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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/6316.txt b/6316.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a53b752 --- /dev/null +++ b/6316.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6290 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems of American Patriotism +by Brander Matthews (Editor) + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Poems of American Patriotism + +Author: Brander Matthews (Editor) + +Release Date: August, 2004 [EBook #6316] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on November 25, 2002] +[Date last updated: July 20, 2004] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF AMERICAN PATRIOTISM *** + + + + +Produced by Robert Prince, David Starner, Juliet Sutherland +Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + +POEMS OF AMERICAN PATRIOTISM + +CHOSEN BY +BRANDER MATTHEWS + +AN EDITION REVISED +AND EXTENDED + +ILLUSTRATED BY +N.C. WYETH + + + + +TO THE MEMORY OF +THEODORE ROOSEVELT + + + + +PREFATORY NOTE + +An attempt has been made in the present collection to gather +together the patriotic poems of America, those which depict +feelings as well as those which describe actions, since these +latter are as indicative of the temper of the time. It is a +collection, for the most part, of old favorites, for Americans have +been quick to take to heart a stirring telling of a daring and +noble deed; but these may be found to have gained freshness by a +grouping in order. The arrangement is chronological so far as it +might be, that the history of America as told by her poets should +be set forth. Here and there occur breaks in the story, chiefly +because there are fit incidents for song which no poet has fitly +sung as yet. + +The poems have been printed scrupulously from the best accessible +text, and they have not been tinkered in any way, though some few +have been curtailed slightly for the sake of space. In a few cases, +where the whole poem has not fallen within the scope of this +volume, only a fragment is here given. When this has been done, it +is pointed out. Brief notes have been prefixed to many of the +poems, making plain the occasion of their origin, and removing any +chance obscurity of allusion. + +NEW YORK, November, 1882. + +In the two score years since this collection was prepared many +things have happened, and many poets have been in-spired to +celebrate men and moods and deeds. It has been found necessary to +omit a few of the less important verses in the earlier edition to +make room for the most significant of the lyric commemorations of +events almost contemporary, and therefore appealing to us more +immediately, and perhaps more poignantly. + +B. M. + +July 4, 1922. + + + + +TABLE OF CONTENTS + +BOSTON, Ralph Waldo Emerson + +PAUL REVERE'S RIDE, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow + +THE BATTLE OF LEXINGTON, Sidney Lanier + +HYMN, Ralph Waldo Emerson + +TICONDEROGA, V. B. Wilson + +GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL BATTLE, Oliver Wendell Holmes + +WARREN'S ADDRESS, John Pierpont + +THE OLD CONTINENTALS, Guy Humphrey McMaster + +NATHAN HALE, Francis Miles Finch + +THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL, Will Carleton + +MOLLY MAGUIRE AT MONMOUTH, William Collins + +SONG OF MARION'S MEN, William Cullen Bryant + +TO THE MEMORY OF THE AMERICANS WHO FELL AT EUTAW, Philip Freneau + +GEORGE WASHINGTON, James Russell Lowell + +PERRY'S VICTORY ON LAKE ERIE, James Gates Percival + +THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER, Francis Scott Key + +THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS, Thomas Dunn English + +THE AMERICAN FLAG, Joseph Rodman Drake + +OLD IRONSIDES, Oliver Wendell Holmes + +MONTEREY, Charles Fenno Hoff man + +THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD, Theodore O'Hara + +HOW OLD BROWN TOOK HARPER'S FERRY, Edmund Clarence Stedman + +APOCALYPSE, Richard Realf + +THE PICKET GUARD, Ethel Lynn Beers + +THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD, James Russell Lowell + +BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC, Julia Ward Howe + +AT PORT ROYAL, John Greenleaf Whittier + +READY, Phoebe Gary + +"HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY?", Bret Harte + +SONG OF THE SOLDIERS, Charles G. Halpine + +JONATHAN TO JOHN, James Russell Lowell + +THE CUMBERLAND, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow + +KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES, Edmund Clarence Stedman + +DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER, George H. Boker + +BARBARA FRIETCHIE, John Greenleaf Whittier + +FREDERICKSBURG, Thomas Bailey Aldrich + +MUSIC IN CAMP, John R. Thompson + +KEENAN'S CHARGE, George Parsons Lathrop + +THE BLACK REGIMENT, George H. Boker + +JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG, Bret Harte + +TWILIGHT ON SUMTER, Richard Henry Stoddard + +THE BAY-FIGHT, Henry Howard Brownell + +SHERIDAN'S RIDE, Thomas Buchanan Read + +CRAVEN, Henry Newbolt + +SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA, Samuel H. M. Byers + +O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!, Walt Whitman + +ABRAHAM LINCOLN, James Russell Lowell + +THE BLUE AND THE GRAY, Francis Miles Finch + +AT THE FARRAGUT STATUE, Robert Bridges + +GRANT, H. C. Bunner + +THE BURIAL OF SHERMAN, Richard Watson Gilder + +THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS, John Jerome Rooney + +THE REGULAR ARMY MAN, Joseph C. Lincoln + +WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS COME IN, Guy Wetmore Carryl + +AD FINEM FIDELES, Guy Wetmore Carry + +GROVER CLEVELAND, Joel Benton + +A TOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND, Robert Bridges + +FIFTY YEARS, James Weldon Johnson + +THE AMERICAN VOLUNTEERS, Marie Van Vorst + +I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH, Alan Seeger + +THE CHOICE, Rudyard Kipling + +ANNAPOLIS, Waldron Kinsolving Post + +YANKS, James W. Foley + +ANY WOMAN TO A SOLDIER, Grace Ellery Channing + +TO PEACE, WITH VICTORY, Corinne Roosevelt Robinson + +YOU AND YOU, Edith Wharton + +WITH THE TIDE, Edith Wharton + +AMERICA'S WELCOME HOME, Henry van Dyke + +THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER, Angela Morgan + + + + + +BOSTON + +SICUT PATRIBUS, SIT DEUS NOBIS +RALPH WALDO EMERSON + + +[sidenote: Dec. 16, 1773] +_This poem was read in Faneuil Hall, on the Centennial +Anniversary of the "Boston Tea-Party," at which a band of men +disguised as Indians had quietly emptied into the sea the taxed +tea-chests of three British ships._ + + The rocky nook with hill-tops three + Looked eastward from the farms, + And twice each day the flowing sea + Took Boston in its arms; + The men of yore were stout and poor, + And sailed for bread to every shore. + + And where they went on trade intent + They did what freemen can, + Their dauntless ways did all men praise, + The merchant was a man. + The world was made for honest trade,-- + To plant and eat be none afraid. + + The waves that rocked them on the deep + To them their secret told; + Said the winds that sung the lads to sleep, + "Like us be free and bold!" + The honest waves refuse to slaves + The empire of the ocean caves. + + Old Europe groans with palaces, + Has lords enough and more;-- + We plant and build by foaming seas + A city of the poor;-- + For day by day could Boston Bay + Their honest labor overpay. + + We grant no dukedoms to the few, + We hold like rights and shall;-- + Equal on Sunday in the pew, + On Monday in the mall. + For what avail the plough or sail, + Or land or life, if freedom fail? + + The noble craftsmen we promote, + Disown the knave and fool; + Each honest man shall have his vote, + Each child shall have his school. + A union then of honest men, + Or union nevermore again. + + The wild rose and the barberry thorn + Hung out their summer pride + Where now on heated pavements worn + The feet of millions stride. + + Fair rose the planted hills behind + The good town on the bay, + And where the western hills declined + The prairie stretched away. + + What care though rival cities soar + Along the stormy coast: + Penn's town, New York, and Baltimore, + If Boston knew the most! + + They laughed to know the world so wide; + The mountains said: "Good-day! + We greet you well, you Saxon men, + Up with your towns and stay!" + The world was made for honest trade,-- + To plant and eat be none afraid. + + "For you," they said, "no barriers be, + For you no sluggard rest; + Each street leads downward to the sea, + Or landward to the West." + + O happy town beside the sea, + Whose roads lead everywhere to all; + Than thine no deeper moat can be, + No stouter fence, no steeper wall! + + Bad news from George on the English throne: + "You are thriving well," said he; + "Now by these presents be it known, + You shall pay us a tax on tea; + 'T is very small,--no load at all,-- + Honor enough that we send the call." + + "Not so," said Boston, "good my lord, + We pay your governors here + Abundant for their bed and board, + Six thousand pounds a year. + (Your highness knows our homely word,) + Millions for self-government, + But for tribute never a cent." + + The cargo came! and who could blame + If _Indians_ seized the tea, + And, chest by chest, let down the same + Into the laughing sea? + For what avail the plough or sail + Or land or life, if freedom fail? + + The townsmen braved the English king, + Found friendship in the French, + And Honor joined the patriot ring + Low on their wooden bench. + + O bounteous seas that never fail! + O day remembered yet! + O happy port that spied the sail + Which wafted Lafayette! + Pole-star of light in Europe's night, + That never faltered from the right. + + Kings shook with fear, old empires crave + The secret force to find + Which fired the little State to save + The rights of all mankind. + + But right is might through all the world; + Province to province faithful clung, + Through good and ill the war-bolt hurled, + Till Freedom cheered and the joy-bells rung. + + The sea returning day by day + Restores the world-wide mart; + So let each dweller on the Bay + Fold Boston in his heart, + Till these echoes be choked with snows, + Or over the town blue ocean flows. + + Let the blood of her hundred thousands + Throb in each manly vein; + And the wit of all her wisest + Make sunshine in her brain. + For you can teach the lightning speech, + And round the globe your voices reach. + + And each shall care for other, + And each to each shall bend, + To the poor a noble brother, + To the good an equal friend. + + A blessing through the ages thus + Shield all thy roofs and towers! + _God with the fathers, so with us,_ + Thou darling town of ours! + + + + + +PAUL REVERE'S RIDE + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW + +[Sidenote: April 18, 1775] +_This poem is the "Landlord's Tale," the first of the "Tales of a +Wayside Inn."_ + + Listen, my children, and you shall hear + Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, + On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five: + Hardly a man is now alive + Who remembers that famous day and year. + + He said to his friend, "If the British march + By land or sea from the town to-night, + Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch + Of the North Church tower as a signal-light, + One, if by land, and two, if by sea; + And I on the opposite shore will be, + Ready to ride and spread the alarm + Through every Middlesex village and farm, + For the country folk to be up and to arm." + + Then he said, Good-night! and with muffled oar + Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, + Just as the moon rose over the bay, + Where swinging wide at her moorings lay + The Somerset, British man-of-war; + A phantom ship, with each mast and spar + Across the moon like a prison-bar, + And a huge black hulk, that was magnified + By its own reflection in the tide. + + Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street + Wanders and watches with eager ears, + Till in the silence around him he hears + The muster of men at the barrack door, + The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, + And the measured tread of the grenadiers, + Marching down to their boats on the shore. + + Then he climbed to the tower of the Old North Church + By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, + To the belfry-chamber overhead, + And startled the pigeons from their perch + On the sombre rafters, that round him made + Masses and moving shapes of shade,-- + By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, + To the highest window in the wall, + Where he paused to listen and look down + A moment on the roofs of the town, + And the moonlight flowing over all. + + Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, + In their night-encampment on the hill, + Wrapped in silence so deep and still + That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, + The watchful night-wind, as it went + Creeping along from tent to tent, + And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" + A moment only he feels the spell + Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread + Of the lonely belfry and the dead; + For suddenly all his thoughts are bent + On a shadowy something far away, + Where the river widens to meet the bay,-- + A line of black that bends and floats + On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. + + Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, + Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride + On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. + Now he patted his horse's side, + Now gazed at the landscape far and near, + Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, + And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; + But mostly he watched with eager search + The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, + As it rose above the graves on the hill, + Lonely, and spectral, and sombre and still. + + And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height + A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! + He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, + But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight + A second lamp in the belfry burns! + A hurry of hoofs in a village street, + A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, + And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark + Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: + That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, + The fate of a nation was riding that night; + And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, + Kindled the land into flame with its heat. + + He has left the village and mounted the steep, + And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, + Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; + And under the alders, that skirt its edge, + Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, + Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. + + It was twelve by the village clock + When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. + He heard the crowing of the cock, + And the barking of the farmer's dog, + And felt the damp of the river fog, + That rises after the sun goes down. + + It was one by the village clock, + When he rode into Lexington. + He saw the gilded weathercock + Swim in the moonlight as he passed, + And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, + Gaze at him with a spectral glare, + As if they already stood aghast + At the bloody work they would look upon. + + It was two by the village clock, + When he came to the bridge in Concord town. + He heard the bleating of the flock, + And the twitter of birds among the trees, + And felt the breath of the morning breeze + Blowing over the meadows brown. + And one was safe and asleep in his bed + Who at the bridge would be first to fall, + Who that day would be lying dead, + Pierced by a British musket-ball. + + You know the rest. In the books you have read, + How the British Regulars fired and fled,-- + How the farmers gave them ball for ball, + From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, + Chasing the red-coats down the lane, + Then crossing the fields to emerge again + Under the trees at the turn of the road, + And only pausing to fire and load. + + So through the night rode Paul Revere; + And so through the night went his cry of alarm + To every Middlesex village and farm,-- + A cry of defiance and not of fear, + A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, + And a word that shall echo forevermore! + For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, + Through all our history, to the last, + In the hour of darkness and peril and need, + The people will waken and listen to hear + The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, + And the midnight message of Paul Revere. + + + + + +THE BATTLE OF LEXINGTON + +SIDNEY LANIER + +[Sidenote: April 19, 1775] +_The skirmish at Lexington and the fight at Concord closed all +political bickering between Great Britain and her colonies and +began the War of the Revolution. The following verses are a +fragment of the "Psalm of the West."_ + + Then haste ye, Prescott and Revere! + Bring all the men of Lincoln here; + Let Chelmsford, Littleton, Carlisle, + Let Acton, Bedford, hither file-- + Oh, hither file, and plainly see + Out of a wound leap Liberty. + + Say, Woodman April! all in green, + Say, Robin April! hast thou seen + In all thy travel round the earth + Ever a morn of calmer birth? + But Morning's eye alone serene + Can gaze across yon village-green + To where the trooping British run + Through Lexington. + Good men in fustian, stand ye still; + The men in red come o'er the hill, + _Lay down your arms, damned rebels!_ cry + The men in red full haughtily. + But never a grounding gun is heard; + The men in fustian stand unstirred; + Dead calm, save maybe a wise bluebird + Puts in his little heavenly word. + O men in red! if ye but knew + The half as much as bluebirds do, + Now in this little tender calm + Each hand would out, and every palm + With patriot palm strike brotherhood's stroke + Or ere these lines of battle broke. + + O men in red! if ye but knew + The least of all that bluebirds do, + Now in this little godly calm + Yon voice might sing the Future's Psalm-- + The Psalm of Love with the brotherly eyes + Who pardons and is very wise-- + Yon voice that shouts, high-hoarse with ire, + _Fire!_ + + The red-coats fire, the homespuns fall: + The homespuns' anxious voices call, + _Brother, art hurt?_ and _Where hit, John?_ + And, _Wipe this blood_, and _Men, come on_, + And _Neighbor, do but lift my head_, + And _Who is wounded? Who is dead? + Seven are killed. My God! my God! + Seven lie dead on the village sod. + Two Harringtons, Parker, Hadley, Brown, + Monroe and Porter,--these are down._ + _Nay, look! stout Harrington not yet dead._ + He crooks his elbow, lifts his head. + He lies at the step of his own house-door; + He crawls and makes a path of gore. + The wife from the window hath seen, and rushed; + He hath reached the step, but the blood hath gushed; + He hath crawled to the step of his own house-door, + But his head hath dropped: he will crawl no more. + Clasp Wife, and kiss, and lift the head, + Harrington lies at his doorstep dead. + + But, O ye Six that round him lay + And bloodied up that April day! + As Harrington fell, ye likewise fell-- + At the door of the House wherein ye dwell; + As Harrington came, ye likewise came + And died at the door of your House of Fame. + + + + + +HYMN + +RALPH WALDO EMERSON + +[Sidenote: April 19, 1775] +_This poem was written to be sung at the completion of the +Concord Monument, April 19, 1836_ + + By the rude bridge that arched the flood, + Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, + Here once the embattled farmers stood, + And fired the shot heard round the world. + + The foe long since in silence slept; + Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; + And Time the ruined bridge has swept + Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. + + On this green bank, by this soft stream, + We set to-day a votive stone; + That memory may their deed redeem, + When, like our sires, our sons are gone. + + Spirit, that made those heroes dare + To die, or leave their children free, + Bid Time and Nature gently spare + The shaft we raise to them and thee. + + + + + +TICONDEROGA + +V. B. WILSON + +[Sidenote: May 10, 1775] +_After the news of Concord fight, a volunteer expedition from +Vermont and Connecticut, under Ethan Alien and Benedict Arnold, +seized Ticonderoga and Crown Point, whose military stores were of +great service. From its chime of bells, the French called +Ticonderoga "Carillon."_ + + The cold, gray light of the dawning + On old Carillon falls, + And dim in the mist of the morning + Stand the grim old fortress walls. + No sound disturbs the stillness + Save the cataract's mellow roar, + Silent as death is the fortress, + Silent the misty shore. + + But up from the wakening waters + Comes the cool, fresh morning breeze, + Lifting the banner of Britain, + And whispering to the trees + Of the swift gliding boats on the waters + That are nearing the fog-shrouded land, + With the old Green Mountain Lion, + And his daring patriot band. + + But the sentinel at the postern + Heard not the whisper low; + He is dreaming of the banks of the Shannon + As he walks on his beat to and fro, + Of the starry eyes in Green Erin + That were dim when he marched away, + And a tear down his bronzed cheek courses, + 'T is the first for many a day. + + A sound breaks the misty stillness, + And quickly he glances around; + Through the mist, forms like towering giants + Seem rising out of the ground; + A challenge, the firelock flashes, + A sword cleaves the quivering air, + And the sentry lies dead by the postern, + Blood staining his bright yellow hair. + + Then, with a shout that awakens + All the echoes of hillside and glen, + Through the low, frowning gate of the fortress, + Sword in hand, rush the Green Mountain men. + The scarce wakened troops of the garrison + Yield up their trust pale with fear; + And down comes the bright British banner, + And out rings a Green Mountain cheer. + + Flushed with pride, the whole eastern heavens + With crimson and gold are ablaze; + And up springs the sun in his splendor + And flings down his arrowy rays, + Bathing in sunlight the fortress, + Turning to gold the grim walls, + While louder and clearer and higher + Rings the song of the waterfalls. + + Since the taking of Ticonderoga + A century has rolled away; + But with pride the nation remembers + That glorious morning in May. + And the cataract's silvery music + Forever the story tells, + Of the capture of old Carillon, + The chime of the silver bells. + + + + + +GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL BATTLE +AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY + +OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES + +[Sidenote: June 17, 1775] + + 'Tis like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one + remembers + All the achings and the quakings of "the times that + tried men's souls"; + When I talk of _Whig_ and _Tory_, when I tell the + _Rebel_ story, + To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning coals. + + I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle; + Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats still; + But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me, + When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill. + + 'Twas a peaceful summer's morning, when the first thing gave + us warning + Was the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore: + "Child," says grandma, "what's the matter, what is all this + noise and clatter? + Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more?" + Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking + To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar: + She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage, + When the Mohawks killed her father, with their bullets through + his door. + + Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any, + For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or play; + There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute"-- + For a minute then I started. I was gone the livelong day. + + No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing; + Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels; + God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood around her + flowing, + How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet household feels! + + In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the stumping + Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that wooden leg he wore, + With a knot of women round him,--it was lucky I had found + him,-- + So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched before. + + They were making for the steeple,--the old soldier and his people; + The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair, + Just across the narrow river--O, so close it made me shiver!-- + Stood a fortress on the hilltop that but yesterday was bare. + + Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood behind it, + Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stubborn + walls were dumb: + Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon each other, + And their lips were white with terror as they said, THE HOUR + HAS COME! + + The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we tasted, + And our heads were almost splitting with the cannons' + deafening thrill, + When a figure tall and stately round the rampart strode sedately; + It was PRESCOTT, one since told me; he commanded on the hill. + + Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his manly figure, + With the banyan buckled round it, standing up so straight + and tall; + Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for pleasure, + Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked around + the wall. + + At eleven the streets were swarming, for the red-coats' ranks + were forming; + At noon in marching order they were moving to the piers; + How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked far + down and listened + To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted grenadiers! + + At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed + faint-hearted), + In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on their + backs, + And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight's + slaughter, + Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood along + their tracks. + + So they crossed to the other border, and again they formed in order; + And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers, + soldiers still: + The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and fasting,-- + At last they're moving, marching, marching proudly up the hill. + + We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines advancing-- + Now the front rank fires a volley--they have thrown away their shot; + Far behind the earthwork lying, all the balls above them flying, + Our people need not hurry; so they wait and answer not. + + Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes + and tipple),-- + He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French war) before,-- + Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were hearing,-- + And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry floor:-- + + + "Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's shillin's, + But ye'll waste a ton of powder afore a 'rebel' falls; + You may bang the dirt and welcome, they're as safe as Dan'l + Malcolm + Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you've splintered with + your balls!" + + In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidation + Of the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh breathless all; + Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety belfry railing, + We are crowding up against them like the waves against a wall. + + Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer,--nearer,-- + nearer, + When a flash--a curling smoke-wreath--then a crash--the + steeple shakes-- + The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud is rended; + Like a morning mist it gathered, like a thunder-cloud it breaks! + + O the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over! + The red-coats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes his hay; + Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd is flying + Like a billow that has broken and is shivered into spray. + + Then we cried, "The troops are routed! they are beat--it can't + be doubted! + God be thanked, the fight is over!"--Ah! the grim old soldier's + smile! + "Tell us, tell us why you look so?" (we could hardly speak, + we shook so),-- + "Are they beaten? _Are_ they beaten? ARE they beaten?"-- + "Wait a while." + + O the trembling and the terror! for too soon we saw our error: + They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them back in vain; + And the columns that were scattered, round the colors that + were tattered, + Toward the sullen silent fortress turn their belted breasts again. + + All at once, as we are gazing, lo the roofs of Charlestown blazing! + They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be down! + The Lord in heaven confound them, rain his fire and brimstone + round them,-- + The robbing, murdering red-coats, that would burn a peaceful town! + + They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see each massive column + As they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting walls + so steep. + Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless haste + departed? + Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they palsied or asleep? + + Now! the walls they're almost under! scarce a rod the foes asunder! + Not a firelock flashed against them! up the earthwork they + will swarm! + But the words have scarce been spoken, when the ominous + calm is broken, + And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance of the storm! + + So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backward to the water, + Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe; + And we shout, "At last they're done for, it's their barges they + have run for: + They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's over now!" + + And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's + features, + Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask: + "Not sure," he said; "keep quiet,--once more, I guess, they'll + try it-- + Here's damnation to the cut-throats!" then he handed me his flask, + + Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of old Jamaiky: + I'm afraid there'll be more trouble afore this job is done;" + So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hollow, + Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun. + + All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm clock dial, + As the hands kept creeping, creeping,--they were creeping + round to four, + When the old man said, "They're forming with their bayonets + fixed for storming: + It's the death grip that's a coming,--they will try the works + once more." + + With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them glaring, + The deadly wall before them, in close array they come; + Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold uncoiling-- + Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating drum! + + Over heaps all torn and gory--shall I tell the fearful story, + How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea breaks over a deck; + How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men retreated, + With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swimmers from a wreck? + + It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say I fainted, + And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me down the stair: + When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening lamps were lighted,-- + On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast was bare. + + And I heard through all the flurry, "Send for WARREN! hurry! hurry! + Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he'll come and dress his + wound!" + Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death and sorrow, + How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and bloody ground. + + Who the youth was, what his name was, where the place from + which he came was, + Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at our door, + He could not speak to tell us; but 'twas one of our brave fellows, + As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore. + + For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered 'round + him crying,-- + And they said, "O, how they'll miss him!" and, "What will + his mother do?" + Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has been dozing, + He faintly murmured, "Mother!"--and--I saw his eyes were blue. + +--"Why, grandma, how you're winking!"--Ah, my child, it + sets me thinking + Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived along; + So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like a--mother, + Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-cheeked, and strong. + + And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant summer weather; +--"Please to tell us what his name was?"--Just your own, + my little dear,-- + There's his picture Copley painted: we became so well acquainted, + That--in short, that's why I'm grandma, and you children all + are here! + + + + + + +WARREN'S ADDRESS + +JOHN PIERPONT + +[Sidenote: June 17, 1775] +_Joseph Warren was commissioned by Massachusetts as a +Major-General three days before the battle of Bunker Hill, at which +he fought as a volunteer. He was one of the last to leave the +field, and as a British officer in the redoubt called to him to +surrender, a ball struck him in the forehead, killing him +instantly._ + + Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! + Will ye give it up to slaves? + Will ye look for greener graves? + Hope ye mercy still? + What's the mercy despots feel? + Hear it in that battle-peal! + Read it on yon bristling steel. + Ask it,--ye who will. + + Fear ye foes who kill for hire? + Will ye to your homes retire? + Look behind you!--they're a-fire! + And, before you, see + Who have done it!--From the vale + On they come!--And will ye quail?-- + Leaden rain and iron hail + Let their welcome be! + + In the God of battles trust! + Die we may,--and die we must;-- + But, O, where can dust to dust + Be consigned so well, + As where Heaven its dews shall shed + On the martyred patriot's bed, + And the rocks shall raise their head, + Of his deeds to tell! + + + + + +THE OLD CONTINENTALS + +GUY HUMPHREY McMASTER + +[Sidenote: 1775--1783] +_The nucleus of the Continental Army was the New England force +gathered before Boston, to the command of which Washington had been +appointed two days before the battle of Bunker Hill, although he +arrived too late to take part in that fight._ + + In their ragged regimentals + Stood the old continentals, + Yielding not, + When the grenadiers were lunging, + And like hail fell the plunging + Cannon-shot; + When the files + Of the isles + From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the rampant + Unicorn, + And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll of the drummer, + Through the morn! + Then with eyes to the front all, + And with guns horizontal, + Stood our sires; + + And the balls whistled deadly, + And in streams flashing redly + Blazed the fires; + As the roar + On the shore, + Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres + Of the plain; + And louder, louder, louder cracked the black gunpowder, + Cracking amain! + + Now like smiths at their forges + Worked the red St. George's + Cannoneers; + And the "villainous saltpetre" + Rung a fierce, discordant metre + Round their ears; + As the swift + Storm-drift, + With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangor + On our flanks. + Then higher, higher, higher burned the old-fashioned fire + Through the ranks! + + Then the old-fashioned colonel + Galloped through the white infernal + Powder-cloud; + And his broad-sword was swinging, + And his brazen throat was ringing + Trumpet loud. + Then the blue + Bullets flew, + And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden + Rifle-breath; + And rounder, rounder, rounder roared the iron six pounder, + Hurling death! + + + + + +NATHAN HALE + +FRANCIS MILES FINCH + +[Sidenote: Sept. 22, 1776] +_After the retreat from Long Island, Washington needed +information as to the British strength. Captain Nathan Hale, a +young man of twenty-one, volunteered to get this. He was taken, +inside the enemy's lines, and hanged as a spy, regretting that he +had but one life to lose for his country._ + + To drum-beat and heart-beat, + A soldier marches by: + There is color in his cheek, + There is courage in his eye, + Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat + In a moment he must die. + + By starlight and moonlight, + He seeks the Briton's camp; + He hears the rustling flag, + And the armed sentry's tramp; + And the starlight and moonlight + His silent wanderings lamp. + + With slow tread and still tread, + He scans the tented line; + And he counts the battery guns + By the gaunt and shadowy pine; + And his slow tread and still tread + Gives no warning sign. + + The dark wave, the plumed wave, + It meets his eager glance; + And it sparkles 'neath the stars, + Like the glimmer of a lance-- + A dark wave, a plumed wave, + On an emerald expanse. + + A sharp clang, a steel clang, + And terror in the sound! + For the sentry, falcon-eyed, + In the camp a spy hath found; + With a sharp clang, a steel clang, + The patriot is bound. + + With calm brow, steady brow, + He listens to his doom; + In his look there is no fear, + Nor a shadow-trace of gloom; + But with calm brow and steady brow + He robes him for the tomb. + + In the long night, the still night, + He kneels upon the sod; + And the brutal guards withhold + E'en the solemn Word of God! + In the long night, the still night, + He walks where Christ hath trod. + + 'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn, + He dies upon the tree; + And he mourns that he can lose + But one life for Liberty; + And in the blue morn, the sunny morn, + His spirit-wings are free. + + But his last words, his message-words, + They burn, lest friendly eye + Should read how proud and calm + A patriot could die, + With his last words, his dying words, + A soldier's battle-cry. + + From the Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf, + From monument and urn, + The sad of earth, the glad of heaven, + His tragic fate shall learn; + And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf + The name of HALE shall burn. + + + + + +THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL + +WILL CARLETON + +[Sidenote: Between Sept. 26, 1777, and June 17, 1778] +_The heroine's name was Mary Redmond, and she lived in +Philadelphia. During the occupation of that town by the British, +she was ever ready to aid in the secret delivery of the letters +written home by the husbands and fathers fighting in the +Continental Army._ + + A boy drove into the city, his wagon loaded down + With food to feed the people of the British-governed town; + And the little black-eyed rebel, so innocent and sly, + Was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye. + + His face looked broad and honest, his hands were brown and tough, + The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and rough; + But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh, + And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye. + + He drove up to the market, he waited in the line; + His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine; + But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy, + Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye. + + "Now who will buy my apples?" he shouted, long and loud; + And "Who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the crowd; + But from all the people round him came no word of a reply, + Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye. + + For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that day, + Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away, + Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain or die; + And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye. + + But the treasures--how to get them? crept the question through + her mind, + Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find: + And she paused a while and pondered, with a pretty little sigh; + Then resolve crept through her features, and a shrewdness fired + her eye. + + So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red; + "May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly said: + And the brown face flushed to scarlet; for the boy was some what shy, + And he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye. + + "You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth he. + "I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she; + And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by, + With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye. + + Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white and + small, + And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! thrust them underneath my + shawl! + Carry back again _this_ package, and be sure that you are spry!" + And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye. + + Loud the motley crowd were laughing at the strange, ungirlish freak, + And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not speak; + And, "Miss, _I_ have good apples," a bolder lad did cry; + But she answered, "No, I thank you," from the corner of her eye. + + With the news of loved ones absent to the dear friends they would greet, + Searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the + street. + "There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try," + Thought the little black-eyed rebel, with a twinkle in her eye. + + + + + +MOLLY MAGUIRE AT MONMOUTH + +WILLIAM COLLINS + +[Sidenote: June 28, 1778] +_The battle of Monmouth was indecisive, but the Americans held +the field, and the British retreated and remained inactive for the +rest of the summer._ + + On the bloody field of Monmouth + Flashed the guns of Greene and Wayne. + Fiercely roared the tide of battle, + Thick the sward was heaped with slain. + Foremost, facing death and danger, + Hessian, horse, and grenadier, + In the vanguard, fiercely fighting, + Stood an Irish Cannonier. + + Loudly roared his iron cannon, + Mingling ever in the strife, + And beside him, firm and daring, + Stood his faithful Irish wife. + Of her bold contempt of danger + Greene and Lee's Brigades could tell, + Every one knew "Captain Molly," + And the army loved her well. + + Surged the roar of battle round them, + Swiftly flew the iron hail, + Forward dashed a thousand bayonets, + That lone battery to assail. + From the foeman's foremost columns + Swept a furious fusillade, + Mowing down the massed battalions + In the ranks of Greene's Brigade. + + Fast and faster worked the gunner, + Soiled with powder, blood, and dust, + English bayonets shone before him, + Shot and shell around him burst; + Still he fought with reckless daring, + Stood and manned her long and well, + Till at last the gallant fellow + Dead--beside his cannon fell. + + With a bitter cry of sorrow, + And a dark and angry frown, + Looked that band of gallant patriots + At their gunner stricken down. + "Fall back, comrades, it is folly + Thus to strive against the foe." + "No! not so," cried Irish Molly; + "We can strike another blow." + + * * * * * + + Quickly leaped she to the cannon, + In her fallen husband's place, + Sponged and rammed it fast and steady, + Fired it in the foeman's face. + Flashed another ringing volley, + Roared another from the gun; + "Boys, hurrah!" cried gallant Molly, + "For the flag of Washington." + + Greene's Brigade, though shorn and shattered, + Slain and bleeding half their men, + When they heard that Irish slogan, + Turned and charged the foe again. + Knox and Wayne and Morgan rally, + To the front they forward wheel, + And before their rushing onset + Clinton's English columns reel. + + Still the cannon's voice in anger + Rolled and rattled o'er the plain, + Till there lay in swarms around it + Mangled heaps of Hessian slain. + "Forward! charge them with the bayonet!" + 'Twas the voice of Washington, + And there burst a fiery greeting + From the Irish woman's gun. + + Monckton falls; against his columns + Leap the troops of Wayne and Lee, + And before their reeking bayonets + Clinton's red battalions flee. + Morgan's rifles, fiercely flashing, + Thin the foe's retreating ranks, + And behind them onward dashing + Ogden hovers on their flanks. + + Fast they fly, these boasting Britons, + Who in all their glory came, + With their brutal Hessian hirelings + To wipe out our country's name. + Proudly floats the starry banner, + Monmouth's glorious field is won, + And in triumph Irish Molly + Stands beside her smoking gun. + + + + + +SONG OF MARION'S MEN + +WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT + +[Sidenote: 1780-1781] +_While the British Army held South Carolina, Marion and Sumter +gathered bands of partisans and waged a vigorous guerilla warfare +most harassing and destructive to the invader._ + + Our band is few, but true and tried, + Our leader frank and bold; + The British soldier trembles + When Marion's name is told. + Our fortress is the good greenwood + Our tent the cypress-tree; + We know the forest round us, + As seamen know the sea. + We know its walls of thorny vines, + Its glades of reedy grass, + Its safe and silent islands + Within the dark morass. + + Woe to the English soldiery, + That little dread us near! + On them shall light at midnight + A strange and sudden fear: + When, waking to their tents on fire, + They grasp their arms in vain, + And they who stand to face us + Are beat to earth again. + And they who fly in terror deem + A mighty host behind, + And hear the tramp of thousands + Upon the hollow wind. + + Then sweet the hour that brings release + From danger and from toil; + We talk the battle over, + And share the battle's spoil. + The woodland rings with laugh and shout + As if a hunt were up, + And woodland flowers are gathered + To crown the soldier's cup. + With merry songs we mock the wind + That in the pine-top grieves, + And slumber long and sweetly + On beds of oaken leaves. + + Well knows the fair and friendly moon + The band that Marion leads-- + The glitter of their rifles, + The scampering of their steeds. + 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb + Across the moonlight plain; + 'Tis life to feel the night-wind + That lifts his tossing mane. + A moment in the British camp-- + A moment--and away + Back to the pathless forest, + Before the peep of day. + + Grave men there are by broad Santee, + Grave men with hoary hairs; + Their hearts are all with Marion, + For Marion are their prayers. + And lovely ladies greet our band + With kindliest welcoming, + With smiles like those of summer, + And tears like those of spring. + For them we wear these trusty arms, + And lay them down no more + Till we have driven the Briton, + Forever, from our shore. + + + + + +TO THE MEMORY OF THE AMERICANS WHO FELL AT EUTAW + +PHILIP FRENEAU + +[Sidenote: Sept. 8, 1781] +_The fight of Eutaw Springs, although called a drawn battle, +resulted in the withdrawal of the British troops from South +Carolina._ + + At Eutaw Springs the valiant died: + Their limbs with dust are covered o'er-- + Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide; + How many heroes are no more! + + If, in this wreck of ruin, they + Can yet be thought to claim the tear, + Oh, smite your gentle breast, and say, + The friends of freedom slumber here! + + Thou, who shalt trace this bloody plain, + If goodness rules thy generous breast, + Sigh for the wasted rural reign; + Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest! + + Stranger, their humble graves adorn; + You too may fall, and ask a tear; + 'Tis not the beauty of the morn + That proves the evening shall be clear,-- + + They saw their injur'd country's woe; + The flaming town, the wasted field; + Then rush'd to meet the insulting foe; + They took the spear--but left the shield. + + Led by thy conquering genius, Greene, + The Britons they compell'd to fly: + None distant view'd the fatal plain, + None griev'd, in such a cause, to die,-- + + But, like the Parthians, fam'd of old, + Who, flying, still their arrows threw; + These routed Britons, full as bold + Retreated, and retreating slew. + + Now rest in peace, our patriot band; + Though far from Nature's limits thrown, + We trust they find a happier land, + A brighter sunshine of their own. + + + + + +GEORGE WASHINGTON + +JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL + +[Sidenote: July 8, 1775] +_This is a fragment from the ode for the centenary of +Washington's taking command of the American army at Cambridge._ + + Soldier and statesman, rarest unison; + High-poised example of great duties done + Simply as breathing, a world's honors worn + As life's indifferent gifts to all men born; + Dumb for himself, unless it were to God, + But for his barefoot soldiers eloquent, + Tramping the snow to coral where they trod, + Held by his awe in hollow-eyed content; + Modest, yet firm as Nature's self; unblamed + Save by the men his nobler temper shamed; + Never seduced through show of present good + By other than unsetting lights to steer + New-trimmed in Heaven, nor than his steadfast mood + More steadfast, far from rashness as from fear, + Rigid, but with himself first, grasping still + In swerveless poise the wave-beat helm of will; + Not honored then or now because he wooed + The popular voice, but that he still withstood; + Broad-minded, higher-souled, there is but one + Who was all this and ours, and all men's--WASHINGTON. + + + + + +PERRY'S VICTORY ON LAKE ERIE + +JAMES GATES PERCIVAL + +[Sidenote: Sept. 10, 1813] +_Throughout the war of 1812 with Great Britain, the navy was more +successful than the army. In the battle on Lake Erie, Commodore +Oliver Hazard Perry captured six British vessels._ + + Bright was the morn,--the waveless bay + Shone like a mirror to the sun; + 'Mid greenwood shades and meadows gay, + The matin birds their lays begun: + While swelling o'er the gloomy wood + Was heard the faintly-echoed roar,-- + The dashing of the foaming flood, + That beat on Erie's distant shore. + + The tawny wanderer of the wild + Paddled his painted birch canoe, + And, where the wave serenely smiled, + Swift as the darting falcon, flew; + He rowed along that peaceful bay, + And glanced its polished surface o'er, + Listening the billow far away, + That rolled on Erie's lonely shore. + + What sounds awake my slumbering ear, + What echoes o'er the waters come? + It is the morning gun I hear, + The rolling of the distant drum. + Far o'er the bright illumined wave + I mark the flash,--I hear the roar, + That calls from sleep the slumbering brave, + To fight on Erie's lonely shore. + + See how the starry banner floats, + And sparkles in the morning ray: + While sweetly swell the fife's gay notes + In echoes o'er the gleaming bay: + Flash follows flash, as through yon fleet + Columbia's cannons loudly roar, + And valiant tars the battle greet, + That storms on Erie's echoing shore. + + O, who can tell what deeds were done, + When Britain's cross, on yonder wave, + Sunk 'neath Columbia's dazzling sun, + And met in Erie's flood its grave? + Who tell the triumphs of that day, + When, smiling at the cannon's roar, + Our hero, 'mid the bloody fray, + Conquered on Erie's echoing shore. + + Though many a wounded bosom bleeds + For sire, for son, for lover dear, + Yet Sorrow smiles amid her weeds,-- + Affliction dries her tender tear; + Oh! she exclaims, with glowing pride, + With ardent thoughts that wildly soar, + My sire, my son, my lover died, + Conquering on Erie's bloody shore. + + Long shall my country bless that day, + When soared our Eagle to the skies; + Long, long in triumph's bright array, + That victory shall proudly rise: + And when our country's lights are gone, + And all its proudest days are o'er, + How will her fading courage dawn, + To think on Erie's bloody shore! + + + + + +THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER + +FRANCIS SCOTT KEY + +[Sidenote: Sept. 14, 1813] +_After the British had burned the Capitol at Washington, in +August, 1813, they retired to their ships, and on September 12th +and 13th, they made an attack on Baltimore. This poem was written +on the morning after the bombardment of Fort McHenry, while the +author was a prisoner on the British fleet._ + + Oh! say can you see, by the dawn's early light, + What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming; + Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, + O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming? + And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, + Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; + Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave + O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? + + On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, + Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, + What is that which the breeze o'er the towering steep + As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses? + Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam; + Its full glory reflected now shines on the stream; + 'Tis the star-spangled banner! Oh! long may it wave + O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! + + And where is the band who so vauntingly swore, + 'Mid the havoc of war and the battle's confusion, + A home and a country they'd leave us no more? + Their blood hath washed out their foul footsteps' pollution; + No refuge could save the hireling and slave + From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave, + And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave + O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! + + Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand + Between their loved home and the war's desolation; + Blessed with victory and peace, may the Heaven-rescued land + Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation. + Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, + And this be our motto, "In God is our trust": + And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave + O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! + + + + + +THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS + +THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH + +[Sidenote: Jan. 8 1815] +_The treaty of peace between Great Britain and the United States +was signed at Ghent, December 14, 1814; but before the news crossed +the ocean, Pakenham, with twelve thousand British veterans, +attacked New Orleans, defended by Andrew Jackson with five thousand +Americans, mostly militia. The British were repulsed with a loss of +two thousand; the American loss was trifling._ + + Here, in my rude log cabin, + Few poorer men there be + Among the mountain ranges + Of Eastern Tennessee. + My limbs are weak and shrunken, + White hairs upon my brow, + My dog--lie still, old fellow!-- + My sole companion now. + Yet I, when young and lusty, + Have gone through stirring scenes, + For I went down with Carroll + To fight at New Orleans. + + You say you'd like to hear me + The stirring story tell + Of those who stood the battle + And those who fighting fell. + Short work to count our losses-- + We stood and dropp'd the foe + As easily as by firelight + Men shoot the buck or doe. + And while they fell by hundreds + Upon the bloody plain, + Of us, fourteen were wounded, + And only eight were slain. + + The eighth of January, + Before the break of day, + Our raw and hasty levies + Were brought into array. + No cotton-bales before us-- + Some fool that falsehood told; + Before us was an earthwork, + Built from the swampy mould. + And there we stood in silence, + And waited with a frown, + To greet with bloody welcome + The bulldogs of the Crown. + + The heavy fog of morning + Still hid the plain from sight, + When came a thread of scarlet + Marked faintly in the white. + We fired a single cannon, + And as its thunders roll'd + The mist before us lifted + In many a heavy fold. + The mist before us lifted, + And in their bravery fine + Came rushing to their ruin + The fearless British line. + + Then from our waiting cannons + Leap'd forth the deadly flame, + To meet the advancing columns + That swift and steady came. + The thirty-twos of Crowley + And Bluchi's twenty-four, + To Spotts's eighteen-pounders + Responded with their roar, + Sending the grape-shot deadly + That marked its pathway plain, + And paved the road it travell'd + With corpses of the slain. + + Our rifles firmly grasping, + And heedless of the din, + We stood in silence waiting + For orders to begin. + Our fingers on the triggers, + Our hearts, with anger stirr'd, + Grew still more fierce and eager + As Jackson's voice was heard: + "Stand steady! Waste no powder + Wait till your shots will tell! + To-day the work you finish-- + See that you do it well!" + + Their columns drawing nearer, + We felt our patience tire, + When came the voice of Carroll, + Distinct and measured, "Fire!" + Oh! then you should have mark'd us + Our volleys on them pour + Have heard our joyous rifles + Ring sharply through the roar, + And seen their foremost columns + Melt hastily away + As snow in mountain gorges + Before the floods of May. + + They soon reform'd their columns, + And 'mid the fatal rain + We never ceased to hurtle + Came to their work again. + The Forty-fourth is with them, + That first its laurels won + With stout old Abercrombie + Beneath an eastern sun. + It rushes to the battle, + And, though within the rear + Its leader is a laggard, + It shows no signs of fear. + + It did not need its colonel, + For soon there came instead + An eagle-eyed commander, + And on its march he led. + 'Twas Pakenham, in person, + The leader of the field; + I knew it by the cheering + That loudly round him peal'd; + And by his quick, sharp movement, + We felt his heart was stirr'd, + As when at Salamanca, + He led the fighting Third. + + I raised my rifle quickly, + I sighted at his breast, + God save the gallant leader + And take him to his rest! + I did not draw the trigger, + I could not for my life. + So calm he sat his charger + Amid the deadly strife, + That in my fiercest moment + A prayer arose from me,-- + God save that gallant leader, + Our foeman though he be. + + Sir Edward's charger staggers: + He leaps at once to ground, + And ere the beast falls bleeding + Another horse is found. + His right arm falls--'tis wounded; + He waves on high his left; + In vain he leads the movement, + The ranks in twain are cleft. + The men in scarlet waver + Before the men in brown, + And fly in utter panic-- + The soldiers of the Crown! + + I thought the work was over, + But nearer shouts were heard, + And came, with Gibbs to head it, + The gallant Ninety-third. + Then Pakenham, exulting, + With proud and joyous glance, + Cried, "Children of the tartan-- + Bold Highlanders--advance! + Advance to scale the breastworks + And drive them from their hold, + And show the staunchless courage + That mark'd your sires of old!" + + His voice as yet was ringing, + When, quick as light, there came + The roaring of a cannon, + And earth seemed all aflame. + Who causes thus the thunder + The doom of men to speak? + It is the Baritarian, + The fearless Dominique. + Down through the marshall'd Scotsmen + The step of death is heard, + And by the fierce tornado + Falls half the Ninety-third. + + The smoke passed slowly upward, + And, as it soared on high, + I saw the brave commander + In dying anguish lie. + They bear him from the battle + Who never fled the foe; + Unmoved by death around them + His bearers softly go. + In vain their care, so gentle, + Fades earth and all its scenes; + The man of Salamanca + Lies dead at New Orleans. + + But where were his lieutenants? + Had they in terror fled? + No! Keane was sorely wounded + And Gibbs as good as dead. + Brave Wilkinson commanding, + A major of brigade, + The shatter'd force to rally, + A final effort made. + He led it up our ramparts, + Small glory did he gain-- + Our captives some, while others fled, + And he himself was slain. + + The stormers had retreated, + The bloody work was o'er; + The feet of the invaders + Were seen to leave our shore. + We rested on our rifles + And talk'd about the fight, + When came a sudden murmur + Like fire from left to right; + We turned and saw our chieftain, + And then, good friend of mine, + You should have heard the cheering + That rang along the line. + + For well our men remembered + How little when they came, + Had they but native courage, + And trust in Jackson's name; + How through the day he labored, + How kept the vigils still, + Till discipline controlled us, + A stronger power than will; + And how he hurled us at them + Within the evening hour, + That red night in December, + And made us feel our power. + + In answer to our shouting + Fire lit his eye of gray; + Erect, but thin and pallid, + He passed upon his bay. + Weak from the baffled fever, + And shrunken in each limb, + The swamps of Alabama + Had done their work on him. + But spite of that and lasting, + And hours of sleepless care, + The soul of Andrew Jackson + Shone forth in glory there. + + + + + +THE AMERICAN FLAG + +JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE + +[Sidenote: May 29, 1819] +_The penultimate quatrain [enclosed in brackets] ended the poem +as Drake wrote it, but Fits Greene Halleck suggested the final four +lines, and Drake accepted his friend's quatrain in place of his +own._ + + + + When Freedom, from her mountain height, + Unfurled her standard to the air, + She tore the azure robe of night, + And set the stars of glory there! + She mingled with its gorgeous dyes + The milky baldric of the skies, + And striped its pure celestial white + With streakings of the morning light, + Then, from his mansion in the sun, + She called her eagle-bearer down, + And gave into his mighty hand + The symbol of her chosen land! + + Majestic monarch of the cloud! + Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, + To hear the tempest-tramping loud, + And see the lightning-lances driven, + When stride the warriors of the storm, + And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven! + Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given + To guard the banner of the free, + To hover in the sulphur smoke, + To ward away the battle stroke, + And bid its blendings shine afar, + Like rainbows on the cloud of war, + The harbingers of victory! + + Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, + The sign of hope and triumph high! + When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, + And the long line comes gleaming on, + (Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, + Has dimmed the glist'ning bayonet), + Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn + To where thy meteor-glories burn, + And, as his springing steps advance, + Catch war and vengeance from the glance! + And when the cannon-mouthings loud + Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud, + And gory sabres rise and fall, + Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall! + There shall thy victor-glances glow, + And cowering foes shall shrink beneath, + Each gallant arm that strikes below, + The lovely messenger of death. + + Flag of the seas! on ocean's wave + Thy star shall glitter o'er the brave; + When Death, careering on the gale, + Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, + And frighted waves rush wildly back + Before the broadside's reeling rack, + The dying wanderer of the sea + Shall look, at once, to heaven and thee, + And smile, to see thy splendors fly, + In triumph, o'er his closing eye. + + Flag of the free heart's hope and home, + By angel hands to valor given! + Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, + And all thy hues were born in heaven! + + [And fixed as yonder orb divine, + That saw thy bannered blaze unfurled, + Shall thy proud stars resplendent shine, + The guard and glory of the world.] + + Forever float that standard sheet! + Where breathes the foe but falls before us? + With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, + And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us! + + + + + +OLD IRONSIDES + +OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES + +Sept. 16, 1830 +_The frigate Constitution was launched in 1797, and took part in +the war with Tripoli in 1804. In 1812 she captured the British +Guerriere on August 19th, and the British Java on December 29th. +After the war she served as a training ship. In 1830 it was +proposed to break her up, which called forth this indignant poem. +In 1876 she was refitted, and in 1878 she took over the American +exhibits to the Paris Exhibition. She now lies out of commission in +Rotten Row, at the Brooklyn Navy Yard._ + + Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! + Long has it waved on high, + And many an eye has danced to see + That banner in the sky; + Beneath it rung the battle shout, + And burst the cannon's roar;-- + The meteor of the ocean air + Shall sweep the clouds no more! + + Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, + Where knelt the vanquished foe, + When winds were hurrying o'er the flood + And waves were white below, + No more shall feel the victor's tread, + Or know the conquered knee;-- + The harpies of the shore shall pluck + The eagle of the sea! + + Oh, better that her shattered hulk + Should sink beneath the wave; + Her thunders shook the mighty deep, + And there should be her grave; + Nail to the mast her holy flag, + Set every threadbare sail, + And give her to the God of storms,-- + The lightning and the gale! + + + + + +MONTEREY + +CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN + +[Sidenote: Sept. 19-24, 1846] +_The assaulting American army at the attack on Monterey numbered +six thousand six hundred and twenty-five; the defeated Mexicans +were about ten thousand._ + + We were not many--we who stood + Before the iron sleet that day; + Yet many a gallant spirit would + Give half his years if but he could + Have with us been at Monterey. + + Now here, now there, the shot it hailed + In deadly drifts of fiery spray, + Yet not a single soldier quailed + When wounded comrades round them wailed + Their dying shout at Monterey. + + And on--still on our column kept, + Through walls of flame, its withering way + Where fell the dead, the living stept, + Still charging on the guns which swept + The slippery streets of Monterey. + + The foe himself recoiled aghast, + When, striking where he strongest lay, + We swooped his flanking batteries past, + And, braving full their murderous blast, + Stormed home the towers of Monterey. + + Our banners on those turrets wave, + And there our evening bugles play; + Where orange-boughs above their grave + Keep green the memory of the brave + Who fought and fell at Monterey. + + We are not many--we who pressed + Beside the brave who fell that day; + But who of us has not confessed + He'd rather share their warrior rest + Than not have been at Monterey? + + + + + +THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD + +THEODORE O'HARA + +[Sidenote: Feb. 22, 23, 1847] +_This poem was written to commemorate the bringing home of the +bodies of the Kentucky soldiers who fell at Buena Vista, and their +burial at Frankfort at the cost of the State._ + + The muffled drum's sad roll has beat + The soldier's last tattoo; + No more on life's parade shall meet + That brave and fallen few. + On fame's eternal camping ground + Their silent tents are spread, + And glory guards, with solemn round, + The bivouac of the dead. + + No rumor of the foe's advance + Now swells upon the wind; + No troubled thought at midnight haunts + Of loved ones left behind; + No vision of the morrow's strife + The warrior's dream alarms; + No braying horn, nor screaming fife, + At dawn shall call to arms. + + Their shivered swords are red with rust, + Their plumed heads are bowed; + Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, + Is now their martial shroud. + And plenteous funeral tears have washed + The red stains from each brow, + And the proud forms, by battle gashed, + Are free from anguish now. + + The neighing troop, the flashing blade, + The bugle's stirring blast, + The charge, the dreadful cannonade, + The din and shout are past; + Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal + Shall thrill with fierce delight + Those breasts that never more may feel + The rapture of the fight. + + Like the fierce northern hurricane + That sweeps his great plateau, + Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, + Came down the serried foe. + Who heard the thunder of the fray + Break o'er the field beneath, + Knew well the watchword of that day + Was "Victory or death." + + Long had the doubtful conflict raged + O'er all that stricken plain, + For never fiercer fight had waged + The vengeful blood of Spain; + And still the storm of battle blew, + Still swelled the gory tide; + Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, + Such odds his strength could bide. + + 'T was in that hour his stern command + Called to a martyr's grave + The flower of his beloved land, + The nation's flag to save. + By rivers of their father's gore + His first-born laurels grew, + And well he deemed the sons would pour + Their lives for glory too. + + Full many a norther's breath has swept + O'er Angostura's plain-- + And long the pitying sky has wept + Above the mouldering slain. + The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, + Or shepherd's pensive lay, + Alone awakes each sullen height + That frowned o'er that dread fray. + + Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, + Ye must not slumber there, + Where stranger steps and tongues resound + Along the heedless air; + Your own proud land's heroic soil + Shall be your fitter grave; + + She claims from war his richest spoil-- + The ashes of her brave. + So, 'neath their parent turf they rest, + Far from the gory field, + Borne to a Spartan mother's breast, + On many a bloody shield; + The sunshine of their native sky + Smiles sadly on them here, + And kindred eyes and hearts watch by + The heroes' sepulchre. + + Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead, + Dear as the blood ye gave; + No impious footstep here shall tread + The herbage of your grave; + Nor shall your glory be forgot + While Fame her record keeps, + Or Honor points the hallowed spot + Where Valor proudly sleeps. + + Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone, + In deathless song shall tell, + When many a vanished age hath flown + The story how ye fell; + Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, + Nor Time's remorseless doom, + Shall dim one ray of glory's light + That gilds your deathless tomb. + + + + + +HOW OLD BROWN TOOK HARPER'S FERRY + +EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN + +[Sidenote: Oct. 16-Dec. 2, 1859] +_It was on Sunday, October 16th, that John Brown took the Arsenal +at Harper's Ferry. On the 18th he was captured. On December 2d he +was hanged. One year later began the War which caused the abolition +of slavery._ + + + John Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer, + Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men of might. + There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Borderstrife grew + warmer, + Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his absence, in the + night; + And Old Brown + Osawatomie Brown, + Came homeward in the morning--to find his house burned + down. + + Then he grasped his trusty rifle and boldly fought for freedom; + Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band; + And he and his brave boys vowed---so might Heaven help and + speed 'em!-- + They would save those grand old prairies from the curse that + blights the land; + And Old Brown, + Osawatomie Brown, + Said, "Boys, the Lord will aid us!" and he shoved his ramrod + down. + + And the Lord _did_ aid these men, and they labored day and + even, + Saving Kansas from its peril; and their very lives seemed + charmed, + Till the ruffians killed one son, in the blessed light of + Heaven,-- + In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journeyed all unarmed; + Then Old Brown, + Osawatomie Brown, + Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and frowned a terrible + frown! + + Then they seized another brave boy,--not amid the heat of + battle, + But in peace, behind his ploughshare,--and they loaded him + with chains, + And with pikes, before their horses, even as they goad their + cattle, + Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew out his + brains; + Then Old Brown, + Osawatomie Brown, + Raised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heaven's vengeance + down. + And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the Almighty, + He would hunt this ravening evil that had scathed and torn + him so; + He would seize it by the vitals; he would crush it day and + night; he + Would so pursue its footsteps, so return it blow for blow, + That Old Brown, + Osawatomie Brown, + Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in town! + + Then his beard became more grizzled, and his wild blue eye + grew wilder, + And more sharply curved his hawk's-nose, snuffing battle + from afar; + And he and the two boys left, though the Kansas strife waxed + milder, + Grew more sullen, till was over the bloody Border War, + And Old Brown, + Osawatomie Brown, + Had gone crazy, as they reckoned by his fearful glare and frown. + + + So he left the plains of Kansas and their bitter woes behind + him, + Slipt off into Virginia, where the statesmen all are born, + Hired a farm by Harper's Ferry, and no one knew where to + find him, + Or whether he'd turned parson, or was jacketed and shorn; + For Old Brown, + Osawatomie Brown, + Mad as he was, knew texts enough to wear a parson's + gown. + + He bought no ploughs and harrows, spades and shovels, and + such trifles; + But quietly to his rancho there came, by every train, + Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his well-beloved Sharp's + rifles; + And eighteen other madmen joined their leader there again. + Says Old Brown, + Osawatomie Brown, + "Boys, we've got an army large enough to march and take + the town!" + + "Take the town, and seize the muskets, free the negroes and + then arm them; + Carry the County and the State, ay, and all the potent South. + On their own heads be the slaughter, if their victims rise to + harm them-- + These Virginians! who believed not, nor would heed the + warning mouth." + Says Old Brown, + Osawatomie Brown, + "The world shall see a Republic, or my name is not John + Brown." + + 'T was the sixteenth of October, on the evening of a Sunday: + "This good work," declared the captain, "shall be on a holy + night!" + It was on a Sunday evening, and before the noon of Monday, + With two sons, and Captain Stephens, fifteen privates--black + and white, + Captain Brown, + Osawatomie Brown, + Marched across the bridged Potomac, and knocked the sentry down; + + Took the guarded armory-building, and the muskets and the cannon; + Captured all the county majors and the colonels, one by one; + Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they ran on, + And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed was done. + Mad Old Brown, + Osawatomie Brown, + With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and took the town. + + Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder made he; + It was all done in the midnight, like the Emperor's + _coup d'etat_. + "Cut the wires! Stop the rail-cars! Hold the streets and + bridges!" said he, + Then declared the new Republic, with himself for guiding star,-- + This Old Brown, + Osawatomie Brown; + And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left the town. + + Then was riding and railroading and expressing here and thither; + And the Martinsburg Sharpshooters and the Charlestown + Volunteers, + And the Shepherdstown and Winchester Militia hastened whither + Old Brown was said to muster his ten thousand grenadiers. + General Brown! + Osawatomie Brown!! + Behind whose rampant banner all the North was pouring down. + + But at last, 't is said, some prisoners escaped from Old Brown's + durance, + And the effervescent valor of the Chivalry broke out, + When they learned that nineteen madmen had the marvelous + assurance-- + Only nineteen--thus to seize the place and drive them straight + about; + And Old Brown, + Osawatomie Brown, + Found an army come to take him, encamped around the town. + + But to storm, with all the forces I have mentioned, was too risky; + So they hurried off to Richmond for the Government Marines, + Tore them from their weeping matrons, fired their souls with + Bourbon whiskey, + Till they battered down Brown's castle with their ladders and + machines; + And Old Brown, + Osawatomie Brown, + Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut on his brave old crown. + + Tallyho! the old Virginia gentry gather to the baying! + In they rushed and killed the game, shooting lustily away; + And whene'er they slew a rebel, those who came too late for + slaying, + Not to lose a share of glory, fired their bullets in his clay; + And Old Brown, + Osawatomie Brown, + Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between them laid him + down. + + How the conquerors wore their laurels; how they hastened on + the trial; + How Old Brown was placed, half dying, on the Charlestown + court-house floor; + How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all denial; + What the brave old madman told them,--these are known + the country o'er. + "Hang Old Brown, + Osawatomie Brown." + Said the judge, "and all such rebels!" with his most judicial + frown. + + But, Virginians, don't do it! for I tell you that the flagon, + Filled with blood of Old Brown's offspring, was first poured + by Southern hands; + And each drop from Old Brown's life-veins, like the red gore + of the dragon, + May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through your slave-worn + lands! + And Old Brown, + Osawatomie Brown, + May trouble you more than ever, when you've nailed his coffin + down! + + + + + +APOCALYPSE + +RICHARD REALF + +[Sidenote: April 19, 1861] +_The first life lost in the battle with rebellion was that of +Private Arthur Ladd, of the Sixth Massachusetts, killed in the +attack of the Baltimore mob._ + + Straight to his heart the bullet crushed; + Down from his breast the red blood gushed, + And o'er his face a glory rushed. + + A sudden spasm shook his frame, + And in his ears there went and came + A sound as of devouring flame. + + Which in a moment ceased, and then + The great light clasped his brows again, + So that they shone like Stephen's when + + Saul stood apart a little space + And shook with shuddering awe to trace + God's splendors settling o'er his face. + + Thus, like a king, erect in pride, + Raising clean hands toward heaven, he cried: + "All hail the Stars and Stripes!" and died. + + Died grandly. But before he fell-- + (O blessedness ineffable!) + Vision apocalyptical + + Was granted to him, and his eyes, + All radiant with glad surprise, + Looked forward through the Centuries, + + And saw the seeds which sages cast + In the world's soil in cycles past, + Spring up and blossom at the last; + + Saw how the souls of men had grown, + And where the scythes of Truth had mown + Clear space for Liberty's white throne; + + Saw how, by sorrow tried and proved, + The blackening stains had been removed + Forever from the land he loved; + + Saw Treason crushed and Freedom crowned, + And clamorous Faction, gagged and bound, + Gasping its life out on the ground. + + * * * * * + + With far-off vision gazing clear + Beyond this gloomy atmosphere + Which shuts us out with doubt and fear + + He--marking how her high increase + Ran greatening in perpetual lease + Through balmy years of odorous Peace + + Greeted in one transcendent cry + Of intense, passionate ecstasy + The sight which thrilled him utterly; + + Saluting, with most proud disdain + Of murder and of mortal pain, + The vision which shall be again! + + So, lifted with prophetic pride, + Raised conquering hands to heaven and cried: + "All hail the Stars and Stripes!" and died. + + + + + +THE PICKET GUARD + +ETHEL LYNN BEERS + +[Sidenote: Sept., 1861] +_The stereotyped announcement, "All Quiet on the Potomac," was +followed one day in September, 1861, by the words, "A Picket Shot," +and these so moved the authoress that she wrote this poem on the +impulse of the moment._ + + + + "All quiet along the Potomac," they say, + "Except now and then a stray picket + Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, + By a rifleman hid in the thicket. + 'Tis nothing--a private or two, now and then, + Will not count in the news of the battle; + Not an officer lost--only one of the men, + Moaning out, all alone, the death rattle." + + All quiet along the Potomac to-night, + Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; + Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, + Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. + A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind + Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping; + While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, + Keep guard--for the army is sleeping. + + There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, + As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, + And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed + Far away in the cot on the mountain. + His musket falls slack--his face, dark and grim, + Grows gentle with memories tender, + As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep-- + For their mother--may Heaven defend her! + + The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, + That night, when the love yet unspoken + Leaped up to his lips--when low-murmured vows + Were pledged to be ever unbroken. + Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, + He dashes off tears that are welling, + And gathers his gun closer up to its place + As if to keep down the heart-swelling. + + He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree-- + The footstep is lagging and weary; + Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, + Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. + Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? + Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? + It looked like a rifle--"Ah! Mary, good-bye!" + And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing. + + All quiet along the Potomac to-night, + No sound save the rush of the river; + While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead-- + The picket's off duty forever. + + + + + +THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD + +JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL + +[Sidenote: Oct., 1861] + + Along a riverside, I know not where, + I walked one night in mystery of dream; + A chill creeps curdling yet beneath my hair, + To think what chanced me by the pallid gleam + Of a moon-wraith that waned through haunted air. + + Pale fireflies pulsed within the meadow-mist + Their halos, wavering thistledowns of light; + The loon, that seemed to mock some goblin tryst, + Laughed; and the echoes, huddling in affright, + Like Odin's hounds, fled baying down the night. + + Then all was silent, till there smote my ear + A movement in the stream that checked my breath: + Was it the slow plash of a wading deer? + But something said, "This water is of Death! + The Sisters wash a shroud,--ill thing to hear!" + + I, looking then, beheld the ancient Three + Known to the Greek's and to the Northman's creed, + That sit in shadow of the mystic Tree, + Still crooning, as they weave their endless brede, + One song: "Time was, Time is, and Time shall be." + + No wrinkled crones were they, as I had deemed, + But fair as yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, + To mourner, lover, poet, ever seemed; + Something too high for joy, too deep for sorrow, + Thrilled in their tones, and from their faces gleamed. + + "Still men and nations reap as they have strawn," + So sang they, working at their task the while; + The fatal raiment must be cleansed ere dawn; + For Austria? Italy? the Sea-Queen's isle? + O'er what quenched grandeur must our shroud be drawn? + + Or is it for a younger, fairer corse, + That gathered States for children round his knees, + That tamed the wave to be his posting-horse, + Feller of forests, linker of the seas, + Bridge-builder, hammerer, youngest son of Thor's? + + "What make we, murmur'st thou? and what are we? + When empires must be wound, we bring the shroud, + The time-old web of the implacable Three: + Is it too coarse for him, the young and proud? + Earth's mightiest deigned to wear it,--why not he?" + + "Is there no hope?" I moaned, "so strong, so fair! + Our Fowler whose proud bird would brook erewhile + No rival's swoop in all our western air! + Gather the ravens, then, in funeral file + For him, life's morn yet golden in his hair?" + + "Leave me not hopeless, ye unpitying dames! + I see, half seeing. Tell me, ye who scanned + The stars, Earth's elders, still must noblest aims + Be traced upon oblivious ocean-sands? + Must Hesper join the wailing ghosts of names?" + + "When grass-blades stiffen with red battle-dew + Ye deem we choose the victor and the slain: + Say, choose we them that shall be leal and true + To the heart's longing, the high faith of brain? + Yet there the victory lies, if ye but knew." + + "Three roots bear up Dominion: Knowledge, Will,-- + These twain are strong, but stronger yet the third,-- + Obedience,--'t is the great tap-root that still, + Knit round the rock of Duty, is not stirred, + Though Heaven-loosed tempests spend their utmost skill." + + "Is the doom sealed for Hesper? 'T is not we + Denounce it, but the Law before all time: + The brave makes danger opportunity; + The waverer, paltering with the chance sublime, + Dwarfs it to peril: which shall Hesper be?" + + "Hath he let vultures climb his eagle's seat + To make Jove's bolts purveyors of their maw? + Hath he the Many's plaudits found more sweet + Than Wisdom? held Opinion's wind for Law? + Then let him hearken for the doomster's feet." + + "Rough are the steps, slow-hewn in flintiest rock, + States climb to power by; slippery those with gold + Down which they stumble to eternal mock: + No chafferer's hand shall long the sceptre hold, + Who, given a Fate to shape, would sell the block." + + "We sing old Sagas, songs of weal and woe, + Mystic because too cheaply understood; + Dark sayings are not ours; men hear and know, + See Evil weak, see strength alone in Good, + Yet hope to stem God's fire with walls of tow." + + "Time Was unlocks the riddle of Time Is, + That offers choice of glory or of gloom; + The solver makes Time Shall Be surely his. + But hasten, Sisters! for even now the tomb + Grates its slow hinge and calls from the abyss." + + "But not for him," I cried, "not yet for him, + Whose large horizon, westering, star by star + Wins from the void to where on Ocean's rim + The sunset shuts the world with golden bar, + Not yet his thews shall fail, his eye grow dim!" + + "His shall be larger manhood, saved for those + That walk unblenching through the trial-fires; + Not suffering, but faint heart, is worst of woes, + And he no base-born son of craven sires, + Whose eye need blench confronted with his foes." + + "Tears may be ours, but proud, for those who win + Death's royal purple in the foeman's lines; + Peace, too, brings tears; and 'mid the battle-din, + The wiser ear some text of God divines, + For the sheathed blade may rust with darker sin." + + "God, give us peace! not such as lulls to sleep, + But sword on thigh, and brow with purpose knit! + And let our Ship of State to harbor sweep, + Her ports all up, her battle-lanterns lit, + And her leashed thunders gathering for their leap!" + + So cried I with clenched hands and passionate pain, + Thinking of dear ones by Potomac's side; + Again the loon laughed mocking, and again + The echoes bayed far down the night and died, + While waking I recalled my wandering brain. + + + + + +BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC + +JULIA WARD HOWE + +[Sidenote: Nov., 1861] +_This war-song was written to the tune of "John Brown's Body,"--a +tune to which many thousands of Volunteers were marching to the +front._ + + Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: + He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are + stored; + He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword: + His truth is marching on. + + I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; + They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; + I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps. + His day is marching on. + + I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: + "As ye deal with My contemners, so with you My grace shall deal; + Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with His heel, + Since God is marching on." + + He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; + He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat: + Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet! + Our God is marching on. + + In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, + With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me: + As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free. + While God is marching on. + + + + + +AT PORT ROYAL + +JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER + +[Sidenote: 1861] + + The tent-lights glimmer on the land, + The ship-lights on the sea; + The night-wind smooths with drifting sand + Our track on lone Tybee. + + At last our grating keels outslide, + Our good boats forward swing; + And while we ride the land-locked tide, + Our negroes row and sing. + + For dear the bondman holds his gifts + Of music and of song: + The gold that kindly Nature sifts + Among his sands of wrong; + + The power to make his toiling days + And poor home-comforts please; + The quaint relief of mirth that plays + With sorrow's minor keys. + + Another glow than sunset's fire + Has filled the West with light, + Where field and garner, barn and byre, + Are blazing through the night. + + The land is wild with fear and hate, + The rout runs mad and fast; + From hand to hand, from gate to gate, + The flaming brand is passed. + + The lurid glow falls strong across + Dark faces broad with smiles; + Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss + That fire yon blazing piles. + + With oar-strokes timing to their song, + They weave in simple lays + The pathos of remembered wrong, + The hope of better days,-- + + The triumph-note that Miriam sung, + The joy of uncaged birds: + Softening with Afric's mellow tongue + Their broken Saxon words. + + + + SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN + + O, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come + To set de people free; + An' massa tink it day ob doom, + An' we ob jubilee. + De Lord dat heap de Red Sea waves + He jus' as 'trong as den; + He say de word: we las' night slaves; + To-day, de Lord's freemen. + De yam will grow, de cotton blow, + We'll hab de rice an' corn: + O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear + De driver blow his horn! + + Ole massa on he trabbels gone; + He leaf de land behind; + De Lord's breff blow him furder on, + Like corn-shuck in de wind. + We own de hoe, we own de plough, + We own de hands dat hold; + We sell de pig, we sell de cow, + But nebber chile be sold. + De yam will grow, de cotton blow, + We'll hab de rice an' corn: + O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear + De driver blow his horn! + + We pray de Lord: he gib us signs + Dat some day we be free; + De norf-wind tell it to de pines, + De wild-duck to de sea; + We tink it when de church-bell ring, + We dream it in de dream; + De rice-bird mean it when he sing, + De eagle when he scream. + De yam will grow, de cotton blow, + We'll hab de rice an' corn: + O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear + De driver blow his horn! + + We know de promise nebber fail, + An' nebber lie de word; + So like de 'postles in de jail, + We waited for de Lord: + An' now he open ebery door + An' trow away de key; + He tink we lub him so before, + We lub him better free. + De yam will grow, de cotton blow, + He'll gib de rice an' corn: + O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear + De driver blow his horn! + + So sing our dusky gondoliers; + And with a secret pain, + And smiles that seem akin to tears, + We hear the wild refrain. + + We dare not share the negro's trust, + Nor yet his hope deny; + We only know that God is just, + And every wrong shall die. + Rude seems the song; each swarthy face + Flame-lighted, ruder still: + We start to think that hapless race + Must shape our good or ill; + + That laws of changeless justice bind + Oppressor with oppressed; + And, close as sin and suffering joined, + We march to Fate abreast. + + Sing on, poor hearts! your chant shall be + Our sign of blight or bloom,-- + The Vala-song of Liberty, + Or death-rune of our doom! + + + + + +READY + +PHOEBE CARY + +[Sidenote: 1861] + + Loaded with gallant soldiers, + A boat shot in to the land, + And lay at the right of Rodman's Point + With her keel upon the sand. + + Lightly, gayly, they came to shore, + And never a man afraid; + When sudden the enemy opened fire + From his deadly ambuscade. + + Each man fell flat on the bottom + Of the boat; and the captain said: + "If we lie here, we all are captured, + And the first who moves is dead!" + + Then out spoke a negro sailor, + No slavish soul had he; + "Somebody's got to die, boys, + And it might as well be me!" + + Firmly he rose, and fearlessly + Stepped out into the tide; + He pushed the vessel safely off, + Then fell across her side: + + Fell, pierced by a dozen bullets, + As the boat swung clear and free;-- + But there wasn't a man of them that day + Who was fitter to die than he! + + + + + +"HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY" + +BRET HAUTE + +[Sidenote: 1861-1865] +_Early in the war was organized the U. S. Sanitary Commission, to +supply comforts to the soldier in the field from the voluntary +contributions of the men and women at home. Out of this grew the +Red-Cross Associations of Europe._ + + Down the picket-guarded lane + Rolled the comfort-laden wain, + Cheered by shouts that shook the plain, + Soldier-like and merry: + Phrases such as camps may teach, + Sabre-cuts of Saxon speech, + Such as "Bully!" "Them's the peach!" + "Wade in, Sanitary!" + + Right and left the caissons drew + As the car went lumbering through, + Quick succeeding in review + Squadrons military; + Sunburnt men with beards like frieze, + Smooth-faced boys, and cries like these,-- + "U. S. San. Com." "That's the cheese!" + "Pass in, Sanitary!" + + In such cheer it struggled on + Till the battle front was won, + Then the car, its journey done, + Lo! was stationary; + And where bullets whistling fly, + Came the sadder, fainter cry, + "Help us, brothers, ere we die,-- + Save us, Sanitary!" + + Such the work. The phantom flies, + Wrapped in battle clouds that rise; + But the brave--whose dying eyes, + Veiled and visionary, + See the jasper gates swung wide, + See the parted throng outside-- + Hears the voice to those who ride: + "Pass in, Sanitary!" + + + + + +SONG OF THE SOLDIERS + +CHARLES G. HALPINE + +[Sidenote: 1861-1865] + + Comrades known in marches many, + Comrades, tried in dangers many, + Comrades, bound by memories many, + Brothers let us be. + Wounds or sickness may divide us, + Marching orders may divide us, + But whatever fate betide us, + Brothers of the heart are we. + + Comrades, known by faith the clearest, + Tried when death was near and nearest, + Bound we are by ties the dearest, + Brothers evermore to be. + And, if spared, and growing older, + Shoulder still in line with shoulder, + And with hearts no thrill the colder, + Brothers ever we shall be. + + By communion of the banner,-- + Crimson, white, and starry banner,-- + By the baptism of the banner, + Children of one Church are we. + Creed nor faction can divide us, + Race nor language can divide us + Still, whatever fate betide us, + Children of the flag are we. + + + + + +JONATHAN TO JOHN + +JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL + +[Sidenote: Jan 6. 1862] +_This poetic effusion of Mr. Hosea Biglow was preceded by the +"Idyl of the Bridge and the Monument," which set forth another side +of American feeling at the British words and deeds consequent on +the unauthorized capture, by Commodore Wilkes, of the "Trent," +conveying to England two Confederate Commissioners._ + + It don't seem hardly right, John, + When both my hands was full, + To stump me to a fight, John,-- + Your cousin, tu, John Bull! + Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess + We know it now," sez he, + "The lion's paw is all the law, + Accordin' to J. B., + Thet's fit for you an' me!" + + You wonder why we're hot, John? + Your mark wuz on the guns, + The neutral guns, thet shot, John, + Our brothers an' our sons: + Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess + There's human blood," sez he, + "By fits an' starts, in Yankee hearts, + Though 't may surprise J. B. + More 'n it would you an' me." + + Ef _I_ turned mad dogs loose, John, + On _your_ front-parlor stairs, + Would it jest meet your views, John, + To wait and sue their heirs? + Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, + I only guess," sez he, + "Thet ef Vattel on _his_ toes fell, + 'Twould kind o' rile J. B., + Ez wal ez you an' me!" + + Who made the law thet hurts, John, + _Heads I win,--ditto tails?_ + "J. B." was on his shirts, John, + Onless my memory fails, + Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess + (I'm good at thet)," sez he, + "Thet sauce for goose ain't _jest_ the juice + For ganders with J. B., + No more than you or me!" + + + When your rights was our wrongs, John, + You didn't stop for fuss,-- + Britanny's trident prongs, John, + Was good 'nough law for us. + Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, + Though physic's good," sez he, + "It doesn't foller that he can swaller + Prescriptions signed 'J. B.,' + Put up by you an' me!" + + We own the ocean, tu, John: + You mus'n' take it hard, + Ef we can't think with you, John, + It's jest your own back-yard. + Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, + Ef _thet's_ his claim," sez he, + "The fencin'-stuff 'll cost enough + To bust up friend J. B., + Ez wal ez you an' me!" + + Why talk so dreffle big, John, + Of honor when it meant + You didn't care a fig, John, + But jest for _ten per cent?_ + Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess + He's like the rest," sez he: + "When all is done, it's number one + Thet's nearest to J. B., + Ez wal ez you an' me!" + + We give the critters back, John, + Cos Abram thought 'twas right; + It warn't your bullyin' clack, John, + Provokin' us to fight. + Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess + We've a hard row," sez he, + "To hoe jest now; but thet somehow, + May happen to J. B., + Ez wal ez you an' me!" + + We ain't so weak an' poor, John, + With twenty million people, + An' close to every door, John, + A school-house an' a steeple. + Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess + It is a fact," sez he, + "The surest plan to make a Man + Is, think him so, J. B., + Ez much ez you or me!" + + Our folks believe in Law, John; + An' it's for her sake, now, + They've left the ax an' saw, John, + The anvil an' the plough. + Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, + Ef 'twarn't for law," sez he, + "There'd be one shindy from here to Indy, + An' thet don't suit J. B. + (When 'tain't 'twixt you an' me!)" + + We know we've got a cause, John, + Thet's honest, just an' true; + We thought 'twould win applause, John, + Ef nowheres else, from you. + Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess + His love of right," sez he, + "Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton: + There's natur' in J. B., + Ez wal ez you an' me!" + + The South says, "_Poor folks down!_" John, + An, "_All men up!_" say we,-- + White, yaller, black, an' brown, John: + Now which is your idee? + Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, + John preaches wal," sez he; + "But, sermon thru, an' come to _du_, + Why, there's the old J. B. + A crowdin' you an' me!" + + Shall it be love, or hate, John? + It's you thet's to decide; + Ain't _your_ bonds held by Fate, John, + Like all the world's beside? + Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess + Wise men forgive," sez he, + "But not forget; an' some time yet + Thet truth may strike J. B., + Ez wal ez you an' me!" + + God means to make this land, John, + Clear thru, from sea to sea, + Believe an' understand, John, + The _wuth_ o' bein' free. + Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, + God's price is high," sez he; + "But nothin' else than wut He sells + Wears long, an' thet J. B. + May larn, like you an' me!" + + + + + +THE CUMBERLAND + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW + +March 8, 1862 +_The "Cumberland" was sunk by the iron-clad rebel ram "Merrimac," +going down with her colors flying, and firing even as the water +rose over the gunwale._ + + At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, + On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war; + And at times from the fortress across the bay + The alarum of drums swept past, + Or a bugle blast + From the camp on the shore. + + Then far away to the south uprose + A little feather of snow-white smoke, + And we knew that the iron ship of our foes + Was steadily steering its course + To try the force + Of our ribs of oak. + + Down upon us heavily runs, + Silent and sullen, the floating fort; + Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, + And leaps the terrible death, + With fiery breath, + From each open port. + + We are not idle, but send her straight + Defiance back in a full broadside! + As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, + Rebounds our heavier hail + From each iron scale + Of the monster's hide. + + "Strike your flag!" the rebel cries, + In his arrogant old plantation strain. + "Never!" our gallant Morris replies; + "It is better to sink than to yield!" + And the whole air pealed + With the cheers of our men. + + Then, like a kraken huge and black, + She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! + Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, + With a sudden shudder of death, + And the cannon's breath + For her dying gasp. + + Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, + Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. + Lord, how beautiful was Thy day! + Every waft of the air + Was a whisper of prayer, + Or a dirge for the dead. + + Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! + Ye are at peace in the troubled stream; + Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, + Thy flag, that is rent in twain, + Shall be one again, + And without a seam! + + + + + +KEARNEY AT SEVEN PINES EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN + +[Sidenote: May 31, 1862] + + So that soldierly legend is still on its journey,-- + That story of Kearny 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 Kearny'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 our 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? + "O, anywhere! Forward! 'Tis all the same, Colonel: + You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line!" + + O, 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. + + + + + +DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER + +GEORGE H. BOKER + +[Sidenote: Sept. 1, 1862] +_These verses were written in memory of General Philip Kearny, +killed at Chantilly after he had ridden out in advance of his men +to reconnoitre._ + + Close his eyes; his work is done! + What to him is friend or foeman, + Rise of moon, or set of sun, + Hand of man, or kiss of woman? + Lay him low, lay him low, + In the clover or the snow! + What cares he? he can not know: + Lay him low! + + As man may, he fought his fight, + Proved his truth by his endeavor; + Let him sleep in solemn night, + Sleep forever and forever. + Lay him low, lay him low, + In the clover or the snow! + What cares he? he can not know: + Lay him low! + + Fold him in his country's stars, + Roll the drum and fire the volley! + What to him are all our wars, + What but death bemocking folly? + Lay him low, lay him low, + In the clover or the snow! + What cares he? he can not know: + Lay him low! + + Leave him to God's watching eye, + Trust him to the hand that made him. + Mortal love weeps idly by: + God alone has power to aid him, + Lay him low, lay him low, + In the clover or the snow! + What cares he? he can not know: + Lay him low! + + + + + +BARBARA FRIETCHIE + +JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER + +[Sidebar: Sept. 6, 1862] +_ These lines were suggested by a newspaper paragraph which +lacked foundation in fact._ + + Up from the meadows rich with corn, + Clear in the cool September morn. + + The clustered spires of Frederick stand + Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. + + Round about them orchards sweep, + Apple and peach tree fruited deep, + + Fair as a garden of the Lord + To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, + + On that pleasant morn of the early fall, + When Lee marched over the mountain-wall,-- + + Over the mountains winding down, + Horse and foot, into Frederick town. + + Forty flags with their silver stars, + Forty flags with their crimson bars, + + Flapped in the morning wind: the sun + Of noon looked down, and saw not one. + + Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, + Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; + + Bravest of all in Frederick town, + She took up the flag the men hauled down; + + In her attic window the staff she set, + To show that one heart was loyal yet. + + Up the street came the rebel tread, + Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. + + Under his slouched hat left and right + He glanced; the old flag met his sight. + + "Halt!"--the dust-brown ranks stood fast. + "Fire!"--out blazed the rifle-blast. + + It shivered the window, pane and sash; + It rent the banner with seam and gash. + + Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff + Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; + + She leaned far out on the window-sill, + And shook it forth with a royal will. + + "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, + But spare your country's flag," she said. + + A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, + Over the face of the leader came; + + The nobler nature within him stirred + To life at that woman's deed and word: + + "Who touches a hair of yon gray head + Dies like a dog! March on!" he said. + + All day long through Frederick street + Sounded the tread of marching feet: + + All day long that free flag tost + Over the heads of the rebel host. + + Ever its torn folds rose and fell + On the loyal winds that loved it well; + + And through the hill-gaps sunset light + Shone over it with a warm good-night. + + Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, + And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. + + Honor to her! and let a tear + Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. + + Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, + Flag of Freedom and Union, wave! + + Peace and order and beauty draw + Round thy symbol of light and law; + + And ever the stars above look down + On thy stars below in Frederick town! + + + + + +FREDERICKSBURG + +THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH + +[Sidenote: Dec. 13, 1862] + + The increasing moonlight drifts across my bed, + And on the churchyard by the road, I know + It falls as white and noiselessly as snow. + 'Twas such a night two weary summers fled; + The stars, as now, were waning overhead. + Listen! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow + Where the swift currents of the river flow + Past Fredericksburg: far off the heavens are red + With sudden conflagration: on yon height, + Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath: + A signal-rocket pierces the dense night, + Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath: + Hark!--the artillery massing on the right, + Hark!--the black squadrons wheeling down to Death! + + + + + +MUSIC IN CAMP + +JOHN R. THOMPSON + +[Sidenote: Dec. 15-31, 1862] + + 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 hid 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 bank; + 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 movements 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 crowding 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, lone stream its noiseless tread + Spread o'er the glistening pebbles: + All silent now the Yankees stood; + All silent stood the Rebels: + + For each responsive 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 cottage by the prairie. + + Or cold or warm, his native skies + Bend in their beauty o'er him: + Sending the tear-mist in his eyes-- + The dear 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 simplest 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. + + + + + +KEENAN'S CHARGE + +GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP + +[Sidenote: May 2, 1863] +_During the second day of the battle of Chancellorsville, General +Pleasonton was trying to get twenty-two guns into a vital position +as Stonewall Jackson made a sudden advance. Time had to be bought; +so Pleasanton ordered Major Peter Keenan, commanding the Eighth +Pennsylvania Cavalry (four hundred strong), to charge the advancing +ten thousand of the enemy. An introduction to the poem, setting +forth these facts, is omitted._ + + By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, + Brave Keenan looked in Pleasonton'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-sash'd; + 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 whip-poor-will 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. + + + + + +THE BLACK REGIMENT + +GEORGE H. BOKER + +[Sidenote: May 27, 1863] +_"The colored troops fought nobly" was a frequent phrase in war +bulletins; never did they better deserve this praise than at Port +Hudson._ + + Dark as the clouds of even, + Ranked in the western heaven, + Waiting the breath that lifts + All the dread 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 old chains again!" + O, what a shout there went + From the black regiment! + + "Charge!" Trump and drum awoke, + Onward the bondmen broke; + Bayonet and sabre-stroke + Vainly opposed their rush. + Through the wild battle's crush. + With but one thought aflush, + Driving their lords like chaff, + In the guns' mouths they laugh; + Or at the slippery brands + Leaping with open hands, + Down they tear man and horse, + Down in their awful course; + Trampling with bloody heel + Over the crashing steel, + All their eyes forward bent, + Rushed the black regiment. + + "Freedom!" their battle-cry,-- + "Freedom! or leave to die!" + Ah! and they meant the word, + Not as with us 'tis heard, + Not a mere party shout: + They gave their spirits out; + Trusted the end to God, + And on the gory sod + Rolled in triumphant blood. + + Glad to strike one free blow, + Whether for weal or woe; + Glad to breathe one free breath, + Though on the lips of death. + Praying--alas! in vain!-- + That they might fall again, + So they could once more see + That burst to liberty! + This was what "freedom" lent + To the black regiment. + + Hundreds on hundreds fell; + But they are resting well; + Scourges and shackles strong + Never shall do them wrong. + O, 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. + + + + + +JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG + +BRET HARTE + +[Sidenote: July 1, 2, 3, 1863] + + Have you heard the story that gossips tell + Of Burns of Gettysburg?--No? Ah, well, + Brief is the glory that hero earns, + Briefer the story of poor John Burns: + He was the fellow who won renown,-- + The only man who didn't back down + When the rebels rode through his native town; + But held his own in the fight next day, + When all his townsfolk ran away. + That was in July, Sixty-three, + The very day that General Lee, + Flower of Southern chivalry, + Baffled and beaten, backward reeled + From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. + I might tell how but the day before + John Burns stood at his cottage door, + Looking down the village street, + Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, + He heard the low of his gathered kine, + And felt their breath with incense sweet + Or I might say, when the sunset burned + The old farm gable, he thought it turned + The milk that fell like a babbling flood + Into the milk-pail red as blood! + Or how he fancied the hum of bees + Were bullets buzzing among the trees. + But all such fanciful thoughts as these + Were strange to a practical man like Burns, + Who minded only his own concerns, + Troubled no more by fancies fine + Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine,-- + Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact, + Slow to argue, but quick to act. + That was the reason, as some folks say, + He fought so well on that terrible day. + + And it was terrible. On the right + Raged for hours the heady fight, + Thundered the battery's double bass,-- + Difficult music for men to face; + While on the left--where now the graves + Undulate like the living waves + That all that day unceasing swept + Up to the pits the Rebels kept-- + Round shot ploughed the upland glades, + Sown with bullets, reaped with blades; + Shattered fences here and there + Tossed their splinters in the air; + The very trees were stripped and bare; + The barns that once held yellow grain + Were heaped with harvests of the slain; + The cattle bellowed on the plain, + The turkeys screamed with might and main, + And brooding barn-fowl left their rest + With strange shells bursting in each nest. + + Just where the tide of battle turns, + Erect and lonely stood old John Burns. + How do you think the man was dressed? + He wore an ancient long buff vest, + Yellow as saffron,--but his best, + And, buttoned over his manly breast, + Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar, + And large gilt buttons,--size of a dollar,-- + With tails that the country-folk called "swaller." + He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, + White as the locks on which it sat. + Never had such a sight been seen + For forty years on the village green, + Since old John Burns was a country beau, + And went to the "quiltings" long ago. + + Close at his elbows all that day, + Veterans of the Peninsula, + Sunburnt and bearded, charged away; + And striplings, downy of lip and chin,-- + Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in,-- + Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore, + Then at the rifle his right hand bore; + And hailed him, from out their youthful lore, + With scraps of a slangy _repertoire_: + "How are you, White Hat? Put her through!" + "Your head's level!" and "Bully for you!" + Called him "Daddy,"--begged he'd disclose + The name of the tailor who made his clothes, + And what was the value he set on those; + While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff, + Stood there picking the rebels off,-- + With his long brown rifle and bell-crown hat, + And the swallow-tails they were laughing at. + + 'Twas but a moment, for that respect + Which clothes all courage their voices checked: + And something the wildest could understand + Spake in the old man's strong right hand, + And his corded throat, and the lurking frown + Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown; + Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe + Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw, + In the antique vestments and long white hair, + The Past of the Nation in battle there; + And some of the soldiers since declare + That the gleam of his old white hat afar, + Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, + That day was their oriflamme of war. + + So raged the battle. You know the rest: + How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed, + Broke at the final charge, and ran. + At which John Burns--a practical man-- + Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, + And then went back to his bees and cows. + + That is the story of old John Burns; + This is the moral the reader learns: + In fighting the battle, the question's whether + You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather! + + + + + +TWILIGHT ON SUMTER + +RICHARD HENRY STODDARD + +[Sidenote: Aug. 24, 1863] +_After the surrender of Major Anderson, the Confederates +strengthened the fort; but, in the spring of 1863, the U. S. guns +on Morris Island battered it into a shapeless ruin._ + + + Still and dark along the sea + Sumter lay; + A light was overhead, + As from burning cities shed, + And the clouds were battle-red, + Far away. + Not a solitary gun + Left to tell the fort had won, + Or lost the day! + Nothing but the tattered rag + Of the drooping Rebel flag, +And the sea-birds screaming round it in their play. + + How it woke one April morn, + Fame shall tell; + As from Moultrie, close at hand, + And the batteries on the land, + Round its faint but fearless band + Shot and shell + Raining hid the doubtful light; + But they fought the hopeless fight + Long and well, + (Theirs the glory, ours the shame!) + Till the walls were wrapt in flame, +Then their flag was proudly struck, and Sumter fell. + + Now--oh, look at Sumter now, + In the gloom! + Mark its scarred and shattered walls, + (Hark! the ruined rampart falls!) + There's a justice that appals + In its doom; + For this blasted spot of earth + Where Rebellion had its birth + Is its tomb! + And when Sumter sinks at last + From the heavens, that shrink aghast, +Hell shall rise in grim derision and make room! + + + + + +THE BAY-FIGHT + +HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL + +[Sidenote: August 5, 1864] +_The poet was acting ensign on the staff of Admiral Farragut, +when he led his squadron past Forts Morgan and Gaines, and into a +victorious fight with the Confederate fleet in the Bay of Mobile. +The poem is here somewhat shortened._ + + Three days through sapphire seas we sailed, + The steady Trade blew strong and free, + The Northern Light his banners paled, + The Ocean Stream our channels wet, + We rounded low Canaveral's lee, + And passed the isles of emerald set + In blue Bahama's turquoise sea. + + By reef and shoal obscurely mapped, + And hauntings of the gray sea-wolf, + The palmy Western Key lay lapped + In the warm washing of the Gulf. + + But weary to the hearts of all + The burning glare, the barren reach + Of Santa Rosa's withered beach, + And Pensacola's ruined wall. + + And weary was the long patrol, + The thousand miles of shapeless strand, + From Brazos to San Blas that roll + Their drifting dunes of desert sand. + + Yet, coast-wise as we cruised or lay, + The land-breeze still at nightfall bore, + By beach and fortress-guarded bay, + Sweet odors from the enemy's shore, + + Fresh from the forest solitudes, + Unchallenged of his sentry lines-- + The bursting of his cypress buds, + And the warm fragrance of his pines. + + Ah, never braver bark and crew, + Nor bolder Flag a foe to dare. + Had left a wake on ocean blue + Since Lion-Heart sailed _Trenc-le-mer_! + + But little gain by that dark ground + Was ours, save, sometime, freer breath + For friend or brother strangely found, + 'Scaped from the drear domain of death. + + And little venture for the bold, + Or laurel for our valiant Chief, + Save some blockaded British thief, + Full fraught with murder in his hold, + + Caught unawares at ebb or flood-- + Or dull bombardment, day by day, + With fort and earth-work, far away, + Low couched in sullen leagues of mud. + + A weary time,--but to the strong + The day at last, as ever, came; + And the volcano, laid so long, + Leaped forth in thunder and in flame! + + "Man your starboard battery!" + Kimberly shouted-- + The ship, with her hearts of oak, + Was going, mid roar and smoke, + On to victory! + None of us doubted-- + No, not our dying-- + Farragut's flag was flying! + + Gaines growled low on our left, + Morgan roared on our right-- + Before us, gloomy and fell, + With breath like the fume of hell, + Lay the Dragon of iron shell, + Driven at last to the fight! + + Ha, old ship! do they thrill, + The brave two hundred scars + You got in the River-Wars? + That were leeched with clamorous skill, + (Surgery savage and hard), + Splinted with bolt and beam, + Probed in scarfing and seam, + Rudely linted and tarred + With oakum and boiling pitch, + And sutured with splice and hitch + At the Brooklyn Navy-Yard! + + Our lofty spars were down, + To bide the battle's frown + (Wont of old renown)-- + But every ship was drest + In her bravest and her best, + As if for a July day; + Sixty flags and three, + As we floated up the bay-- + Every peak and mast-head flew + The brave Red, White, and Blue-- + We were eighteen ships that day. + + With hawsers strong and taut, + The weaker lashed to port, + On we sailed, two by two-- + That if either a bolt should feel + Crash through caldron or wheel, + Fin of bronze or sinew of steel, + Her mate might bear her through. + + Steadily nearing the head, + The great Flag-Ship led, + Grandest of sights! + On her lofty mizzen flew + Our Leader's dauntless Blue, + That had waved o'er twenty fights-- + So we went, with the first of the tide, + Slowly, mid the roar + Of the Rebel guns ashore + And the thunder of each full broadside. + + Ah, how poor the prate + Of statute and state, + We once held with these fellows-- + Here, on the flood's pale-green, + Hark how he bellows, + Each bluff old Sea-Lawyer! + Talk to them, Dahlgren, + Parrott, and Sawyer! + + On, in the whirling shade + Of the cannon's sulphury breath, + We drew to the Line of Death + That our devilish Foe had laid-- + Meshed in a horrible net, + And baited villainous well, + Right in our path were set + Three hundred traps of hell! + + And there, O sight forlorn! + There, while the cannon + Hurtled and thundered-- + (Ah, what ill raven + Flapped o'er the ship that morn!)-- + Caught by the under-death, + In the drawing of a breath, + Down went dauntless Craven, + He and his hundred! + + A moment we saw her turret, + A little heel she gave, + And a thin white spray went o'er her, + Like the crest of a breaking wave-- + In that great iron coffin, + The channel for their grave, + The fort their monument, + (Seen afar in the offing,) + Ten fathom deep lie Craven, + And the bravest of our brave. + + Then, in that deadly track, + A little the ships held back, + Closing up in their stations-- + There are minutes that fix the fate + Of battles and of nations + (Christening the generations,) + When valor were all too late, + If a moment's doubt be harbored + From the main-top, bold and brief, + Came the word of our grand old Chief-- + "Go on!"--'twas all he said-- + Our helm was put to the starboard, + And the Hartford passed ahead. + + Ahead lay the Tennessee, + On our starboard bow he lay, + With his mail-clad consorts three, + (The rest had run up the Bay)-- + There he was, belching flame from his bow, + And the steam from his throat's abyss + Was a Dragon's maddened hiss-- + In sooth a most cursed craft!-- + In a sullen ring at bay + By the Middle Ground they lay, + Raking us fore and aft. + + Trust me, our berth was hot, + Ah, wickedly well they shot; + How their death-bolts howled and stung! + And the water-batteries played + With their deadly cannonade + Till the air around us rung; + So the battle raged and roared-- + Ah, had you been aboard + To have seen the fight we made! + How they leaped, the tongues of flame, + From the cannon's fiery lip! + How the broadsides, deck and frame, + Shook the great ship! + And how the enemy's shell + Came crashing, heavy and oft, + Clouds of splinters flying aloft + And falling in oaken showers-- + But ah, the pluck of the crew! + Had you stood on that deck of ours + You had seen what men may do. + + Still, as the fray grew louder, + Boldly they worked and well; + Steadily came the powder, + Steadily came the shell. + And if tackle or truck found hurt, + Quickly they cleared the wreck; + And the dead were laid to port, + All a-row, on our deck. + + Never a nerve that failed, + Never a cheek that paled, + Not a tinge of gloom or pallor-- + There was bold Kentucky's grit, + And the old Virginian valor, + And the daring Yankee wit. + + There were blue eyes from turfy Shannon, + There were black orbs from palmy Niger-- + But there, alongside the cannon, + Each man fought like a tiger! + A little, once, it looked ill, + Our consort began to burn-- + They quenched the flames with a will, + But our men were falling still, + And still the fleet was astern. + + Right abreast of the Fort + In an awful shroud they lay, + Broadsides thundering away, + And lightning from every port-- + Scene of glory and dread! + + A storm-cloud all aglow + With flashes of fiery red-- + The thunder raging below, + And the forest of flags o'erhead! + + So grand the hurly and roar, + So fiercely their broadsides blazed, + The regiments fighting ashore + Forgot to fire as they gazed. + + There, to silence the Foe, + Moving grimly and slow, + They loomed in that deadly wreath, + Where the darkest batteries frowned + Death in the air all round, + And the black torpedoes beneath! + And now, as we looked ahead, + All for'ard, the long white deck + Was growing a strange dull red; + But soon, as once and agen + Fore and aft we sped + (The firing to guide or check,) + You could hardly choose but tread + On the ghastly human wreck, + (Dreadful gobbet and shred + That a minute ago were men!) + + Red, from mainmast to bitts! + Red, on bulwark and wale-- + Red, by combing and hatch-- + Red, o'er netting and rail! + + And ever, with steady con, + The ship forged slowly by-- + And ever the crew fought on, + And their cheers rang loud and high. + + Grand was the sight to see + How by their guns they stood, + Right in front of our dead + Fighting square abreast-- + Each brawny arm and chest + All spotted with black and red, + Chrism of fire and blood! + + Worth our watch, dull and sterile, + Worth all the weary time-- + Worth the woe and the peril, + To stand in that strait sublime! + + Fear? A forgotten form! + Death? A dream of the eyes! + We were atoms in God's great storm + That roared through the angry skies. + + One only doubt was ours, + One only dread we knew-- + Could the day that dawned so well + Go down for the Darker Powers? + _Would_ the fleet get through? + And ever the shot and shell + Came with the howl of hell, + The splinter-clouds rose and fell, + And the long line of corpses grew-- + _Would_ the fleet win through? + + They are men that never will fail + (How aforetime they've fought!) + But Murder may yet prevail-- + They may sink as Craven sank. + Therewith one hard, fierce thought, + Burning on heart and lip, + Ran like fire through the ship-- + _Fight_ her, to the last plank! + + A dimmer Renown might strike + If Death lay square alongside-- + But the Old Flag has no like, + She must fight, whatever betide-- + When the war is a tale of old, + And this day's story is told, + They shall hear how the Hartford died! + + But as we ranged ahead, + And the leading ships worked in, + Losing their hope to win, + The enemy turned and fled-- + And one seeks a shallow reach, + And another, winged in her flight, + Our mate, brave Jouett, brings in-- + And one, all torn in the fight, + Runs for a wreck on the beach, + Where her flames soon fire the night. + + And the Ram, when well up the Bay, + And we looked that our stems should meet, + (He had us fair for a prey,) + Shifting his helm midway, + Sheered off and ran for the fleet; + There, without skulking or sham, + He fought them, gun for gun, + And ever he sought to ram, + But could finish never a one. + + From the first of the iron shower + Till we sent our parting shell, + 'Twas just one savage hour + Of the roar and the rage of hell. + + With the lessening smoke and thunder, + Our glasses around we aim-- + What is that burning yonder? + Our Philippi,--aground and in flame! + + Below, 'twas still all a-roar, + As the ships went by the shore, + But the fire of the fort had slacked, + (So fierce their volleys had been)-- + And now, with a mighty din, + The whole fleet came grandly in, + Though sorely battered and wracked. + + So, up the Bay we ran, + The Flag to port and ahead, + And a pitying rain began + To wash the lips of our dead. + + A league from the Fort we lay, + And deemed that the end must lag; + When lo! looking down the Bay, + There flaunted the Rebel Rag-- + The Ram is again under way, + And heading dead for the Flag! + + Steering up with the stream, + Boldly his course, he lay, + Though the fleet all answered his fire, + And, as he still drew nigher, + Ever on bow and beam + Our Monitors pounded away-- + How the Chickasaw hammered away! + + Quickly breasting the wave, + Eager the prize to win, + First of us all the brave + Monongahela went in + Under full head of steam-- + Twice she struck him abeam, + Till her stem was a sorry work, + (She might have run on a crag!) + The Lackawanna hit fair, + He flung her aside like cork, + And still he held for the Flag. + + High in the mizzen shroud + (Lest the smoke his sight o'erwhelm), + Our Admiral's voice rang loud, + "Hard-a-starboard your helm! + Starboard! and run him down!" + Starboard it was--and so, + Like a black squall's lifting frown, + Our mighty bow bore down + On the iron beak of the Foe. + + We stood on the deck together, + Men that had looked on death + In battle and stormy weather-- + Yet a little we held our breath, + When, with the hush of death, + The great ships drew together. + + Our Captain strode to the bow, + Drayton, courtly and wise, + Kindly cynic, and wise, + (You hardly had known him now,-- + The flame of fight in his eyes!) + His brave heart eager to feel + How the oak would tell on the steel! + + But, as the space grew short, + A little he seemed to shun us, + Out peered a form grim and lanky, + And a voice yelled: "Hard-a-port! + Hard-a-port!--here's the damned Yankee + Coming right down on us!" + + He sheered, but the ships ran foul; + With a gnarring shudder and growl-- + He gave us a deadly gun; + But as he passed in his pride, + (Rasping right alongside!) + The Old Flag, in thunder tones, + Poured in her port broadside, + Rattling his iron hide, + And cracking his timber bones! + + Just then, at speed on the Foe, + With her bow all weathered and brown, + The great Lackawanna came down, + Full tilt, for another blow; + We were forging ahead, + She reversed--but, for all our pains, + Rammed the old Hartford instead, + Just for'ard the mizzen-chains! + + Ah! how the masts did buckle and bend, + And the stout hull ring and reel, + As she took us right on end! + (Vain were engine and wheel, + She was under full steam)-- + With the roar of a thunder-stroke + Her two thousand tons of oak + Brought up on us, right abeam! + + A wreck, as it looked, we lay-- + (Rib and plankshear gave way + To the stroke of that giant wedge!) + Here, after all, we go-- + The old ship is gone!--ah, no, + But cut to the water's edge. + + Never mind then--at him again! + His flurry now can't last long; + He'll never again see land-- + Try that on _him_, Marchand! + On him again, brave Strong! + + Heading square at the hulk, + Full on his beam we bore; + But the spine of the huge Sea-Hog + Lay on the tide like a log, + He vomited flame no more. + + By this he had found it hot-- + Half the fleet, in an angry ring, + Closed round the hideous Thing, + Hammering with solid shot, + + And bearing down, bow on bow-- + He had but a minute to choose; + Life or renown?--which now + Will the Rebel Admiral lose? + + Cruel, haughty, and cold, + He ever was strong and bold-- + Shall he shrink from a wooden stem? + He will think of that brave band + He sank in the Cumberland-- + Ay, he will sink like them. + + Nothing left but to fight + Boldly his last sea-fight! + Can he strike? By heaven, 'tis true! + Down comes the traitor Blue, + And up goes the captive White! + + Up went the White! Ah then + The hurrahs that, once and agen, + Rang from three thousand men + All flushed and savage with fight! + + Our dead lay cold and stark, + But our dying, down in the dark, + Answered as best they might-- + Lifting their poor lost arms, + And cheering for God and Right! + + + + + +SHERIDAN'S RIDE + +THOMAS BUCHANAN READ + +[Sidenote: Oct. 19, 1864] +_General Early surprised and routed the Union troops during +General Sheridan's absence in Washington. Sheridan hastened to the +front, rallied his men, and won a complete victory._ + + 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 + Thundered along the horizon's bar; + And louder yet into Winchester rolled + The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, + Making the blood of the listener cold, + As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, + And Sheridan twenty miles away. + + But there is a road from Winchester town, + A good, broad highway leading down; + And there, through the flush of the morning light, + A steed as black as the steeds of night, + Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight, + As if he knew the terrible need; + He stretched away with his utmost speed; + Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay, + With Sheridan fifteen miles away. + + Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, + The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth; + Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, + Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. + The heart of the steed and the heart of the master + Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, + Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; + Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, + With Sheridan only ten miles away. + + Under his spurning feet the road + Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, + And the landscape sped away behind + Like an ocean flying before the wind, + And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace fire, + Swept on, with his wild eye full of ire. + But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire; + He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, + With Sheridan only five miles away. + + The first that the general saw were the groups + Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops, + What was done? what to do? a glance told him both, + Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, + He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas, + And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because + The sight of the master compelled it to pause. + With foam and with dust, the black charger was gray + By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play, + He seemed to the whole great army to say, + "I have brought you Sheridan all the way + From Winchester, down to save the day!" + + Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! + Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! + And when their statues are placed on high, + Under the dome of the Union sky, + The American soldiers' 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!" + + + + + +CRAVEN + +HENRY NEWBOLT + +[Sidenote: August 5, 1864] +_In the attack on Mobile Bay the monitor Tecumseh was sunk by a +torpedo._ + + Over the turret, shut in his iron-clad tower, + Craven was conning his ship through smoke and + flame; + Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour, + Now was the time for a charge to end the game. + + There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and grim, + A hundred deaths beneath it, and never a sign; + There lay the enemy's ships, and sink or swim + The flag was flying, and he was head of the line. + + The fleet behind was jamming; the monitor hung + Beating the stream; the roar for a moment hushed, + Craven spoke to the pilot; slow she swung; + Again he spoke, and right for the foe she rushed. + + Into the narrowing channel, between the shore + And the sunk torpedoes lying in treacherous rank; + She turned but a yard too short; a muffled roar, + A mountainous wave, and she rolled, righted, and sank. + + Over the manhole, up in the iron-clad tower, + Pilot and Captain met as they turned to fly: + The hundredth part of a moment seemed an hour, + For one could pass to be saved, and one must die. + + They stood like men in a dream: Craven spoke, + Spoke as he lived and fought, with a Captain's pride, + "After you, Pilot." The pilot woke, + Down the ladder he went, and Craven died. + + All men praise the deed and the manner, but we-- + We set it apart from the pride that stoops to the proud, + The strength that is supple to serve the strong and free, + The grace of the empty hands and promises loud: + + Sidney thirsting, a humbler need to slake, + Nelson waiting his turn for the surgeon's hand, + Lucas crushed with chains for a comrade's sake, + Outram coveting right before command: + + These were paladins, these were Craven's peers, + These with him shall be crowned in story and song, + Crowned with the glitter of steel and the glimmer of tears, + Princes of courtesy, merciful, proud, and strong. + + + + + +SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA + +SAMUEL H. M. BYERS + +[Sidenote: May 4, 1864, Dec. 21, 1864] +_After Sherman left Tennessee in May, to the taking of Atlanta +September 2, there was hardly a day without its battle; after he +left Atlanta he marched to the sea and took Savannah; then he went +to Columbia and the backbone of the Rebellion was broken. The poet +wrote this while a prisoner at Columbia; and when Sherman arrived +there and read it, he attached Adjt. Byers to his staff._ + + Our camp-fires shone bright on the mountain + That frowned on the river below, + As we stood by our guns in the morning, + And eagerly watched for the foe; + When a rider came out of the darkness + That hung over mountain and tree, + And shouted, "Boys, up and be ready! + For Sherman will march to the sea!" + + Then cheer upon cheer for bold Sherman + Went up from each valley and glen, + And the bugles re-echoed the music + That came from the lips of the men; + For we knew that the stars in our banner + More bright in their splendor would be, + And that blessings from Northland would greet us, + When Sherman marched down to the sea. + + Then forward, boys! forward to battle! + We marched on our wearisome way, + We stormed the wild hills of Resaca-- + God bless those who fell on that day! + Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory, + Frowned down on the flag of the free; + But the East and the West bore our standard + And Sherman marched down to the sea. + + Still onward we pressed, till our banners + Swept out from Atlanta's grim walls, + And the blood of the patriot dampened + The soil where the traitor-flag falls; + We paused not to weep for the fallen, + Who slept by each river and tree, + Yet we twined them a wreath of the laurel, + As Sherman marched down to the sea. + + Oh, proud was our army that morning, + That stood where the pine darkly towers, + When Sherman said, "Boys, you are weary, + But to-day fair Savannah is ours!" + Then sang we the song of our chieftain, + That echoed o'er river and lea, + And the stars in our banner shone brighter + When Sherman marched down to the sea. + + + + + +O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! + +WALT WHITMAN + +[Sidenote: April 15, 1865] +_Abraham Lincoln was killed by John Wilkes Booth, almost exactly +four years after the first shot was fired at Fort Sumter._ + + O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, + The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won; + The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, + While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: + But O heart! heart! heart! + O the bleeding drops of red, + Where on the deck my Captain lies, + Fallen cold and dead! + + O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; + Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills; + For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding; + For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; + Here, Captain! dear father! + This arm beneath your head; + It is some dream that on the deck + You've fallen cold and dead. + + My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; + My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will: + The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and + done; + From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won: + Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! + But I, with mournful tread, + Walk the deck my Captain lies, + Fallen cold and dead. + + + + + +ABRAHAM LINCOLN + +JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL + +[Sidenote: April 15, 1865] +_This is a fragment of the noble Commemoration Ode delivered at +Harvard College to the memory of those of its students who fell in +the war which kept the country whole._ + + + Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, + Whom late the Nation he had led, + With ashes on her head, + Wept with the passion of an angry grief: + Forgive me, if from present things I turn + To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, + And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn. + Nature, they say, doth dote, + And cannot make a man + Save on some worn-out plan, + Repeating us by rote: + For him her Old World moulds aside she threw, + And, choosing sweet clay from the breast + Of the unexhausted West, + With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, + Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true. + How beautiful to see + Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed, + Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead; + One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, + Not lured by any cheat of birth, + But by his clear-grained human worth, + And brave old wisdom of sincerity! + They knew that outward grace is dust; + They could not choose but trust + In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, + And supple-tempered will + That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust. + His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind, + Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, + A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind, + Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, + Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, + Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars. + Nothing of Europe here, + Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, + Ere any names of Serf and Peer + Could Nature's equal scheme deface; + Here was a type of the true elder race, + And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face. + I praise him not; it were too late; + And some innative weakness there must be + In him who condescends to victory + Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, + Safe in himself as in a fate. + So always firmly he: + He knew to bide his time, + And can his fame abide, + Still patient in his simple faith sublime, + Till the wise years decide. + Great captains, with their guns and drums, + Disturb our judgment for the hour, + But at last silence comes; + These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, + Our children shall behold his fame, + The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, + Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, + New birth of our new soil, the first American. + + + + + +THE BLUE AND THE GRAY + +FRANCIS MILES FINCH + +[Sidenote: 1861-1865] +_The women of Columbus, Mississippi, had shown themselves +impartial in the offerings made to the memory of the dead. They +strewed flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and of the +National soldiers._ + + By the flow of the inland river, + Whence the fleets of iron have fled, + Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, + Asleep on the ranks of the dead; + Under the sod and the dew, + Waiting the judgment day; + Under the one, the Blue; + Under the other, the Gray. + + These in the robings of glory, + Those in the gloom of defeat; + All with the battle-blood gory, + In the dusk of eternity meet; + Under the sod and the dew, + Waiting the judgment day; + Under the laurel, the Blue; + Under the willow, the Gray. + + From the silence of sorrowful hours, + The desolate mourners go, + Lovingly laden with flowers, + Alike for the friend and the foe; + Under the sod and the dew, + Waiting the judgment day; + Under the roses, the Blue; + Under the lilies, the Gray. + + So, with an equal splendor, + The morning sun-rays fall, + With a touch impartially tender, + On the blossoms blooming for all; + Under the sod and the dew, + Waiting the judgment day; + Broidered with gold, the Blue; + Mellowed with gold, the Gray. + + So, when the summer calleth, + On forest and field of grain, + With an equal murmur falleth + The cooling drip of the rain; + Under the sod and the dew, + Waiting the judgment day; + Wet with the rain, the Blue; + Wet with the rain, the Gray. + + Sadly, but not with upbraiding, + The generous deed was done; + In the storm of the years that are fading, + No braver battle was won; + Under the sod and the dew, + Waiting the judgment day; + Under the blossoms, the Blue; + Under the garlands, the Gray. + + No more shall the war-cry sever, + Or the winding rivers be red; + They banish our anger forever, + When they laurel the graves of our dead. + Under the sod and the dew, + Waiting the judgment day; + Love and tears for the Blue; + Tears and love for the Gray. + + + + + +AT THE FARRAGUT STATUE + +ROBERT BRIDGES + +[Sidenote: 1801, 1870] +_Farragut's statue by Saint Gaudens was unveiled in New York in +1881_ + + To live a hero, then to stand + In bronze serene above the city's throng; + Hero at sea, and now on land + Revered by thousands as they rush along; + + If these were all the gifts of fame-- + To be a shade amid alert reality, + And win a statue and a name-- + How cold and cheerless immortality! + + But when the sun shines in the Square, + And multitudes are swarming in the street, + Children are always gathered there, + Laughing and playing round the hero's feet. + + + + + +GRANT + +H. C. BUNNER + +[Sidenote: 1822, 1885] +_This was written on the day of Grant's death, July 23._ + + Smile on, thou new-come Spring--if on thy breeze + The breath of a great man go wavering up + And out of this world's knowledge, it is well. + + Kindle with thy green flame the stricken trees, + And fire the rose's many-petaled cup, + Let bough and branch with quickening life-blood swell-- + But Death shall touch his spirit with a life + That knows not years or seasons. Oh, how small + Thy little hour of bloom! Thy leaves shall fall, + And be the sport of winter winds at strife; + But he has taken on eternity. + Yea, of how much this Death doth set him free!-- + Now are we one to love him, once again. + The tie that bound him to our bitterest pain + Draws him more close to Love and Memory. + + O Spring, with all thy sweetheart frolics, say, + Hast thou remembrance of those earlier springs + When we wept answer to the laughing day, + And turned aside from green and gracious things? + + There was a sound of weeping over all-- + Mothers uncomforted, for their sons were not; + And there was crueler silence: tears grew hot + In the true eyes that would not let them fall. + + Up from the South came a great wave of sorrow + That drowned our hearthstones, splashed with blood our + sills; + To-day, that spared, made terrible To-morrow + With thick presentiment of coming ills. + Only we knew the Right--but oh, how strong, + How pitiless, how insatiable the Wrong! + + And then the quivering sword-hilt found a hand + That knew not how to falter or grow weak; + And we looked on, from end to end the land, + And felt the heart spring up, and rise afresh + The blood of courage to the whitened cheek, + And fire of battle thrill the numbing flesh. + Ay, there was death, and pain, and dear ones missed, + And lips forever to grow pale unkissed; + But lo, the man was here, and this was he; + And at his hands Faith gave us victory. + + Spring, thy poor life, that mocks his body's death, + Is but a candle's flame, a flower's breath. + He lives in days that suffering made dear + Beyond all garnered beauty of the year. + He lives in all of us that shall outlive + + The sensuous things that paltry time can give. + This Spring the spirit of his broken age + Across the threshold of its anguish stole-- + All of him that was noble, fearless, sage, + Lives in his loved nation's strengthened soul. + + + + + +THE BURIAL OF SHERMAN + +RICHARD WATSON GILDER + +[Sidenote: 1820, 1891] +_Sherman died on January 14. His funeral took place two days +later. The statue by Saint Gaudens was unveiled in New York in +1903._ + + Glory and honor and fame and everlasting laudation + For our captains who loved not war, but fought for + the life of the nation; + Who knew that, in all the land, one slave meant strife, not + peace; + Who fought for freedom, not glory; made war that war might + cease. + + Glory and honor and fame; the beating of muffled drums; + The wailing funeral dirge, as the flag-wrapt coffin comes. + Fame and honor and glory, and joy for a noble soul; + For a full and splendid life, and laurelled rest at the goal. + + Glory and honor and fame; the pomp that a soldier prizes; + The league-long waving line as the marching falls and rises; + Rumbling of caissons and guns; the clatter of horses' feet, + And a million awe-struck faces far down the waiting street. + + But better than martial woe, and the pageant of civic sorrow; + Better than praise of to-day, or the statue we build to-morrow; + Better than honor and glory, and History's iron pen, + Was the thought of duty done and the love of his fellow-men. + + + + + +THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS + +JOHN JEROME ROONEY + +[Sidenote: 1898] +_The high quality of American marksmanship was never more +conclusively shown than in the battle of Santiago._ + + A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here's to the + Captain bold, + And never forget the Commodore's debt when the + deeds of might are told! + They stand to the deck through the battle's wreck when the + great shells roar and screech-- + And never they fear when the foe is near to practise what they + preach: + But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia's + true-blue sons, + The men below who batter the foe--the men behind the guns! + + Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into + port once more, + When, with more than enough of the "greenbacked stuff," + they start for their leave-o'-shore; + And you'd think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who + loll along the street + Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce "mustache" + to eat-- + Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly + stuns + The modest worth of the sailor boys--the lads who serve the + guns. + + But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells that the + fight is on, + Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships + of "Yank" and "Don," + Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell, + And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living hell; + Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the + midday suns, + You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps--the men behind + the guns! + + Oh, well they know how the cyclones blow that they loose + from their cloud of death, + And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten-incher + saith! + The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with + the great recoil, + And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches + for his spoil-- + But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and runs, + Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind + the guns! + + + + + +THE REGULAR ARMY MAN + +JOSEPH C. LINCOLN + +[Sidenote: 1898] + + He ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere," + To sparkle in the sun; + He don't parade with gay cockade, + And posies in his gun; + He ain't no "pretty soldier boy," + So lovely, spick and span,-- + He wears a crust of tan and dust, + The Regular Army man; + The marching, parching, + Pipe-clay starching, + Regular Army man. + + He ain't at home in Sunday-school, + Nor yet a social tea, + And on the day he gets his pay + He's apt to spend it free; + He ain't no temperance advocate, + He likes to fill the can, + He's kind of rough, and, maybe, tough, + The Regular Army man; + The r'aring, tearing, + Sometimes swearing, + Regular Army man. + + No State'll call him "noble son," + He ain't no ladies' pet, + But, let a row start anyhow, + They'll send for him, you bet! + He don't cut any ice at all + In Fashion's social plan, + He gets the job to face a mob, + The Regular Army man; + The milling, drilling, + Made for killing, + Regular Army man. + + There ain't no tears shed over him + When he goes off to war, + He gets no speech nor prayerful preach + From mayor or governor; + He packs his little knapsack up + And trots off in the van, + To start the fight and start it right, + The Regular Army man; + The rattling, battling, + Colt or Gatling, + Regular Army man. + + He makes no fuss about the job, + He don't talk big or brave, + He knows he's in to fight and win, + Or help fill up a grave; + He ain't no Mama's darling, but + He does the best he can, + And he's the chap that wins the scrap, + The Regular Army man; + The dandy, handy, + Cool and sandy, + Regular Army man. + + + + + +WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS COME IN + +GUY WETMORE CARRYL + +[Sidenote: August 20, 1898] +_A week after the signing of the treaty of peace with Spain, +Sampson's fleet came into New York harbor._ + + To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er mapless miles of sea, + On winds and tides the gospel rides that the furthermost + isles are free; + And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill, + Breaker and beach cry, each to each, "'Tis the Mother who + calls! Be still!" + Mother! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm, + Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign arm, + Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her navies roam, + Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them this + time home! + + And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest; + The black cloud dies in the August skies, and deep in the golden west + Invisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars, + And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars! + Peace! As the tidings silence the strenuous cannonade, + Peace at last! is the bugle-blast the length of the long blockade; + And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release, + From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is "Peace! Thank + God for peace!" + + Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall show + The sons of these who swept the seas how she bade them rise and go; + How, when the stirring summons smote on her children's ear, + South and North at the call stood forth, and the whole land + answered "Here!" + For the soul of the soldier's story and the heart of the sailor's song + Are all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong, + Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the + decks they trod, + Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their + country's God! + + Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free, + To carry the hearts of a people to the uttermost ends of sea, + To see the day steal up the bay, where the enemy lies in wait, + To run your ship to the harbor's lip and sink her across the strait:-- + But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for home, + And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam, + And the people wait at the haven's gate to greet the men who win! + Thank God for peace! Thank God for peace, when the great + gray ships come in! + + + + + +AD FINEM FIDELES + +GUY WETMORE CARRYL + +[Sidenote: 1898] +_This was written just after the end of the war with Spain for +the freeing of Cuba._ + + + Far out, far out they lie. Like stricken women weeping, + Eternal vigil keeping with slow and silent tread-- + Soft-shod as are the fairies, the winds patrol the prairies, + The sentinels of God about the pale and patient dead! + Above them, as they slumber in graves that none may number, + Dawns grow to day, days dim to dusk, and dusks in darkness + pass; + Unheeded springs are born, unheeded summers brighten, + And winters wait to whiten the wilderness of grass. + + Slow stride appointed years across their bivouac places, + With stern, devoted faces they lie, as when they lay, + In long battalions dreaming, till dawn, to eastward gleaming, + Awoke the clarion greeting of the bugles to the day. + The still and stealthy speeding of the pilgrim days unheeding, + At rest upon the roadway that their feet unfaltering trod, + The faithful unto death abide, with trust unshaken, + The morn when they shall waken to the reveille of God. + + The faithful unto death! Their sleeping-places over + The torn and trampled clover to braver beauty blows; + Of all their grim campaigning no sight or sound remaining, + The memory of them mutely to greater glory grows. + Through waning ages winding, new inspiration finding, + Their creed of consecration like a silver ribbon runs, + Sole relic of the strife that woke the world to wonder + With riot and the thunder of a sundered people's guns. + + What matters now the cause? As little children resting, + No more the battle breasting to the rumble of the drums, + Enlinked by duty's tether, the blue and gray together, + They wait the great hereafter when the last assembly comes. + Where'er the summons found them, whate'er the tie that bound them, + 'Tis this alone the record of the sleeping army saith:-- + + They knew no creed but this, in duty not to falter, + With strength that naught could alter to be faithful unto death. + + + + + +GROVER CLEVELAND + +JOEL BENTON + +[Sidenote: 1837-1908] +_On June 24, 1908, Grover Cleveland, twice President of the +United States, died at his home in Princeton, N. J., at the age of +seventy-one._ + + Bring cypress, rosemary and rue + For him who kept his rudder true; + Who held to right the people's will, + And for whose foes we love him still. + + A man of Plutarch's marble mould, + Of virtues strong and manifold, + Who spurned the incense of the hour, + And made the nation's weal his dower. + + His sturdy, rugged sense of right + Put selfish purpose out of sight; + Slowly he thought, but long and well, + With temper imperturbable. + + Bring cypress, rosemary and rue + For him who kept his rudder true; + Who went at dawn to that high star + Where Washington and Lincoln are. + + + + + +ATOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND + +ROBERT BRIDGES + +[Sidenote: Paris, July 4, 1900] + + Huge and alert, irascible yet strong, + We make our fitful way 'mid right and wrong. + One time we pour out millions to be free, + Then rashly sweep an empire from the sea! + One time we strike the shackles from the slaves, + And then, quiescent, we are ruled by knaves. + Often we rudely break restraining bars, + And confidently reach out toward the stars. + + Yet under all there flows a hidden stream + Sprung from the Rock of Freedom, the great dream + Of Washington and Franklin, men of old + Who knew that freedom is not bought with gold. + This is the Land we love, our heritage, + Strange mixture of the gross and fine, yet sage + And full of promise--destined to be great. + Drink to Our Native Land! God Bless the State! + + + + + +FIFTY YEARS + +JAMES WELDON JOHNSON + +[Sidenote: 1863-1913] +_On the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Signing of the Emancipation +Proclamation._ + + O Brothers mine, to-day we stand + Where half a century sweeps our ken, + Since God, through Lincoln's ready hand, + Struck off our bonds and made us men. + + Just fifty years--a winter's day-- + As runs the history of a race; + Yet, as we look back o'er the way, + How distant seems our starting place! + + Look farther back! Three centuries! + To where a naked, shivering score, + Snatched from their haunts across the seas, + Stood, wild-eyed, on Virginia's shore. + + This land is ours by right of birth, + This land is ours by right of toil; + We helped to turn its virgin earth, + Our sweat is in its fruitful soil. + + Where once the tangled forest stood,-- + Where flourished once rank weed and thorn,-- + Behold the path-traced, peaceful wood, + The cotton white, the yellow corn. + + To gain these fruits that have been earned, + To hold these fields that have been won, + Our arms have strained, our backs have burned, + Bent bare beneath a ruthless sun. + + That Banner which is now the type + Of victory on field and flood-- + Remember, its first crimson stripe + Was dyed by Attucks' willing blood. + + And never yet has come the cry-- + When that fair flag has been assailed-- + For men to do, for men to die, + That we have faltered or have failed. + + We've helped to bear it, rent and torn, + Through many a hot-breath'd battle breeze; + Held in our hands, it has been borne + And planted far across the seas. + + And never yet,--O haughty Land, + Let us, at least, for this be praised-- + Has one black, treason-guided hand + Ever against that flag been raised. + + Then should we speak but servile words, + Or shall we hang our heads in shame? + Stand back of new-come foreign hordes, + And fear our heritage to claim? + + No! stand erect and without fear, + And for our foes let this suffice-- + We've bought a rightful sonship here, + And we have more than paid the price. + + And yet, my brothers, well I know + The tethered feet, the pinioned wings, + The spirit bowed beneath the blow, + The heart grown faint from wounds and stings; + + The staggering force of brutish might, + That strikes and leaves us stunned and dazed; + The long, vain waiting through the night + To hear some voice for justice raised. + + Full well I know the hour when hope + Sinks dead, and 'round us everywhere + Hangs stifling darkness, and we grope + With hands uplifted in despair. + + Courage! Look out, beyond, and see + The far horizon's beckoning span! + Faith in your God-known destiny! + We are a part of some great plan. + + Because the tongues of Garrison + And Phillips now are cold in death, + Think you their work can be undone? + Or quenched the fires lit by their breath? + + Think you that John Brown's spirit stops? + That Lovejoy was but idly slain? + Or do you think those precious drops + From Lincoln's heart were shed in vain? + + That for which millions prayed and sighed, + That for which tens of thousands fought, + For which so many freely died, + God cannot let it come to naught. + + + + + +THE AMERICAN VOLUNTEERS + +MARIE VAN VORST + +August, 1914-April, 1917 +_In the long months before the United States entered the war many +Americans took service under the flag of France._ + + NEUTRAL! America, you cannot give + To your sons' souls neutrality. Your powers + Are sovereign, Mother, but past histories live + In hearts as young as ours. + + We who are free disdain oppression, lust + And infamous raid. We have been pioneers + For freedom and our code of honor must + Dry and not startle tears. + + We've read of Lafayette, who came to give + His youth, with his companions and their powers, + To help the Colonies--and heroes live + In hearts as young as ours! + + Neutral! We who go forth with sword and lance, + A little band to swell the battle's flow, + Go willingly, to pay again to France + Some of the debt we owe. + + + + + +I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH. . . + +ALAN SEEGER + +[Sidenote: 1914, 1916] +_The writer of this was a member of the French Foreign Legion. He +was killed in action July 4, 1916._ + + + I have a rendezvous with Death + At some disputed barricade, + When Spring comes back with rustling shade + And apple-blossoms fill the air-- + I have a rendezvous with Death + When Spring brings back blue days and fair. + + It may be he shall take my hand + And lead me into his dark land + And close my eyes and quench my breath-- + It may be I shall pass him still. + I have a rendezvous with Death + On some scarred slope of battered hill, + When Spring comes round again this year + And the first meadow-flowers appear. + + God knows 'twere better to be deep + Pillowed in silk and scented down, + Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep, + Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, + Where hushed awakenings are dear... + But I've a rendezvous with Death + At midnight in some flaming town, + When Spring trips north again this year, + And I to my pledged word am true, + I shall not fail that rendezvous. + + + + + +THE CHOICE + +RUDYARD KIPLING + +April, 1917 + +(THE AMERICAN SPIRIT SPEAKS) + + _To the Judge of Right and Wrong + With Whom fulfilment lies + Our purpose and our power belong, + Our faith and sacrifice._ + + Let Freedom's Land rejoice! + Our ancient bonds are riven; + Once more to us the eternal choice + Of Good or Ill is given. + + Not at a little cost, + Hardly by prayer or tears, + Shall we recover the road we lost + In the drugged and doubting years. + + But, after the fires and the wrath, + But, after searching and pain, + His Mercy opens us a path + To live with ourselves again. + + In the Gates of Death rejoice! + We see and hold the good-- + Bear witness, Earth, we have made our choice + With Freedom's brotherhood! + + Then praise the Lord Most High + Whose Strength hath saved us whole, + Who bade us choose that the Flesh should die + And not the living Soul! + + _To the God in Man displayed-- + Where e'er we see that Birth, + Be love and understanding paid + As never yet on earth!_ + + _To the Spirit that moves in Man, + On Whom all worlds depend, + Be Glory since our world began + And service to the end!_ + + + + + +ANNAPOLIS + +WALDRON KINSOLVING POST + +[Sidenote: April, 1917-November, 1918] +_This tribute to the Naval Academy at Annapolis was written while +the American squadron of destroyers was helping to preserve the +freedom of the seas._ + + The mother sits by Severn side, + Where Severn joins the Bay, + And great gray ships go down the tide + And carry her sons away. + They carry them far, they carry them wide, + To all the Seven Seas, + But never beyond her love and pride, + And ever the deathless tales abide + They learned at the Mother's knees. + + Stern she is, as well becomes + The nurse of gentle men, + Who trains their tread to roll of drums, + Their hands to sword and pen. + Her iron-blooded arteries hold + No soft Corinthian strain; + The Attic soul in a Spartan mould, + Loyal and hardy, clean and bold, + Shall govern the roaring main. + + They come from South, they come from North, + They come from East and West; + And who can say, when all go forth, + That any of these are best? + With names unknown, and names that won + Their fame in a hundred fights, + The admiral's son, and the ploughman's son, + Mothered by her, they all are one, + Her race of sailor knights. + + Young and eager and unafraid, + As neophytes they kneeled + And watched their arms, and only prayed + "Keep stain from every shield." + Naught else they fear as they hunt the foes + Through fog, and storm, and mine, + Keen for the joy of the battle blows; + But God make strong the hearts of those +Who love, and are left behind. + + + + + +YANKS + +JAMES W. FOLEY + +[Sidenote: 1917-1918] + + O'Leary, from Chicago, and a first-class fightin' man, + For his father was from Kerry, where the gentle art began: + Sergeant Dennis P. O'Leary, from somewhere on Archie Road, + Dodgin' shells and smellin' powder while the battle ebbed and + flowed. + + And the captain says: "O'Leary, from your fightin' company + Pick a dozen fightin' Yankees and come skirmishin' with me; + Pick a dozen fightin' devils, and I know it's you who can." + And O'Leary, he saluted like a first-class fightin' man. + + O'Leary's eye was piercin' and O'Leary's voice was clear: + "Dimitri Georgoupoulos!" And Dimitri answered "Here!" + Then "Vladimir Slaminsky! Step three paces to the front, + For we're wantin' you to join us in a little Heinie hunt!" + + "Garibaldi Ravioli!" Garibaldi was to share; + And "Ole Axel Kettleson!" and "Thomas Scalp-the-Bear!" + Who was Choctaw by inheritance, bred in the blood and bones, + But set down in army records by the name of Thomas Jones. + + "Van Winkle Schuyler Stuyvesant!" Van Winkle was a bud + From the ancient tree of Stuyvesant and had it in his blood; + "Don Miguel de Colombo!" Don Miguel's next of kin + Were across the Rio Grande when Don Miguel went in. + + "Ulysses Grant O'Sheridan!" Ulysses' sire, you see, + Had been at Appomattox near the famous apple-tree; + And "Patrick Michael Casey!" Patrick Michael, you can tell, + Was a fightin' man by nature with three fightin' names as well. + + "Joe Wheeler Lee!" And Joseph had a pair of fightin' eyes; + And his granddad was a Johnny, as perhaps you might surmise; + Then "Robert Bruce MacPherson!" And the Yankee squad was done + With "Isaac Abie Cohen!" once a lightweight champion. + + Then O'Leary paced 'em forward and, says he: "You Yanks, fall in!" + And he marched 'em to the captain. "Let the skirmishin' begin." + Says he, "The Yanks are comin', and you beat 'em if you can!" + And saluted like a soldier and first-class fightin' man! + + + + + +ANY WOMAN TO A SOLDIER + +GRACE ELLERY CHANNING + +[Sidenote: 1917, 1918] + + The day you march away--let the sun shine, + Let everything be blue and gold and fair, + Triumph of trumpets calling through bright air, + Flags slanting, flowers flaunting--not a sign + That the unbearable is now to bear, + The day you march away. + + The day you march away--this I have sworn, + No matter what comes after, that shall be + Hid secretly between my soul and me + As women hide the unborn-- + You shall see brows like banners, lips that frame + Smiles, for the pride those lips have in your name. + You shall see soldiers in my eyes that day-- + That day, O soldier, when you march away. + + The day you march away--cannot I guess? + There will be ranks and ranks, all leading on + To one white face, and then--the white face gone, + And nothing left but a gray emptiness-- + Blurred moving masses, faceless, featureless-- + The day you march away. + + + + + +TO PEACE, WITH VICTORY + +CORINNE ROOSEVELT ROBINSON + +[Sidenote: November 11, 1918] + + I could not welcome you, oh! longed-for peace, + Unless your coming had been heralded + By victory. The legions who have bled + Had elsewise died in vain for our release. + + But now that you come sternly, let me kneel + And pay my tribute to the myriad dead, + Who counted not the blood that they have shed + Against the goal their valor shall reveal. + + Ah! what had been the shame, had all the stars + And stripes of our brave flag drooped still unfurled, + When the fair freedom of the weary world + Hung in the balance. Welcome then the scars! + + Welcome the sacrifice! With lifted head + Our nation greets dear Peace as honor's right; + And ye the Brave, the Fallen in the fight, + Had ye not perished, then were honor dead! + + You cannot march away! However far, + Farther and faster still I shall have fled + Before you; and that moment when you land, + Voiceless, invisible, close at your hand + My heart shall smile, hearing the steady tread + Of your faith-keeping feet. + + First at the trenches I shall be to greet; + There's not a watch I shall not share with you; + But more--but most--there where for you the red, + Drenched, dreadful, splendid, sacrificial field lifts up + Inflexible demand, + I will be there! + + My hands shall hold the cup. + My hands beneath your head + Shall bear you--not the stretcher bearer's--through + All anguish of the dying and the dead; + With all your wounds I shall have ached and bled, + Waked, thirsted, starved, been fevered, gasped for breath, + Felt the death dew; + And you shall live, because my heart has said + To Death + + That Death itself shall have no part in you! + + + + + +YOU AND YOU + +EDITH WHARTON + +November, 1918 + +TO THE AMERICAN PRIVATE IN THE GREAT WAR + + Every one of you won the war-- + You and you and you-- + Each one knowing what it was for, + And what was his job to do. + + Every one of you won the war, + Obedient, unwearied, unknown, + Dung in the trenches, drift on the shore, + Dust to the world's end blown; + Every one of you, steady and true, + You and you and you-- + Down in the pit or up in the blue, + Whether you crawled or sailed or flew, + Whether your closest comrade knew + Or you bore the brunt alone-- + + All of you, all of you, name after name, + Jones and Robinson, Smith and Brown, + You from the piping prairie town, + You from the Fundy fogs that came, + + You from the city's roaring blocks, + You from the bleak New England rocks + With the shingled roof in the apple boughs, + You from the brown adobe house-- + You from the Rockies, you from the Coast, + You from the burning frontier-post + And you from the Klondyke's frozen flanks, + You from the cedar-swamps, you from the pine, + You from the cotton and you from the vine, + You from the rice and the sugar-brakes, + You from the Rivers and you from the Lakes, + You from the Creeks and you from the Licks + And you from the brown bayou-- + You and you and you-- + You from the pulpit, you from the mine, + You from the factories, you from the banks, + Closer and closer, ranks on ranks, + Airplanes and cannon, and rifles and tanks, + Smith and Robinson, Brown and Jones, + Ruddy faces or bleaching bones, + After the turmoil and blood and pain + Swinging home to the folks again + Or sleeping alone in the fine French rain-- + Every one of you won the war. + + Every one of you won the war-- + You and you and you-- + Pressing and pouring forth, more and more, + Toiling and straining from shore to shore + To reach the flaming edge of the dark + Where man in his millions went up like a spark, + You, in your thousands and millions coming, + All the sea ploughed with you, all the air humming, + All the land loud with you, + All our hearts proud with you, + All our souls bowed with the awe of your coming! + + Where's the Arch high enough, + Lads, to receive you, + Where's the eye dry enough, + Dears, to perceive you, + When at last and at last in your glory you come, + Tramping home? + + Every one of you won the war, + You and you and you-- + You that carry an unscathed head, + You that halt with a broken tread, + And oh, most of all, you Dead, you Dead! + + Lift up the Gates for these that are last, + That are last in the great Procession. + Let the living pour in, take possession, + Flood back to the city, the ranch, the farm, + The church and the college and mill, + Back to the office, the store, the exchange, + Back to the wife with the babe on her arm, + Back to the mother that waits on the sill, + And the supper that's hot on the range. + + And now, when the last of them all are by, + Be the Gates lifted up on high + To let those Others in, + Those Others, their brothers, that softly tread, + That come so thick, yet take no ground, + That are so many, yet make no sound, + Our Dead, our Dead, our Dead! + + O silent and secretly-moving throng, + In your fifty thousand strong, + Coming at dusk when the wreaths have dropt, + And streets are empty, and music stopt, + Silently coming to hearts that wait + Dumb in the door and dumb at the gate, + And hear your step and fly to your call-- + Every one of you won the war, + But you, you Dead, most of all! + + + + + +WITH THE TIDE + +EDITH WHARTON + +[Sidenote: January 6, 1919] +_This was written on the day after Theodore Roosevelt's death._ + + Somewhere I read, in an old book whose name + Is gone from me, I read that when the days + Of a man are counted, and his business done, + There comes up the shore at evening, with the tide, + To the place where he sits, a boat-- + And in the boat, from the place where he sits, he sees, + Dim in the dusk, dim and yet so familiar, + The faces of his friends long dead; and knows + They come for him, brought in upon the tide, + To take him where men go at set of day. + Then rising, with his hands in theirs, he goes + Between them his last steps, that are the first + Of the new life--and with the ebb they pass, + Their shaken sail grown small upon the moon. + + Often I thought of this, and pictured me + How many a man who lives with throngs about him, + Yet straining through the twilight for that boat + Shall scarce make out one figure in the stern, + And that so faint its features shall perplex him + With doubtful memories--and his heart hang back. + + But others, rising as they see the sail + Increase upon the sunset, hasten down, + Hands out and eyes elated; for they see + Head over head, crowding from bow to stern, + Repeopling their long loneliness with smiles, + The faces of their friends; and such go forth + Content upon the ebb tide, with safe hearts. + + But never + To worker summoned when his day was done + Did mounting tide bring in such freight of friends + As stole to you up the white wintry shingle + That night while they that watched you thought you slept. + Softly they came, and beached the boat, and gathered + In the still cove under the icy stars, + Your last-born, and the dear loves of your heart, + And all men that have loved right more than ease, + And honor above honors; all who gave + Free-handed of their best for other men, + And thought their giving taking: they who knew + Man's natural state is effort, up and up-- + All these were there, so great a company + Perchance you marvelled, wondering what great ship + Had brought that throng unnumbered to the cove + Where the boys used to beach their light canoe + After old happy picnics-- + + But these, your friends and children, to whose hands, + Committed, in the silent night you rose + And took your last faint steps-- + These led you down, O great American, + Down to the Winter night and the white beach, + And there you saw that the huge hull that waited + Was not as are the boats of the other dead, + Frail craft for a brief passage; no, for this + Was first of a long line of towering transports, + Storm-worn and ocean-weary every one, + The ships you launched, the ships you manned, the ships + That now, returning from their sacred quest + With the thrice-sacred burden of their dead, + Lay waiting there to take you forth with them, + Out with the ebb tide, on some farther quest. + + + + + +AMERICA'S WELCOME HOME + +HENRY VAN DYKE + +[Sidenote: November 11, 1918] +_When the fighting ceased there were two million American +soldiers in France._ + + Oh, gallantly they fared forth in khaki and in blue, + America's crusading host of warriors bold and true; + They battled for the rights of man beside our brave Allies, + And now they're coming home to us with glory in their eyes. + + _Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me! + Our hearts are turning home again and there we long to be, + In our beautiful big country beyond the ocean bars, + Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars._ + + Our boys have seen the Old World as none have seen before. + They know the grisly horror of the German gods of war: + The noble faith of Britain and the hero-heart of France, + The soul of Belgium's fortitude and Italy's romance. + + They bore our country's great word across the rolling sea, + "America swears brotherhood with all the just and free." + They wrote that word victorious on fields of mortal strife, + And many a valiant lad was proud to seal it with his life. + + Oh, welcome home in Heaven's peace, dear spirits of the dead! + And welcome home ye living sons America hath bred! + The lords of war are beaten down, your glorious task is done; + You fought to make the whole world free, and the victory is won. + + _Now it's home again, and home again, our hearts are turning west, + Of all the lands beneath the sun America is best. + We're going home to our own folks, beyond the ocean bars, + Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars._ + + + + + +THE UNKNOWN SOLIDER + +ANGELA MORGAN + +[Sidenote: November 10, 1921] +_This poem was read by the author over the casket of the Unknown +Soldier, at the special memorial exercises held in the rotunda of +the Capitol at Washington._ + + He is known to the sun-white Majesties + Who stand at the gates of dawn. + He is known to the cloud-borne company + Whose souls but late have gone. + Like wind-flung stars through lattice bars + They throng to greet their own, + With voice of flame they sound his name + Who died to us unknown. + + He is hailed by the time-crowned brotherhood, + By the Dauntless of Marathon, + By Raymond, Godfrey and Lion Heart + Whose dreams he carried on. + His name they call through the heavenly hall + Unheard by earthly ear, + He is claimed by the famed in Arcady + Who knew no title here. + + Oh faint was the lamp of Sirius + And dim was the Milky Way. + Oh far was the floor of Paradise + From the soil where the soldier lay. + Oh chill and stark was the crimson dark + Where huddled men lay deep; + His comrades all denied his call-- + Long had they lain in sleep. + + Oh strange how the lamp of Sirius + Drops low to the dazzled eyes, + Oh strange how the steel-red battlefields + Are floors of Paradise. + Oh strange how the ground with never a sound + Swings open, tier on tier, + And standing there in the shining air + Are the friends he cherished here. + + They are known to the sun-shod sentinels + Who circle the morning's door, + They are led by a cloud-bright company + Through paths unseen before. + Like blossoms blown, their souls have flown + Past war and reeking sod, + In the book unbound their names are found-- + They are known in the courts of God! 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