from the broken staff,
Dame Barbara snatch’d the silken scarf.

She lean’d 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 stirr’d
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!

MUSIC IN CAMP.

BY JOHN R. THOMPSON.

Two armies covered hill and plain,
Where Rappahannock’s waters
Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain
Of battle’s recent slaughters.

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents
In meads of heavenly azure;
And each dread gun of the elements
Slept in its high embrasure.

The breeze so softly blew, it made
No forest leaf to quiver;
And the smoke of the random cannonade
Rolled slowly from the river.

And now where circling hills looked down
With cannon grimly planted,
O’er listless camp and silent town
The golden sunset slanted.

When on the fervid air there came
A strain, now rich, now tender;
The music seemed itself aflame
With day’s departing splendor.

A Federal band, which eve and morn
Played measures brave and nimble,
Had just struck up with flute and horn
And lively clash of cymbal.

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks;
Till, margined by its pebbles,
One wooded shore was blue with “Yanks,”
And one was gray with “Rebels.”

Then all was still; and then the band,
With movement light and tricksy,
Made stream and forest, hill and strand,
Reverberate with “Dixie.”

The conscious stream, with burnished glow,
Went proudly o’er its pebbles,
But thrilled throughout its deepest flow
With yelling of the Rebels.

Again a pause; and then again
The trumpet pealed sonorous,
And “Yankee Doodle” was the strain
To which the shore gave chorus.

The laughing ripple shoreward flew
To kiss the shining pebbles;
Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue
Defiance to the Rebels.

And yet once more the bugle sang
Above the stormy riot;
No shout upon the evening rang--
There reigned a holy quiet.

The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood
Poured o’er the glistening pebbles;
All silent now the Yankees stood,
All silent stood the Rebels.

No unresponsive soul had heard
That plaintive note’s appealing,
So deeply “Home, Sweet Home” had stirred
The hidden founts of feeling.

Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees,
As by the wand of fairy,
The cottage ’neath the live oak trees,
The cabin by the prairie.

Or cold, or warm, his native skies
Bend in their beauty o’er him;
Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes,
His loved ones stand before him.

As fades the iris after rain
In April’s tearful weather,
The vision vanished as the strain
And daylight died together.

But Memory, waked by Music’s art,
Expressed in simple numbers,
Subdued the sternest Yankee’s heart,
Made light the Rebel’s slumbers.

And fair the form of Music shines--
That bright celestial creature--
Who still ’mid War’s embattled lines
Gave this one touch of Nature.

[Southern.]

FREDERICKSBURG.

(December, 1862.)

BY W. F. W.

Eighteen hundred and sixty-two,--
That is the number of wounded men
Who, if the telegraph’s tale be true,
Reached Washington City but yestere’en.

And it is but a handful, the telegrams add,
To those who are coming by boats and by cars,
Weary and wounded, dying and sad;
Covered--but only in front--with scars.

Some are wounded by Minie shot,
Others are torn by the hissing shell,
As it burst upon them as fierce and as hot
As a demon spawned in a traitor’s hell.

Some are pierced by the sharp bayonet,
Others are crushed by the horses’ hoof,
Or fell ’neath the shower of iron which met
Them as hail beats down on an open roof.

Shall I tell what they did to meet this fate?
Why was this living death their doom?
Why did they fall to this piteous state
Neath the rifle’s crack and the cannon’s boom?

Orders arrived, and the river they crossed;
Built the bridge in the enemy’s face;
No matter how many were shot and lost,
And floated--sad corpses--away from the place.

Orders they heard, and they scaled the height,
Climbing right “into the jaws of death”;
Each man grasping his rifle-piece tight,
Scarcely pausing to draw his breath.

Sudden flashed on them a sheet of flame
From hidden fence and from ambuscade;
A moment more--(they say this is fame)--
A thousand dead men on the grass were laid.

Fifteen thousand in wounded and killed,
At least, is “our loss,” the newspapers say.
This loss to our army must surely be filled
Against another great battle day.

“Our loss!” Whose loss? Let demagogues say
That the Cabinet, President, all are in wrong:
What do the orphans and widows pray?
What is the burden of their sad song?

’Tis _their_ loss! but the tears in their weeping eyes
Hide Cabinet, President, Generals,--all;
And they only can see a cold form that lies
On the hill-side slope, by that fatal wall.

They cannot discriminate men or means,--
They only demand that this blundering cease.
In their frenzied grief they would end such scenes,
Though that end be--even with traitors--peace.

Is thy face from thy people turned, O God?
Is thy arm for the nation no longer strong?
We cry from our homes--the dead cry from the sod--
How long, oh, our righteous God! how long?

TREASON’S LAST DEVICE.

BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

[Certain politicians proposed, as a means of ending the
war, that a new confederacy or union should be formed, from
which the New England States should be excluded because of
their implacable hostility to slavery and their consequent
obnoxiousness to the South. There were many spirited
replies to this proposal, the best of which is this
poem.--EDITOR.]

“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 crimson 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 gorgeous West,
And planted the Pilgrim arm anew,
Where by a richer soil caressed,
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?
And ye who dwell by the golden peak,
Has the subtle whisper glided by?
Has it crossed 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 amongst 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?

January 19, 1863.

IN LOUISIANA.

BY J. W. DE FOREST.

Without a hillock stretched the plain;
For months we had not seen a hill;
The endless, flat Savannahs still
Wearied our eyes with waving cane.

One tangled cane-field lay before
The ambush of the cautious foe;
Behind a black bayou, with low
Reed-hidden, miry, treacherous shore;

A sullen swamp along the right,
Where alligators slept and crawled,
And moss-robed cypress giants sprawled
Athwart the noontide’s blistering light.

Quick, angry spite of musketry
Proclaimed our skirmishers at work;
We saw their crouching figures lurk
Through thickets firing from the knee.

Our Parrotts felt the distant wood
With humming, shrieking, growling shell;
When suddenly the mouth of hell
Gaped fiercely for its human food.

A long and low blue roll of smoke
Curled up a hundred yards ahead,
And deadly storms of driving lead
From rifle-pits and cane-fields broke.

Then, while the bullets whistled thick,
And hidden batteries boomed and shelled,
“Charge bayonets!” the colonel yelled;
“Battalion forward,--double quick!”

With even slopes of bayonets
Advanced--a dazzling, threatening crest--
Right toward the rebels’ hidden nest,
The dark blue, living billow sets.

The color-guard was at my side;
I heard the color-sergeant groan;
I heard the bullet crush the bone;
I might have touched him as he died.

The life-blood spouted from his mouth
And sanctified the wicked land;
Of martyred saviors what a band
Has suffered to redeem the South!

I had no malice in my mind;
I only cried: “Close up! guide right!”
My single purpose in the fight
Was steady march with eyes aligned.

I glanced along the martial rows,
And marked the soldiers’ eyeballs burn;
Their eager faces hot and stern,--
The wrathful triumph on their brows.

The traitors saw; they reeled and fled:
Fear-stricken, gray-clad multitudes
Streamed wildly toward the covering woods,
And left us victory and their dead.

Once more the march, the tiresome plain,
The Father River fringed with dykes,
Gray cypresses, palmetto spikes,
Bayous and swamps and yellowing canes;

With here and there plantations rolled
In flowers, bananas, orange groves,
Where laugh the sauntering negro droves,
Reposing from the task of old;

And rarer, half-deserted towns,
Devoid of men, where women scowl,
Avoiding us as lepers foul
With sidling gait and flouting gowns.

Thibodeaux, La., March, 1863.

JOHN PELHAM.

BY JAMES R. RANDALL.

[In most of the collections this poem is printed
under the title of “The Dead Cannoneer,” but the author
assures the present editor that the only title he ever
gave it is the name of the boy general, “John Pelham,”
who was killed at Kelly’s Ford, Virginia, 17th March,
1863.--EDITOR.]

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!

[Southern.]

THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTON HARBOR.

(Bombardment of Fort Sumter by the fleet, 7th April, 1863.)

BY PAUL H. HAYNE.

I.
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.

II.
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 watched the scene afar,
Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle’s broadening star.

III.
Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect stands,
The ready lanyards firmly grasped in bold, untrembling hands,
So moveless in their marbled calm, their stern heroic guise,
They looked like forms of statued stone with burning human eyes!

IV.
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.

V.
Onward--in sullen file and slow, low glooming on the wave,
Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the grave,
When sudden, shivering up the calm, o’er startled flood and shore,
Burst from the sacred Island Fort the thunder-wrath of yore!

VI.
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!

VII.
No empty boast! for 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!

VIII.
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 despot down.

IX.
The strife grows fiercer! ship by ship the proud armada sweeps,
Where hot 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!

X.
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!

[Southern.]

RUNNING THE BATTERIES.

(As observed from the anchorage above Vicksburg, April, 1863.)

BY HERMAN MELVILLE.

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 hill-side 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.

KEENAN’S CHARGE

BY GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.

By the shrouded gleam of the western skies,
Brave Keenan looked in 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,
And strong brown faces bravely pale,
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 ring’d 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, ay, 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.

DEATH OF STONEWALL JACKSON.

BY HARRY L. FLASH.

Not ’mid the lightning of the stormy fight,
Not 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,
Recording all his grand, heroic deeds,
Freedom herself is writhing with 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 with the Cross,
He rises with the Crown.

[Southern.]

UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES.

BY MARGARET J. PRESTON.

[The last words of Stonewall Jackson were: “Let us cross the river and rest under the shade of the trees.”--_Editor._]

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--
Watched earth’s assoilèd ones walking in white
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!

[Southern.]

STONEWALL JACKSON.

(Mortally wounded at Chancellorsville, May, 1863.)

BY HERMAN MELVILLE.

The Man who fiercest charged in fight,
Whose sword and prayer were long--
Stonewall!
Even him who stoutly stood for Wrong,
How can we praise? Yet coming days
Shall not forget him with this song.

Dead is the Man whose Cause is dead,
Vainly he died and set his seal--
Stonewall!
Earnest in error, as we feel;
True to the thing he deemed was due,
True as John Brown or steel.

Relentlessly he routed us;
But _we_ relent, for he is low--
Stonewall!
Justly his fame we outlaw; so
We drop a tear on the bold Virginia’s bier,
Because no wreath we owe.

The Black Regiment

BY GEORGE H. BOKER.

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,
Let the whole nation see
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 cold chains again!”
Oh, what a shout there went
From the black regiment!

“Charge!” trump and drum awoke;
Onward the bondsmen 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 gun’s mouth 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 crushing 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!

May 27, 1863.

LITTLE GIFFEN OF TENNESSEE.

BY FRANCIS O. TICKNOR.

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 we seldom see,
Little Giffen of Tennessee!

“Take him--and welcome!” the surgeon said;
“Much your doctor can help the dead!”
And 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!

Weary war with the bated breath,
Skeleton boy against skeleton Death,
Months of torture, how many such!
Weary weeks of the stick and crutch!
Still a glint in the steel-blue eye
Spoke of the spirit that would not 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!”

“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 a 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!

[Southern.]

GETTYSBURG

(July 1, 2, 3, 1863.)

BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

Wave, wave your glorious battle-flags, brave soldiers of the North,
And from the fields your arms have won to-day go proudly forth!
For now, 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 heart’s 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!

Oh, 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 host 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 Reynolds’ 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.