Chapter XII

'Tis done! the gory field is ours; we've conquered in the fight! And yet once more our tongues can tell the triumph of the right; And humbled is the haughty foe, who our destruction sought, For God's right hand and holy arm have great deliverance wrought. Oh, then, unto His holy name ring out the joyful song-- The race has not been to the swift, the battle to the strong.

[1] Pronounced _Eujee_

The Guerillas: A Southern War-Song.

By S. Teackle Wallis, of Maryland.

"Awake! and to horse, my brothers!
For the dawn is glimmering gray;
And hark! in the crackling brushwood
There are feet that tread this way.

"Who cometh?" "A friend." "What tidings?"
"O God! I sicken to tell,
For the earth seems earth no longer,
And its sights are sights of hell!

"There's rapine and fire and slaughter,
From the mountain down to the shore;
There's blood on the trampled harvest--
There's blood on the homestead floor.

"From the far-off conquered cities
Comes the voice of a stifled wail;
And the shrieks and moans of the houseless
Ring out, like a dirge, on the gale.

"I've seen, from the smoking village
Our mothers and daughters fly;
I've seen where the little children
Sank down, in the furrows, to die.

"On the banks of the battle-stained river
I stood, as the moonlight shone,
And it glared on the face of my brother,
As the sad wave swept him on.

"Where my home was glad, are ashes,
And horror and shame had been there--
For I found, on the fallen lintel,
This tress of my wife's torn hair.

"They are turning the slave upon us,
And, with more than the fiend's worst art,
Have uncovered the fires of the savage
That slept in his untaught heart.

"The ties to our hearths that bound him,
They have rent, with curses, away,
And maddened him, with their madness,
To be almost as brutal as they.

"With halter and torch and Bible,
And hymns to the sound of the drum,
They preach the gospel of Murder,
And pray for Lust's kingdom to come.

"To saddle! to saddle! my brothers!
Look up to the rising sun,
And ask of the God who shines there,
Whether deeds like these shall be done!

"Wherever the vandal cometh,
Press home to his heart with your steel,
And when at his bosom you cannot,
Like the serpent, go strike at his heel!

"Through thicket and wood go hunt him,
Creep up to his camp fireside,
And let ten of his corpses blacken
Where one of our brothers hath died.

"In his fainting, foot-sore marches,
In his flight from the stricken fray,
In the snare of the lonely ambush,
The debts that we owe him pay,

"In God's hand, alone, is judgment;
But He strikes with the hands of men,
And His blight would wither our manhood
If we smote not the smiter again.

"By the graves where our fathers slumber,
By the shrines where our mothers prayed,
By our homes and hopes and freedom.
Let every man swear on his blade.--

"That he will not sheath nor stay it,
Till from point to heft it glow
With the flush of Almighty vengeance,
In the blood of the felon foe."

They swore--and the answering sunlight
Leapt red from their lifted swords,
And the hate in their hearts made echo
To the wrath in their burning words.

There's weeping in all New England,
And by Schuylkill's banks a knell,
And the widows there, and the orphans,
How the oath was kept can tell.

A Farewell to Pope.

By John K. Thompson, of Virginia.

"Hats off" in the crowd, "Present arms" in the line! Let the standards all bow, and the sabres incline-- Roll, drums, the Rogue's March, while the conqueror goes, Whose eyes have seen only "the backs of his foes"-- Through a thicket of laurel, a whirlwind of cheers, His vanishing form from our gaze disappears; Henceforth with the savage Dacotahs to cope, _Abiit, evasit, erupit_--John Pope.

He came out of the West, like the young Lochinvor, Compeller of fate and controller of war, _Videre et vincere_, simply to see, And straightway to conquer Hill, Jackson and Lee, And old Abe at the White House, like Kilmansegg _pére_, With a monkeyish grin and beatified air, "Seemed washing his hands with invisible soap," As with eager attention he listened to Pope.

He _came_--and the poultry was swept by his sword, Spoons, liquors, and furniture went by the board; He _saw_--at a distance, the rebels appear, And "rode to the front," which was strangely the rear; He _conquered_--truth, decency, honor full soon, Pest, pilferer, puppy, pretender, poltroon; And was fain from the scene of his triumphs to slope. Sure there never was fortunate hero like Pope.

He has left us his shining example to note, And Stuart has captured his uniform coat; But 'tis puzzling enough, as his deeds we recall, To tell on whose shoulders his mantle should fall; While many may claim to deserve it, at least, From Hunter, the Hound, down to Butler, the Beast, None else, we can say, without risking the trope, But himself can be parallel ever to Pope.

Like his namesake the poet of genius and fire, He gives new expression and force to _the lyre_; But in one little matter they differ, the two, And differ, indeed, very widely, 'tis true-- While his verses gave great Alexaader his fame, 'Tis our hero's reverses accomplish the same; And fate may decree that the end of a rope Shall award yet his highest position to Pope.

Sonnet.

On Reading a Proclamation for Public Prayer.

South Carolinian.

Oh! terrible, this prayer in the market-place,
These advertised humilities--decreed
By proclamation, that we may be freed,
And mercy find for once, and saving grace,
Even while we forfeit all that made the race
Worthy of Heavenly favor--and profess
Our faith and homage only through duress,
And dread of danger which we dare not face.

All working that's done worthily is prayer-- And honest thought is prayer--the wish, the will To mend our ways, maintain our virtues still, And, losing life, still keep our bosoms fair In sight of God--with whom humility And patient working can alone make free.

Battle of Belmont.

By J. Augustine Signaigo.

From the Memphis Appeal, Dec. 21, 1861.

I.

Now glory to our Southern cause, and praises be to God, That He hath met the Southron's foe, and scourged him with his rod: On the tented plains of Belmont, in their might the Vandals came, And they gave unto destruction all they found, with sword and flame; But they met a stout resistance from a little band that day, Who swore nobly they would conquer, or return to mother clay.

II.

But the Vandals with presumption--for they came in all their might-- Gave free vent unto their _feelings_, for they thought to win the fight; And they forced our little cohorts to the very river's brink, With a breath between destruction and of life's remaining link: When the cannon of McCown, belching fire from out its mouth, Brought destruction to the Vandals and protection to the South.

III.

There was Pillow, Polk and Cheatham, who had sworn that day on high That field should see them conquer, or that field should see them die; And amid the groan of dying and amid the battle's din, Came the echo back from heaven, that they should that battle win: And amid the boom of cannons, and amid the clash of swords, Came destruction to the foeman--and the vengeance was the Lord's!

IV.

When the fight was raging hottest, came the wild and cheering cry, That brought terror to the foeman, and that raised our spirits high! It was "Cheatham!" "Cheatham!" "Cheatham!" that the Vandals' ears did sting, And our boys caught up the echo till it made the welkin ring; And the moment that the Hessians thought the fight was surely won, From the crackling of our rifles--_bravely_ then they had to run!

V.

Then they ran unto their transports in deep terror and dismay, And their great grandchildren's children will be shamed to name that day; For the woe they came to bring to the people of the South Was returned tenfold to them at the cannon's booming mouth: And the proud old Mississippi ran that day a horrid flood, For its banks were deeply crimsoned with the hireling Northman's blood.

VI.

Let us think of those who fell there, fighting foremost with the foe, And who nobly struck for Freedom, dealing Tyranny a blow: Like the ocean beating wildly 'gainst a prow of adamant, Or the storm that keeps on bursting, but cannot destroy the plant; Brave Lieutenant Walker, wounded, still fought on the bloody field, Cheering on his noble comrades, ne'er unto the foe to yield!

VII.

None e'er knew him but to love him, the brave martyr to his clime-- Now his name belongs to Freedom, to the very end of Time: And the last words that he uttered will forgotten be by few: "I have bravely fought them, mother--I have bravely fought for you!" Let his memory be green in the hearts who love the South, And his noble deeds the theme that shall dwell in every mouth.

VIII.

In the hottest of the battle stood a Vandal bunting rag, Proudly to the breeze 'twas floating in defiance to our flag; And our Southern boys knew well that, to bring that bunting down, They would meet the angel death in his sternest, maddest frown; But it could not gallant Armstrong, dauntless Vollmer, or brave Lynch, Though ten thousand deaths confronted, from the task of honor flinch!

IX.

And they charged upon that bunting, guarded by grim-visaged Death, Who had withered all around it with the blister of his breath; But they plucked it from his grasp, and brave Vollmner waved it high, On the gory field of battle, where the three were doomed to die; But before their spirits fled came the death-shout of the three, Cheering for the sunny South and beloved old Tennessee!

X.

Let the horrors of this day to the foe a warning be, That the Lord is with the South, that His arm is with the free; That her soil is pure and spotless, as her clear and sunny sky. And that he who dare pollute it on her soil shall basely die; For His fiat hath gone forth, e'en among the Hessian horde, That the South has got His blessing, for the South is of the Lord.

XI.

Then glory to our Southern cause, and praises give to God, That He hath met the Southron's foe and scourged him with His rod; That He hath been upon our side, with all His strength and might, And battled for the Southern cause in every bloody fight; Let us, in meek humility, to all the world proclaim, We bless and glorify the Lord, and battle in His name.

Vicksburg--A Ballad.

By Paul H. Hayne.

I.

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 the ramparts of the dead!"

II.

For sixty days and upwards
The eye of heaven waxed dim,
And even throughout God's holy morn,
O'er Christian's prayer and hymn,
Arose a hissing tumult,
As if the fiends of air
Strove to ingulf the voice of faith
In the shrieks of their despair.

III.

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.

IV.

And the little children gambolled--
Their faces purely raised,
Just for a wondering moment,
As the huge bomb 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.

V.

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.