In the Prison Pen.(1864.)Listless he eyes the palisadesAnd sentries in the glare;’Tis barren as a pelican-beach—But his world is ended there.Nothing to do; and vacant handsBring on the idiot-pain;He tries to think—to recollect,But the blur is on his brain.Around him swarm the plaining ghostsLike those on Virgil’s shore—A wilderness of faces dim,And pale ones gashed and hoar.A smiting sun. No shed, no tree;He totters to his lair—A den that sick hands dug in earthEre famine wasted there,Or, dropping in his place, he swoons,Walled in by throngs that press,Till forth from the throngs they bear him dead—Dead in his meagreness.
Listless he eyes the palisadesAnd sentries in the glare;’Tis barren as a pelican-beach—But his world is ended there.
Listless he eyes the palisades
And sentries in the glare;
’Tis barren as a pelican-beach—
But his world is ended there.
Nothing to do; and vacant handsBring on the idiot-pain;He tries to think—to recollect,But the blur is on his brain.
Nothing to do; and vacant hands
Bring on the idiot-pain;
He tries to think—to recollect,
But the blur is on his brain.
Around him swarm the plaining ghostsLike those on Virgil’s shore—A wilderness of faces dim,And pale ones gashed and hoar.
Around him swarm the plaining ghosts
Like those on Virgil’s shore—
A wilderness of faces dim,
And pale ones gashed and hoar.
A smiting sun. No shed, no tree;He totters to his lair—A den that sick hands dug in earthEre famine wasted there,
A smiting sun. No shed, no tree;
He totters to his lair—
A den that sick hands dug in earth
Ere famine wasted there,
Or, dropping in his place, he swoons,Walled in by throngs that press,Till forth from the throngs they bear him dead—Dead in his meagreness.
Or, dropping in his place, he swoons,
Walled in by throngs that press,
Till forth from the throngs they bear him dead—
Dead in his meagreness.
The College Colonel.He rides at their head;A crutch by his saddle just slants in view,One slung arm is in splints, you see,Yet he guides his strong steed—how coldly too.He brings his regiment home—Not as they filed two years before,But a remnant half-tattered, and battered, and worn,Like castaway sailors, who—stunnedBy the surf’s loud roar,Their mates dragged back and seen no more—Again and again breast the surge,And at last crawl, spent, to shore.A still rigidity and pale—An Indian aloofness lones his brow;He has lived a thousand yearsCompressed in battle’s pains and prayers,Marches and watches slow.There are welcoming shouts, and flags;Old men off hat to the Boy,Wreaths from gay balconies fall at his feet,But tohim—there comes alloy.It is not that a leg is lost,It is not that an arm is maimed.It is not that the fever has racked—Self he has long disclaimed.But all through the Seven Day’s Fight,And deep in the wilderness grim,And in the field-hospital tent,And Petersburg crater, and dimLean brooding in Libby, there came—Ah heaven!—whattruthto him.
He rides at their head;A crutch by his saddle just slants in view,One slung arm is in splints, you see,Yet he guides his strong steed—how coldly too.
He rides at their head;
A crutch by his saddle just slants in view,
One slung arm is in splints, you see,
Yet he guides his strong steed—how coldly too.
He brings his regiment home—Not as they filed two years before,But a remnant half-tattered, and battered, and worn,Like castaway sailors, who—stunnedBy the surf’s loud roar,Their mates dragged back and seen no more—Again and again breast the surge,And at last crawl, spent, to shore.
He brings his regiment home—
Not as they filed two years before,
But a remnant half-tattered, and battered, and worn,
Like castaway sailors, who—stunned
By the surf’s loud roar,
Their mates dragged back and seen no more—
Again and again breast the surge,
And at last crawl, spent, to shore.
A still rigidity and pale—An Indian aloofness lones his brow;He has lived a thousand yearsCompressed in battle’s pains and prayers,Marches and watches slow.
A still rigidity and pale—
An Indian aloofness lones his brow;
He has lived a thousand years
Compressed in battle’s pains and prayers,
Marches and watches slow.
There are welcoming shouts, and flags;Old men off hat to the Boy,Wreaths from gay balconies fall at his feet,But tohim—there comes alloy.
There are welcoming shouts, and flags;
Old men off hat to the Boy,
Wreaths from gay balconies fall at his feet,
But tohim—there comes alloy.
It is not that a leg is lost,It is not that an arm is maimed.It is not that the fever has racked—Self he has long disclaimed.
It is not that a leg is lost,
It is not that an arm is maimed.
It is not that the fever has racked—
Self he has long disclaimed.
But all through the Seven Day’s Fight,And deep in the wilderness grim,And in the field-hospital tent,And Petersburg crater, and dimLean brooding in Libby, there came—Ah heaven!—whattruthto him.
But all through the Seven Day’s Fight,
And deep in the wilderness grim,
And in the field-hospital tent,
And Petersburg crater, and dim
Lean brooding in Libby, there came—
Ah heaven!—whattruthto him.
The Eagle of the Blue.[12][12]Among the Northwestern regiments there would seem to have been more than one which carried a living eagle as an added ensign. The bird commemorated here was, according the the account, borne aloft on a perch beside the standard; went through successive battles and campaigns; was more than once under the surgeon’s hands; and at the close of the contest found honorable repose in the capital of Wisconsin, from which state he had gone to the wars.Aloft he guards the starry foldsWho is the brother of the star;The bird whose joy is in the windExultleth in the war.No painted plume—a sober hue,His beauty is his power;That eager calm of gaze intentForesees the Sibyl’s hour.Austere, he crowns the swaying perch,Flapped by the angry flag;The hurricane from the battery sings,But his claw has known the crag.Amid the scream of shells, his screamRuns shrilling; and the glareOf eyes that brave the blinding sunThe vollied flame can bear.The pride of quenchless strength is his—Strength which, though chained, avails;The very rebel looks and thrills—The anchored Emblem hails.Though scarred in many a furious fray,No deadly hurt he knew;Well may we think his years are charmed—The Eagle of the Blue.
[12]Among the Northwestern regiments there would seem to have been more than one which carried a living eagle as an added ensign. The bird commemorated here was, according the the account, borne aloft on a perch beside the standard; went through successive battles and campaigns; was more than once under the surgeon’s hands; and at the close of the contest found honorable repose in the capital of Wisconsin, from which state he had gone to the wars.
[12]Among the Northwestern regiments there would seem to have been more than one which carried a living eagle as an added ensign. The bird commemorated here was, according the the account, borne aloft on a perch beside the standard; went through successive battles and campaigns; was more than once under the surgeon’s hands; and at the close of the contest found honorable repose in the capital of Wisconsin, from which state he had gone to the wars.
Aloft he guards the starry foldsWho is the brother of the star;The bird whose joy is in the windExultleth in the war.
Aloft he guards the starry folds
Who is the brother of the star;
The bird whose joy is in the wind
Exultleth in the war.
No painted plume—a sober hue,His beauty is his power;That eager calm of gaze intentForesees the Sibyl’s hour.
No painted plume—a sober hue,
His beauty is his power;
That eager calm of gaze intent
Foresees the Sibyl’s hour.
Austere, he crowns the swaying perch,Flapped by the angry flag;The hurricane from the battery sings,But his claw has known the crag.
Austere, he crowns the swaying perch,
Flapped by the angry flag;
The hurricane from the battery sings,
But his claw has known the crag.
Amid the scream of shells, his screamRuns shrilling; and the glareOf eyes that brave the blinding sunThe vollied flame can bear.
Amid the scream of shells, his scream
Runs shrilling; and the glare
Of eyes that brave the blinding sun
The vollied flame can bear.
The pride of quenchless strength is his—Strength which, though chained, avails;The very rebel looks and thrills—The anchored Emblem hails.
The pride of quenchless strength is his—
Strength which, though chained, avails;
The very rebel looks and thrills—
The anchored Emblem hails.
Though scarred in many a furious fray,No deadly hurt he knew;Well may we think his years are charmed—The Eagle of the Blue.
Though scarred in many a furious fray,
No deadly hurt he knew;
Well may we think his years are charmed—
The Eagle of the Blue.
A Dirge for McPherson,[13]Killed in front of Atlanta.(July, 1864.)[13]The late Major General McPherson, commanding the Army of the Tennessee, a major of Ohio and a West Pointer, was one of the foremost spirits of the war. Young, though a veteran; hardy, intrepid, sensitive in honor, full of engaging qualities, with manly beauty; possessed of genius, a favorite with the army, and with Grant and Sherman. Both Generals have generously acknowledged their professional obligiations to the able engineer and admirable soldier, their subordinate and junior.In an informal account written by the Achilles to this Sarpedon, he says: “On that day we avenged his death. Near twenty-two hundred of the enemy’s dead remained on the ground when night closed upon the scene of action.”It is significant of the scale on which the war was waged, that the engagement thus written of goes solely (so far as can be learned) under the vague designation of one of the battles before Atlanta.Arms reversed and banners craped—Muffled drums;Snowy horses sable-draped—McPherson comes.But, tell us, shall we know him more,Lost-Mountain and lone Kenesaw?Brave the sword upon the pall—A gleam in gloom;So a bright name lighteth allMcPherson’s doom.Bear him through the chapel-door—Let priest in stolePace before the warriorWho led. Bell—toll!Lay him down within the nave,The Lesson read—Man is noble, man is brave,But man’s—a weed.Take him up again and wendGraveward, nor weep:There’s a trumpet that shall rendThis Soldier’s sleep.Pass the ropes the coffin round,And let descend;Prayer and volley—let it soundMcPherson’s end.True fame is his, for life is o’er—Sarpedon of the mighty war.
[13]The late Major General McPherson, commanding the Army of the Tennessee, a major of Ohio and a West Pointer, was one of the foremost spirits of the war. Young, though a veteran; hardy, intrepid, sensitive in honor, full of engaging qualities, with manly beauty; possessed of genius, a favorite with the army, and with Grant and Sherman. Both Generals have generously acknowledged their professional obligiations to the able engineer and admirable soldier, their subordinate and junior.In an informal account written by the Achilles to this Sarpedon, he says: “On that day we avenged his death. Near twenty-two hundred of the enemy’s dead remained on the ground when night closed upon the scene of action.”It is significant of the scale on which the war was waged, that the engagement thus written of goes solely (so far as can be learned) under the vague designation of one of the battles before Atlanta.
[13]The late Major General McPherson, commanding the Army of the Tennessee, a major of Ohio and a West Pointer, was one of the foremost spirits of the war. Young, though a veteran; hardy, intrepid, sensitive in honor, full of engaging qualities, with manly beauty; possessed of genius, a favorite with the army, and with Grant and Sherman. Both Generals have generously acknowledged their professional obligiations to the able engineer and admirable soldier, their subordinate and junior.
In an informal account written by the Achilles to this Sarpedon, he says: “On that day we avenged his death. Near twenty-two hundred of the enemy’s dead remained on the ground when night closed upon the scene of action.”
It is significant of the scale on which the war was waged, that the engagement thus written of goes solely (so far as can be learned) under the vague designation of one of the battles before Atlanta.
Arms reversed and banners craped—Muffled drums;Snowy horses sable-draped—McPherson comes.
Arms reversed and banners craped—
Muffled drums;
Snowy horses sable-draped—
McPherson comes.
But, tell us, shall we know him more,Lost-Mountain and lone Kenesaw?
But, tell us, shall we know him more,
Lost-Mountain and lone Kenesaw?
Brave the sword upon the pall—A gleam in gloom;So a bright name lighteth allMcPherson’s doom.
Brave the sword upon the pall—
A gleam in gloom;
So a bright name lighteth all
McPherson’s doom.
Bear him through the chapel-door—Let priest in stolePace before the warriorWho led. Bell—toll!
Bear him through the chapel-door—
Let priest in stole
Pace before the warrior
Who led. Bell—toll!
Lay him down within the nave,The Lesson read—Man is noble, man is brave,But man’s—a weed.
Lay him down within the nave,
The Lesson read—
Man is noble, man is brave,
But man’s—a weed.
Take him up again and wendGraveward, nor weep:There’s a trumpet that shall rendThis Soldier’s sleep.
Take him up again and wend
Graveward, nor weep:
There’s a trumpet that shall rend
This Soldier’s sleep.
Pass the ropes the coffin round,And let descend;Prayer and volley—let it soundMcPherson’s end.
Pass the ropes the coffin round,
And let descend;
Prayer and volley—let it sound
McPherson’s end.
True fame is his, for life is o’er—Sarpedon of the mighty war.
True fame is his, for life is o’er—
Sarpedon of the mighty war.
At the Cannon’s Mouth.Destruction of the Ram Albermarle by the Torpedo-Launch.(October, 1864.)Palely intent, he urged his keelFull on the guns, and touched the spring;Himself involved in the bolt he droveTimed with the armed hull’s shot that stoveHis shallop—die or do!Into the flood his life he threw,Yet lives—unscathed—a breathing thingTo marvel at.He has his fame;But that mad dash at death, how name?Had Earth no charm to stay the BoyFrom the martyr-passion? Could he dareDisdain the Paradise of opening joyWhich beckons the fresh heart every where?Life has more lures than any girlFor youth and strength; puts forth a shareOf beauty, hinting of yet rarer store;And ever with unfathomable eyes,Which baffingly entice,Still strangely does Adonis draw.And life once over, who shall tell the rest?Life is, of all we know, God’s best.What imps these eagles then, that theyFling disrespect on life by that proud wayIn which they soar above our lower clay.Pretense of wonderment and doubt unblest:In Cushing’s eager deed was shownA spirit which brave poets own—That scorn of life which earns life’s crown;Earns, but not always wins; but he—The star ascended in his nativity.
Palely intent, he urged his keelFull on the guns, and touched the spring;Himself involved in the bolt he droveTimed with the armed hull’s shot that stoveHis shallop—die or do!Into the flood his life he threw,Yet lives—unscathed—a breathing thingTo marvel at.
Palely intent, he urged his keel
Full on the guns, and touched the spring;
Himself involved in the bolt he drove
Timed with the armed hull’s shot that stove
His shallop—die or do!
Into the flood his life he threw,
Yet lives—unscathed—a breathing thing
To marvel at.
He has his fame;But that mad dash at death, how name?
He has his fame;
But that mad dash at death, how name?
Had Earth no charm to stay the BoyFrom the martyr-passion? Could he dareDisdain the Paradise of opening joyWhich beckons the fresh heart every where?Life has more lures than any girlFor youth and strength; puts forth a shareOf beauty, hinting of yet rarer store;And ever with unfathomable eyes,Which baffingly entice,Still strangely does Adonis draw.And life once over, who shall tell the rest?Life is, of all we know, God’s best.What imps these eagles then, that theyFling disrespect on life by that proud wayIn which they soar above our lower clay.
Had Earth no charm to stay the Boy
From the martyr-passion? Could he dare
Disdain the Paradise of opening joy
Which beckons the fresh heart every where?
Life has more lures than any girl
For youth and strength; puts forth a share
Of beauty, hinting of yet rarer store;
And ever with unfathomable eyes,
Which baffingly entice,
Still strangely does Adonis draw.
And life once over, who shall tell the rest?
Life is, of all we know, God’s best.
What imps these eagles then, that they
Fling disrespect on life by that proud way
In which they soar above our lower clay.
Pretense of wonderment and doubt unblest:In Cushing’s eager deed was shownA spirit which brave poets own—That scorn of life which earns life’s crown;Earns, but not always wins; but he—The star ascended in his nativity.
Pretense of wonderment and doubt unblest:
In Cushing’s eager deed was shown
A spirit which brave poets own—
That scorn of life which earns life’s crown;
Earns, but not always wins; but he—
The star ascended in his nativity.
The March to the Sea.(December, 1864.)Not Kenesaw high-arching,Nor Allatoona’s glen—Though there the graves lie parching—Stayed Sherman’s miles of men;From charred Atlanta marchingThey launched the sword again.The columns streamed like riversWhich in their course agree,And they streamed until their flashingMet the flashing of the sea:It was glorious glad marching,That marching to the sea.They brushed the foe before them(Shall gnats impede the bull?);Their own good bridges bore themOver swamps or torrents full,And the grand pines waving o’er themBowed to axes keen and cool.The columns grooved their channels.Enforced their own decree,And their power met nothing largerUntil it met the sea:It was glorious glad marching,A marching glad and free.Kilpatrick’s snare of ridersIn zigzags mazed the land,Perplexed the pale SouthsidersWith feints on every hand;Vague menace awed the hidersIn forts beyond command.To Sherman’s shifting problemNo foeman knew the key;But onward went the marchingUnpausing to the sea:It was glorious glad marching,The swinging step was free.The flankers ranged like pigeonsIn clouds through field or wood;The flocks of all those regions,The herds and horses good,Poured in and swelled the legions,For they caught the marching mood.A volley ahead! They hear it;And they hear the repartee:Fighting was but frolicIn that marching to the sea:It was glorious glad marching,A marching bold and free.All nature felt their coming,The birds like couriers flew,And the banners brightly bloomingThe slaves by thousands drew,And they marched beside the drumming,And they joined the armies blue.The cocks crowed from the cannon(Pets named from Grant and Lee),Plumed fighters and campaignersIn the marching to the sea:It was glorious glad marching,For every man was free.The foragers through calm landsSwept in tempest gay,And they breathed the air of balm-landsWhere rolled savannas lay,And they helped themselves from farm-lands—As who should say them nay?The regiments uproariousLaughed in Plenty’s glee;And they marched till their broad laughterMet the laughter of the sea:It was glorious glad marching,That marching to the sea.The grain of endless acresWas threshed (as in the East)By the trampling of the Takers,Strong march of man and beast;The flails of those earth-shakersLeft a famine where they ceased.The arsenals were yielded;The sword (that was to be),Arrested in the forging,Rued that marching to the sea:It was glorious glad marching,But ah, the stern decree!For behind they left a wailing,A terror and a ban,And blazing cinders sailing,And houseless households wan,Wide zones of counties paling,And towns where maniacs ran.Was it Treason’s retribution—Necessity the plea?They will long remember ShermanAnd his streaming columns free—They will long remember ShermanMarching to the sea.
Not Kenesaw high-arching,Nor Allatoona’s glen—Though there the graves lie parching—Stayed Sherman’s miles of men;From charred Atlanta marchingThey launched the sword again.The columns streamed like riversWhich in their course agree,And they streamed until their flashingMet the flashing of the sea:It was glorious glad marching,That marching to the sea.
Not Kenesaw high-arching,
Nor Allatoona’s glen—
Though there the graves lie parching—
Stayed Sherman’s miles of men;
From charred Atlanta marching
They launched the sword again.
The columns streamed like rivers
Which in their course agree,
And they streamed until their flashing
Met the flashing of the sea:
It was glorious glad marching,
That marching to the sea.
They brushed the foe before them(Shall gnats impede the bull?);Their own good bridges bore themOver swamps or torrents full,And the grand pines waving o’er themBowed to axes keen and cool.The columns grooved their channels.Enforced their own decree,And their power met nothing largerUntil it met the sea:It was glorious glad marching,A marching glad and free.
They brushed the foe before them
(Shall gnats impede the bull?);
Their own good bridges bore them
Over swamps or torrents full,
And the grand pines waving o’er them
Bowed to axes keen and cool.
The columns grooved their channels.
Enforced their own decree,
And their power met nothing larger
Until it met the sea:
It was glorious glad marching,
A marching glad and free.
Kilpatrick’s snare of ridersIn zigzags mazed the land,Perplexed the pale SouthsidersWith feints on every hand;Vague menace awed the hidersIn forts beyond command.To Sherman’s shifting problemNo foeman knew the key;But onward went the marchingUnpausing to the sea:It was glorious glad marching,The swinging step was free.
Kilpatrick’s snare of riders
In zigzags mazed the land,
Perplexed the pale Southsiders
With feints on every hand;
Vague menace awed the hiders
In forts beyond command.
To Sherman’s shifting problem
No foeman knew the key;
But onward went the marching
Unpausing to the sea:
It was glorious glad marching,
The swinging step was free.
The flankers ranged like pigeonsIn clouds through field or wood;The flocks of all those regions,The herds and horses good,Poured in and swelled the legions,For they caught the marching mood.A volley ahead! They hear it;And they hear the repartee:Fighting was but frolicIn that marching to the sea:It was glorious glad marching,A marching bold and free.
The flankers ranged like pigeons
In clouds through field or wood;
The flocks of all those regions,
The herds and horses good,
Poured in and swelled the legions,
For they caught the marching mood.
A volley ahead! They hear it;
And they hear the repartee:
Fighting was but frolic
In that marching to the sea:
It was glorious glad marching,
A marching bold and free.
All nature felt their coming,The birds like couriers flew,And the banners brightly bloomingThe slaves by thousands drew,And they marched beside the drumming,And they joined the armies blue.The cocks crowed from the cannon(Pets named from Grant and Lee),Plumed fighters and campaignersIn the marching to the sea:It was glorious glad marching,For every man was free.
All nature felt their coming,
The birds like couriers flew,
And the banners brightly blooming
The slaves by thousands drew,
And they marched beside the drumming,
And they joined the armies blue.
The cocks crowed from the cannon
(Pets named from Grant and Lee),
Plumed fighters and campaigners
In the marching to the sea:
It was glorious glad marching,
For every man was free.
The foragers through calm landsSwept in tempest gay,And they breathed the air of balm-landsWhere rolled savannas lay,And they helped themselves from farm-lands—As who should say them nay?The regiments uproariousLaughed in Plenty’s glee;And they marched till their broad laughterMet the laughter of the sea:It was glorious glad marching,That marching to the sea.
The foragers through calm lands
Swept in tempest gay,
And they breathed the air of balm-lands
Where rolled savannas lay,
And they helped themselves from farm-lands—
As who should say them nay?
The regiments uproarious
Laughed in Plenty’s glee;
And they marched till their broad laughter
Met the laughter of the sea:
It was glorious glad marching,
That marching to the sea.
The grain of endless acresWas threshed (as in the East)By the trampling of the Takers,Strong march of man and beast;The flails of those earth-shakersLeft a famine where they ceased.The arsenals were yielded;The sword (that was to be),Arrested in the forging,Rued that marching to the sea:It was glorious glad marching,But ah, the stern decree!
The grain of endless acres
Was threshed (as in the East)
By the trampling of the Takers,
Strong march of man and beast;
The flails of those earth-shakers
Left a famine where they ceased.
The arsenals were yielded;
The sword (that was to be),
Arrested in the forging,
Rued that marching to the sea:
It was glorious glad marching,
But ah, the stern decree!
For behind they left a wailing,A terror and a ban,And blazing cinders sailing,And houseless households wan,Wide zones of counties paling,And towns where maniacs ran.Was it Treason’s retribution—Necessity the plea?They will long remember ShermanAnd his streaming columns free—They will long remember ShermanMarching to the sea.
For behind they left a wailing,
A terror and a ban,
And blazing cinders sailing,
And houseless households wan,
Wide zones of counties paling,
And towns where maniacs ran.
Was it Treason’s retribution—
Necessity the plea?
They will long remember Sherman
And his streaming columns free—
They will long remember Sherman
Marching to the sea.
The Frenzy in the Wake.[14]Sherman’s advance through the Carolinas.(February, 1865.)[14]The piece was written while yet the reports were coming North of Sherman’s homeward advance from Savannah. It is needless to point out its purely dramatic character.Though the sentiment ascribed in the beginning of the second stanza must, in the present reading, suggest the historic tragedy of the 14th of April, nevertheless, as intimated, it was written prior to that event, and without any distinct application in the writer’s mind. After consideration, it is allowed to remain.Few need be reminded that, by the less intelligent classes of the South, Abraham Lincoln, by nature the most kindly of men, was regarded as a monster wantonly warring upon liberty. He stood for the personification of tyrannic power. Each Union soldier was called a Lincolnite.Undoubtedly Sherman, in the desolation he inflicted after leaving Atlanta, acted not in contravention of orders; and all, in a military point of view, if by military judged deemed to have been expedient, and nothing can abate General Sherman’s shining renown; his claims to it rest on no single campaign. Still, there are those who can not but contrast some of the scenes enacted in Georgia and the Carolinas, and also in the Shenandoah, with a circumstance in a great Civil War of heathen antiquity. Plutarch relates that in a military council held by Pompey and the chiefs of that party which stood for the Commonwealth, it was decided that under no plea should any city be sacked that was subject to the people of Rome. There was this difference, however, between the Roman civil conflict and the American one. The war of Pompey and Caesar divided the Roman people promiscuously; that of the North and South ran a frontier line between what for the time were distinct communities or nations. In this circumstance, possibly, and some others, may be found both the cause and the justification of some of the sweeping measures adopted.So strong to suffer, shall we beWeak to contend, and breakThe sinews of the Oppressor’s kneeThat grinds upon the neck?O, the garments rolled in bloodScorch in cities wrapped in flame,And the African—the imp!He gibbers, imputing shame.Shall Time, avenging every woe,To us that joy allotWhich Israel thrilled when Sisera’s browShowed gaunt and showed the clot?Curse on their foreheads, cheeks, and eyes—The Northern faces—trueTo the flag we hate, the flag whose starsLike planets strike us through.From frozen Maine they come,Far Minnesota too;They come to a sun whose rays disown—May it wither them as the dew!The ghosts of our slain appeal:“Vain shall our victories be”But back from its ebb the flood recoils—Back in a whelming sea.With burning woods our skies are brass,The pillars of dust are seen;The live-long day their cavalry pass—No crossing the road between.We were sore deceived—an awful host!They move like a roaring wind.Have we gamed and lost? but even despairShall never our hate rescind.
[14]The piece was written while yet the reports were coming North of Sherman’s homeward advance from Savannah. It is needless to point out its purely dramatic character.Though the sentiment ascribed in the beginning of the second stanza must, in the present reading, suggest the historic tragedy of the 14th of April, nevertheless, as intimated, it was written prior to that event, and without any distinct application in the writer’s mind. After consideration, it is allowed to remain.Few need be reminded that, by the less intelligent classes of the South, Abraham Lincoln, by nature the most kindly of men, was regarded as a monster wantonly warring upon liberty. He stood for the personification of tyrannic power. Each Union soldier was called a Lincolnite.Undoubtedly Sherman, in the desolation he inflicted after leaving Atlanta, acted not in contravention of orders; and all, in a military point of view, if by military judged deemed to have been expedient, and nothing can abate General Sherman’s shining renown; his claims to it rest on no single campaign. Still, there are those who can not but contrast some of the scenes enacted in Georgia and the Carolinas, and also in the Shenandoah, with a circumstance in a great Civil War of heathen antiquity. Plutarch relates that in a military council held by Pompey and the chiefs of that party which stood for the Commonwealth, it was decided that under no plea should any city be sacked that was subject to the people of Rome. There was this difference, however, between the Roman civil conflict and the American one. The war of Pompey and Caesar divided the Roman people promiscuously; that of the North and South ran a frontier line between what for the time were distinct communities or nations. In this circumstance, possibly, and some others, may be found both the cause and the justification of some of the sweeping measures adopted.
[14]The piece was written while yet the reports were coming North of Sherman’s homeward advance from Savannah. It is needless to point out its purely dramatic character.
Though the sentiment ascribed in the beginning of the second stanza must, in the present reading, suggest the historic tragedy of the 14th of April, nevertheless, as intimated, it was written prior to that event, and without any distinct application in the writer’s mind. After consideration, it is allowed to remain.
Few need be reminded that, by the less intelligent classes of the South, Abraham Lincoln, by nature the most kindly of men, was regarded as a monster wantonly warring upon liberty. He stood for the personification of tyrannic power. Each Union soldier was called a Lincolnite.
Undoubtedly Sherman, in the desolation he inflicted after leaving Atlanta, acted not in contravention of orders; and all, in a military point of view, if by military judged deemed to have been expedient, and nothing can abate General Sherman’s shining renown; his claims to it rest on no single campaign. Still, there are those who can not but contrast some of the scenes enacted in Georgia and the Carolinas, and also in the Shenandoah, with a circumstance in a great Civil War of heathen antiquity. Plutarch relates that in a military council held by Pompey and the chiefs of that party which stood for the Commonwealth, it was decided that under no plea should any city be sacked that was subject to the people of Rome. There was this difference, however, between the Roman civil conflict and the American one. The war of Pompey and Caesar divided the Roman people promiscuously; that of the North and South ran a frontier line between what for the time were distinct communities or nations. In this circumstance, possibly, and some others, may be found both the cause and the justification of some of the sweeping measures adopted.
So strong to suffer, shall we beWeak to contend, and breakThe sinews of the Oppressor’s kneeThat grinds upon the neck?O, the garments rolled in bloodScorch in cities wrapped in flame,And the African—the imp!He gibbers, imputing shame.
So strong to suffer, shall we be
Weak to contend, and break
The sinews of the Oppressor’s knee
That grinds upon the neck?
O, the garments rolled in blood
Scorch in cities wrapped in flame,
And the African—the imp!
He gibbers, imputing shame.
Shall Time, avenging every woe,To us that joy allotWhich Israel thrilled when Sisera’s browShowed gaunt and showed the clot?Curse on their foreheads, cheeks, and eyes—The Northern faces—trueTo the flag we hate, the flag whose starsLike planets strike us through.
Shall Time, avenging every woe,
To us that joy allot
Which Israel thrilled when Sisera’s brow
Showed gaunt and showed the clot?
Curse on their foreheads, cheeks, and eyes—
The Northern faces—true
To the flag we hate, the flag whose stars
Like planets strike us through.
From frozen Maine they come,Far Minnesota too;They come to a sun whose rays disown—May it wither them as the dew!The ghosts of our slain appeal:“Vain shall our victories be”But back from its ebb the flood recoils—Back in a whelming sea.
From frozen Maine they come,
Far Minnesota too;
They come to a sun whose rays disown—
May it wither them as the dew!
The ghosts of our slain appeal:
“Vain shall our victories be”
But back from its ebb the flood recoils—
Back in a whelming sea.
With burning woods our skies are brass,The pillars of dust are seen;The live-long day their cavalry pass—No crossing the road between.We were sore deceived—an awful host!They move like a roaring wind.Have we gamed and lost? but even despairShall never our hate rescind.
With burning woods our skies are brass,
The pillars of dust are seen;
The live-long day their cavalry pass—
No crossing the road between.
We were sore deceived—an awful host!
They move like a roaring wind.
Have we gamed and lost? but even despair
Shall never our hate rescind.
The Fall of Richmond.The tidings received in the Northern Metropolis.(April, 1865.)What mean these peals from every tower,And crowds like seas that sway?The cannon reply; they speak the heartOf the People impassioned, and say—A city in flags for a city in flames,Richmond goes Babylon’s way—Sing and pray.O weary years and woeful wars,And armies in the grave;But hearts unquelled at last deterThe helmed dilated Lucifer—Honor to Grant the brave,Whose three stars now like Orion’s riseWhen wreck is on the wave—Bless his glaive.Well that the faith we firmly kept,And never our aim forsworeFor the Terrors that trooped from each recessWhen fainting we fought in the Wilderness,And Hell made loud hurrah;But God is in Heaven, and Grant in the Town,And Right through might is Law—God’s way adore.
What mean these peals from every tower,And crowds like seas that sway?The cannon reply; they speak the heartOf the People impassioned, and say—A city in flags for a city in flames,Richmond goes Babylon’s way—Sing and pray.
What mean these peals from every tower,
And crowds like seas that sway?
The cannon reply; they speak the heart
Of the People impassioned, and say—
A city in flags for a city in flames,
Richmond goes Babylon’s way—
Sing and pray.
O weary years and woeful wars,And armies in the grave;But hearts unquelled at last deterThe helmed dilated Lucifer—Honor to Grant the brave,Whose three stars now like Orion’s riseWhen wreck is on the wave—Bless his glaive.
O weary years and woeful wars,
And armies in the grave;
But hearts unquelled at last deter
The helmed dilated Lucifer—
Honor to Grant the brave,
Whose three stars now like Orion’s rise
When wreck is on the wave—
Bless his glaive.
Well that the faith we firmly kept,And never our aim forsworeFor the Terrors that trooped from each recessWhen fainting we fought in the Wilderness,And Hell made loud hurrah;But God is in Heaven, and Grant in the Town,And Right through might is Law—God’s way adore.
Well that the faith we firmly kept,
And never our aim forswore
For the Terrors that trooped from each recess
When fainting we fought in the Wilderness,
And Hell made loud hurrah;
But God is in Heaven, and Grant in the Town,
And Right through might is Law—
God’s way adore.
The Surrender at Appomattox.(April, 1865.)As billows upon billows roll,On victory victory breaks;Ere yet seven days from Richmond’s fallAnd crowning triumph wakesThe loud joy-gun, whose thunders runBy sea-shore, streams, and lakes.The hope and great event agreeIn the sword that Grant received from Lee.The warring eagles fold the wing,But not in Cæsar’s sway;Not Rome o’ercome by Roman arms we sing,As on Pharsalia’s day,But Treason thrown, though a giant grown,And Freedom’s larger play.All human tribes glad token seeIn the close of the wars of Grant and Lee.
As billows upon billows roll,On victory victory breaks;Ere yet seven days from Richmond’s fallAnd crowning triumph wakesThe loud joy-gun, whose thunders runBy sea-shore, streams, and lakes.The hope and great event agreeIn the sword that Grant received from Lee.
As billows upon billows roll,
On victory victory breaks;
Ere yet seven days from Richmond’s fall
And crowning triumph wakes
The loud joy-gun, whose thunders run
By sea-shore, streams, and lakes.
The hope and great event agree
In the sword that Grant received from Lee.
The warring eagles fold the wing,But not in Cæsar’s sway;Not Rome o’ercome by Roman arms we sing,As on Pharsalia’s day,But Treason thrown, though a giant grown,And Freedom’s larger play.All human tribes glad token seeIn the close of the wars of Grant and Lee.
The warring eagles fold the wing,
But not in Cæsar’s sway;
Not Rome o’ercome by Roman arms we sing,
As on Pharsalia’s day,
But Treason thrown, though a giant grown,
And Freedom’s larger play.
All human tribes glad token see
In the close of the wars of Grant and Lee.
A Canticle:Significant of the national exaltation of enthusiasm at the close of the War.O the precipice TitanicOf the congregated Fall,And the angle oceanicWhere the deepening thunders call—And the Gorge so grim,And the firmamental rim!Multitudinously throngingThe waters all converge,Then they sweep adown in slopingSolidity of surge.The Nation, in her impulseMysterious as the Tide,In emotion like an oceanMoves in power, not in pride;And is deep in her devotionAs Humanity is wide.Thou Lord of hosts victorious,The confluence Thou hast twined;By a wondrous way and gloriousA passage Thou dost find—A passage Thou dost find:Hosanna to the Lord of hosts,The hosts of human kind.Stable in its baselessnessWhen calm is in the air,The Iris half in tracelessnessHovers faintly fair.Fitfully assailing itA wind from heaven blows,Shivering and paling itTo blankness of the snows;While, incessant in renewal,The Arch rekindled grows,Till again the gem and jewelWhirl in blinding overthrows—Till, prevailing and transcending,Lo, the Glory perfect there,And the contest finds an ending,For repose is in the air.But the foamy Deep unsounded,And the dim and dizzy ledge,And the booming roar rebounded,And the gull that skims the edge!The Giant of the PoolHeaves his forehead white as wool—Toward the Iris every climbingFrom the Cataracts that call—Irremovable vast arrasDraping all the Wall.The Generations pouringFrom times of endless date,In their going, in their flowingEver form the steadfast State;And Humanity is growingToward the fullness of her fate.Thou Lord of hosts victorious,Fulfill the end designed;By a wondrous way and gloriousA passage Thou dost find—A passage Thou dost find:Hosanna to the Lord of hosts,The hosts of human kind.
O the precipice TitanicOf the congregated Fall,And the angle oceanicWhere the deepening thunders call—And the Gorge so grim,And the firmamental rim!Multitudinously throngingThe waters all converge,Then they sweep adown in slopingSolidity of surge.
O the precipice Titanic
Of the congregated Fall,
And the angle oceanic
Where the deepening thunders call—
And the Gorge so grim,
And the firmamental rim!
Multitudinously thronging
The waters all converge,
Then they sweep adown in sloping
Solidity of surge.
The Nation, in her impulseMysterious as the Tide,In emotion like an oceanMoves in power, not in pride;And is deep in her devotionAs Humanity is wide.
The Nation, in her impulse
Mysterious as the Tide,
In emotion like an ocean
Moves in power, not in pride;
And is deep in her devotion
As Humanity is wide.
Thou Lord of hosts victorious,The confluence Thou hast twined;By a wondrous way and gloriousA passage Thou dost find—A passage Thou dost find:Hosanna to the Lord of hosts,The hosts of human kind.
Thou Lord of hosts victorious,
The confluence Thou hast twined;
By a wondrous way and glorious
A passage Thou dost find—
A passage Thou dost find:
Hosanna to the Lord of hosts,
The hosts of human kind.
Stable in its baselessnessWhen calm is in the air,The Iris half in tracelessnessHovers faintly fair.Fitfully assailing itA wind from heaven blows,Shivering and paling itTo blankness of the snows;While, incessant in renewal,The Arch rekindled grows,Till again the gem and jewelWhirl in blinding overthrows—Till, prevailing and transcending,Lo, the Glory perfect there,And the contest finds an ending,For repose is in the air.
Stable in its baselessness
When calm is in the air,
The Iris half in tracelessness
Hovers faintly fair.
Fitfully assailing it
A wind from heaven blows,
Shivering and paling it
To blankness of the snows;
While, incessant in renewal,
The Arch rekindled grows,
Till again the gem and jewel
Whirl in blinding overthrows—
Till, prevailing and transcending,
Lo, the Glory perfect there,
And the contest finds an ending,
For repose is in the air.
But the foamy Deep unsounded,And the dim and dizzy ledge,And the booming roar rebounded,And the gull that skims the edge!The Giant of the PoolHeaves his forehead white as wool—Toward the Iris every climbingFrom the Cataracts that call—Irremovable vast arrasDraping all the Wall.
But the foamy Deep unsounded,
And the dim and dizzy ledge,
And the booming roar rebounded,
And the gull that skims the edge!
The Giant of the Pool
Heaves his forehead white as wool—
Toward the Iris every climbing
From the Cataracts that call—
Irremovable vast arras
Draping all the Wall.
The Generations pouringFrom times of endless date,In their going, in their flowingEver form the steadfast State;And Humanity is growingToward the fullness of her fate.
The Generations pouring
From times of endless date,
In their going, in their flowing
Ever form the steadfast State;
And Humanity is growing
Toward the fullness of her fate.
Thou Lord of hosts victorious,Fulfill the end designed;By a wondrous way and gloriousA passage Thou dost find—A passage Thou dost find:Hosanna to the Lord of hosts,The hosts of human kind.
Thou Lord of hosts victorious,
Fulfill the end designed;
By a wondrous way and glorious
A passage Thou dost find—
A passage Thou dost find:
Hosanna to the Lord of hosts,
The hosts of human kind.
The Martyr.Indicative of the passion of the people on the 15th of April, 1865.Good Friday was the dayOf the prodigy and crime,When they killed him in his pity,When they killed him in his primeOf clemency and calm—When with yearning he was filledTo redeem the evil-willed,And, though conqueror, be kind;But they killed him in his kindness,In their madness and their blindness,And they killed him from behind.There is sobbing of the strong,And a pall upon the land;But the People in their weepingBare the iron hand:Beware the People weepingWhen they bare the iron hand.He lieth in his blood—The father in his face;They have killed him, the Forgiver—The Avenger takes his place,[15]The Avenger wisely stern,Who in righteousness shall doWhat the heavens call him to,And the parricides remand;For they killed him in his kindness,In their madness and their blindness,And his blood is on their hand.[15]At this period of excitement the thought was by some passionately welcomed that the Presidential successor had been raised up by heaven to wreak vengeance on the South. The idea originated in the remembrance that Andrew Johnson by birth belonged to that class of Southern whites who never cherished love for the dominant: that he was a citizen of Tennessee, where the contest at times and in places had been close and bitter as a Middle-Age feud; the himself and family had been hardly treated by the Secessionists.But the expectations build hereon (if, indeed, ever soberly entertained), happily for the country, have not been verified.Likely the feeling which would have held the entire South chargeable with the crime of one exceptional assassin, this too has died away with the natural excitement of the hour.There is sobbing of the strong,And a pall upon the land;But the People in their weepingBare the iron hand:Beware the People weepingWhen they bare the iron hand.
Good Friday was the dayOf the prodigy and crime,When they killed him in his pity,When they killed him in his primeOf clemency and calm—When with yearning he was filledTo redeem the evil-willed,And, though conqueror, be kind;But they killed him in his kindness,In their madness and their blindness,And they killed him from behind.
Good Friday was the day
Of the prodigy and crime,
When they killed him in his pity,
When they killed him in his prime
Of clemency and calm—
When with yearning he was filled
To redeem the evil-willed,
And, though conqueror, be kind;
But they killed him in his kindness,
In their madness and their blindness,
And they killed him from behind.
There is sobbing of the strong,And a pall upon the land;But the People in their weepingBare the iron hand:Beware the People weepingWhen they bare the iron hand.
There is sobbing of the strong,
And a pall upon the land;
But the People in their weeping
Bare the iron hand:
Beware the People weeping
When they bare the iron hand.
He lieth in his blood—The father in his face;They have killed him, the Forgiver—The Avenger takes his place,[15]The Avenger wisely stern,Who in righteousness shall doWhat the heavens call him to,And the parricides remand;For they killed him in his kindness,In their madness and their blindness,And his blood is on their hand.
He lieth in his blood—
The father in his face;
They have killed him, the Forgiver—
The Avenger takes his place,[15]
The Avenger wisely stern,
Who in righteousness shall do
What the heavens call him to,
And the parricides remand;
For they killed him in his kindness,
In their madness and their blindness,
And his blood is on their hand.
[15]At this period of excitement the thought was by some passionately welcomed that the Presidential successor had been raised up by heaven to wreak vengeance on the South. The idea originated in the remembrance that Andrew Johnson by birth belonged to that class of Southern whites who never cherished love for the dominant: that he was a citizen of Tennessee, where the contest at times and in places had been close and bitter as a Middle-Age feud; the himself and family had been hardly treated by the Secessionists.But the expectations build hereon (if, indeed, ever soberly entertained), happily for the country, have not been verified.Likely the feeling which would have held the entire South chargeable with the crime of one exceptional assassin, this too has died away with the natural excitement of the hour.
[15]At this period of excitement the thought was by some passionately welcomed that the Presidential successor had been raised up by heaven to wreak vengeance on the South. The idea originated in the remembrance that Andrew Johnson by birth belonged to that class of Southern whites who never cherished love for the dominant: that he was a citizen of Tennessee, where the contest at times and in places had been close and bitter as a Middle-Age feud; the himself and family had been hardly treated by the Secessionists.
But the expectations build hereon (if, indeed, ever soberly entertained), happily for the country, have not been verified.
Likely the feeling which would have held the entire South chargeable with the crime of one exceptional assassin, this too has died away with the natural excitement of the hour.
There is sobbing of the strong,And a pall upon the land;But the People in their weepingBare the iron hand:Beware the People weepingWhen they bare the iron hand.
There is sobbing of the strong,
And a pall upon the land;
But the People in their weeping
Bare the iron hand:
Beware the People weeping
When they bare the iron hand.
“The Coming Storm:”A Picture by S.R. Gifford, and owned by E.B. Included in the N.A. Exhibition, April, 1865.All feeling hearts must feel for himWho felt this picture. Presage dim—Dim inklings from the shadowy sphereFixed him and fascinated here.A demon-cloud like the mountain oneBurst on a spirit as mildAs this urned lake, the home of shades.But Shakspeare’s pensive childNever the lines had lightly scanned,Steeped in fable, steeped in fate;The Hamlet in his heart was ’ware,Such hearts can antedate.No utter surprise can come to himWho reaches Shakspeare’s core;That which we seek and shun is there—Man’s final lore.
All feeling hearts must feel for himWho felt this picture. Presage dim—Dim inklings from the shadowy sphereFixed him and fascinated here.
All feeling hearts must feel for him
Who felt this picture. Presage dim—
Dim inklings from the shadowy sphere
Fixed him and fascinated here.
A demon-cloud like the mountain oneBurst on a spirit as mildAs this urned lake, the home of shades.But Shakspeare’s pensive child
A demon-cloud like the mountain one
Burst on a spirit as mild
As this urned lake, the home of shades.
But Shakspeare’s pensive child
Never the lines had lightly scanned,Steeped in fable, steeped in fate;The Hamlet in his heart was ’ware,Such hearts can antedate.
Never the lines had lightly scanned,
Steeped in fable, steeped in fate;
The Hamlet in his heart was ’ware,
Such hearts can antedate.
No utter surprise can come to himWho reaches Shakspeare’s core;That which we seek and shun is there—Man’s final lore.
No utter surprise can come to him
Who reaches Shakspeare’s core;
That which we seek and shun is there—
Man’s final lore.
Rebel Color-bearers at Shiloh:[16]A plea against the vindictive cry raised by civilians shortly after the surrender at Appomattox.[16]The incident on which this piece is based is narrated in a newspaper account of the battle to be found in the “Rebellion Record.” During the disaster to the national forces on the first day, a brigade on the extreme left found itself isolated. The perils it encountered are given in detail. Among others, the following sentences occur:“Under cover of the fire from the bluffs, the rebels rushed down, crossed the ford, and in a moment were seen forming this side the creek in open fields, and within close musket-range. Their color-bearers stepped defiantly to the front as the engagement opened furiously; the rebels pouring in sharp, quick volleys of musketry, and their batteries above continuing to support them with a destructive fire. Our sharpshooters wanted to pick off the audacious rebel color-bearers, but Colonel Stuart interposed: ‘No, no, they’re too brave fellows to be killed.’”The color-bearers facing deathWhite in the whirling sulphurous wreath,Stand boldly out before the lineRight and left their glances go,Proud of each other, glorying in their show;Their battle-flags about them blow,And fold them as in flame divine:Such living robes are only seenRound martyrs burning on the green—And martyrs for the Wrong have been.Perish their Cause! but mark the men—Mark the planted statues, thenDraw trigger on them if you can.The leader of a patriot-bandEven so could view rebels who so could stand;And this when peril pressed him sore,Left aidless in the shivered front of war—Skulkers behind, defiant foes before,And fighting with a broken brand.The challenge in that courage rare—Courage defenseless, proudly bare—Never could tempt him; he could dareStrike up the leveled rifle there.Sunday at Shiloh, and the dayWhen Stonewall charged—McClellan’s crimson May,And Chickamauga’s wave of death,And of the Wilderness the cypress wreath—All these have passed away.The life in the veins of Treason lags,Her daring color-bearers drop their flags,And yield.Nowshall we fire?Can poor spite be?Shall nobleness in victory less aspireThan in reverse? Spare Spleen her ire,And think how Grant met Lee.
[16]The incident on which this piece is based is narrated in a newspaper account of the battle to be found in the “Rebellion Record.” During the disaster to the national forces on the first day, a brigade on the extreme left found itself isolated. The perils it encountered are given in detail. Among others, the following sentences occur:“Under cover of the fire from the bluffs, the rebels rushed down, crossed the ford, and in a moment were seen forming this side the creek in open fields, and within close musket-range. Their color-bearers stepped defiantly to the front as the engagement opened furiously; the rebels pouring in sharp, quick volleys of musketry, and their batteries above continuing to support them with a destructive fire. Our sharpshooters wanted to pick off the audacious rebel color-bearers, but Colonel Stuart interposed: ‘No, no, they’re too brave fellows to be killed.’”
[16]The incident on which this piece is based is narrated in a newspaper account of the battle to be found in the “Rebellion Record.” During the disaster to the national forces on the first day, a brigade on the extreme left found itself isolated. The perils it encountered are given in detail. Among others, the following sentences occur:
“Under cover of the fire from the bluffs, the rebels rushed down, crossed the ford, and in a moment were seen forming this side the creek in open fields, and within close musket-range. Their color-bearers stepped defiantly to the front as the engagement opened furiously; the rebels pouring in sharp, quick volleys of musketry, and their batteries above continuing to support them with a destructive fire. Our sharpshooters wanted to pick off the audacious rebel color-bearers, but Colonel Stuart interposed: ‘No, no, they’re too brave fellows to be killed.’”
The color-bearers facing deathWhite in the whirling sulphurous wreath,Stand boldly out before the lineRight and left their glances go,Proud of each other, glorying in their show;Their battle-flags about them blow,And fold them as in flame divine:Such living robes are only seenRound martyrs burning on the green—And martyrs for the Wrong have been.
The color-bearers facing death
White in the whirling sulphurous wreath,
Stand boldly out before the line
Right and left their glances go,
Proud of each other, glorying in their show;
Their battle-flags about them blow,
And fold them as in flame divine:
Such living robes are only seen
Round martyrs burning on the green—
And martyrs for the Wrong have been.
Perish their Cause! but mark the men—Mark the planted statues, thenDraw trigger on them if you can.
Perish their Cause! but mark the men—
Mark the planted statues, then
Draw trigger on them if you can.
The leader of a patriot-bandEven so could view rebels who so could stand;And this when peril pressed him sore,Left aidless in the shivered front of war—Skulkers behind, defiant foes before,And fighting with a broken brand.The challenge in that courage rare—Courage defenseless, proudly bare—Never could tempt him; he could dareStrike up the leveled rifle there.
The leader of a patriot-band
Even so could view rebels who so could stand;
And this when peril pressed him sore,
Left aidless in the shivered front of war—
Skulkers behind, defiant foes before,
And fighting with a broken brand.
The challenge in that courage rare—
Courage defenseless, proudly bare—
Never could tempt him; he could dare
Strike up the leveled rifle there.
Sunday at Shiloh, and the dayWhen Stonewall charged—McClellan’s crimson May,And Chickamauga’s wave of death,And of the Wilderness the cypress wreath—All these have passed away.The life in the veins of Treason lags,Her daring color-bearers drop their flags,And yield.Nowshall we fire?Can poor spite be?Shall nobleness in victory less aspireThan in reverse? Spare Spleen her ire,And think how Grant met Lee.
Sunday at Shiloh, and the day
When Stonewall charged—McClellan’s crimson May,
And Chickamauga’s wave of death,
And of the Wilderness the cypress wreath—
All these have passed away.
The life in the veins of Treason lags,
Her daring color-bearers drop their flags,
And yield.Nowshall we fire?
Can poor spite be?
Shall nobleness in victory less aspire
Than in reverse? Spare Spleen her ire,
And think how Grant met Lee.
The Muster:[17]Suggested by the Two Days’ Review at Washington(May, 1865.)[17]According to a report of the Secretary of War, there were on the first day of March, 1865, 965,000 men on the army pay-rolls. Of these, some 200,000—artillery, cavalry, and infantry—made up from the larger portion of the veterans of Grant and Sherman, marched by the President. The total number of Union troops enlisted during the war was 2,668,000.The Abrahamic river—Patriarch of floods,Calls the roll of all his streamsAnd watery mutitudes:Torrent cries to torrent,The rapids hail the fall;With shouts the inland freshetsGather to the call.The quotas of the Nation,Like the water-shed of waves,Muster into union—Eastern warriors, Western braves.Martial strains are mingling,Though distant far the bands,And the wheeling of the squadronsIs like surf upon the sands.The bladed guns are gleaming—Drift in lengthened trim,Files on files for hazy miles—Nebulously dim.O Milky Way of armies—Star rising after star,New banners of the Commonwealths,And eagles of the War.The Abrahamic riverTo sea-wide fullness fed,Pouring from the thaw-landsBy the God of floods is led:His deep enforcing currentThe streams of ocean own,And Europe’s marge is evenedBy rills from Kansas lone.
[17]According to a report of the Secretary of War, there were on the first day of March, 1865, 965,000 men on the army pay-rolls. Of these, some 200,000—artillery, cavalry, and infantry—made up from the larger portion of the veterans of Grant and Sherman, marched by the President. The total number of Union troops enlisted during the war was 2,668,000.
[17]According to a report of the Secretary of War, there were on the first day of March, 1865, 965,000 men on the army pay-rolls. Of these, some 200,000—artillery, cavalry, and infantry—made up from the larger portion of the veterans of Grant and Sherman, marched by the President. The total number of Union troops enlisted during the war was 2,668,000.
The Abrahamic river—Patriarch of floods,Calls the roll of all his streamsAnd watery mutitudes:Torrent cries to torrent,The rapids hail the fall;With shouts the inland freshetsGather to the call.
The Abrahamic river—
Patriarch of floods,
Calls the roll of all his streams
And watery mutitudes:
Torrent cries to torrent,
The rapids hail the fall;
With shouts the inland freshets
Gather to the call.
The quotas of the Nation,Like the water-shed of waves,Muster into union—Eastern warriors, Western braves.
The quotas of the Nation,
Like the water-shed of waves,
Muster into union—
Eastern warriors, Western braves.
Martial strains are mingling,Though distant far the bands,And the wheeling of the squadronsIs like surf upon the sands.
Martial strains are mingling,
Though distant far the bands,
And the wheeling of the squadrons
Is like surf upon the sands.
The bladed guns are gleaming—Drift in lengthened trim,Files on files for hazy miles—Nebulously dim.
The bladed guns are gleaming—
Drift in lengthened trim,
Files on files for hazy miles—
Nebulously dim.
O Milky Way of armies—Star rising after star,New banners of the Commonwealths,And eagles of the War.
O Milky Way of armies—
Star rising after star,
New banners of the Commonwealths,
And eagles of the War.
The Abrahamic riverTo sea-wide fullness fed,Pouring from the thaw-landsBy the God of floods is led:His deep enforcing currentThe streams of ocean own,And Europe’s marge is evenedBy rills from Kansas lone.
The Abrahamic river
To sea-wide fullness fed,
Pouring from the thaw-lands
By the God of floods is led:
His deep enforcing current
The streams of ocean own,
And Europe’s marge is evened
By rills from Kansas lone.
Aurora-Borealis.Commemorative of the Dissolution of Armies at the Peace.(May, 1865.)What power disbands the Northern LightsAfter their steely play?The lonely watcher feels an aweOf Nature’s sway,As when appearing,He marked their flashed uprearingIn the cold gloom—Retreatings and advancings,(Like dallyings of doom),Transitions and enhancings,And bloody ray.The phantom-host has faded quite,Splendor and Terror gone—Portent or promise—and gives wayTo pale, meek Dawn;The coming, going,Alike in wonder showing—Alike the God,Decreeing and commandingThe million blades that glowed,The muster and disbanding—Midnight and Morn.
What power disbands the Northern LightsAfter their steely play?The lonely watcher feels an aweOf Nature’s sway,As when appearing,He marked their flashed uprearingIn the cold gloom—Retreatings and advancings,(Like dallyings of doom),Transitions and enhancings,And bloody ray.
What power disbands the Northern Lights
After their steely play?
The lonely watcher feels an awe
Of Nature’s sway,
As when appearing,
He marked their flashed uprearing
In the cold gloom—
Retreatings and advancings,
(Like dallyings of doom),
Transitions and enhancings,
And bloody ray.
The phantom-host has faded quite,Splendor and Terror gone—Portent or promise—and gives wayTo pale, meek Dawn;The coming, going,Alike in wonder showing—Alike the God,Decreeing and commandingThe million blades that glowed,The muster and disbanding—Midnight and Morn.
The phantom-host has faded quite,
Splendor and Terror gone—
Portent or promise—and gives way
To pale, meek Dawn;
The coming, going,
Alike in wonder showing—
Alike the God,
Decreeing and commanding
The million blades that glowed,
The muster and disbanding—
Midnight and Morn.
The Released Rebel Prisoner.[18](June, 1865.)[18]For a month or two after the completion of peace, some thousands of released captives from the military prisons of the North, natives of all parts of the South, passed through the city of New York, sometimes waiting farther transportation for days, during which interval they wandered penniless about the streets, or lay in their worn and patched gray uniforms under the trees of Battery, near the barracks where they were lodged and fed. They were transported and provided for at the charge of government.Armies he’s seen—the herds of war,But never such swarms of menAs now in the Nineveh of the North—How mad the Rebellion then!And yet but dimly he divinesThe depth of that deceit,And superstition of vast prideHumbled to such defeat.Seductive shone the Chiefs in arms—His steel the nearest magnet drew;Wreathed with its kind, the Gulf-weed drives—’Tis Nature’s wrong they rue.His face is hidden in his beard,But his heart peers out at eye—And such a heart! like mountain-poolWhere no man passes by.He thinks of Hill—a brave soul gone;And Ashby dead in pale disdain;And Stuart with the Rupert-plume,Whose blue eye never shall laugh again.He hears the drum; he sees our boysFrom his wasted fields return;Ladies feast them on strawberries,And even to kiss them yearn.He marks them bronzed, in soldier-trim,The rifle proudly borne;They bear it for an heir-loom home,And he—disarmed—jail-worn.Home, home—his heart is full of it;But home he never shall see,Even should he stand upon the spot;’Tis gone!—where his brothers be.The cypress-moss from tree to treeHangs in his Southern land;As weird, from thought to thought of hisRun memories hand in hand.And so he lingers—lingers onIn the City of the Foe—His cousins and his countrymenWho see him listless go.
[18]For a month or two after the completion of peace, some thousands of released captives from the military prisons of the North, natives of all parts of the South, passed through the city of New York, sometimes waiting farther transportation for days, during which interval they wandered penniless about the streets, or lay in their worn and patched gray uniforms under the trees of Battery, near the barracks where they were lodged and fed. They were transported and provided for at the charge of government.
[18]For a month or two after the completion of peace, some thousands of released captives from the military prisons of the North, natives of all parts of the South, passed through the city of New York, sometimes waiting farther transportation for days, during which interval they wandered penniless about the streets, or lay in their worn and patched gray uniforms under the trees of Battery, near the barracks where they were lodged and fed. They were transported and provided for at the charge of government.
Armies he’s seen—the herds of war,But never such swarms of menAs now in the Nineveh of the North—How mad the Rebellion then!
Armies he’s seen—the herds of war,
But never such swarms of men
As now in the Nineveh of the North—
How mad the Rebellion then!
And yet but dimly he divinesThe depth of that deceit,And superstition of vast prideHumbled to such defeat.
And yet but dimly he divines
The depth of that deceit,
And superstition of vast pride
Humbled to such defeat.
Seductive shone the Chiefs in arms—His steel the nearest magnet drew;Wreathed with its kind, the Gulf-weed drives—’Tis Nature’s wrong they rue.
Seductive shone the Chiefs in arms—
His steel the nearest magnet drew;
Wreathed with its kind, the Gulf-weed drives—
’Tis Nature’s wrong they rue.
His face is hidden in his beard,But his heart peers out at eye—And such a heart! like mountain-poolWhere no man passes by.
His face is hidden in his beard,
But his heart peers out at eye—
And such a heart! like mountain-pool
Where no man passes by.
He thinks of Hill—a brave soul gone;And Ashby dead in pale disdain;And Stuart with the Rupert-plume,Whose blue eye never shall laugh again.
He thinks of Hill—a brave soul gone;
And Ashby dead in pale disdain;
And Stuart with the Rupert-plume,
Whose blue eye never shall laugh again.
He hears the drum; he sees our boysFrom his wasted fields return;Ladies feast them on strawberries,And even to kiss them yearn.
He hears the drum; he sees our boys
From his wasted fields return;
Ladies feast them on strawberries,
And even to kiss them yearn.
He marks them bronzed, in soldier-trim,The rifle proudly borne;They bear it for an heir-loom home,And he—disarmed—jail-worn.
He marks them bronzed, in soldier-trim,
The rifle proudly borne;
They bear it for an heir-loom home,
And he—disarmed—jail-worn.
Home, home—his heart is full of it;But home he never shall see,Even should he stand upon the spot;’Tis gone!—where his brothers be.
Home, home—his heart is full of it;
But home he never shall see,
Even should he stand upon the spot;
’Tis gone!—where his brothers be.
The cypress-moss from tree to treeHangs in his Southern land;As weird, from thought to thought of hisRun memories hand in hand.
The cypress-moss from tree to tree
Hangs in his Southern land;
As weird, from thought to thought of his
Run memories hand in hand.
And so he lingers—lingers onIn the City of the Foe—His cousins and his countrymenWho see him listless go.
And so he lingers—lingers on
In the City of the Foe—
His cousins and his countrymen
Who see him listless go.