[With few exceptions, the Pieces in this volume originated in an impulse imparted by the fall of Richmond. They were composed without reference to collective arrangement, but being brought together in review, naturally fall into the order assumed.The events and incidents of the conflict—making up a whole, in varied amplitude, corresponding with the geographical area covered by the war—from these but a few themes have been taken, such as for any cause chanced to imprint themselves upon the mind.The aspects which the strife as a memory assumes are as manifold as are the moods of involuntary meditation—moods variable, and at times widely at variance. Yielding instinctively, one after another, to feelings not inspired from any one source exclusively, and unmindful, without purposing to be, of consistency, I seem, in most of these verses, to have but placed a harp in a window, and noted the contrasted airs which wayward wilds have played upon the strings.]
[With few exceptions, the Pieces in this volume originated in an impulse imparted by the fall of Richmond. They were composed without reference to collective arrangement, but being brought together in review, naturally fall into the order assumed.
The events and incidents of the conflict—making up a whole, in varied amplitude, corresponding with the geographical area covered by the war—from these but a few themes have been taken, such as for any cause chanced to imprint themselves upon the mind.
The aspects which the strife as a memory assumes are as manifold as are the moods of involuntary meditation—moods variable, and at times widely at variance. Yielding instinctively, one after another, to feelings not inspired from any one source exclusively, and unmindful, without purposing to be, of consistency, I seem, in most of these verses, to have but placed a harp in a window, and noted the contrasted airs which wayward wilds have played upon the strings.]
The Portent.(1859.)Hanging from the beam,Slowly swaying (such the law),Gaunt the shadow on your green,Shenandoah!The cut is on the crown(Lo, John Brown),And the stabs shall heal no more.Hidden in the capIs the anguish none can draw;So your future veils its face,Shenandoah!But the streaming beard is shown(Weird John Brown),The meteor of the the war.
Hanging from the beam,Slowly swaying (such the law),Gaunt the shadow on your green,Shenandoah!The cut is on the crown(Lo, John Brown),And the stabs shall heal no more.
Hanging from the beam,
Slowly swaying (such the law),
Gaunt the shadow on your green,
Shenandoah!
The cut is on the crown
(Lo, John Brown),
And the stabs shall heal no more.
Hidden in the capIs the anguish none can draw;So your future veils its face,Shenandoah!But the streaming beard is shown(Weird John Brown),The meteor of the the war.
Hidden in the cap
Is the anguish none can draw;
So your future veils its face,
Shenandoah!
But the streaming beard is shown
(Weird John Brown),
The meteor of the the war.
Misgivings.(1860.)When ocean-clouds over inland hillsSweep storming in late autumn brown,And horror the sodden valley fills,And the spire falls crashing in the town,I muse upon my country’s ills—The tempest bursting from the waste of TimeOn the world’s fairest hope linked with man’s foulest crime.Nature’s dark side is heeded now—(Ah! optimist-cheer disheartened flown)—A child may read the moody browOf yon black mountain lone.With shouts the torrents down the gorges go,And storms are formed behind the storm we feel:The hemlock shakes in the rafter, the oak in the driving keel.
When ocean-clouds over inland hillsSweep storming in late autumn brown,And horror the sodden valley fills,And the spire falls crashing in the town,I muse upon my country’s ills—The tempest bursting from the waste of TimeOn the world’s fairest hope linked with man’s foulest crime.
When ocean-clouds over inland hills
Sweep storming in late autumn brown,
And horror the sodden valley fills,
And the spire falls crashing in the town,
I muse upon my country’s ills—
The tempest bursting from the waste of Time
On the world’s fairest hope linked with man’s foulest crime.
Nature’s dark side is heeded now—(Ah! optimist-cheer disheartened flown)—A child may read the moody browOf yon black mountain lone.With shouts the torrents down the gorges go,And storms are formed behind the storm we feel:The hemlock shakes in the rafter, the oak in the driving keel.
Nature’s dark side is heeded now—
(Ah! optimist-cheer disheartened flown)—
A child may read the moody brow
Of yon black mountain lone.
With shouts the torrents down the gorges go,
And storms are formed behind the storm we feel:
The hemlock shakes in the rafter, the oak in the driving keel.
The Conflict of Convictions.[1](1860-1.)[1]The gloomy lull of the early part of the winter of 1860-1, seeming big with final disaster to our institutions, affected some minds that believed them to constitute one of the great hopes of mankind, much as the eclipse which came over the promise of the first French Revolution affected kindred natures, throwing them for the time into doubt and misgivings universal.On starry heightsA bugle wails the long recall;Derision stirs the deep abyss,Heaven’s ominous silence over all.Return, return, O eager Hope,And face man’s latter fall.Events, they make the dreamers quail;Satan’s old age is strong and hale,A disciplined captain, gray in skill,And Raphael a white enthusiast still;Dashed aims, at which Christ’s martyrs pale,Shall Mammon’s slaves fulfill?(Dismantle the fort,Cut down the fleet—Battle no more shall be!While the fields for fight in æons to comeCongeal beneath the sea.)The terrors of truth and dart of deathTo faith alike are vain;Though comets, gone a thousand years,Return again,Patient she stands—she can no more—And waits, nor heeds she waxes hoar.(At a stony gate,A statue of stone,Weed overgrown—Long ’twill wait!)But God his former mind retains,Confirms his old decree;The generations are inured to pains,And strong NecessitySurges, and heaps Time’s strand with wrecks.The People spread like a weedy grass,The thing they will they bring to pass,And prosper to the apoplex.The rout it herds around the heart,The ghost is yielded in the gloom;Kings wag their heads—Now save thyselfWho wouldst rebuild the world in bloom.(Tide-markAnd top of the ages’ strike,Verge where they called the world to come,The last advance of life—Ha ha, the rust on the Iron Dome!)Nay, but revere the hid event;In the cloud a sword is girded on,I mark a twinkling in the tentOf Michael the warrior one.Senior wisdom suits not now,The light is on the youthful brow.(Ay, in caves the miner see:His forehead bears a blinking light;Darkness so he feebly braves—A meagre wight!)But He who rules is old—is old;Ah! faith is warm, but heaven with age is cold.(Ho ho, ho ho,The cloistered doubtOf olden timesIs blurted out!)The Ancient of Days forever is young,Forever the scheme of Nature thrives;I know a wind in purpose strong—It spinsagainstthe way it drives.What if the gulfs their slimed foundations bare?So deep must the stones be hurledWhereon the throes of ages rearThe final empire and the happier world.(The poor old Past,The Future’s slave,She drudged through pain and crimeTo bring about the blissful Prime,Then—perished.There’sa grave!)Power unanointed may come—Dominion (unsought by the free)And the Iron Dome,Stronger for stress and strain,Fling her huge shadow athwart the main;But the Founders’ dream shall flee.Agee after age shall beAs age after age has been,(From man’s changeless heart their way they win);And death be busy with all who strive—Death, with silent negative.Yea, and Nay—Each hath his say;But God He keeps the middle way.None was byWhen He spread the sky;Wisdom is vain, and prophesy.
[1]The gloomy lull of the early part of the winter of 1860-1, seeming big with final disaster to our institutions, affected some minds that believed them to constitute one of the great hopes of mankind, much as the eclipse which came over the promise of the first French Revolution affected kindred natures, throwing them for the time into doubt and misgivings universal.
[1]The gloomy lull of the early part of the winter of 1860-1, seeming big with final disaster to our institutions, affected some minds that believed them to constitute one of the great hopes of mankind, much as the eclipse which came over the promise of the first French Revolution affected kindred natures, throwing them for the time into doubt and misgivings universal.
On starry heightsA bugle wails the long recall;Derision stirs the deep abyss,Heaven’s ominous silence over all.Return, return, O eager Hope,And face man’s latter fall.Events, they make the dreamers quail;Satan’s old age is strong and hale,A disciplined captain, gray in skill,And Raphael a white enthusiast still;Dashed aims, at which Christ’s martyrs pale,Shall Mammon’s slaves fulfill?
On starry heights
A bugle wails the long recall;
Derision stirs the deep abyss,
Heaven’s ominous silence over all.
Return, return, O eager Hope,
And face man’s latter fall.
Events, they make the dreamers quail;
Satan’s old age is strong and hale,
A disciplined captain, gray in skill,
And Raphael a white enthusiast still;
Dashed aims, at which Christ’s martyrs pale,
Shall Mammon’s slaves fulfill?
(Dismantle the fort,Cut down the fleet—Battle no more shall be!While the fields for fight in æons to comeCongeal beneath the sea.)
(Dismantle the fort,
Cut down the fleet—
Battle no more shall be!
While the fields for fight in æons to come
Congeal beneath the sea.)
The terrors of truth and dart of deathTo faith alike are vain;Though comets, gone a thousand years,Return again,Patient she stands—she can no more—And waits, nor heeds she waxes hoar.
The terrors of truth and dart of death
To faith alike are vain;
Though comets, gone a thousand years,
Return again,
Patient she stands—she can no more—
And waits, nor heeds she waxes hoar.
(At a stony gate,A statue of stone,Weed overgrown—Long ’twill wait!)
(At a stony gate,
A statue of stone,
Weed overgrown—
Long ’twill wait!)
But God his former mind retains,Confirms his old decree;The generations are inured to pains,And strong NecessitySurges, and heaps Time’s strand with wrecks.The People spread like a weedy grass,The thing they will they bring to pass,And prosper to the apoplex.The rout it herds around the heart,The ghost is yielded in the gloom;Kings wag their heads—Now save thyselfWho wouldst rebuild the world in bloom.
But God his former mind retains,
Confirms his old decree;
The generations are inured to pains,
And strong Necessity
Surges, and heaps Time’s strand with wrecks.
The People spread like a weedy grass,
The thing they will they bring to pass,
And prosper to the apoplex.
The rout it herds around the heart,
The ghost is yielded in the gloom;
Kings wag their heads—Now save thyself
Who wouldst rebuild the world in bloom.
(Tide-markAnd top of the ages’ strike,Verge where they called the world to come,The last advance of life—Ha ha, the rust on the Iron Dome!)
(Tide-mark
And top of the ages’ strike,
Verge where they called the world to come,
The last advance of life—
Ha ha, the rust on the Iron Dome!)
Nay, but revere the hid event;In the cloud a sword is girded on,I mark a twinkling in the tentOf Michael the warrior one.Senior wisdom suits not now,The light is on the youthful brow.
Nay, but revere the hid event;
In the cloud a sword is girded on,
I mark a twinkling in the tent
Of Michael the warrior one.
Senior wisdom suits not now,
The light is on the youthful brow.
(Ay, in caves the miner see:His forehead bears a blinking light;Darkness so he feebly braves—A meagre wight!)
(Ay, in caves the miner see:
His forehead bears a blinking light;
Darkness so he feebly braves—
A meagre wight!)
But He who rules is old—is old;Ah! faith is warm, but heaven with age is cold.
But He who rules is old—is old;
Ah! faith is warm, but heaven with age is cold.
(Ho ho, ho ho,The cloistered doubtOf olden timesIs blurted out!)
(Ho ho, ho ho,
The cloistered doubt
Of olden times
Is blurted out!)
The Ancient of Days forever is young,Forever the scheme of Nature thrives;I know a wind in purpose strong—It spinsagainstthe way it drives.What if the gulfs their slimed foundations bare?So deep must the stones be hurledWhereon the throes of ages rearThe final empire and the happier world.
The Ancient of Days forever is young,
Forever the scheme of Nature thrives;
I know a wind in purpose strong—
It spinsagainstthe way it drives.
What if the gulfs their slimed foundations bare?
So deep must the stones be hurled
Whereon the throes of ages rear
The final empire and the happier world.
(The poor old Past,The Future’s slave,She drudged through pain and crimeTo bring about the blissful Prime,Then—perished.There’sa grave!)
(The poor old Past,
The Future’s slave,
She drudged through pain and crime
To bring about the blissful Prime,
Then—perished.There’sa grave!)
Power unanointed may come—Dominion (unsought by the free)And the Iron Dome,Stronger for stress and strain,Fling her huge shadow athwart the main;But the Founders’ dream shall flee.Agee after age shall beAs age after age has been,(From man’s changeless heart their way they win);
Power unanointed may come—
Dominion (unsought by the free)
And the Iron Dome,
Stronger for stress and strain,
Fling her huge shadow athwart the main;
But the Founders’ dream shall flee.
Agee after age shall be
As age after age has been,
(From man’s changeless heart their way they win);
And death be busy with all who strive—Death, with silent negative.
And death be busy with all who strive—
Death, with silent negative.
Yea, and Nay—Each hath his say;But God He keeps the middle way.None was byWhen He spread the sky;Wisdom is vain, and prophesy.
Yea, and Nay—
Each hath his say;
But God He keeps the middle way.
None was by
When He spread the sky;
Wisdom is vain, and prophesy.
Apathy and Enthusiasm.(1860-1.)I.O the clammy cold November,And the winter white and dead,And the terror dumb with stupor,And the sky a sheet of lead;And events that came resoundingWith the cry thatAll was lost,Like the thunder-cracks of massy iceIn intensity of frost—Bursting one upon anotherThrough the horror of the calm.The paralysis of armIn the anguish of the heart;And the hollowness and dearth.The appealings of the motherTo brother and to brotherNot in hatred so to part—And the fissure in the hearthGrowing momently more wide.Then the glances ’tween the Fates,And the doubt on every side,And the patience under gloomIn the stoniness that waitsThe finality of doom.II.So the winter died despairing,And the weary weeks of Lent;And the ice-bound rivers melted,And the tomb of Faith was rent.O, the rising of the PeopleCame with springing of the grass,They rebounded from dejectionAnd Easter came to pass.And the young were all elationHearing Sumter’s cannon roar,And they thought how tame the NationIn the age that went before.And Michael seemed gigantical,The Arch-fiend but a dwarf;And at the towers of ErebusOur striplings flung the scoff.But the elders with forebodingMourned the days forever o’er,And re called the forest proverb,The Iroquois’ old saw:Grief to every graybeardWhen young Indians lead the war.
I.O the clammy cold November,And the winter white and dead,And the terror dumb with stupor,And the sky a sheet of lead;And events that came resoundingWith the cry thatAll was lost,Like the thunder-cracks of massy iceIn intensity of frost—Bursting one upon anotherThrough the horror of the calm.The paralysis of armIn the anguish of the heart;And the hollowness and dearth.The appealings of the motherTo brother and to brotherNot in hatred so to part—And the fissure in the hearthGrowing momently more wide.Then the glances ’tween the Fates,And the doubt on every side,And the patience under gloomIn the stoniness that waitsThe finality of doom.
O the clammy cold November,
And the winter white and dead,
And the terror dumb with stupor,
And the sky a sheet of lead;
And events that came resounding
With the cry thatAll was lost,
Like the thunder-cracks of massy ice
In intensity of frost—
Bursting one upon another
Through the horror of the calm.
The paralysis of arm
In the anguish of the heart;
And the hollowness and dearth.
The appealings of the mother
To brother and to brother
Not in hatred so to part—
And the fissure in the hearth
Growing momently more wide.
Then the glances ’tween the Fates,
And the doubt on every side,
And the patience under gloom
In the stoniness that waits
The finality of doom.
II.So the winter died despairing,And the weary weeks of Lent;And the ice-bound rivers melted,And the tomb of Faith was rent.O, the rising of the PeopleCame with springing of the grass,They rebounded from dejectionAnd Easter came to pass.And the young were all elationHearing Sumter’s cannon roar,And they thought how tame the NationIn the age that went before.And Michael seemed gigantical,The Arch-fiend but a dwarf;And at the towers of ErebusOur striplings flung the scoff.But the elders with forebodingMourned the days forever o’er,And re called the forest proverb,The Iroquois’ old saw:Grief to every graybeardWhen young Indians lead the war.
So the winter died despairing,
And the weary weeks of Lent;
And the ice-bound rivers melted,
And the tomb of Faith was rent.
O, the rising of the People
Came with springing of the grass,
They rebounded from dejection
And Easter came to pass.
And the young were all elation
Hearing Sumter’s cannon roar,
And they thought how tame the Nation
In the age that went before.
And Michael seemed gigantical,
The Arch-fiend but a dwarf;
And at the towers of Erebus
Our striplings flung the scoff.
But the elders with foreboding
Mourned the days forever o’er,
And re called the forest proverb,
The Iroquois’ old saw:
Grief to every graybeard
When young Indians lead the war.
The March into Virginia,Ending in the First Manassas.(July, 1861.)Did all the lets and bars appearTo every just or larger end,Whence should come the trust and cheer?Youth must its ignorant impulse lend—Age finds place in the rear.All wars are boyish, and are fought by boys,The champions and enthusiasts of the state:Turbid ardors and vain joysNot barrenly abate—Stimulants to the power mature,Preparatives of fate.Who here forecasteth the event?What heart but spurns at precedentAnd warnings of the wise,Contemned foreclosures of surprise?The banners play, the bugles call,The air is blue and prodigal.No berrying party, pleasure-wooed,No picnic party in the May,Ever went less loth than theyInto that leafy neighborhood.In Bacchic glee they file toward Fate,Moloch’s uninitiate;Expectancy, and glad surmiseOf battle’s unknown mysteries.All they feel is this: ’tis glory,A rapture sharp, though transitory,Yet lasting in belaureled story.So they gayly go to fight,Chatting left and laughing right.But some who this blithe mood present,As on in lightsome files they fare,Shall die experienced ere three days are spent—Perish, enlightened by the vollied glare;Or shame survive, and, like to adamant,The throe of Second Manassas share.
Did all the lets and bars appearTo every just or larger end,Whence should come the trust and cheer?Youth must its ignorant impulse lend—Age finds place in the rear.All wars are boyish, and are fought by boys,The champions and enthusiasts of the state:Turbid ardors and vain joysNot barrenly abate—Stimulants to the power mature,Preparatives of fate.
Did all the lets and bars appear
To every just or larger end,
Whence should come the trust and cheer?
Youth must its ignorant impulse lend—
Age finds place in the rear.
All wars are boyish, and are fought by boys,
The champions and enthusiasts of the state:
Turbid ardors and vain joys
Not barrenly abate—
Stimulants to the power mature,
Preparatives of fate.
Who here forecasteth the event?What heart but spurns at precedentAnd warnings of the wise,Contemned foreclosures of surprise?
Who here forecasteth the event?
What heart but spurns at precedent
And warnings of the wise,
Contemned foreclosures of surprise?
The banners play, the bugles call,The air is blue and prodigal.No berrying party, pleasure-wooed,No picnic party in the May,Ever went less loth than theyInto that leafy neighborhood.In Bacchic glee they file toward Fate,Moloch’s uninitiate;Expectancy, and glad surmiseOf battle’s unknown mysteries.All they feel is this: ’tis glory,A rapture sharp, though transitory,Yet lasting in belaureled story.So they gayly go to fight,Chatting left and laughing right.
The banners play, the bugles call,
The air is blue and prodigal.
No berrying party, pleasure-wooed,
No picnic party in the May,
Ever went less loth than they
Into that leafy neighborhood.
In Bacchic glee they file toward Fate,
Moloch’s uninitiate;
Expectancy, and glad surmise
Of battle’s unknown mysteries.
All they feel is this: ’tis glory,
A rapture sharp, though transitory,
Yet lasting in belaureled story.
So they gayly go to fight,
Chatting left and laughing right.
But some who this blithe mood present,As on in lightsome files they fare,Shall die experienced ere three days are spent—Perish, enlightened by the vollied glare;Or shame survive, and, like to adamant,The throe of Second Manassas share.
But some who this blithe mood present,
As on in lightsome files they fare,
Shall die experienced ere three days are spent—
Perish, enlightened by the vollied glare;
Or shame survive, and, like to adamant,
The throe of Second Manassas share.
Lyon.Battle of Springfield, Missouri.(August, 1861.)Some hearts there are of deeper sort,Prophetic, sad,Which yet for cause are trebly clad;Known death they fly on:This wizard-heart and heart-of-oak had Lyon.“They are more than twenty thousand strong,We less than five,Too few with such a host to strive”“Such counsel, fie on!’Tis battle, or ’tis shame;” and firm stood Lyon.“For help at need in van we wait—Retreat or fight:Retreat the foe would take for flight,And each proud scionFeel more elate; the end must come,” said Lyon.By candlelight he wrote the will,And left his allTo Her for whom ’twas not enough to fall;Loud neighed OrionWithout the tent; drums beat; we marched with Lyon.The night-tramp done, we spied the ValeWith guard-fires lit;Day broke, but trooping clouds made gloom of it:“A field to die on”Presaged in his unfaltering heart, brave Lyon.We fought on the grass, we bled in the corn—Fate seemed malign;His horse the Leader led along the line—Star-browed Orion;Bitterly fearless, he rallied us there, brave Lyon.There came a sound like the slitting of airBy a swift sharp sword—A rush of the sound; and the sleek chest broadOf black OrionHeaved, and was fixed; the dead mane waved toward Lyon.“General, you’re hurt—this sleet of balls!”He seemed half spent;With moody and bloody brow, he lowly bent:“The field to die on;But not—not yet; the day is long,” breathed Lyon.For a time becharmed there fell a lullIn the heart of the fight;The tree-tops nod, the slain sleep light;Warm noon-winds sigh on,And thoughts which he never spake had Lyon.Texans and Indians trim for a charge:“Stand ready, men!Let them come close, right up, and thenAfter the lead, the iron;Fire, and charge back!” So strength returned to Lyon.The Iowa men who held the van,Half drilled, were newTo battle: “Some one lead us, then we’ll do”Said Corporal Tryon:“Men!Iwill lead,” and a light glared in Lyon.On they came: they yelped, and fired;His spirit sped;We leveled right in, and the half-breeds fled,Nor stayed the iron,Nor captured the crimson corse of Lyon.This seer foresaw his soldier-doom,Yet willed the fight.He never turned; his only flightWas up to Zion,Where prophets now and armies greet brave Lyon.
Some hearts there are of deeper sort,Prophetic, sad,Which yet for cause are trebly clad;Known death they fly on:This wizard-heart and heart-of-oak had Lyon.
Some hearts there are of deeper sort,
Prophetic, sad,
Which yet for cause are trebly clad;
Known death they fly on:
This wizard-heart and heart-of-oak had Lyon.
“They are more than twenty thousand strong,We less than five,Too few with such a host to strive”“Such counsel, fie on!’Tis battle, or ’tis shame;” and firm stood Lyon.
“They are more than twenty thousand strong,
We less than five,
Too few with such a host to strive”
“Such counsel, fie on!
’Tis battle, or ’tis shame;” and firm stood Lyon.
“For help at need in van we wait—Retreat or fight:Retreat the foe would take for flight,And each proud scionFeel more elate; the end must come,” said Lyon.
“For help at need in van we wait—
Retreat or fight:
Retreat the foe would take for flight,
And each proud scion
Feel more elate; the end must come,” said Lyon.
By candlelight he wrote the will,And left his allTo Her for whom ’twas not enough to fall;Loud neighed OrionWithout the tent; drums beat; we marched with Lyon.
By candlelight he wrote the will,
And left his all
To Her for whom ’twas not enough to fall;
Loud neighed Orion
Without the tent; drums beat; we marched with Lyon.
The night-tramp done, we spied the ValeWith guard-fires lit;Day broke, but trooping clouds made gloom of it:“A field to die on”Presaged in his unfaltering heart, brave Lyon.
The night-tramp done, we spied the Vale
With guard-fires lit;
Day broke, but trooping clouds made gloom of it:
“A field to die on”
Presaged in his unfaltering heart, brave Lyon.
We fought on the grass, we bled in the corn—Fate seemed malign;His horse the Leader led along the line—Star-browed Orion;Bitterly fearless, he rallied us there, brave Lyon.
We fought on the grass, we bled in the corn—
Fate seemed malign;
His horse the Leader led along the line—
Star-browed Orion;
Bitterly fearless, he rallied us there, brave Lyon.
There came a sound like the slitting of airBy a swift sharp sword—A rush of the sound; and the sleek chest broadOf black OrionHeaved, and was fixed; the dead mane waved toward Lyon.
There came a sound like the slitting of air
By a swift sharp sword—
A rush of the sound; and the sleek chest broad
Of black Orion
Heaved, and was fixed; the dead mane waved toward Lyon.
“General, you’re hurt—this sleet of balls!”He seemed half spent;With moody and bloody brow, he lowly bent:“The field to die on;But not—not yet; the day is long,” breathed Lyon.
“General, you’re hurt—this sleet of balls!”
He seemed half spent;
With moody and bloody brow, he lowly bent:
“The field to die on;
But not—not yet; the day is long,” breathed Lyon.
For a time becharmed there fell a lullIn the heart of the fight;The tree-tops nod, the slain sleep light;Warm noon-winds sigh on,And thoughts which he never spake had Lyon.
For a time becharmed there fell a lull
In the heart of the fight;
The tree-tops nod, the slain sleep light;
Warm noon-winds sigh on,
And thoughts which he never spake had Lyon.
Texans and Indians trim for a charge:“Stand ready, men!Let them come close, right up, and thenAfter the lead, the iron;Fire, and charge back!” So strength returned to Lyon.
Texans and Indians trim for a charge:
“Stand ready, men!
Let them come close, right up, and then
After the lead, the iron;
Fire, and charge back!” So strength returned to Lyon.
The Iowa men who held the van,Half drilled, were newTo battle: “Some one lead us, then we’ll do”Said Corporal Tryon:“Men!Iwill lead,” and a light glared in Lyon.
The Iowa men who held the van,
Half drilled, were new
To battle: “Some one lead us, then we’ll do”
Said Corporal Tryon:
“Men!Iwill lead,” and a light glared in Lyon.
On they came: they yelped, and fired;His spirit sped;We leveled right in, and the half-breeds fled,Nor stayed the iron,Nor captured the crimson corse of Lyon.
On they came: they yelped, and fired;
His spirit sped;
We leveled right in, and the half-breeds fled,
Nor stayed the iron,
Nor captured the crimson corse of Lyon.
This seer foresaw his soldier-doom,Yet willed the fight.He never turned; his only flightWas up to Zion,Where prophets now and armies greet brave Lyon.
This seer foresaw his soldier-doom,
Yet willed the fight.
He never turned; his only flight
Was up to Zion,
Where prophets now and armies greet brave Lyon.
Ball’s Bluff.A Reverie.(October, 1861.)One noonday, at my window in the town,I saw a sight—saddest that eyes can see—Young soldiers marching lustilyUnto the wars,With fifes, and flags in mottoed pageantry;While all the porches, walks, and doorsWere rich with ladies cheering royally.They moved like Juny morning on the wave,Their hearts were fresh as clover in its prime(It was the breezy summer time),Life throbbed so strong,How should they dream that Death in a rosy climeWould come to thin their shining throng?Youth feels immortal, like the gods sublime.Weeks passed; and at my window, leaving bed,By night I mused, of easeful sleep bereft,On those brave boys (Ah War! thy theft);Some marching feetFound pause at last by cliffs Potomac cleft;Wakeful I mused, while in the streetFar footfalls died away till none were left.
One noonday, at my window in the town,I saw a sight—saddest that eyes can see—Young soldiers marching lustilyUnto the wars,With fifes, and flags in mottoed pageantry;While all the porches, walks, and doorsWere rich with ladies cheering royally.
One noonday, at my window in the town,
I saw a sight—saddest that eyes can see—
Young soldiers marching lustily
Unto the wars,
With fifes, and flags in mottoed pageantry;
While all the porches, walks, and doors
Were rich with ladies cheering royally.
They moved like Juny morning on the wave,Their hearts were fresh as clover in its prime(It was the breezy summer time),Life throbbed so strong,How should they dream that Death in a rosy climeWould come to thin their shining throng?Youth feels immortal, like the gods sublime.
They moved like Juny morning on the wave,
Their hearts were fresh as clover in its prime
(It was the breezy summer time),
Life throbbed so strong,
How should they dream that Death in a rosy clime
Would come to thin their shining throng?
Youth feels immortal, like the gods sublime.
Weeks passed; and at my window, leaving bed,By night I mused, of easeful sleep bereft,On those brave boys (Ah War! thy theft);Some marching feetFound pause at last by cliffs Potomac cleft;Wakeful I mused, while in the streetFar footfalls died away till none were left.
Weeks passed; and at my window, leaving bed,
By night I mused, of easeful sleep bereft,
On those brave boys (Ah War! thy theft);
Some marching feet
Found pause at last by cliffs Potomac cleft;
Wakeful I mused, while in the street
Far footfalls died away till none were left.
Dupont’s Round Fight.(November, 1861.)In time and measure perfect movesAll Art whose aim is sure;Evolving ryhme and stars divineHave rules, and they endure.Nor less the Fleet that warred for Right,And, warring so, prevailed,In geometric beauty curved,And in an orbit sailed.The rebel at Port Royal feltThe Unity overawe,And rued the spell. A type was here,And victory of Law.
In time and measure perfect movesAll Art whose aim is sure;Evolving ryhme and stars divineHave rules, and they endure.
In time and measure perfect moves
All Art whose aim is sure;
Evolving ryhme and stars divine
Have rules, and they endure.
Nor less the Fleet that warred for Right,And, warring so, prevailed,In geometric beauty curved,And in an orbit sailed.
Nor less the Fleet that warred for Right,
And, warring so, prevailed,
In geometric beauty curved,
And in an orbit sailed.
The rebel at Port Royal feltThe Unity overawe,And rued the spell. A type was here,And victory of Law.
The rebel at Port Royal felt
The Unity overawe,
And rued the spell. A type was here,
And victory of Law.
The Stone Fleet.[2]An Old Sailor’s Lament.(December, 1861.)[2]“The terrible Stone Fleet on a mission as pitiless as the granite that freights it, sailed this morning from Port Royal, and before two days are past will have made Charleston an inland city. The ships are all old whalers, and cost the government from $2500 to $5000 each. Some of them were once famous ships.—” (From Newspaper Correspondences of the day.)Sixteen vessels were accordingly sunk on the bar at the river entrance. Their names were as follows:Amazon,America,American,Archer,Courier,Fortune,Herald,Kensington,Leonidas,Maria Theresa,Potomac,Rebecca Simms,L.C. Richmond,Robin Hood,Tenedos,William Lee.All accounts seem to agree that the object proposed was not accomplished. The channel is even said to have become ultimately benefited by the means employed to obstruct it.I have a feeling for those ships,Each worn and ancient one,With great bluff bows, and broad in the beam;Ay, it was unkindly done.But so they serve the Obsolete—Even so, Stone Fleet!You’ll say I’m doting; do but thinkI scudded round the Horn in one—The Tenedos, a gloriousGood old craft as ever run—Sunk (how all unmeet!)With the Old Stone Fleet.An India ship of fame was she,Spices and shawls and fans she bore;A whaler when her wrinkles came—Turned off! till, spent and poor,Her bones were sold (escheat)!Ah! Stone Fleet.Four were erst patrician keels(Names attest what families be),The Kensington, and Richmond too,Leonidas, and Lee:But now they have their seatWith the Old Stone Fleet.To scuttle them—a pirate deed—Sack them, and dismast;They sunk so slow, they died so hard,But gurgling dropped at last.Their ghosts in gales repeatWoe’s us, Stone Fleet!And all for naught. The waters pass—Currents will have their way;Nature is nobody’s ally; ’tis well;The harbor is bettered—will stay.A failure, and complete,Was your Old Stone Fleet.
[2]“The terrible Stone Fleet on a mission as pitiless as the granite that freights it, sailed this morning from Port Royal, and before two days are past will have made Charleston an inland city. The ships are all old whalers, and cost the government from $2500 to $5000 each. Some of them were once famous ships.—” (From Newspaper Correspondences of the day.)Sixteen vessels were accordingly sunk on the bar at the river entrance. Their names were as follows:Amazon,America,American,Archer,Courier,Fortune,Herald,Kensington,Leonidas,Maria Theresa,Potomac,Rebecca Simms,L.C. Richmond,Robin Hood,Tenedos,William Lee.All accounts seem to agree that the object proposed was not accomplished. The channel is even said to have become ultimately benefited by the means employed to obstruct it.
[2]“The terrible Stone Fleet on a mission as pitiless as the granite that freights it, sailed this morning from Port Royal, and before two days are past will have made Charleston an inland city. The ships are all old whalers, and cost the government from $2500 to $5000 each. Some of them were once famous ships.—” (From Newspaper Correspondences of the day.)
Sixteen vessels were accordingly sunk on the bar at the river entrance. Their names were as follows:
All accounts seem to agree that the object proposed was not accomplished. The channel is even said to have become ultimately benefited by the means employed to obstruct it.
I have a feeling for those ships,Each worn and ancient one,With great bluff bows, and broad in the beam;Ay, it was unkindly done.But so they serve the Obsolete—Even so, Stone Fleet!
I have a feeling for those ships,
Each worn and ancient one,
With great bluff bows, and broad in the beam;
Ay, it was unkindly done.
But so they serve the Obsolete—
Even so, Stone Fleet!
You’ll say I’m doting; do but thinkI scudded round the Horn in one—The Tenedos, a gloriousGood old craft as ever run—Sunk (how all unmeet!)With the Old Stone Fleet.
You’ll say I’m doting; do but think
I scudded round the Horn in one—
The Tenedos, a glorious
Good old craft as ever run—
Sunk (how all unmeet!)
With the Old Stone Fleet.
An India ship of fame was she,Spices and shawls and fans she bore;A whaler when her wrinkles came—Turned off! till, spent and poor,Her bones were sold (escheat)!Ah! Stone Fleet.
An India ship of fame was she,
Spices and shawls and fans she bore;
A whaler when her wrinkles came—
Turned off! till, spent and poor,
Her bones were sold (escheat)!
Ah! Stone Fleet.
Four were erst patrician keels(Names attest what families be),The Kensington, and Richmond too,Leonidas, and Lee:But now they have their seatWith the Old Stone Fleet.
Four were erst patrician keels
(Names attest what families be),
The Kensington, and Richmond too,
Leonidas, and Lee:
But now they have their seat
With the Old Stone Fleet.
To scuttle them—a pirate deed—Sack them, and dismast;They sunk so slow, they died so hard,But gurgling dropped at last.Their ghosts in gales repeatWoe’s us, Stone Fleet!
To scuttle them—a pirate deed—
Sack them, and dismast;
They sunk so slow, they died so hard,
But gurgling dropped at last.
Their ghosts in gales repeat
Woe’s us, Stone Fleet!
And all for naught. The waters pass—Currents will have their way;Nature is nobody’s ally; ’tis well;The harbor is bettered—will stay.A failure, and complete,Was your Old Stone Fleet.
And all for naught. The waters pass—
Currents will have their way;
Nature is nobody’s ally; ’tis well;
The harbor is bettered—will stay.
A failure, and complete,
Was your Old Stone Fleet.
Donelson.(February, 1862.)The bitter cupOf that hard countermandWhich gave the Envoys up,Still was wormwood in the mouth,And clouds involved the land,When, pelted by sleet in the icy street,About the bulletin-board a bandOf eager, anxious people met,And every wakeful heart was setOn latest news from West or South.“No seeing here,” cries one—“don’t crowd—”“You tall man, pray you, read aloud.”Important.We learn that General Grant,Marching from Henry overland,And joined by a force up the Cumberland sent(Some thirty thousand the command),On Wednesday a good position won—Began the siege of Donelson.The stronghold crowns a river-bluff,A good broad mile of leveled top;Inland the ground rolls offDeep-gorged, and rocky, and broken up—A wilderness of trees and brush.The spaded summit shows the roodsOf fixed intrenchments in their hush;Breast-works and rifle-pits in woodsPerplex the base.—The welcome weatherIs clear and mild; ’tis much like May.The ancient boughs that lace togetherAlong the stream, and hang far forth,Strange with green mistletoe, betrayA dreamy contrast to the North.Our troops are full of spirits—sayThe siege won’t prove a creeping one.They purpose not the lingering stayOf old beleaguerers; not that way;But, full ofvimfrom Western prairies won,They’ll make, ere long, a dash at Donelson.Washed by the storm till the paper grewEvery shade of a streaky blue,That bulletin stood. The next day broughtA second.Later from the Fort.Grant’s investment is complete—A semicircular one.Both wings the Cumberland’s margin meet,Then, backwkard curving, clasp the rebel seat.On Wednesday this good work was done;But of the doers some lie prone.Each wood, each hill, each glen was fought for;The bold inclosing line we wrought forFlamed with sharpshooters. Each cliff costA limb or life. But back we forcedReserves and all; made good our hold;And so we rest.Events unfold.On Thursday added ground was won,A long bold steep: we near the Den.Later the foe came shouting downIn sortie, which was quelled; and thenWe stormed them on their left.A chilly change in the afternoon;The sky, late clear, is now bereftOf sun. Last night the ground froze hard—Rings to the enemy as they runWithin their works. A ramrod bitesThe lip it meets. The cold incitesTo swinging of arms with brisk rebound.Smart blows ’gainst lusty chests resound.Along the outer line we wardA crackle of skirmishing goes on.Our lads creep round on hand and knee,They fight from behind each trunk and stone;And sometimes, flying for refuge, oneFinds ’tis an enemy shares the tree.Some scores are maimed by boughs shot offIn the glades by the Fort’s big gun.We mourn the loss of colonel Morrison,Killed while cheering his regiment on.Their far sharpshooters try our stuff;And ours return them puff for puff:’Tis diamond-cutting-diamond work.Woe on the rebel cannoneerWho shows his head. Our fellows lurkLike Indians that waylay the deerBy the wild salt-spring.—The sky is dun,Fordooming the fall of Donelson.Stern weather is all unwonted here.The people of the country ownWe brought it. Yea, the earnest NorthHas elementally issued forthTo storm this Donelson.Further.A yelling routOf ragamuffins broke profuseTo-day from out the Fort.Sole uniform they wore, a sortOf patch, or white badge (as you choose)Upon the arm. But leading these,Or mingling, were men of faceAnd bearing of patrician race,Splendid in courage and gold lace—The officers. Before the breezeMade by their charge, down went our line;But, rallying, charged back in force,And broke the sally; yet with loss.This on the left; upon the rightMeanwhile there was an answering fight;Assailants and assailed reversed.The charge too upward, and not down—Up a steep ridge-side, toward its crown,A strong redoubt. But they who firstGained the fort’s base, and marked the treesFelled, heaped in horned perplexities,And shagged with brush; and swarming thereFierce wasps whose sting was present death—They faltered, drawing bated breath,And felt it was in vain to dare;Yet still, perforce, returned the ball,Firing into the tangled wallTill ordered to come down. They came;But left some comrades in their fame,Red on the ridge in icy wreathAnd hanging gardens of cold Death.But not quite unavenged these fell;Our ranks once out of range, a blastOf shrapnel and quick shellBurst on the rebel horde, still massed,Scattering them pell-mell.(This fighting—judging what we read—Both charge and countercharge,Would seem but Thursday’s told at large,Before in brief reported.—Ed.)Night closed in about the DenMurky and lowering. Ere long, chill rains.A night not soon to be forgot,Reviving old rheumatic painsAnd longings for a cot.No blankets, overcoats, or tents.Coats thrown aside on the warm march here—We looked not then for changeful cheer;Tents, coats, and blankets too much care.No fires; a fire a mark presents;Near by, the trees show bullet-dents.Rations were eaten cold and raw.The men well soaked, come snow; and more—A midnight sally. Small sleeping done—But such is war;No matter, we’ll have Fort Donelson.“Ugh! ugh!’Twill drag along—drag along”Growled a cross patriot in the throng,His battered umbrella like an ambulance-coverRiddled with bullet-holes, spattered all over.“Hurrah for Grant!” cried a stripling shrill;Three urchins joined him with a will,And some of taller stature cheered.Meantime a Copperhead passed; he sneered.“Win or lose,” he pausing said,“Caps fly the same; all boys, mere boys;Any thing to make a noise.Like to see the list of the dead;These ‘craven Southerners’ hold out;Ay, ay, they’ll give you many a bout”“We’ll beat in the end, sir”Firmly said one in staid rebuke,A solid merchant, square and stout.“And do you think it? that way tend, sir”Asked the lean Cooperhead, with a lookOf splenetic pity. “Yes, I do”His yellow death’s head the croaker shook:“The country’s ruined, that I know”A shower of broken ice and snow,In lieu of words, confuted him;They saw him hustled round the corner go,And each by-stander said—Well suited him.Next day another crowd was seenIn the dark weather’s sleety spleen.Bald-headed to the storm came outA man, who, ’mid a joyous shout,Silently posted this brief sheet:Glorious Victory of the Fleet!Friday’s great event!The enemy’s water-batteries beat!We silenced every gun!The old Commodore’s compliments sentPlump into Donelson!“Well, well, go on!” exclaimed the crowdTo him who thus much read aloud.“That’s all,” he said. “What! nothing more”“Enough for a cheer, though—hip, hurrah!”“But here’s old Baldy come again—More news!—” And now a different strain.(Our own reporter a dispatch compiles,As best he may, from varied sources.)Large re-enforcements have arrived—Munitions, men, and horses—For Grant, and all debarked, with stores.The enemy’s field-works extend six miles—The gate still hid; so well contrived.Yesterday stung us; frozen shoresSnow-clad, and through the drear defilesAnd over the desolate ridges blewA Lapland wind.The main affairWas a good two hours’ steady fightBetween our gun-boats and the Fort.The Louisville’s wheel was smashed outright.A hundred-and-twenty-eight-pound ballCame planet-like through a starboard port,Killing three men, and wounding allThe rest of that gun’s crew,(The captain of the gun was cut in two);Then splintering and ripping went—Nothing could be its continent.In the narrow stream the Louisville,Unhelmed, grew lawless; swung around,And would have thumped and drifted, tillAll the fleet was driven aground,But for the timely order to retire.Some damage from our fire, ’tis thought,Was done the water-batteries of the Fort.Little else took place that day,Except the field artillery in lineWould now and then—for love, they say—Exchange a valentine.The old sharpshooting going on.Some plan afoot as yet unknown;So Friday closed round Donelson.Later.Great suffering through the night—A stinging one. Our heedless boysWere nipped like blossoms. Some dozenHapless wounded men were frozen.During day being struck down out of sight,And help-cries drowned in roaring noise,They were left just where the skirmish shifted—Left in dense underbrush now-drifted.Some, seeking to crawl in crippled plight,So stiffened—perished.Yet in spiteOf pangs for these, no heart is lost.Hungry, and clothing stiff with frost,Our men declare a nearing sunShall see the fall of Donelson.And this they say, yet not disownThe dark redoubts round Donelson,And ice-glazed corpses, each a stone—A sacrifice to Donelson;They swear it, and swerve not, gazing onA flag, deemed black, flying from Donelson.Some of the wounded in the woodWere cared for by the foe last night,Though he could do them little needed good,Himself being all in shivering plight.The rebel is wrong, but human yet;He’s got a heart, and thrusts a bayonet.He gives us battle with wondrous will—The bluff’s a perverted Bunker Hill.The stillness stealing through the throngThe silent thought and dismal fear revealed;They turned and went,Musing on right and wrongAnd mysteries dimly sealed—Breasting the storm in daring discontent;The storm, whose black flag showed in heaven,As if to say no quarter there was givenTo wounded men in wood,Or true hearts yearning for the good—All fatherless seemed the human soul.But next day brought a bitterer bowl—On the bulletin-board this stood;Saturday morning at 3 A.M.A stir within the Fort betrayedThat the rebels were getting under arms;Some plot these early birds had laid.But a lancing sleet cut him who staredInto the storm. After some vague alarms,Which left our lads unscared,Out sallied the enemy at dim of dawn,With cavalry and artillery, and wentIn fury at our environment.Under cover of shot and shellThree columns of infantry rolled on,Vomited out of Donelson—Rolled down the slopes like rivers of hell,Surged at our line, and swelled and pouredLike breaking surf. But unsubmergedOur men stood up, except where roaredThe enemy through one gap. We urgedOur all of manhood to the stress,But still showed shattered in our desperateness.Back set the tide,But soon afresh rolled in;And so it swayed from side to side—Far batteries joining in the din,Though sharing in another fray—Till all became an Indian fight,Intricate, dusky, stretching far away,Yet not without spontaneous planHowever tangled showed the plight;Duels all over ’tween man and man,Duels on cliff-side, and down in ravine,Duels at long range, and bone to bone;Duels every where flitting and half unseen.Only by courage good as their own,And strength outlasting theirs,Did our boys at last drive the rebels off.Yet they went not back to their distant lairsIn strong-hold, but loud in scoffMaintained themselves on conquered ground—Uplands; built works, or stalked around.Our right wing bore this onset. NoonBrought calm to Donelson.The reader ceased; the storm beat hard;’Twas day, but the office-gas was lit;Nature retained her sulking-fit,In her hand the shard.Flitting faces took the hueOf that washed bulletin-board in view,And seemed to bear the public griefAs private, and uncertain of relief;Yea, many an earnest heart was won,As broodingly he plodded on,To find in himself some bitter thing,Some hardness in his lot as harrowingAs Donelson.That night the board stood barren there,Oft eyes by wistful people passing,Who nothing saw but the rain-beads chasingEach other down the wafered square,As down some storm-beat grave-yard stone.But next day showed—More news of last night.Story of Saturday afternoon.Vicissitudes of the war.The damaged gun-boats can’t wage fightFor days; so says the Commodore.Thus no diversion can be had.Under a sunless sky of leadOur grim-faced boys in blacked plightGaze toward the ground they held before,And then on Grant. He marks their mood,And hails it, and will turn the same to good.Spite all that they have undergone,Their desperate hearts are set uponThis winter fort, this stubborn fort,This castle of the last resort,This Donelson.1 P.M.An order givenRequires withdrawal from the frontOf regiments that bore the bruntOf morning’s fray. Their ranks all rivenAre being replaced by fresh, strong men.Great vigilance in the foeman’s Den;He snuffs the stormers. Need it isThat for that fell assault of his,That rout inflicted, and self-scorn—Immoderate in noble natures, tornBy sense of being through slackness overborne—The rebel be given a quick return:The kindest face looks now half stern.Balked of their prey in airs that freeze,Some fierce ones glare like savages.And yet, and yet, strange moments are—Well—blood, and tears, and anguished War!The morning’s battle-ground is seenIn lifted glades, like meadows rare;The blood-drops on the snow-crust thereLike clover in the white-week show—Flushed fields of death, that call again—Call to our men, and not in vain,For that way must the stormers go.3 P.M.The work begins.Light drifts of men thrown forward, fadeIn skirmish-line along the slope,Where some dislodgments must be madeEre the stormer with the strong-hold cope.Lew Wallace, moving to retakeThe heights late lost—(Herewith a break.Storms at the West derange the wires.Doubtless, ere morning, we shall hearThe end; we look for news to cheer—Let Hope fan all her fires.)Next day in large bold hand was seenThe closing bulletin:Victory!Our troops have retrieved the dayBy one grand surge along the line;The spirit that urged them was divine.The first works flooded, naught could stayThe stormers: on! still on!Bayonets for Donelson!Over the ground that morning lostRolled the blue billows, tempest-tossed,Following a hat on the point of a sword.Spite shell and round-shot, grape and canister,Up they climbed without rail or banister—Up the steep hill-sides long and broad,Driving the rebel deep within his works.’Tis nightfall; not an enemy lurksIn sight. The chafing menFret for more fight:“To-night, to-night let us take the Den”But night is treacherous, Grant is wary;Of brave blood be a little chary.Patience! the Fort is good as won;To-morrow, and into Donelson.Later and last.The Fort is ours.A flag came out at early mornBringing surrender. From their towersFloats out the banner late their scorn.In Dover, hut and house are fullOf rebels dead or dying.The national flag is flyingFrom the crammed court-house pinnacle.Great boat-loads of our wounded goTo-day to Nashville. The sleet-winds blow;But all is right: the fight is won,The winter-fight for Donelson.Hurrah!The spell of old defeat is broke,The Habit of victory begun;Grant strikes the war’s first sounding strokeAt Donelson.For lists of killed and wounded, seeThe morrow’s dispatch: to-day ’tis victory.The man who read this to the crowdShouted as the end he gained;And though the unflagging tempest rained,They answered him aloud.And hand grasped hand, and glances metIn happy triumph; eyes grew wet.O, to the punches brewed that nightWent little water. Windows brightBeamed rosy on the sleet without,And from the deep street came the frequent shout;While some in prayer, as these in glee,Blessed heaven for the winter-victory.But others were who wakeful laidIn midnight beds, and early rose,And, feverish in the foggy snows,Snatched the damp paper—wife and maid.The death-list like a river flowsDown the pale sheet,And there the whelming waters meet.Ah God! may Time with happy hasteBring wail and triumph to a waste,And war be done;The battle flag-staff fall athwartThe curs’d ravine, and wither; naughtBe left of trench or gun;The bastion, let it ebb away,Washed with the river bed; and DayIn vain seek Donelson.
The bitter cupOf that hard countermandWhich gave the Envoys up,Still was wormwood in the mouth,And clouds involved the land,When, pelted by sleet in the icy street,About the bulletin-board a bandOf eager, anxious people met,And every wakeful heart was setOn latest news from West or South.“No seeing here,” cries one—“don’t crowd—”“You tall man, pray you, read aloud.”
The bitter cup
Of that hard countermand
Which gave the Envoys up,
Still was wormwood in the mouth,
And clouds involved the land,
When, pelted by sleet in the icy street,
About the bulletin-board a band
Of eager, anxious people met,
And every wakeful heart was set
On latest news from West or South.
“No seeing here,” cries one—“don’t crowd—”
“You tall man, pray you, read aloud.”
Important.We learn that General Grant,Marching from Henry overland,And joined by a force up the Cumberland sent(Some thirty thousand the command),On Wednesday a good position won—Began the siege of Donelson.
Important.
We learn that General Grant,
Marching from Henry overland,
And joined by a force up the Cumberland sent
(Some thirty thousand the command),
On Wednesday a good position won—
Began the siege of Donelson.
The stronghold crowns a river-bluff,A good broad mile of leveled top;Inland the ground rolls offDeep-gorged, and rocky, and broken up—A wilderness of trees and brush.The spaded summit shows the roodsOf fixed intrenchments in their hush;Breast-works and rifle-pits in woodsPerplex the base.—The welcome weatherIs clear and mild; ’tis much like May.The ancient boughs that lace togetherAlong the stream, and hang far forth,Strange with green mistletoe, betrayA dreamy contrast to the North.
The stronghold crowns a river-bluff,
A good broad mile of leveled top;
Inland the ground rolls off
Deep-gorged, and rocky, and broken up—
A wilderness of trees and brush.
The spaded summit shows the roods
Of fixed intrenchments in their hush;
Breast-works and rifle-pits in woods
Perplex the base.—
The welcome weather
Is clear and mild; ’tis much like May.
The ancient boughs that lace together
Along the stream, and hang far forth,
Strange with green mistletoe, betray
A dreamy contrast to the North.
Our troops are full of spirits—sayThe siege won’t prove a creeping one.They purpose not the lingering stayOf old beleaguerers; not that way;But, full ofvimfrom Western prairies won,They’ll make, ere long, a dash at Donelson.
Our troops are full of spirits—say
The siege won’t prove a creeping one.
They purpose not the lingering stay
Of old beleaguerers; not that way;
But, full ofvimfrom Western prairies won,
They’ll make, ere long, a dash at Donelson.
Washed by the storm till the paper grewEvery shade of a streaky blue,That bulletin stood. The next day broughtA second.
Washed by the storm till the paper grew
Every shade of a streaky blue,
That bulletin stood. The next day brought
A second.
Later from the Fort.Grant’s investment is complete—A semicircular one.Both wings the Cumberland’s margin meet,Then, backwkard curving, clasp the rebel seat.On Wednesday this good work was done;But of the doers some lie prone.Each wood, each hill, each glen was fought for;The bold inclosing line we wrought forFlamed with sharpshooters. Each cliff costA limb or life. But back we forcedReserves and all; made good our hold;And so we rest.
Later from the Fort.
Grant’s investment is complete—
A semicircular one.
Both wings the Cumberland’s margin meet,
Then, backwkard curving, clasp the rebel seat.
On Wednesday this good work was done;
But of the doers some lie prone.
Each wood, each hill, each glen was fought for;
The bold inclosing line we wrought for
Flamed with sharpshooters. Each cliff cost
A limb or life. But back we forced
Reserves and all; made good our hold;
And so we rest.
Events unfold.On Thursday added ground was won,A long bold steep: we near the Den.Later the foe came shouting downIn sortie, which was quelled; and thenWe stormed them on their left.A chilly change in the afternoon;The sky, late clear, is now bereftOf sun. Last night the ground froze hard—Rings to the enemy as they runWithin their works. A ramrod bitesThe lip it meets. The cold incitesTo swinging of arms with brisk rebound.Smart blows ’gainst lusty chests resound.
Events unfold.
On Thursday added ground was won,
A long bold steep: we near the Den.
Later the foe came shouting down
In sortie, which was quelled; and then
We stormed them on their left.
A chilly change in the afternoon;
The sky, late clear, is now bereft
Of sun. Last night the ground froze hard—
Rings to the enemy as they run
Within their works. A ramrod bites
The lip it meets. The cold incites
To swinging of arms with brisk rebound.
Smart blows ’gainst lusty chests resound.
Along the outer line we wardA crackle of skirmishing goes on.Our lads creep round on hand and knee,They fight from behind each trunk and stone;And sometimes, flying for refuge, oneFinds ’tis an enemy shares the tree.Some scores are maimed by boughs shot offIn the glades by the Fort’s big gun.We mourn the loss of colonel Morrison,Killed while cheering his regiment on.Their far sharpshooters try our stuff;And ours return them puff for puff:’Tis diamond-cutting-diamond work.Woe on the rebel cannoneerWho shows his head. Our fellows lurkLike Indians that waylay the deerBy the wild salt-spring.—The sky is dun,Fordooming the fall of Donelson.
Along the outer line we ward
A crackle of skirmishing goes on.
Our lads creep round on hand and knee,
They fight from behind each trunk and stone;
And sometimes, flying for refuge, one
Finds ’tis an enemy shares the tree.
Some scores are maimed by boughs shot off
In the glades by the Fort’s big gun.
We mourn the loss of colonel Morrison,
Killed while cheering his regiment on.
Their far sharpshooters try our stuff;
And ours return them puff for puff:
’Tis diamond-cutting-diamond work.
Woe on the rebel cannoneer
Who shows his head. Our fellows lurk
Like Indians that waylay the deer
By the wild salt-spring.—The sky is dun,
Fordooming the fall of Donelson.
Stern weather is all unwonted here.The people of the country ownWe brought it. Yea, the earnest NorthHas elementally issued forthTo storm this Donelson.
Stern weather is all unwonted here.
The people of the country own
We brought it. Yea, the earnest North
Has elementally issued forth
To storm this Donelson.
Further.A yelling routOf ragamuffins broke profuseTo-day from out the Fort.Sole uniform they wore, a sortOf patch, or white badge (as you choose)Upon the arm. But leading these,Or mingling, were men of faceAnd bearing of patrician race,Splendid in courage and gold lace—The officers. Before the breezeMade by their charge, down went our line;But, rallying, charged back in force,And broke the sally; yet with loss.This on the left; upon the rightMeanwhile there was an answering fight;Assailants and assailed reversed.The charge too upward, and not down—Up a steep ridge-side, toward its crown,A strong redoubt. But they who firstGained the fort’s base, and marked the treesFelled, heaped in horned perplexities,And shagged with brush; and swarming thereFierce wasps whose sting was present death—They faltered, drawing bated breath,And felt it was in vain to dare;Yet still, perforce, returned the ball,Firing into the tangled wallTill ordered to come down. They came;But left some comrades in their fame,Red on the ridge in icy wreathAnd hanging gardens of cold Death.But not quite unavenged these fell;Our ranks once out of range, a blastOf shrapnel and quick shellBurst on the rebel horde, still massed,Scattering them pell-mell.(This fighting—judging what we read—Both charge and countercharge,Would seem but Thursday’s told at large,Before in brief reported.—Ed.)Night closed in about the DenMurky and lowering. Ere long, chill rains.A night not soon to be forgot,Reviving old rheumatic painsAnd longings for a cot.
Further.
A yelling rout
Of ragamuffins broke profuse
To-day from out the Fort.
Sole uniform they wore, a sort
Of patch, or white badge (as you choose)
Upon the arm. But leading these,
Or mingling, were men of face
And bearing of patrician race,
Splendid in courage and gold lace—
The officers. Before the breeze
Made by their charge, down went our line;
But, rallying, charged back in force,
And broke the sally; yet with loss.
This on the left; upon the right
Meanwhile there was an answering fight;
Assailants and assailed reversed.
The charge too upward, and not down—
Up a steep ridge-side, toward its crown,
A strong redoubt. But they who first
Gained the fort’s base, and marked the trees
Felled, heaped in horned perplexities,
And shagged with brush; and swarming there
Fierce wasps whose sting was present death—
They faltered, drawing bated breath,
And felt it was in vain to dare;
Yet still, perforce, returned the ball,
Firing into the tangled wall
Till ordered to come down. They came;
But left some comrades in their fame,
Red on the ridge in icy wreath
And hanging gardens of cold Death.
But not quite unavenged these fell;
Our ranks once out of range, a blast
Of shrapnel and quick shell
Burst on the rebel horde, still massed,
Scattering them pell-mell.
(This fighting—judging what we read—
Both charge and countercharge,
Would seem but Thursday’s told at large,
Before in brief reported.—Ed.)
Night closed in about the Den
Murky and lowering. Ere long, chill rains.
A night not soon to be forgot,
Reviving old rheumatic pains
And longings for a cot.
No blankets, overcoats, or tents.Coats thrown aside on the warm march here—We looked not then for changeful cheer;Tents, coats, and blankets too much care.No fires; a fire a mark presents;Near by, the trees show bullet-dents.Rations were eaten cold and raw.The men well soaked, come snow; and more—A midnight sally. Small sleeping done—But such is war;No matter, we’ll have Fort Donelson.
No blankets, overcoats, or tents.
Coats thrown aside on the warm march here—
We looked not then for changeful cheer;
Tents, coats, and blankets too much care.
No fires; a fire a mark presents;
Near by, the trees show bullet-dents.
Rations were eaten cold and raw.
The men well soaked, come snow; and more—
A midnight sally. Small sleeping done—
But such is war;
No matter, we’ll have Fort Donelson.
“Ugh! ugh!’Twill drag along—drag along”Growled a cross patriot in the throng,His battered umbrella like an ambulance-coverRiddled with bullet-holes, spattered all over.“Hurrah for Grant!” cried a stripling shrill;Three urchins joined him with a will,And some of taller stature cheered.Meantime a Copperhead passed; he sneered.“Win or lose,” he pausing said,“Caps fly the same; all boys, mere boys;Any thing to make a noise.Like to see the list of the dead;These ‘craven Southerners’ hold out;Ay, ay, they’ll give you many a bout”“We’ll beat in the end, sir”Firmly said one in staid rebuke,A solid merchant, square and stout.“And do you think it? that way tend, sir”Asked the lean Cooperhead, with a lookOf splenetic pity. “Yes, I do”His yellow death’s head the croaker shook:“The country’s ruined, that I know”A shower of broken ice and snow,In lieu of words, confuted him;They saw him hustled round the corner go,And each by-stander said—Well suited him.
“Ugh! ugh!
’Twill drag along—drag along”
Growled a cross patriot in the throng,
His battered umbrella like an ambulance-cover
Riddled with bullet-holes, spattered all over.
“Hurrah for Grant!” cried a stripling shrill;
Three urchins joined him with a will,
And some of taller stature cheered.
Meantime a Copperhead passed; he sneered.
“Win or lose,” he pausing said,
“Caps fly the same; all boys, mere boys;
Any thing to make a noise.
Like to see the list of the dead;
These ‘craven Southerners’ hold out;
Ay, ay, they’ll give you many a bout”
“We’ll beat in the end, sir”
Firmly said one in staid rebuke,
A solid merchant, square and stout.
“And do you think it? that way tend, sir”
Asked the lean Cooperhead, with a look
Of splenetic pity. “Yes, I do”
His yellow death’s head the croaker shook:
“The country’s ruined, that I know”
A shower of broken ice and snow,
In lieu of words, confuted him;
They saw him hustled round the corner go,
And each by-stander said—Well suited him.
Next day another crowd was seenIn the dark weather’s sleety spleen.Bald-headed to the storm came outA man, who, ’mid a joyous shout,Silently posted this brief sheet:
Next day another crowd was seen
In the dark weather’s sleety spleen.
Bald-headed to the storm came out
A man, who, ’mid a joyous shout,
Silently posted this brief sheet:
Glorious Victory of the Fleet!
Glorious Victory of the Fleet!
Friday’s great event!
Friday’s great event!
The enemy’s water-batteries beat!
The enemy’s water-batteries beat!
We silenced every gun!
We silenced every gun!
The old Commodore’s compliments sentPlump into Donelson!
The old Commodore’s compliments sent
Plump into Donelson!
“Well, well, go on!” exclaimed the crowdTo him who thus much read aloud.“That’s all,” he said. “What! nothing more”“Enough for a cheer, though—hip, hurrah!”“But here’s old Baldy come again—More news!—” And now a different strain.
“Well, well, go on!” exclaimed the crowd
To him who thus much read aloud.
“That’s all,” he said. “What! nothing more”
“Enough for a cheer, though—hip, hurrah!”
“But here’s old Baldy come again—
More news!—” And now a different strain.
(Our own reporter a dispatch compiles,As best he may, from varied sources.)
(Our own reporter a dispatch compiles,
As best he may, from varied sources.)
Large re-enforcements have arrived—Munitions, men, and horses—For Grant, and all debarked, with stores.
Large re-enforcements have arrived—
Munitions, men, and horses—
For Grant, and all debarked, with stores.
The enemy’s field-works extend six miles—The gate still hid; so well contrived.
The enemy’s field-works extend six miles—
The gate still hid; so well contrived.
Yesterday stung us; frozen shoresSnow-clad, and through the drear defiles
Yesterday stung us; frozen shores
Snow-clad, and through the drear defiles
And over the desolate ridges blewA Lapland wind.The main affairWas a good two hours’ steady fightBetween our gun-boats and the Fort.The Louisville’s wheel was smashed outright.A hundred-and-twenty-eight-pound ballCame planet-like through a starboard port,Killing three men, and wounding allThe rest of that gun’s crew,(The captain of the gun was cut in two);Then splintering and ripping went—Nothing could be its continent.In the narrow stream the Louisville,Unhelmed, grew lawless; swung around,And would have thumped and drifted, tillAll the fleet was driven aground,But for the timely order to retire.
And over the desolate ridges blew
A Lapland wind.
The main affair
Was a good two hours’ steady fight
Between our gun-boats and the Fort.
The Louisville’s wheel was smashed outright.
A hundred-and-twenty-eight-pound ball
Came planet-like through a starboard port,
Killing three men, and wounding all
The rest of that gun’s crew,
(The captain of the gun was cut in two);
Then splintering and ripping went—
Nothing could be its continent.
In the narrow stream the Louisville,
Unhelmed, grew lawless; swung around,
And would have thumped and drifted, till
All the fleet was driven aground,
But for the timely order to retire.
Some damage from our fire, ’tis thought,Was done the water-batteries of the Fort.
Some damage from our fire, ’tis thought,
Was done the water-batteries of the Fort.
Little else took place that day,Except the field artillery in lineWould now and then—for love, they say—Exchange a valentine.The old sharpshooting going on.Some plan afoot as yet unknown;So Friday closed round Donelson.
Little else took place that day,
Except the field artillery in line
Would now and then—for love, they say—
Exchange a valentine.
The old sharpshooting going on.
Some plan afoot as yet unknown;
So Friday closed round Donelson.
Later.Great suffering through the night—A stinging one. Our heedless boysWere nipped like blossoms. Some dozenHapless wounded men were frozen.During day being struck down out of sight,And help-cries drowned in roaring noise,They were left just where the skirmish shifted—Left in dense underbrush now-drifted.Some, seeking to crawl in crippled plight,So stiffened—perished.Yet in spiteOf pangs for these, no heart is lost.Hungry, and clothing stiff with frost,Our men declare a nearing sunShall see the fall of Donelson.And this they say, yet not disownThe dark redoubts round Donelson,And ice-glazed corpses, each a stone—A sacrifice to Donelson;They swear it, and swerve not, gazing onA flag, deemed black, flying from Donelson.Some of the wounded in the woodWere cared for by the foe last night,Though he could do them little needed good,Himself being all in shivering plight.The rebel is wrong, but human yet;He’s got a heart, and thrusts a bayonet.He gives us battle with wondrous will—The bluff’s a perverted Bunker Hill.
Later.
Great suffering through the night—
A stinging one. Our heedless boys
Were nipped like blossoms. Some dozen
Hapless wounded men were frozen.
During day being struck down out of sight,
And help-cries drowned in roaring noise,
They were left just where the skirmish shifted—
Left in dense underbrush now-drifted.
Some, seeking to crawl in crippled plight,
So stiffened—perished.
Yet in spite
Of pangs for these, no heart is lost.
Hungry, and clothing stiff with frost,
Our men declare a nearing sun
Shall see the fall of Donelson.
And this they say, yet not disown
The dark redoubts round Donelson,
And ice-glazed corpses, each a stone—
A sacrifice to Donelson;
They swear it, and swerve not, gazing on
A flag, deemed black, flying from Donelson.
Some of the wounded in the wood
Were cared for by the foe last night,
Though he could do them little needed good,
Himself being all in shivering plight.
The rebel is wrong, but human yet;
He’s got a heart, and thrusts a bayonet.
He gives us battle with wondrous will—
The bluff’s a perverted Bunker Hill.
The stillness stealing through the throngThe silent thought and dismal fear revealed;They turned and went,Musing on right and wrongAnd mysteries dimly sealed—Breasting the storm in daring discontent;The storm, whose black flag showed in heaven,As if to say no quarter there was givenTo wounded men in wood,Or true hearts yearning for the good—All fatherless seemed the human soul.But next day brought a bitterer bowl—On the bulletin-board this stood;
The stillness stealing through the throng
The silent thought and dismal fear revealed;
They turned and went,
Musing on right and wrong
And mysteries dimly sealed—
Breasting the storm in daring discontent;
The storm, whose black flag showed in heaven,
As if to say no quarter there was given
To wounded men in wood,
Or true hearts yearning for the good—
All fatherless seemed the human soul.
But next day brought a bitterer bowl—
On the bulletin-board this stood;
Saturday morning at 3 A.M.A stir within the Fort betrayedThat the rebels were getting under arms;Some plot these early birds had laid.But a lancing sleet cut him who staredInto the storm. After some vague alarms,Which left our lads unscared,Out sallied the enemy at dim of dawn,With cavalry and artillery, and wentIn fury at our environment.Under cover of shot and shellThree columns of infantry rolled on,Vomited out of Donelson—Rolled down the slopes like rivers of hell,Surged at our line, and swelled and pouredLike breaking surf. But unsubmergedOur men stood up, except where roaredThe enemy through one gap. We urgedOur all of manhood to the stress,But still showed shattered in our desperateness.Back set the tide,But soon afresh rolled in;And so it swayed from side to side—Far batteries joining in the din,Though sharing in another fray—Till all became an Indian fight,Intricate, dusky, stretching far away,Yet not without spontaneous planHowever tangled showed the plight;Duels all over ’tween man and man,Duels on cliff-side, and down in ravine,Duels at long range, and bone to bone;Duels every where flitting and half unseen.Only by courage good as their own,And strength outlasting theirs,Did our boys at last drive the rebels off.Yet they went not back to their distant lairsIn strong-hold, but loud in scoffMaintained themselves on conquered ground—Uplands; built works, or stalked around.Our right wing bore this onset. NoonBrought calm to Donelson.
Saturday morning at 3 A.M.
A stir within the Fort betrayed
That the rebels were getting under arms;
Some plot these early birds had laid.
But a lancing sleet cut him who stared
Into the storm. After some vague alarms,
Which left our lads unscared,
Out sallied the enemy at dim of dawn,
With cavalry and artillery, and went
In fury at our environment.
Under cover of shot and shell
Three columns of infantry rolled on,
Vomited out of Donelson—
Rolled down the slopes like rivers of hell,
Surged at our line, and swelled and poured
Like breaking surf. But unsubmerged
Our men stood up, except where roared
The enemy through one gap. We urged
Our all of manhood to the stress,
But still showed shattered in our desperateness.
Back set the tide,
But soon afresh rolled in;
And so it swayed from side to side—
Far batteries joining in the din,
Though sharing in another fray—
Till all became an Indian fight,
Intricate, dusky, stretching far away,
Yet not without spontaneous plan
However tangled showed the plight;
Duels all over ’tween man and man,
Duels on cliff-side, and down in ravine,
Duels at long range, and bone to bone;
Duels every where flitting and half unseen.
Only by courage good as their own,
And strength outlasting theirs,
Did our boys at last drive the rebels off.
Yet they went not back to their distant lairs
In strong-hold, but loud in scoff
Maintained themselves on conquered ground—
Uplands; built works, or stalked around.
Our right wing bore this onset. Noon
Brought calm to Donelson.
The reader ceased; the storm beat hard;’Twas day, but the office-gas was lit;Nature retained her sulking-fit,In her hand the shard.Flitting faces took the hueOf that washed bulletin-board in view,And seemed to bear the public griefAs private, and uncertain of relief;Yea, many an earnest heart was won,As broodingly he plodded on,To find in himself some bitter thing,Some hardness in his lot as harrowingAs Donelson.
The reader ceased; the storm beat hard;
’Twas day, but the office-gas was lit;
Nature retained her sulking-fit,
In her hand the shard.
Flitting faces took the hue
Of that washed bulletin-board in view,
And seemed to bear the public grief
As private, and uncertain of relief;
Yea, many an earnest heart was won,
As broodingly he plodded on,
To find in himself some bitter thing,
Some hardness in his lot as harrowing
As Donelson.
That night the board stood barren there,Oft eyes by wistful people passing,Who nothing saw but the rain-beads chasingEach other down the wafered square,As down some storm-beat grave-yard stone.But next day showed—
That night the board stood barren there,
Oft eyes by wistful people passing,
Who nothing saw but the rain-beads chasing
Each other down the wafered square,
As down some storm-beat grave-yard stone.
But next day showed—
More news of last night.
More news of last night.
Story of Saturday afternoon.
Story of Saturday afternoon.
Vicissitudes of the war.
Vicissitudes of the war.
The damaged gun-boats can’t wage fightFor days; so says the Commodore.Thus no diversion can be had.Under a sunless sky of leadOur grim-faced boys in blacked plightGaze toward the ground they held before,And then on Grant. He marks their mood,And hails it, and will turn the same to good.Spite all that they have undergone,Their desperate hearts are set uponThis winter fort, this stubborn fort,This castle of the last resort,This Donelson.
The damaged gun-boats can’t wage fight
For days; so says the Commodore.
Thus no diversion can be had.
Under a sunless sky of lead
Our grim-faced boys in blacked plight
Gaze toward the ground they held before,
And then on Grant. He marks their mood,
And hails it, and will turn the same to good.
Spite all that they have undergone,
Their desperate hearts are set upon
This winter fort, this stubborn fort,
This castle of the last resort,
This Donelson.
1 P.M.
1 P.M.
An order givenRequires withdrawal from the frontOf regiments that bore the bruntOf morning’s fray. Their ranks all rivenAre being replaced by fresh, strong men.Great vigilance in the foeman’s Den;He snuffs the stormers. Need it isThat for that fell assault of his,That rout inflicted, and self-scorn—Immoderate in noble natures, tornBy sense of being through slackness overborne—The rebel be given a quick return:The kindest face looks now half stern.Balked of their prey in airs that freeze,Some fierce ones glare like savages.And yet, and yet, strange moments are—Well—blood, and tears, and anguished War!The morning’s battle-ground is seenIn lifted glades, like meadows rare;The blood-drops on the snow-crust thereLike clover in the white-week show—Flushed fields of death, that call again—Call to our men, and not in vain,For that way must the stormers go.
An order given
Requires withdrawal from the front
Of regiments that bore the brunt
Of morning’s fray. Their ranks all riven
Are being replaced by fresh, strong men.
Great vigilance in the foeman’s Den;
He snuffs the stormers. Need it is
That for that fell assault of his,
That rout inflicted, and self-scorn—
Immoderate in noble natures, torn
By sense of being through slackness overborne—
The rebel be given a quick return:
The kindest face looks now half stern.
Balked of their prey in airs that freeze,
Some fierce ones glare like savages.
And yet, and yet, strange moments are—
Well—blood, and tears, and anguished War!
The morning’s battle-ground is seen
In lifted glades, like meadows rare;
The blood-drops on the snow-crust there
Like clover in the white-week show—
Flushed fields of death, that call again—
Call to our men, and not in vain,
For that way must the stormers go.
3 P.M.
3 P.M.
The work begins.Light drifts of men thrown forward, fadeIn skirmish-line along the slope,Where some dislodgments must be madeEre the stormer with the strong-hold cope.
The work begins.
Light drifts of men thrown forward, fade
In skirmish-line along the slope,
Where some dislodgments must be made
Ere the stormer with the strong-hold cope.
Lew Wallace, moving to retakeThe heights late lost—(Herewith a break.Storms at the West derange the wires.Doubtless, ere morning, we shall hearThe end; we look for news to cheer—Let Hope fan all her fires.)
Lew Wallace, moving to retake
The heights late lost—
(Herewith a break.
Storms at the West derange the wires.
Doubtless, ere morning, we shall hear
The end; we look for news to cheer—
Let Hope fan all her fires.)
Next day in large bold hand was seenThe closing bulletin:
Next day in large bold hand was seen
The closing bulletin:
Victory!Our troops have retrieved the dayBy one grand surge along the line;The spirit that urged them was divine.The first works flooded, naught could stayThe stormers: on! still on!Bayonets for Donelson!
Victory!
Our troops have retrieved the day
By one grand surge along the line;
The spirit that urged them was divine.
The first works flooded, naught could stay
The stormers: on! still on!
Bayonets for Donelson!
Over the ground that morning lostRolled the blue billows, tempest-tossed,Following a hat on the point of a sword.Spite shell and round-shot, grape and canister,Up they climbed without rail or banister—Up the steep hill-sides long and broad,Driving the rebel deep within his works.’Tis nightfall; not an enemy lurksIn sight. The chafing menFret for more fight:“To-night, to-night let us take the Den”But night is treacherous, Grant is wary;Of brave blood be a little chary.Patience! the Fort is good as won;To-morrow, and into Donelson.
Over the ground that morning lost
Rolled the blue billows, tempest-tossed,
Following a hat on the point of a sword.
Spite shell and round-shot, grape and canister,
Up they climbed without rail or banister—
Up the steep hill-sides long and broad,
Driving the rebel deep within his works.
’Tis nightfall; not an enemy lurks
In sight. The chafing men
Fret for more fight:
“To-night, to-night let us take the Den”
But night is treacherous, Grant is wary;
Of brave blood be a little chary.
Patience! the Fort is good as won;
To-morrow, and into Donelson.
Later and last.
Later and last.
The Fort is ours.
The Fort is ours.
A flag came out at early mornBringing surrender. From their towersFloats out the banner late their scorn.In Dover, hut and house are fullOf rebels dead or dying.The national flag is flyingFrom the crammed court-house pinnacle.Great boat-loads of our wounded goTo-day to Nashville. The sleet-winds blow;But all is right: the fight is won,The winter-fight for Donelson.Hurrah!The spell of old defeat is broke,The Habit of victory begun;Grant strikes the war’s first sounding strokeAt Donelson.
A flag came out at early morn
Bringing surrender. From their towers
Floats out the banner late their scorn.
In Dover, hut and house are full
Of rebels dead or dying.
The national flag is flying
From the crammed court-house pinnacle.
Great boat-loads of our wounded go
To-day to Nashville. The sleet-winds blow;
But all is right: the fight is won,
The winter-fight for Donelson.
Hurrah!
The spell of old defeat is broke,
The Habit of victory begun;
Grant strikes the war’s first sounding stroke
At Donelson.
For lists of killed and wounded, seeThe morrow’s dispatch: to-day ’tis victory.
For lists of killed and wounded, see
The morrow’s dispatch: to-day ’tis victory.
The man who read this to the crowdShouted as the end he gained;And though the unflagging tempest rained,They answered him aloud.And hand grasped hand, and glances metIn happy triumph; eyes grew wet.O, to the punches brewed that nightWent little water. Windows brightBeamed rosy on the sleet without,And from the deep street came the frequent shout;While some in prayer, as these in glee,Blessed heaven for the winter-victory.
The man who read this to the crowd
Shouted as the end he gained;
And though the unflagging tempest rained,
They answered him aloud.
And hand grasped hand, and glances met
In happy triumph; eyes grew wet.
O, to the punches brewed that night
Went little water. Windows bright
Beamed rosy on the sleet without,
And from the deep street came the frequent shout;
While some in prayer, as these in glee,
Blessed heaven for the winter-victory.
But others were who wakeful laidIn midnight beds, and early rose,And, feverish in the foggy snows,Snatched the damp paper—wife and maid.The death-list like a river flowsDown the pale sheet,And there the whelming waters meet.
But others were who wakeful laid
In midnight beds, and early rose,
And, feverish in the foggy snows,
Snatched the damp paper—wife and maid.
The death-list like a river flows
Down the pale sheet,
And there the whelming waters meet.
Ah God! may Time with happy hasteBring wail and triumph to a waste,And war be done;The battle flag-staff fall athwartThe curs’d ravine, and wither; naughtBe left of trench or gun;The bastion, let it ebb away,Washed with the river bed; and DayIn vain seek Donelson.
Ah God! may Time with happy haste
Bring wail and triumph to a waste,
And war be done;
The battle flag-staff fall athwart
The curs’d ravine, and wither; naught
Be left of trench or gun;
The bastion, let it ebb away,
Washed with the river bed; and Day
In vain seek Donelson.