IV.
Come, let us cross the river, the dying hero cried, And God, of life the giver, then bore him o'er the tide. Life's wars for him are over, the warrior takes his ease, There, by the flowing river, at rest beneath the trees.
Charge of Hagood's Brigade.
Weldon Railroad, August 21, 1864.
The following lines were written in the summer of 1864, immediately after the charge referred to in them, which was always considered by the brigade as their most desperate encounter.
Scarce seven hundred men they stand In tattered, rude array, A remnant of that gallant band, Who erstwhile held the sea-girt strand Of Morris' isle, with iron hand 'Gainst Yankees' hated sway.
SECESSIONVILLE their banner claims, And SUMTER, held 'mid smoke and flames, And the dark battle on the streams Of POCOTALIGO: And WALTHALL'S JUNCTION'S hard-earned fight, And DREWRY'S BLUFF'S embattled height, Whence, at the gray dawn of the light, They rushed upon the foe.
Tattered and torn those banners now, But not less proud each lofty brow, Untaught as yet to yield: With mien unblenched, unfaltering eye, Forward, where bombshells shrieking fly Flecking with smoke the azure sky On Weldon's fated field.
Sweeps from the woods the bold array, Not theirs to falter in the fray, No men more sternly trained than they To meet their deadly doom: While, from a hundred throats agape, A hundred sulphurous flames escape, Round shot, and canister, and grape, The thundering cannon's boom!
Swift, on their flank, with fearful crash Shrapnel and ball commingling clash, And bursting shells, with lurid flash, Their dazzled sight confound: Trembles the earth beneath their feet, Along their front a rattling sheet Of leaden hail concentric meet, And numbers strew the ground.
On, o'er the dying and the dead, O'er mangled limb and gory head, With martial look, with martial tread, March Hagood's men to bloody bed, Honor their sole reward; Himself doth lead their battle line, Himself those banners guard.
They win the height, those gallant few, A fiercer struggle to renew, Resolved as gallant men to do Or sink in glory's shroud; But scarcely gain its stubborn crest, Ere, from the ensign's murdered breast, An impious foe has dared to wrest That banner proud.
Upon him, Hagood, in thy might! Flash on thy soul th' immortal light Of those brave deeds that blazon bright Our Southern Cross. He dies. Unfurl its folds again, Let it wave proudly o'er the plain; The dying shall forget their pain, Count not their loss.
Then, rallying to your chieftain's call, Ploughed through by cannon-shot and ball Hemmed in, as by a living wall, Cleave back your way. Those bannered deeds their souls inspire, Borne, amid sheets of forkéd fire, By the Two Hundred who retire Of that array.
Ah, Carolina! well the tear May dew thy cheek; thy clasped hands rear In passion, o'er their tombless bier, Thy fallen chivalry! Malony, mirror of the brave, And Sellers lie in glorious grave; No prouder fate than theirs, who gave Their lives for Liberty.
Carolina.
April 14, 1861.
By John A. Wagener, of S.C.
Carolina! Carolina! Noble name in State and story, How I love thy truthful glory, As I love the blue sky o'er ye, Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina! Land of chivalry unfearing, Daughters fair beyond comparing, Sons of worth, and noble daring, Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina! Soft thy clasp in loving greeting, Plenteous board and kindly meeting, All thy pulses nobly beating, Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina! Green thy valleys, bright thy heaven, Bold thy streams through forest riven, Bright thy laurels, hero-given, Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina! Holy name, and dear forever, Never shall thy childen, never, Fail to strike with grand endeavor, Carolina evermore!
Savannah.
By Alethea S. Burroughs.
Thou hast not drooped thy stately head, Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed! Not like a lamb to slaughter led, But with the lion's monarch tread, Thou eomest to thy battle bed, Savannah! oh, 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! oh, Savannah!
No blood-stains spot thy forehead fair; Only the martyrs' blood is there; It gleams upon thy bosom bier, It moves thy deep, deep soul to prayer, And tunes a dirge for thy sad ear, Savannah! oh, 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! oh, 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! oh, Savannah!
"Old Betsy."
By John Killum.
Come, with the rifle so long in your keeping, Clean the old gun up and hurry it forth; Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking, Than live with arms folded, the slave of the North.
Hear ye the yelp of the North-wolf resounding, Scenting the blood of the warm-hearted South; Quick! or his villainous feet will be bounding Where the gore of our maidens may drip from his mouth.
Oft in the wildwood "Old Bess" has relieved you, When the fierce bear was cut down in his track-- If at that moment she never deceived you, Trust her to-day with this ravenous pack.
Then come with the rifle so long in your keeping, Clean the old girl up and hurry her forth; Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking, Than live with arms folded, the slave of the North.
Awake--Arise!
By G. W. Archer, M. D.
Sons of the South--awake--arise! A million foes sweep down amain, Fierce hatred gleaming in their eyes, And fire and rapine in their train, Like savage Hun and merciless Dane! "We come as brothers!" Trust them not! By all that's dear in heaven and earth, By every tie that hath its birth Within your homes--around your hearth; Believe me, 'tis a tyrant's plot, Worse for the fair and sleek disguise-- A traitor in a patriot's cloak! "Your country's good Demands your blood!" Was it a fiend from hell that spoke?
They point us to the Stripes and Stars; (Our banner erst--the despot's now!) But let not thoughts of by-gone wars, When beat we back the common foe, And felled them fast and shamed them so, Divide us at this fearful hour; But think of dungeons and of chains-- Think of your violated fanes-- Of your loved homestead's gory stains-- Eternal thraldom for your dower! No love of country fires their breasts-- The fell fanatics fain would free A grovelling race, And in their place Would fetter us with fiendish glee!
Sons of the South--awake--awake! And strike for rights full dear as those For which our struggling sires did shake Earth's proudest throne--while freedom rose, Baptized in blood of braggart foes. Awake--that hour hath come again! Strike! as ye look to Heaven's high throne-- Strike! for the Christian patriot's crown-- Strike! in the name of Washington, Who taught you once to rend the chain, Smiles now from heaven upon our cause, So like his own. His spirit moves Through every fight, And lends its might To every heart that freedom loves.
Ye beauteous of the sunny land! Unmatched your charms in all the earth, 'Neath freedom's banner take your stand; And, though ye strike not, prove your worth, As wont in days of joy and mirth: Lavish your praises on the brave-- Pray when the battle fiercely lowers-- Smile when the victory is ours-- Frown on the wretch who basely cowers-- Mourn o'er each fallen hero's grave! Lend thus your favors whilst we smite! Full soon we'll crush this vandal host!-- With woman's charms To nerve their arms, Oh! when have men their freedom lost!
General Albert Sidney Johnston.
By Mary Jervy, of Charleston.
In thickest fight triumphantly he fell, While into victory's arms he led us on; A death so glorious our grief should quell: We mourn him, yet his battle-crown is won.
No slanderous tongue can vex his spirit now, No bitter taunts can stain his blood-bought fame Immortal honor rests upon his brow, And noble memories cluster round his name.
For hearts shall thrill and eyes g-row dim with tears, To read the story of his touching fate; How in his death the gallant soldier wears The crown that came for earthly life too late.
Ye people! guard his memory--sacred keep The garlands green above his hero-grave; Yet weep, for praise can never wake his sleep, To tell him he is shrined among the brave!
Eulogy of the Dead.
By B. F. Porter, of Alabama.
_"Weep not for the dead; neither bemoan him"--Jeremiah._
Oh! weep not for the dead, Whose blood, for freedom shed, Is hallowed evermore! Who on the battle-field Gould die--but never yield! Oh, bemoan them never more-- They live immortal in their gore!
Oh, what is it to die Midst shouts of victory, Our rights and homes defending! Oh! what were fame and life Gained in that basest strife For tyrants' power contending, Our country's bosom rending!
Oh! dead of red Manassah! Oh! dead of Shiloh's fray! Oh! victors of the Richmond field! Dead on your mother's breast, You live in glorious rest; Each on[1] his honored shield, Immortal in each bloody field!
Oh! sons of noble mothers! Oh! youth of maiden lovers! Oh! husbands of chaste wives! Though asleep in beds of gore, You return, oh! never more; Still immortal are your lives! Immortal mothers! lovers! wives!
How blest is he who draws His sword in freedom's cause! Though dead on battle-field, Forever to his tomb Shall youthful heroes come, Their hearts for freedom steeled, And learn to die on battle-field.
As at Thermopylæ, Grecian child of liberty; Swears to despot ne'er to yield-- Here, by our glorious dead, Let's revenge the blood they've shed, Or die on bloody field, By the sons who scorned to yield!
Oh! mothers! lovers! wives! Oh! weep no more--our lives Are our country's evermore! More glorious in your graves, Than if living Lincoln's slaves, Ye will perish never more, Martyred on our fields of gore!
[1] The Grecian mother, on sending her son to battle, pointing to his shield, said--"With it, or on it."
The Beaufort Exile's Lament.
Now chant me a dirge for the Isles of the Sea, And sing the sad wanderer's psalm-- Ye women and children in exile that flee From the land of the orange and palm.
Lament for your homes, for the house of your God, Now the haunt of the vile and the low; Lament for the graves of your fathers, now trod By the foot of the Puritan foe!
No longer for thee, when the sables of night Are fading like shadows away, Does the mocking-bird, drinking the first beams of light, Praise God for the birth of a day.
No longer for thee, when the rays are now full, Do the oaks form an evergreen glade; While the drone of the locust overhead, seemed to lull The cattle that rest in the shade.
No longer for thee does the soft-shining moon Silver o'er the green waves of the bay; Nor at evening, the notes of the wandering loon Bid farewell to the sun's dying ray.
Nor when night drops her pall over river and shore, And scatters eve's merry-voiced throng, Does there rise, keeping time to the stroke of the oar, The wild chant of the sacred boat-song.
Then the revellers would cease ere the red wine they'd quaff, The traveller would pause on his way; And maidens would hush their low silvery laugh, To list to the negro's rude lay.
"Going home! going home!" methinks I now hear At the close of each solemn refrain; 'Twill be many a day, aye, and many a year, Ere ye'll sing that dear word "Home" again.
Your noble sons slain, on the battle-field lie, Your daughters' mid strangers now roam; Your aged and helpless in poverty sigh O'er the days when they once had a _home_.
"Going home! going home!" for the exile alone Can those words sweep the chords of the soul, And raise from the grave the loved ones who are gone, As the tide-waves of time backward roll.
"Going home! going home!" Ah! how many who pine, Dear Beaufort, to press thy green soul, Ere then will have passed to shores brighter than thine-- Will have gone home at last to their God!
Somebody's Darling.
By Marie La Coste, of Georgia.
Into a ward of the whitewashed halls, Where the dead and the dying lay-- Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, Somebody's darling was borne one day-- Somebody's darling, so young and so brave! Wearing yet on his sweet, pale face-- Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave-- The lingering light of his boyhood's grace!
Matted and damp are the curls of gold Kissing the snow of that fair young brow, Pale are the lips of delicate mould-- Somebody's darling is dying now. Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow Brush his wandering waves of gold; Cross his hands on his bosom now-- Somebody's darling is still and cold.
Kiss him once for somebody's sake, Murmur a prayer soft and low-- One bright curl from its fair mates take-- They were somebody's pride you know. Somebody's hand hath rested there; Was it a mother's, soft and white? Or have the lips of a sister fair-- Been baptized in their waves of light?
God knows best! He has somebody's love; Somebody's heart enshrined him there-- Somebody wafted his name above, Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave, and grand! Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay-- Somebody clung to his parting hand.
Somebody's watching and waiting for him, Yearning to hold him again to her heart; And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, And the smiling child-like lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead-- Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; Carve on the wooden slab o'er his head-- "Somebody's darling slumbers here."
John Pegram,
Fell at the Head of His Division, Feb. 6th, 1865, Ætat XXXIII.
By W. Gordon McCabe.
What shall we say, now, of our gentle knight, Or how express the measure of our woe, For him who rode the foremost in the fight, Whose good blade flashed so far amid the foe?
Of all his knightly deeds what need to tell?-- That good blade now lies fast within its sheath; What can we do but point to where he fell, And, like a soldier, met a soldier's death?
We sorrow not as those who have no hope; For he was pure in heart as brave in deed-- God pardon us, if blindly we should grope, And love be questioned by the hearts that bleed.
And yet--oh! foolish and of little faith! We cannot choose but weep our useless tears; We loved him so; we never dreamed that death Would dare to touch him in his brave young years.
Ah! dear, browned face, so fearless and so bright! As kind to friend as thou wast stern to foe-- No more we'll see thee radiant in the fight, The eager eyes--the flush on cheek and brow!
No more we'll greet the lithe, familiar form, Amid the surging smoke, with deaf'ning cheer; No more shall soar above the iron storm, Thy ringing voice in accents sweet and clear.
Aye! he has fought the fight and passed away-- Our grand young leader smitten in the strife! So swift to seize the chances of the fray, And careless only of his noble life.
He is not dead, but sleepeth! well we know The form that lies to-day beneath the sod, Shall rise that time the golden bugles blow, And pour their music through the courts of God.
And there amid our great heroic dead-- The war-worn sons of God, whose work is done-- His face shall shine, as they with stately tread, In grand review, sweep past the jasper throne.
Let not our hearts be troubled! Few and brief His days were here, yet rich in love and faith: Lord, we believe, help thou our unbelief, And grant thy servants such a life and death!
Captives Going Home.
No flaunting banners o'er them wave, No arms flash back the sun's bright ray, No shouting crowds around them throng, No music cheers them on their way: They're going home. By adverse fate Compelled their trusty swords to sheathe; True soldiers they, even though disarmed-- Heroes, though robbed of victory's wreath.
Brave Southrons! 'Tis with sorrowing hearts We gaze upon them through our tears, And sadly feel how vain were all Their heroic deeds through weary years; Yet 'mid their enemies they move With firm, bold step and dauntless mien: Oh, Liberty! in every age, Such have thy chosen heroes been.
Going home! Alas, to them the words Bring visions fraught with gloom and woe: Since last they saw those cherished homes The legions of the invading foe Have swept them, simoon-like, along, Spreading destruction with the wind! "They found a garden, but they left A howling wilderness behind."
Ah! in those desolated homes To which the "fate of war has come," Sad is the welcome--poor the feast-- That waits the soldier's coming home; Yet loving ones will round him throng, With smiles more tender, if less gay, And joy will brighten pallid cheeks At sight of the dear boys in gray.
Aye, give them welcome home, fair South, For you they've made a deathless name; Bright through all after-time will glow The glorious record of their fame. They made a nation. What, though soon Its radiant sun has seemed to set; The past has shown what they can do, The future holds bright promise yet.
The Heights of Mission Ridge.
By J. Augustine Signaigo.
When the foes, in conflict heated, Battled over road and bridge, While Bragg sullenly retreated From the heights of Mission Ridge-- There, amid the pines and wildwood, Two opposing colonels fell, Who had schoolmates been in childhood, And had loved each other well.
There, amid the roar and rattle, Facing Havoc's fiery breath, Met the wounded two in battle, In the agonies of death. But they saw each other reeling On the dead and dying men, And the old time, full of feeling, Came upon them once again.
When that night the moon came creeping, With its gold streaks, o'er the slain, She beheld two soldiers, sleeping, Free from every earthly pain. Close beside the mountain heather, Where the rocks obscure the sand, They had died, it seems, together, As they clasped each other's hand.
"Our Left at Manassas."
From dawn to dark they stood, That long midsummer's day! While fierce and fast The battle-blast Swept rank on rank away!
From dawn to dark, they fought With legions swept and cleft, While black and wide, The battle-tide Poured ever 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!
They left the laggard train; The panting steam might stay; And down they came, With steel and flame, Head-foremost to the fray!
Right through the blackest cloud Their lightning-path they cleft! Freedom and Fame With triumph came To our immortal Left.
Ye! of your living, sure! Ye! of your dead, bereft! Honor the brave Who died to save _Your all_, upon our Left.
On to Richmond.
After Southey's "March to Moscow."
By John R. Thompson, of Virginia.
Major-General Scott An order had got To push on the columns 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 with 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 turn-out, 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 battle-field 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 bills of fare, And the artists to dress the young officers' hair. And the scribblers all 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 Than to make the advance, spite of rhyme or of reason, And at once put an end to the insolent treason. There was Greeley, And Ely, The bloodthirsty Grow, And Hickman (the rowdy, not Hickman the beau), And that terrible Baker Who would seize on 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, Came 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 this 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 On their perilous path; And Johnston 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 Diomed's crest. McDowell! McDowell! weep, weep for the day. When the Southrons you meet 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.
Richmond Whig.
Turner Ashby.
By John R. Thompson, of Virginia
To the brave all homage render, Weep, ye skies of June! With a radiance pure and tender, Shine, oh saddened moon! "Dead upon the field of glory," Hero fit for song and story, Lies our bold dragoon!
Well they learned, whose hands have slain him, Braver, knightlier foe Never fought with Moor nor Paynim-- Rode at Templestowe; With a mien how high and joyous, 'Gainst the hordes that would destroy us, Went he forth we know.
Never more, alas I shall sabre Gleam around his crest; Fought his fight, fulfilled his labor, Stilled his manly breast; All unheard sweet nature's cadence, Trump of fame and voice of maidens-- Now he takes his rest.
Earth, that all too soon hath bound him? Gently wrap his clay; Linger lovingly around him, Light of dying day; Softly fall the summer showers, Birds and bees among the flowers Make the gloom seem gay.
There, throughout the coming ages, When his sword is rust, And his deeds in classic pages; Mindful of her trust, Shall Virginia, bending lowly, Still a ceaseless vigil holy Keep above his dust.
Captain Latane.
By John R. Thompson, of Virginia.
The combat raged not long; but ours the day, And through the hosts which compassed us around Our little band rode proudly on its way, Leaving one gallant spirit, glory crowned, Unburied on the field he died to gain; Single, of all his men, among the hostile slain!
One moment at 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! And thus he passed, through the red gates of strife, From earthly crowns and palms, to an eternal life.
A brother bore his body from the field, And gave it into strangers' hands, who closed His calm blue eyes, on earth forever sealed, And tenderly the slender limbs composed; Strangers, but _sisters, who, with Mary's love, Sat by the open tomb and, weeping, looked above._
A little girl 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, with the faithful slave, Approached with reverent steps the hero's lowly grave.
No man of God might read the burial rite Above the rebel--thus declared the foe, Who blanched before him in the deadly fight; But woman's voice, in 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, Arid the sweet breathings of the sunset hour, Come 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.
We should not weep for him! His deeds endure; So young, so beautiful, so brave--he died As he would wish to die. The past secure, Whatever yet of sorrow may betide Those who still linger by the stormy shore; Change cannot hurt him now, nor fortune reach him more.
And when Virginia, leaning on her spear, _Vitrix et vidua_, the conflict done, Shall raise her mailéd hand to wipe the tear That starts, as she recalls each martyr son; No prouder memory her breast shall sway Than thine--the early lost--lamented Lat-a-nè!
The Men.
By Maurice Bell.
In the dusk of the forest shade A sallow and dusty group reclined; Gallops a horseman up the glade-- "Where will I your leader find? Tidings I bring from the morning's scout-- I've borne them o'er mound, and moor, and fen." "Well, sir, stay not hereabout, Here are only a few of 'the men.'
"Here no collar has bar or star, No rich lacing adorns a sleeve; Further on our officers are, Let them your report receive. Higher up, on the hill up there, Overlooking this shady glen. There are their quarters--don't stop here, We are only some of 'the men.'
"Yet stay, courier, if you bear Tidings that the fight is near; Tell them we're ready, and that where They wish us to be we'll soon appear; Tell them only to let us know Where to form our ranks, and when; And we'll teach the vaunting foe That they've met a few of 'the men.'
"We're _the men_, though our clothes are worn-- We're _the men_, though we wear no lace-- We're _the men_, who the foe hath torn, And scattered their ranks in dire disgrace; We're the men who have triumphed before-- We're the men who will triumph again; For the dust, and the smoke, and the cannon's roar, And the clashing bayonets--'_we're the men_.'
"Ye who sneer at the battle-scars, Of garments faded, and soiled and bare, Yet who have for the 'stars and bars' Praise, and homage, and dainty fare; Mock the wearers and pass them on, Refuse them kindly word--and then Know, if your freedom is ever won By human agents--_these are the men!_"
"A Rebel Soldier Killed in the Trenches before Petersburg, Va., April 15, 1865."
By a Kentucky Girl.
Killed in the trenches! How cold and bare The inscription graved on the white card there. 'Tis a photograph, taken last Spring, they say, Ere the smoke of battle had cleared away-- Of a rebel soldier--just as he fell, When his heart was pierced by a Union shell; And his image was stamped by the sunbeam's ray, As he lay in the trenches that April day.
Oh God! Oh God! How my woman's heart Thrills with a quick, convulsive pain, As I view, unrolled by the magic of Art, One dreadful scene from the battle-plain:-- White as the foam of the storm-tossed wave, Lone as the rocks those billows lave-- Gray sky above--cold clay beneath-- A gallant form lies stretched in death!
With his calm face fresh on the trampled clay, And the brave hands clasped o'er the manly breast: Save the sanguine stains on his jacket gray, We might deem him taking a soldier's rest. Ah no! Too red is that crimson tide-- Too deeply pierced that wounded side; Youth, hope, love, glory--manhood's pride-- Have all in vain Death's bolt defied.
His faithful carbine lies useless there, As it dropped from its master's nerveless ward; And the sunbeams glance on his waving hair Which the fallen cap has ceased to guard-- Oh Heaven! spread o'er it thy merciful shield, No more to my sight be the battle revealed! Oh fiercer than tempest--grim Hades as dread-- On woman's eye flashes the field of the dead!
The scene is changed: In a quiet room, Far from the spot where the lone corse lies, A mother kneels in the evening gloom To offer her nightly sacrifice. The noon is past, and the day is done, She knows that the battle is lost or won-- Who lives? Who died? Hush! be thou still! The boy lies dead on the trench-barred hill.
Battle of Hampton Roads.
By Ossian D. Gorman.
Ne'er had a scene of beauty smiled On placid waters 'neath the sun, Like that on Hampton's watery plain, The fatal morn the fight begun. Far toward the silvery Sewell shores, Below the guns of Craney Isle, Were seen our fleet advancing fast, Beneath the sun's auspicious smile.
Oh, fatal sight! the hostile hordes Of Newport camp spread dire alarms: The Cumberland for fight prepares-- The fierce marines now rush to arms. The Merrimac, strong cladded o'er, In quarters close begins her fire, Nor fears the rushing hail of shot, And deadly missiles swift and dire; But, rushing on 'mid smoke and flame, And belching thunder long and loud, Salutes the ship with bow austere, And then withdraws in wreaths of cloud.
The work is done. The frigate turns In agonizing, doubtful poise-- She sinks, she sinks! along the deck Is heard a shrieking, wailing noise. Engulfed beneath those placid waves Disturbed by battle's onward surge, The crew is gone; the vessel sleeps, And whistling bombshells sing her dirge.
The battle still is raging fierce: The Congress, "high and dry" aground, Maintains in vain her boasted power, For now the gunboats flock around, With "stars and bars" at mainmast reared, And pour their lightning on the main, While Merrimac, approaching fast Sends forth her shell and hot-shot rain.
Meantime the Jamestown, gallant boat, Engages strong redoubts at land-- While Patrick Henry glides along, To board the Congress, still astrand. This done, we turn intently on The Minnesota, which replies, With whizzing shell to Teuser's gun, Whose booming cleaves the distant skies. The naval combat sounds anew; The hostile fleets are not withdrawn, Though night is closing earth and sea In twilight's pale and mystic dawn. Strange whistling noises fill the air; The powdered smoke looks dark as night, And deadly, lurid flames, pour forth Their radiance on the missiles' flight; Grand picture on the noisy waves! The breezy zephyrs onward roam, And echoing volleys float afar, Disturbing Neptune's coral home. The victory's ours, and let the world Record Buchanan's[1] name with pride; The _crew is brave, the banner bright_, That ruled the day when Hutter[2] died.
[1] Commander of the "Merrimac."
[2] Midshipman on the "Patrick Henry."
Macon Daily Telegraph.
Is This a Time to Dance?
The breath of evening' sweeps the plain, And sheds its perfume in the dell, But on its wings are sounds of pain, Sad tones that drown the echo's swell; And yet we hear a mirthful call, Fair pleasure smiles with beaming glance, Gay music sounds in the joyous hall: Oh God! is this a time to dance?
Sad notes, as if a spirit sighed, Float from the crimson battle-plain, As if a mighty spirit cried In awful agony and pain: Our friends we know there suffering lay, Our brothers, too, perchance, And in reproachful accents say, Loved ones, is this a time to dance?
Oh, lift your festal robes on high! The human gore that flows around Will stain their hues with crimson dye; And louder let your music sound To drown the dying warrior's cry! Let sparkling wine your joy enhance Forget that _blood_ has tinged its dye, And quicker urge the maniac dance.
But stop! the floor beneath your feet Gives back a _coffin's_ hollow moan, And every strain of music sweet, Wafts forth a _dying soldier's groan_. Oh, sisters! who have brothers dear Exposed to every battle's chance, Brings dark Remorse no forms of fear, To fright you from the heartless dance?
Go, fling your festal robes away! Go, don the mourner's sable veil! Go, bow before your God, and pray! If yet your prayers may aught avail. Go, face the fearful form of Death! And trembling meet his chilling glance, And then, for once, with truthful breath, Answer, _Is this a time to dance?_
"The Maryland Line."
By J.D. M'Cabe, Jr.
The Maryland regiments in the Confederate army have adopted the title of "The Maryland Line," which was so heroically sustained by their patriot sires of the first Revolution, and which the deeds of Marylanders at Manassas, show that the patriot Marylanders of this second Revolution are worthy to bear.
By old Potomac's rushing tide, Our bayonets are gleaming; And o'er the bounding waters wide We gaze, while tears are streaming. The distant hills of Maryland Rise sadly up before us-- And tyrant bands have chained our laud, Our mother proud that bore us.
Our proud old mother's queenly head Is bowed in subjugation; With her children's blood her soil is red, And fiends in exultation Taunt her with shame as they bind her chains, While her heart is torn with anguish; Old mother, on famed Manassas' plains Our vengeance did not languish.
We thought of your wrongs as on we rushed, 'Mid shot and shell appalling; We heard your voice as it upward gush'd, From the Maryland life-blood falling. No pity we knew! Did they mercy show When they bound the mother that bore us? But we scattered death 'mid the dastard foe Till they, shrieking, fled before us.
We mourn for our brothers brave that fell On that field so stern and gory; But their spirits rose with our triumph yell To the heavenly realms of glory. And their bodies rest on the hard-won field-- By their love so true and tender, We'll keep the prize they would not yield, We'll die, but we'll not surrender.
The Virginians of the Shenandoah Valley.
"_Sic Jurat_."
By Frank Ticknor, M.D., of Georgia.
The knightliest of the knightly race Who, since the clays of old, Have kept the lamp of chivalry Alight in hearts of gold; The kindliest of the kindly band Who rarely hated ease, Yet rode with Smith around the land, And Raleigh o'er the seas;
Who climbed the blue Virginia hills, Amid 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 thousand homes With loveliness and worth,--
We feared they slept!--the sons who kept The names of noblest sires, And waked not, though the darkness crept Around their vigil fires; But still the Golden Horse-shoe Knights Their "Old Dominion" keep: The foe has found the enchanted ground, But not a knight asleep.
Torch-Hall, Georgia.
Sonnet.--The Avatar of Hell.
Charleston Mercury.
Six thousand years of commune, God with man,-- Two thousand years of Ohrist; yet from such roots, Immortal, earth reaps only bitterest fruits! The fiends rage now as when they first began! Hate, Lust, Greed, Vanity, triumphant still, Yell, shout, exult, and lord o'er human will! The sun moves back! The fond convictions felt, That, in the progress of the race, we stood, Two thousand years of height above the flood Before the day's experience sink and melt, As frost beneath the fire! and what remains Of all our grand ideals and great gains, With Goth, Hun, Vandal, warring in their pride, While the meek Christ is hourly crucified!
Pax.
"Stonewall" Jackson's Way.
These verses, according to the newspaper account, _may_ have been found in the bosom of a dead rebel, after one of Jackson's battles in the Shenandoah valley; but we are pleased to state that the _author_ of them is a still living rebel, and able to write even better things.
Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails; Stir up the camp-fire bright; No matter if the canteen fails, We'll make a roaring night. Here Shenandoah brawls along, Here burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, To swell the brigade's rousing song, Of "Stonewall Jackson's way."
We see him now--the old 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 "Blue Light's" going 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 dawn! 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 Yankees, whipped before: "Bayonets 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.
The Silent March.
On one occasion during the war in Virginia, General Lee was lying asleep by the wayside, when an army of fifteen thousand men passed by with hushed voices and footsteps, lest they should disturb his slumbers.
O'ercome with weariness and care, The war-worn veteran lay On the green turf of his native land, And slumbered by the way; The breeze that sighed across his brow, And smoothed its deepened lines, Fresh from his own loved mountain bore The murmur of their pines; And the glad sound of waters, The blue rejoicing streams, Whose sweet familiar tones were blent With the music of his dreams: They brought no sound of battle's din, Shrill fife or clarion, But only tenderest memories Of his own fair Arlington. While thus the chieftain slumbered, Forgetful of his care, The hollow tramp of thousands Came sounding through the air. With ringing spur and sabre, And trampling feet they come, Gay plume and rustling banner, And fife, and trump, and drum; But soon the foremost column Sees where, beneath the shade, In slumber, calm as childhood, Their wearied chief is laid; And down the line a murmur From lip to lip there ran, Until the stilly whisper Had spread to rear from van; And o'er the host a silence As deep and sudden fell, As though some mighty wizard Had hushed them with a spell; And every sound was muffled, And every soldier's tread Fell lightly as a mother's 'Round her baby's cradle-bed; And rank, and file, and column, So softly by they swept, It seemed a ghostly army Had passed him as he slept; But mightier than enchantment Was that with magic move-- The spell that hushed their voices-- Deep reverence and love.
Pro Memoria.
Air--There is rest for the weary.
By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama.
Lo! the Southland Queen, emerging From her sad and wintry gloom, Robes her torn and bleeding bosom In her richest orient bloom:
CHORUS.--(Repeat first line three times.) For her weary sons are resting By the Edenshore; They have won the crown immortal, And the cross of death is o'er! Where the Oriflamme is burning On the starlit Edenshore!
Brightly still, in gorgeous glory, God's great jewel lights our sky; Look! upon the heart's white dial There's a SHADOW flitting by!
CHORUS.--But the weary feet are resting, etc.
Homes are dark and hearts are weary, Souls are numb with hopeless pain; For the footfall on the threshold Never more to sound again!
CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, Aye, for evermore! We must win the crown immortal, Follow where they led before, Where the Oriflamme is burning On the starlit Edenshore.
Proudly, as our Southern forests Meet the winter's shafts so keen: Time-defying memories cluster Round our hearts in living green.
CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.
May our faltering voices mingle In the angel-chanted psalm; May our earthly chaplets linger By the bright celestial palm.
CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.
Crest to crest they bore our banner, Side by side they fell asleep; Hand in hand we scatter flowers, Heart to heart we kneel and weep!
CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.
When the May eternal dawneth At the living God's behest, We will quaff divine Nepenthe, We will share the Soldier's rest.
CHORUS.--Where the weary feet are resting, etc.
Where the shadows are uplifted 'Neath the never-waning sun, Shout we, Gloria in Excelsis! We have lost, but ye have won!
CHORUS.--Our hearts are yours forever, Aye, for evermore! Ye have won the crown immortal, And the cross of death is o'er, Where the Oriflamme is burning On the starlit Edenshore!
The Southern Homes in Ruin.
By R. B. Vance, of North Carolina.
"We know a great deal about war now; but, dear readers, the Southern women know more. Blood has not dripped on our doorsills yet; shells have not burst above our _homesteads_--let us pray they never may." --_Frank Leslie's Illustrated_.
Many a gray-haired sire has died, As falls the oak, to rise no more, Because his son, his prop, his pride, Breathed out his last all red with gore. No more on earth, at morn, at eve, Shall age and youth, entwined as one-- Nor father, son, for either grieve-- Life's work, alas, for both is done!
Many a mother's heart has bled While gazing on her darling child, As in its tiny eyes she read The father's image, kind and mild; For ne'er again his voice will cheer The widowed heart, which mourns him dead; Nor kisses dry the scalding tear, Fast falling on the orphan's head!
Many a little form will stray Adown the glen and o'er the hill, And watch, with wistful looks, the way For him whose step is missing still; And when the twilight steals apace O'er mead, and brook, and lonely home, And shadows cloud the dear, sweet face-- The cry will be, "Oh, papa, come!"
And many a home's in ashes now, Where joy was once a constant guest, And mournful groups there are, I trow, With neither house nor place of rest; And blood is on the broken _sill_, Where happy feet went to and fro, And everywhere, by field and hill, Are sickening sights and sounds of woe!
There is a God who rules on high, The widow's and the orphan's friend, Who sees each tear and hears each sigh, That these lone hearts to Him may send! And when in wrath He tears away The reasons vain which men indite, The record book will plainest say Who's in the wrong, and who is right.
"Rappahannock Army Song."
By John C. M'Lemore.
The toil of the march is over-- The pack will be borne no more-- For we've come for the help of Richmond, From the Rappahannock's shore. The foe is closing round us-- We can hear his ravening cry; So, ho! for fair old Richmond! Like soldiers we'll do or die. We have left the land that bore us, Full many a league away, And our mothers and sisters miss us, As with tearful eyes they pray; But _this_ will repress their weeping, And still the rising sigh-- For all, for fair old Richmond, Have come to do or die.
We have come to join our brothers From the proud Dominion's vales, And to meet the dark-cheeked soldier, Tanned by the Tropic gales; To greet them all full gladly, With hand and beaming eye, And to swear, for fair old Richmond, We all will do or die.
The fair Carolina sisters Stand ready, lance in hand, To fight as they did in an older war, For the sake of their fatherland. The glories of Sumter and Bethel Have raised their fame full high, But they'll fade, if for fair old Richmond They swear not to do or die.
Zollicoffer looks down on his people, And trusts to their hearts and arms, To avenge the blood he has shed, In the midst of the battle's alarms. Alabamians, remember the past, Be the "South at Manassas," their cry; As onward for fair old Richmond, They marched to do or die.
Brave Bartow, from home on high, Calls the Empire State to the front, To bear once more as she has borne With glory the battle's brunt. Mississippians who know no surrender, Bear the flag of the Chief on high; For he, too, for fair old Richmond, Has sworn to do or die.
Fair land of my birth--sweet Florida-- Your arm is weak, but your soul Must tell of a purer, holier strength, When the drums for the battle roll. Look within, for your hope in the combat, Nor think of your few with a sigh-- If you win not for fair old Richmond, At least you can bravely die.
Onward all! Oh! band of brothers! The beat of the long roll's heard! And the hearts of the columns advancing, By the sound of its music is stirred. Onward all! and never return, Till our foes from the Borders fly-- To be crowned by the fair of old Richmond, As those who could do or die.
Richmond Enquirer.
The Soldier in the Rain.
By Julia L. Keyes.
Ah me! the rain has a sadder sound Than it ever had before; And the wind more plaintively whistles through The crevices of the door.
We know we are safe beneath our roof From every drop that falls; And we feel secure and blest, within The shelter of our walls.
Then why do we dread to hear the noise Of the rapid, rushing rain-- And the plash of the wintry drops, that beat Through the blinds, on the window-pane?
We think of the tents on the lowly ground, Where our patriot soldiers lie; And the sentry's bleak and lonely march, 'Neath the dark and starless sky.
And we pray, with a tearful heart, for those Who brave for us yet more-- And we wish this war, with its thousand ills And griefs, was only o'er.
We pray when the skies are bright and clear, When the winds are soft and warm-- But oh! we pray with an aching heart 'Mid the winter's rain and storm.
We fain would lift these mantling clouds That shadow our sunny clime; We can but wait--for we know there'll be A day, in the coming time,
When peace, like a rosy dawn, will flood Our land with softest light: Then--we will scarcely hearken the rain In the dreary winter's night.
My Country.
By W. D. Porter, S. C.
Go, read the stories of the great and free, The nations on the long, bright roll of fame, Whose noble rage has baffled the decree Of tyrants to despoil their life and name;
Whose swords have flashed like lightning in the eyes Of robber despots, glorying in their might, And taught the world, by deeds of high emprise, The power of truth and sacredness of right:
Whose people, strong to suffer and endure, In faith have wrestled till the blessing came, And won through woes a victory doubly sure, As martyr wins his crown through blood and flame.
The purest virtue has been sorest tried, Nor is there glory without patient toil; And he who woos fair Freedom for his bride, Through suffering must be purged of stain and soil.
My country! in this hour of trial sore, When in the balance trembling hangs thy fate, Brace thy great heart with courage to the core, Nor let one jot of faith or hope abate!