A.D., 1861.
By EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
[Peculiar interest attaches to this piece as the first poem written after the actual outbreak of the Civil War and inspired by its events. The poem appeared in the evening edition of the New YorkWorld, on April 16, 1861.—Editor.]
Camethe morning of that day,When the God to whom we pray,Gave the soul of Henry ClayTo the land;How we loved him—living, dying!But his birthday banners flying,Saw us asking and replying,Hand to hand.For we knew that far away,Round the fort at Charleston bay,Hung the dark impending fray,Soon to fall;And that Sumter's brave defenderHad the summons to surrender:Seventy loyal hearts and tender—That was all.
Camethe morning of that day,When the God to whom we pray,Gave the soul of Henry ClayTo the land;How we loved him—living, dying!But his birthday banners flying,Saw us asking and replying,Hand to hand.
For we knew that far away,Round the fort at Charleston bay,Hung the dark impending fray,Soon to fall;And that Sumter's brave defenderHad the summons to surrender:Seventy loyal hearts and tender—That was all.
And we knew the April sunLit the length of many a gun—Hosts of batteries to the oneIsland crag;Guns and mortars grimly frowning,Johnson, Moultrie, Pinckney, crowning,And ten thousand men disowningThe old flag.O the fury of the fightEven then was at its height!Yet no breath from noon till nightReached us here;We had almost ceased to wonder,And the day had faded under,When—the echo of the thunderFilled each ear!Then our hearts more fiercely beat,As we crowded on the street,Hot to gather and repeatAll the tale;All the doubtful chances turning,Till our souls with shame were burning,As if all our bitter yearningCould avail!Who had fired the earliest gun?Was the fort by traitors won?Was there succor? What was done,Who could know?And once more our thoughts would wanderTo the gallant, lone commander,On his battered ramparts granderThan the foe.Not too long the brave shall wait:On their own heads be their fate,Who against the hallowed StateDare begin;Flag defied and compact riven!In the record of high Heaven,How shall southern men be shrivenFor the sin!
And we knew the April sunLit the length of many a gun—Hosts of batteries to the oneIsland crag;Guns and mortars grimly frowning,Johnson, Moultrie, Pinckney, crowning,And ten thousand men disowningThe old flag.
O the fury of the fightEven then was at its height!Yet no breath from noon till nightReached us here;We had almost ceased to wonder,And the day had faded under,When—the echo of the thunderFilled each ear!
Then our hearts more fiercely beat,As we crowded on the street,Hot to gather and repeatAll the tale;All the doubtful chances turning,Till our souls with shame were burning,As if all our bitter yearningCould avail!
Who had fired the earliest gun?Was the fort by traitors won?Was there succor? What was done,Who could know?And once more our thoughts would wanderTo the gallant, lone commander,On his battered ramparts granderThan the foe.
Not too long the brave shall wait:On their own heads be their fate,Who against the hallowed StateDare begin;Flag defied and compact riven!In the record of high Heaven,How shall southern men be shrivenFor the sin!