The lioness whelped, and the sturdy cubWas seized by an eagle and carried up,And homed for a while in an eagle's nest,And slept for a while on an eagle's breast;And the eagle taught it the eagle's song:"To be stanch, and valiant, and free, and strong!"The lion whelp sprang from the eyrie nest,From the lofty crag where the queen birds rest;He fought the King on the spreading plain,And drove him back o'er the foaming main.He held the land as a thrifty chief,And reared his cattle, and reaped his sheaf,Nor sought the help of a foreign hand,Yet welcomed all to his own free land!Two were the sons that the country boreTo the Northern lakes and the Southern shore;And Chivalry dwelt with the Southern son,And Industry lived with the Northern one.Tears for the time when they broke and fought!Tears was the price of the union wrought!And the land was red in a sea of blood,Where brother for brother had swelled the flood!And now that the two are one again,Behold on their shield the word "Refrain!"And the lion cubs twain sing the eagle's song:"To be stanch, and valiant, and free, and strong!"For the eagle's beak, and the lion's paw,And the lion's fangs, and the eagle's claw,And the eagle's swoop, and the lion's might,And the lion's leap, and the eagle's sight,Shall guard the flag with the word "Refrain!"Now that the two are one again!Richard Mansfield.
The lioness whelped, and the sturdy cubWas seized by an eagle and carried up,And homed for a while in an eagle's nest,And slept for a while on an eagle's breast;And the eagle taught it the eagle's song:"To be stanch, and valiant, and free, and strong!"The lion whelp sprang from the eyrie nest,From the lofty crag where the queen birds rest;He fought the King on the spreading plain,And drove him back o'er the foaming main.He held the land as a thrifty chief,And reared his cattle, and reaped his sheaf,Nor sought the help of a foreign hand,Yet welcomed all to his own free land!Two were the sons that the country boreTo the Northern lakes and the Southern shore;And Chivalry dwelt with the Southern son,And Industry lived with the Northern one.Tears for the time when they broke and fought!Tears was the price of the union wrought!And the land was red in a sea of blood,Where brother for brother had swelled the flood!And now that the two are one again,Behold on their shield the word "Refrain!"And the lion cubs twain sing the eagle's song:"To be stanch, and valiant, and free, and strong!"For the eagle's beak, and the lion's paw,And the lion's fangs, and the eagle's claw,And the eagle's swoop, and the lion's might,And the lion's leap, and the eagle's sight,Shall guard the flag with the word "Refrain!"Now that the two are one again!Richard Mansfield.
The lioness whelped, and the sturdy cubWas seized by an eagle and carried up,And homed for a while in an eagle's nest,And slept for a while on an eagle's breast;And the eagle taught it the eagle's song:"To be stanch, and valiant, and free, and strong!"
The lion whelp sprang from the eyrie nest,From the lofty crag where the queen birds rest;He fought the King on the spreading plain,And drove him back o'er the foaming main.He held the land as a thrifty chief,And reared his cattle, and reaped his sheaf,Nor sought the help of a foreign hand,Yet welcomed all to his own free land!
Two were the sons that the country boreTo the Northern lakes and the Southern shore;And Chivalry dwelt with the Southern son,And Industry lived with the Northern one.Tears for the time when they broke and fought!Tears was the price of the union wrought!And the land was red in a sea of blood,Where brother for brother had swelled the flood!
And now that the two are one again,Behold on their shield the word "Refrain!"And the lion cubs twain sing the eagle's song:"To be stanch, and valiant, and free, and strong!"For the eagle's beak, and the lion's paw,And the lion's fangs, and the eagle's claw,And the eagle's swoop, and the lion's might,And the lion's leap, and the eagle's sight,Shall guard the flag with the word "Refrain!"Now that the two are one again!
Richard Mansfield.
RECONSTRUCTION AND AFTER
The war was over, but three great questions remained to be settled. How were the people of the South to be regarded? How was the Union to be reconstructed? What was to be done with the three millions of negroes who had been given their freedom? These were the questions which came before the Thirty-Ninth Congress.
The war was over, but three great questions remained to be settled. How were the people of the South to be regarded? How was the Union to be reconstructed? What was to be done with the three millions of negroes who had been given their freedom? These were the questions which came before the Thirty-Ninth Congress.
TO THE THIRTY-NINTH CONGRESS
O people-chosen! are ye notLikewise the chosen of the Lord,To do His will and speak His word?From the loud thunder-storm of warNot man alone hath called ye forth,But He, the God of all the earth!The torch of vengeance in your handsHe quenches; unto Him belongsThe solemn recompense of wrongs.Enough of blood the land has seen,And not by cell or gallows-stairShall ye the way of God prepare.Say to the pardon-seekers: KeepYour manhood, bend no suppliant knees,Nor palter with unworthy pleas.Above your voices sounds the wailOf starving men; we shut in vainOur eyes toPillow's ghastly stain.What words can drown that bitter cry?What tears wash out the stain of death?What oaths confirm your broken faith?From you alone the guarantyOf union, freedom, peace, we claim;We urge no conqueror's terms of shame.Alas! no victor's pride is ours;We bend above our triumphs wonLike David o'er his rebel son.Be men, not beggars. Cancel allBy one brave, generous action: trustYour better instincts, and be just!Make all men peers before the law,Take hands from off the negro's throat,Give black and white an equal vote.Keep all your forfeit lives and lands,But give the common law's redressTo labor's utter nakedness.Revive the old heroic will;Be in the right as brave and strongAs ye have proved yourselves in wrong.Defeat shall then be victory,Your loss the wealth of full amends,And hate be love, and foes be friends.Then buried be the dreadful past,Its common slain be mourned, and letAll memories soften to regret.Then shall the Union's mother-heartHer lost and wandering ones recall,Forgiving and restoring all,—And Freedom break her marble tranceAbove the Capitolian dome,Stretch hands, and bid ye welcome home!John Greenleaf Whittier.
O people-chosen! are ye notLikewise the chosen of the Lord,To do His will and speak His word?From the loud thunder-storm of warNot man alone hath called ye forth,But He, the God of all the earth!The torch of vengeance in your handsHe quenches; unto Him belongsThe solemn recompense of wrongs.Enough of blood the land has seen,And not by cell or gallows-stairShall ye the way of God prepare.Say to the pardon-seekers: KeepYour manhood, bend no suppliant knees,Nor palter with unworthy pleas.Above your voices sounds the wailOf starving men; we shut in vainOur eyes toPillow's ghastly stain.What words can drown that bitter cry?What tears wash out the stain of death?What oaths confirm your broken faith?From you alone the guarantyOf union, freedom, peace, we claim;We urge no conqueror's terms of shame.Alas! no victor's pride is ours;We bend above our triumphs wonLike David o'er his rebel son.Be men, not beggars. Cancel allBy one brave, generous action: trustYour better instincts, and be just!Make all men peers before the law,Take hands from off the negro's throat,Give black and white an equal vote.Keep all your forfeit lives and lands,But give the common law's redressTo labor's utter nakedness.Revive the old heroic will;Be in the right as brave and strongAs ye have proved yourselves in wrong.Defeat shall then be victory,Your loss the wealth of full amends,And hate be love, and foes be friends.Then buried be the dreadful past,Its common slain be mourned, and letAll memories soften to regret.Then shall the Union's mother-heartHer lost and wandering ones recall,Forgiving and restoring all,—And Freedom break her marble tranceAbove the Capitolian dome,Stretch hands, and bid ye welcome home!John Greenleaf Whittier.
O people-chosen! are ye notLikewise the chosen of the Lord,To do His will and speak His word?
From the loud thunder-storm of warNot man alone hath called ye forth,But He, the God of all the earth!
The torch of vengeance in your handsHe quenches; unto Him belongsThe solemn recompense of wrongs.
Enough of blood the land has seen,And not by cell or gallows-stairShall ye the way of God prepare.
Say to the pardon-seekers: KeepYour manhood, bend no suppliant knees,Nor palter with unworthy pleas.
Above your voices sounds the wailOf starving men; we shut in vainOur eyes toPillow's ghastly stain.
What words can drown that bitter cry?What tears wash out the stain of death?What oaths confirm your broken faith?
From you alone the guarantyOf union, freedom, peace, we claim;We urge no conqueror's terms of shame.
Alas! no victor's pride is ours;We bend above our triumphs wonLike David o'er his rebel son.
Be men, not beggars. Cancel allBy one brave, generous action: trustYour better instincts, and be just!
Make all men peers before the law,Take hands from off the negro's throat,Give black and white an equal vote.
Keep all your forfeit lives and lands,But give the common law's redressTo labor's utter nakedness.
Revive the old heroic will;Be in the right as brave and strongAs ye have proved yourselves in wrong.
Defeat shall then be victory,Your loss the wealth of full amends,And hate be love, and foes be friends.
Then buried be the dreadful past,Its common slain be mourned, and letAll memories soften to regret.
Then shall the Union's mother-heartHer lost and wandering ones recall,Forgiving and restoring all,—
And Freedom break her marble tranceAbove the Capitolian dome,Stretch hands, and bid ye welcome home!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
Few men could have been worse fitted for the delicate task of reconstruction than Andrew Johnson. But even his policy, narrow as it was, was not narrow enough to suit the radical Republicans in Congress.
Few men could have been worse fitted for the delicate task of reconstruction than Andrew Johnson. But even his policy, narrow as it was, was not narrow enough to suit the radical Republicans in Congress.
"MR. JOHNSON'S POLICY OF RECONSTRUCTION"
SOME COMMENT FROM THE BOYS IN BLUE
"His policy," do you say?By heaven, who says so lies in his throat!'Twas our policy, boys, from our muster-day,Through skirmish and bivouac, march and fray—"His policy," do you say?"His policy"—do but note!'Tis a pitiful falsehood for you to say.Did he bid all the stars in our banner float?Was it he shouted Union from every throatThrough the long war's weary day?"His policy"—how does it hap?Has the old word "Union" no meaning, pray?What meant the "U. S." upon every cap—Upon every button, belt, and strap?'Twas our policy all the way."His policy?" That may doFor a silly and empty political brag;But 'twas held by every Boy in BlueWhen he lifted his right hand, stanch and true,And swore to sustain the flag.We are with him none the less—He works for the same great end we sought;We feel for the South in its deep distress,And to get the old Union restored we press—'Twas for this we enlisted and fought.Be it his or whose it may,'Tis the policy, boys, that we avow;There were noble hearts in the ranks of grayAs they proved on many a bloody day,And we would not oppress them now."Let us all forgive and forget:"It was thus Grant spoke to General Lee,When, with wounds still raw and bayonets wet,The chiefs of the two great armies metBeneath the old apple-tree.Charles Graham Halpine.
"His policy," do you say?By heaven, who says so lies in his throat!'Twas our policy, boys, from our muster-day,Through skirmish and bivouac, march and fray—"His policy," do you say?"His policy"—do but note!'Tis a pitiful falsehood for you to say.Did he bid all the stars in our banner float?Was it he shouted Union from every throatThrough the long war's weary day?"His policy"—how does it hap?Has the old word "Union" no meaning, pray?What meant the "U. S." upon every cap—Upon every button, belt, and strap?'Twas our policy all the way."His policy?" That may doFor a silly and empty political brag;But 'twas held by every Boy in BlueWhen he lifted his right hand, stanch and true,And swore to sustain the flag.We are with him none the less—He works for the same great end we sought;We feel for the South in its deep distress,And to get the old Union restored we press—'Twas for this we enlisted and fought.Be it his or whose it may,'Tis the policy, boys, that we avow;There were noble hearts in the ranks of grayAs they proved on many a bloody day,And we would not oppress them now."Let us all forgive and forget:"It was thus Grant spoke to General Lee,When, with wounds still raw and bayonets wet,The chiefs of the two great armies metBeneath the old apple-tree.Charles Graham Halpine.
"His policy," do you say?By heaven, who says so lies in his throat!'Twas our policy, boys, from our muster-day,Through skirmish and bivouac, march and fray—"His policy," do you say?
"His policy"—do but note!'Tis a pitiful falsehood for you to say.Did he bid all the stars in our banner float?Was it he shouted Union from every throatThrough the long war's weary day?
"His policy"—how does it hap?Has the old word "Union" no meaning, pray?What meant the "U. S." upon every cap—Upon every button, belt, and strap?'Twas our policy all the way.
"His policy?" That may doFor a silly and empty political brag;But 'twas held by every Boy in BlueWhen he lifted his right hand, stanch and true,And swore to sustain the flag.
We are with him none the less—He works for the same great end we sought;We feel for the South in its deep distress,And to get the old Union restored we press—'Twas for this we enlisted and fought.
Be it his or whose it may,'Tis the policy, boys, that we avow;There were noble hearts in the ranks of grayAs they proved on many a bloody day,And we would not oppress them now.
"Let us all forgive and forget:"It was thus Grant spoke to General Lee,When, with wounds still raw and bayonets wet,The chiefs of the two great armies metBeneath the old apple-tree.
Charles Graham Halpine.
The leader of this coterie was Thaddeus Stevens. He declared the South was in a state of anarchy, demanded that it be placed under military rule and that suffrage be extended to the negroes. In February, 1868, he introduced a resolution that "Andrew Johnson, President of the United States, be impeached of high crimes and misdemeanors in office," but at the trial which followed the proceedings were shown to have been actuated by partisan bitterness and the President was acquitted. The verdict was a heavy blow to Stevens. He had burned himself out and died in August.
The leader of this coterie was Thaddeus Stevens. He declared the South was in a state of anarchy, demanded that it be placed under military rule and that suffrage be extended to the negroes. In February, 1868, he introduced a resolution that "Andrew Johnson, President of the United States, be impeached of high crimes and misdemeanors in office," but at the trial which followed the proceedings were shown to have been actuated by partisan bitterness and the President was acquitted. The verdict was a heavy blow to Stevens. He had burned himself out and died in August.
THADDEUS STEVENS
DIED AUG. 11, 1868
An eye with the piercing eagle's fire,Not the look of the gentle dove;Not his the form that men admire,Nor the face that tender women love.Working first for his daily breadWith the humblest toilers of the earth;Never walking with free, proud tread—Crippled and halting from his birth.Wearing outside a thorny suitOf sharp, sarcastic, stinging power;Sweet at the core as sweetest fruit,Or inmost heart of fragrant flower.Fierce and trenchant, the haughty foeFelt his words like a sword of flame;But to the humble, poor, and lowSoft as a woman's his accents came.Not his the closest, tenderest friend—No children blessed his lonely way;But down in his heart until the endThe tender dream of his boyhood lay.His mother's faith he held not fast;But he loved her living, mourned her dead,And he kept her memory to the lastAs green as the sod above her bed.He held as sacred in his homeWhatever things she wrought or planned,And never suffered change to comeTo the work of her "industrious hand."For her who pillowed first his headHe heaped with a wealth of flowers the grave,While he chose to sleep in an unmarked bed,By his Master's humblest poor—the slave!Suppose he swerved from the straightest course—That the things he should not do he did—That he hid from the eyes of mortals, close,Such sins as you and I have hid?Or suppose him worse than you; what then?Judge not, lest you be judged for sin!One said who knew the hearts of men:Who loveth much shall a pardon win.The Prince of Glory for sinners bled;His soul was bought with a royal price;And his beautified feet on flowers may treadTo-day with his Lord in Paradise.Phœbe Cary.
An eye with the piercing eagle's fire,Not the look of the gentle dove;Not his the form that men admire,Nor the face that tender women love.Working first for his daily breadWith the humblest toilers of the earth;Never walking with free, proud tread—Crippled and halting from his birth.Wearing outside a thorny suitOf sharp, sarcastic, stinging power;Sweet at the core as sweetest fruit,Or inmost heart of fragrant flower.Fierce and trenchant, the haughty foeFelt his words like a sword of flame;But to the humble, poor, and lowSoft as a woman's his accents came.Not his the closest, tenderest friend—No children blessed his lonely way;But down in his heart until the endThe tender dream of his boyhood lay.His mother's faith he held not fast;But he loved her living, mourned her dead,And he kept her memory to the lastAs green as the sod above her bed.He held as sacred in his homeWhatever things she wrought or planned,And never suffered change to comeTo the work of her "industrious hand."For her who pillowed first his headHe heaped with a wealth of flowers the grave,While he chose to sleep in an unmarked bed,By his Master's humblest poor—the slave!Suppose he swerved from the straightest course—That the things he should not do he did—That he hid from the eyes of mortals, close,Such sins as you and I have hid?Or suppose him worse than you; what then?Judge not, lest you be judged for sin!One said who knew the hearts of men:Who loveth much shall a pardon win.The Prince of Glory for sinners bled;His soul was bought with a royal price;And his beautified feet on flowers may treadTo-day with his Lord in Paradise.Phœbe Cary.
An eye with the piercing eagle's fire,Not the look of the gentle dove;Not his the form that men admire,Nor the face that tender women love.
Working first for his daily breadWith the humblest toilers of the earth;Never walking with free, proud tread—Crippled and halting from his birth.
Wearing outside a thorny suitOf sharp, sarcastic, stinging power;Sweet at the core as sweetest fruit,Or inmost heart of fragrant flower.
Fierce and trenchant, the haughty foeFelt his words like a sword of flame;But to the humble, poor, and lowSoft as a woman's his accents came.
Not his the closest, tenderest friend—No children blessed his lonely way;But down in his heart until the endThe tender dream of his boyhood lay.
His mother's faith he held not fast;But he loved her living, mourned her dead,And he kept her memory to the lastAs green as the sod above her bed.
He held as sacred in his homeWhatever things she wrought or planned,And never suffered change to comeTo the work of her "industrious hand."
For her who pillowed first his headHe heaped with a wealth of flowers the grave,While he chose to sleep in an unmarked bed,By his Master's humblest poor—the slave!
Suppose he swerved from the straightest course—That the things he should not do he did—That he hid from the eyes of mortals, close,Such sins as you and I have hid?
Or suppose him worse than you; what then?Judge not, lest you be judged for sin!One said who knew the hearts of men:Who loveth much shall a pardon win.
The Prince of Glory for sinners bled;His soul was bought with a royal price;And his beautified feet on flowers may treadTo-day with his Lord in Paradise.
Phœbe Cary.
The South's condition meanwhile was pitiful indeed. Negroes, led by "carpet-baggers" from the North, secured the ascendancy in state government. Millions of dollars were wasted or stolen, and it looked for a time as though a great section of the country was doomed to negro domination.
The South's condition meanwhile was pitiful indeed. Negroes, led by "carpet-baggers" from the North, secured the ascendancy in state government. Millions of dollars were wasted or stolen, and it looked for a time as though a great section of the country was doomed to negro domination.
SOUTH CAROLINA TO THE STATES OF THE NORTH
ESPECIALLY TO THOSE THAT FORMED A PART OF THE ORIGINAL THIRTEEN
I lift these hands with iron fetters banded:Beneath the scornful sunlight and cold starsI rear my once imperial forehead brandedBy alien shame's immedicable scars;Like some pale captive, shunned by all the nations,I crouch unpitied, quivering and apart—Laden with countless woes and desolations,The life-blood freezing round a broken heart!About my feet, splashed red with blood of slaughters,My children gathering in wild, mournful throngs,Despairing sons, frail infants, stricken daughters,Rehearse the awful burden of their wrongs;Vain is their cry, and worse than vain their pleading:I turn from stormy breasts, from yearning eyes,To mark where Freedom's outraged form receding,Wanes in chill shadow down the midnight skies!I wooed her once in wild tempestuous places,The purple vintage of my soul outpoured,To win and keep her unrestrained embraces,What time the olive-crown o'ertopped the sword;Oh! northmen, with your gallant heroes blending,Mine, in old years, for this sweet goddess died;But now—ah! shame, all other shame transcending!Yourpitiless hands have torn her from my side.What! 'tis a tyrant-party's treacherous action—Your hand is clean, your conscience clear, ye sigh;Ay! but ere now your sires had throttled faction,Or, pealed o'er half the world their battle-cry;Its voice outrung from solemn mountain-passesSwept by wild storm-winds of the Atlantic strand,To where the swart Sierras' sullen grassesDroop in low languors of the sunset-land!Never, since earthly States began their story,Hath any suffered, bided, borne like me:At last, recalling all mine ancient glory,I vowed my fettered Commonwealth to free:Even at the thought, beside the prostrate columnOf chartered rights, which blasted lay and dim—Uprose my noblest son with purpose solemn,While, host on host, his brethren followedhim:Wrong, grasped bytruth, arraigned bylaw(whose soberMajestic mandates rule o'er change and time)—Smit by theballot, like some flushed October,Reeled in the Autumn rankness of his crime;Struck, tortured, pierced—but not a blow returning.The steadfast phalanx of my honored bravesPlanted their bloodless flag where sunrise burning,Flashed a new splendor o'er our martyrs' graves!What then? Oh, sister States! what welcome omenOf love and concord crossed our brightening blue,The foes we vanquished, are they notyourfoemen,Our laws upheld, your sacred safeguards, too?Yet scarce had victory crowned our grand endeavor,And peace crept out from shadowy glooms remote—Than—as if bared to blast all hope forever,Your tyrant's sword shone glittering at my throat!Once more my bursting chains were reunited,Once more barbarian plaudits wildly rungO'er the last promise of deliverance blighted,The prostrate purpose and the palsied tongue:Ah! faithless sisters, 'neath my swift undoing,Peers the black presage of your wrath to come;Above your heads are signal clouds of ruin,Whose lightnings flash, whose thunders are not dumb!There towers a judgment-seat beyond our seeing;There lives a Judge, whom none can bribe or blind;Before whose dread decree, your spirit fleeing,May reap the whirlwind, having sown the wind:I, in that day of justice, fierce and torrid,When blood—yourblood—outpours like poisoned wine,Pointing to these chained limbs, this blasted forehead,May mock your ruin, as ye mocked at mine!Paul Hamilton Hayne.
I lift these hands with iron fetters banded:Beneath the scornful sunlight and cold starsI rear my once imperial forehead brandedBy alien shame's immedicable scars;Like some pale captive, shunned by all the nations,I crouch unpitied, quivering and apart—Laden with countless woes and desolations,The life-blood freezing round a broken heart!About my feet, splashed red with blood of slaughters,My children gathering in wild, mournful throngs,Despairing sons, frail infants, stricken daughters,Rehearse the awful burden of their wrongs;Vain is their cry, and worse than vain their pleading:I turn from stormy breasts, from yearning eyes,To mark where Freedom's outraged form receding,Wanes in chill shadow down the midnight skies!I wooed her once in wild tempestuous places,The purple vintage of my soul outpoured,To win and keep her unrestrained embraces,What time the olive-crown o'ertopped the sword;Oh! northmen, with your gallant heroes blending,Mine, in old years, for this sweet goddess died;But now—ah! shame, all other shame transcending!Yourpitiless hands have torn her from my side.What! 'tis a tyrant-party's treacherous action—Your hand is clean, your conscience clear, ye sigh;Ay! but ere now your sires had throttled faction,Or, pealed o'er half the world their battle-cry;Its voice outrung from solemn mountain-passesSwept by wild storm-winds of the Atlantic strand,To where the swart Sierras' sullen grassesDroop in low languors of the sunset-land!Never, since earthly States began their story,Hath any suffered, bided, borne like me:At last, recalling all mine ancient glory,I vowed my fettered Commonwealth to free:Even at the thought, beside the prostrate columnOf chartered rights, which blasted lay and dim—Uprose my noblest son with purpose solemn,While, host on host, his brethren followedhim:Wrong, grasped bytruth, arraigned bylaw(whose soberMajestic mandates rule o'er change and time)—Smit by theballot, like some flushed October,Reeled in the Autumn rankness of his crime;Struck, tortured, pierced—but not a blow returning.The steadfast phalanx of my honored bravesPlanted their bloodless flag where sunrise burning,Flashed a new splendor o'er our martyrs' graves!What then? Oh, sister States! what welcome omenOf love and concord crossed our brightening blue,The foes we vanquished, are they notyourfoemen,Our laws upheld, your sacred safeguards, too?Yet scarce had victory crowned our grand endeavor,And peace crept out from shadowy glooms remote—Than—as if bared to blast all hope forever,Your tyrant's sword shone glittering at my throat!Once more my bursting chains were reunited,Once more barbarian plaudits wildly rungO'er the last promise of deliverance blighted,The prostrate purpose and the palsied tongue:Ah! faithless sisters, 'neath my swift undoing,Peers the black presage of your wrath to come;Above your heads are signal clouds of ruin,Whose lightnings flash, whose thunders are not dumb!There towers a judgment-seat beyond our seeing;There lives a Judge, whom none can bribe or blind;Before whose dread decree, your spirit fleeing,May reap the whirlwind, having sown the wind:I, in that day of justice, fierce and torrid,When blood—yourblood—outpours like poisoned wine,Pointing to these chained limbs, this blasted forehead,May mock your ruin, as ye mocked at mine!Paul Hamilton Hayne.
I lift these hands with iron fetters banded:Beneath the scornful sunlight and cold starsI rear my once imperial forehead brandedBy alien shame's immedicable scars;Like some pale captive, shunned by all the nations,I crouch unpitied, quivering and apart—Laden with countless woes and desolations,The life-blood freezing round a broken heart!
About my feet, splashed red with blood of slaughters,My children gathering in wild, mournful throngs,Despairing sons, frail infants, stricken daughters,Rehearse the awful burden of their wrongs;Vain is their cry, and worse than vain their pleading:I turn from stormy breasts, from yearning eyes,To mark where Freedom's outraged form receding,Wanes in chill shadow down the midnight skies!
I wooed her once in wild tempestuous places,The purple vintage of my soul outpoured,To win and keep her unrestrained embraces,What time the olive-crown o'ertopped the sword;Oh! northmen, with your gallant heroes blending,Mine, in old years, for this sweet goddess died;But now—ah! shame, all other shame transcending!Yourpitiless hands have torn her from my side.
What! 'tis a tyrant-party's treacherous action—Your hand is clean, your conscience clear, ye sigh;Ay! but ere now your sires had throttled faction,Or, pealed o'er half the world their battle-cry;Its voice outrung from solemn mountain-passesSwept by wild storm-winds of the Atlantic strand,To where the swart Sierras' sullen grassesDroop in low languors of the sunset-land!
Never, since earthly States began their story,Hath any suffered, bided, borne like me:At last, recalling all mine ancient glory,I vowed my fettered Commonwealth to free:Even at the thought, beside the prostrate columnOf chartered rights, which blasted lay and dim—Uprose my noblest son with purpose solemn,While, host on host, his brethren followedhim:
Wrong, grasped bytruth, arraigned bylaw(whose soberMajestic mandates rule o'er change and time)—Smit by theballot, like some flushed October,Reeled in the Autumn rankness of his crime;Struck, tortured, pierced—but not a blow returning.The steadfast phalanx of my honored bravesPlanted their bloodless flag where sunrise burning,Flashed a new splendor o'er our martyrs' graves!
What then? Oh, sister States! what welcome omenOf love and concord crossed our brightening blue,The foes we vanquished, are they notyourfoemen,Our laws upheld, your sacred safeguards, too?Yet scarce had victory crowned our grand endeavor,And peace crept out from shadowy glooms remote—Than—as if bared to blast all hope forever,Your tyrant's sword shone glittering at my throat!
Once more my bursting chains were reunited,Once more barbarian plaudits wildly rungO'er the last promise of deliverance blighted,The prostrate purpose and the palsied tongue:Ah! faithless sisters, 'neath my swift undoing,Peers the black presage of your wrath to come;Above your heads are signal clouds of ruin,Whose lightnings flash, whose thunders are not dumb!
There towers a judgment-seat beyond our seeing;There lives a Judge, whom none can bribe or blind;Before whose dread decree, your spirit fleeing,May reap the whirlwind, having sown the wind:I, in that day of justice, fierce and torrid,When blood—yourblood—outpours like poisoned wine,Pointing to these chained limbs, this blasted forehead,May mock your ruin, as ye mocked at mine!
Paul Hamilton Hayne.
But the white people of the South rallied at last, asserted their supremacy, and seized the reins of government. The famous Ku-Klux Klan was organized and spread terror among the negroes, by its sure and swift administration of punishment—just and unjust.
But the white people of the South rallied at last, asserted their supremacy, and seized the reins of government. The famous Ku-Klux Klan was organized and spread terror among the negroes, by its sure and swift administration of punishment—just and unjust.
KU-KLUX
We have sent him seeds of the melon's core,And nailed a warning upon his door;By the Ku-Klux laws we can do no more.Down in the hollow, 'mid crib and stack,The roof of his low-porched house looms black,Not a line of light at the doorsill's crack.Yet arm and mount! and mask and ride!The hounds can sense though the fox may hide!And for a word too much men oft have died.The clouds blow heavy towards the moon.The edge of the storm will reach it soon.The killdee cries and the lonesome loon.The clouds shall flush with a wilder glareThan the lightning makes with his angled flare,When the Ku-Klux verdict is given there.In the pause of the thunder rolling low,A rifle's answer—who shall knowFrom the wind's fierce hurl and the rain's black blow?Only the signature written grimAt the end of the message brought to him,—A hempen rope and a twisted limb.So arm and mount! and mask and ride!The hounds can sense though the fox may hide!And for a word too much men oft have died.Madison Cawein.
We have sent him seeds of the melon's core,And nailed a warning upon his door;By the Ku-Klux laws we can do no more.Down in the hollow, 'mid crib and stack,The roof of his low-porched house looms black,Not a line of light at the doorsill's crack.Yet arm and mount! and mask and ride!The hounds can sense though the fox may hide!And for a word too much men oft have died.The clouds blow heavy towards the moon.The edge of the storm will reach it soon.The killdee cries and the lonesome loon.The clouds shall flush with a wilder glareThan the lightning makes with his angled flare,When the Ku-Klux verdict is given there.In the pause of the thunder rolling low,A rifle's answer—who shall knowFrom the wind's fierce hurl and the rain's black blow?Only the signature written grimAt the end of the message brought to him,—A hempen rope and a twisted limb.So arm and mount! and mask and ride!The hounds can sense though the fox may hide!And for a word too much men oft have died.Madison Cawein.
We have sent him seeds of the melon's core,And nailed a warning upon his door;By the Ku-Klux laws we can do no more.
Down in the hollow, 'mid crib and stack,The roof of his low-porched house looms black,Not a line of light at the doorsill's crack.
Yet arm and mount! and mask and ride!The hounds can sense though the fox may hide!And for a word too much men oft have died.
The clouds blow heavy towards the moon.The edge of the storm will reach it soon.The killdee cries and the lonesome loon.
The clouds shall flush with a wilder glareThan the lightning makes with his angled flare,When the Ku-Klux verdict is given there.
In the pause of the thunder rolling low,A rifle's answer—who shall knowFrom the wind's fierce hurl and the rain's black blow?
Only the signature written grimAt the end of the message brought to him,—A hempen rope and a twisted limb.
So arm and mount! and mask and ride!The hounds can sense though the fox may hide!And for a word too much men oft have died.
Madison Cawein.
The North kept its hands off and permitted the South to work out its own destiny—which it did blindly and blunderingly enough. Yet bravely, too; for it had only ashes to build from. But from the ashes a new land arose, and a better one.
The North kept its hands off and permitted the South to work out its own destiny—which it did blindly and blunderingly enough. Yet bravely, too; for it had only ashes to build from. But from the ashes a new land arose, and a better one.
THE REAR GUARD
The guns are hushed. On every field once flowingWith war's red flood May's breath of peace is shed,And, spring's young grass and gracious flowers are growingAbove the dead.Ye gray old men whom we this day are greeting,Honor to you, honor and love and trust!Brave to the brave. Your soldier hands are meetingAcross their dust.Bravely they fought who charged when flags were flyingIn cannon's crash, in screech and scream of shell;Bravely they fell, who lay alone and dyingIn battle's hell.Honor to them! Far graves to-day are flingingUp through the soil peace-blooms to meet the sun,And daisied heads to summer winds are singingTheir long "well done."Our vanguard, they. They went with hot blood flushingAt battle's din, at joy of bugle's call.They fell with smiles, the flood of young life gushing,Full brave the fall!But braver ye who, when the war was ended,And bugle's call and wave of flag were done,Could come back home, so long left undefended.Your cause unwon,And twist the useless sword to hook of reaping,Rebuild the homes, set back the empty chairAnd brave a land where waste and want were keepingGuard everywhere.All this you did, your courage strong upon you,And out of ashes, wreck, a new land rose,Through years of war no braver battle won you,'Gainst fiercer foes.And now to-day a prospered land is cheeringAnd lifting up her voice in lusty prideFor you gray men, who fought and wrought, not fearingBattle's red tide.Our rear guard, ye whose step is slowing, slowing,Whose ranks, earth-thinned, are filling otherwhere,Who wore the gray—the gray, alas! still showingOn bleaching hair.For forty years you've watched this land grow stronger,For forty years you've been its bulwark, stay;Tarry awhile; pause yet a little longerUpon the way.And set our feet where there may be no turning,And set our faces straight on duty's track,Where there may be for stray, strange goods no yearningNor looking back.And when for you the last tattoo has sounded,And on death's silent field you've pitched your tent,When, bowed through tears, the arc of life has roundedTo full content,We that are left will count it guerdon royal,Our heritage no years can take away,That we were born of those, unflinching, loyal,Who wore the gray.Irene Fowler Brown.
The guns are hushed. On every field once flowingWith war's red flood May's breath of peace is shed,And, spring's young grass and gracious flowers are growingAbove the dead.Ye gray old men whom we this day are greeting,Honor to you, honor and love and trust!Brave to the brave. Your soldier hands are meetingAcross their dust.Bravely they fought who charged when flags were flyingIn cannon's crash, in screech and scream of shell;Bravely they fell, who lay alone and dyingIn battle's hell.Honor to them! Far graves to-day are flingingUp through the soil peace-blooms to meet the sun,And daisied heads to summer winds are singingTheir long "well done."Our vanguard, they. They went with hot blood flushingAt battle's din, at joy of bugle's call.They fell with smiles, the flood of young life gushing,Full brave the fall!But braver ye who, when the war was ended,And bugle's call and wave of flag were done,Could come back home, so long left undefended.Your cause unwon,And twist the useless sword to hook of reaping,Rebuild the homes, set back the empty chairAnd brave a land where waste and want were keepingGuard everywhere.All this you did, your courage strong upon you,And out of ashes, wreck, a new land rose,Through years of war no braver battle won you,'Gainst fiercer foes.And now to-day a prospered land is cheeringAnd lifting up her voice in lusty prideFor you gray men, who fought and wrought, not fearingBattle's red tide.Our rear guard, ye whose step is slowing, slowing,Whose ranks, earth-thinned, are filling otherwhere,Who wore the gray—the gray, alas! still showingOn bleaching hair.For forty years you've watched this land grow stronger,For forty years you've been its bulwark, stay;Tarry awhile; pause yet a little longerUpon the way.And set our feet where there may be no turning,And set our faces straight on duty's track,Where there may be for stray, strange goods no yearningNor looking back.And when for you the last tattoo has sounded,And on death's silent field you've pitched your tent,When, bowed through tears, the arc of life has roundedTo full content,We that are left will count it guerdon royal,Our heritage no years can take away,That we were born of those, unflinching, loyal,Who wore the gray.Irene Fowler Brown.
The guns are hushed. On every field once flowingWith war's red flood May's breath of peace is shed,And, spring's young grass and gracious flowers are growingAbove the dead.
Ye gray old men whom we this day are greeting,Honor to you, honor and love and trust!Brave to the brave. Your soldier hands are meetingAcross their dust.
Bravely they fought who charged when flags were flyingIn cannon's crash, in screech and scream of shell;Bravely they fell, who lay alone and dyingIn battle's hell.
Honor to them! Far graves to-day are flingingUp through the soil peace-blooms to meet the sun,And daisied heads to summer winds are singingTheir long "well done."
Our vanguard, they. They went with hot blood flushingAt battle's din, at joy of bugle's call.They fell with smiles, the flood of young life gushing,Full brave the fall!
But braver ye who, when the war was ended,And bugle's call and wave of flag were done,Could come back home, so long left undefended.Your cause unwon,
And twist the useless sword to hook of reaping,Rebuild the homes, set back the empty chairAnd brave a land where waste and want were keepingGuard everywhere.
All this you did, your courage strong upon you,And out of ashes, wreck, a new land rose,Through years of war no braver battle won you,'Gainst fiercer foes.
And now to-day a prospered land is cheeringAnd lifting up her voice in lusty prideFor you gray men, who fought and wrought, not fearingBattle's red tide.
Our rear guard, ye whose step is slowing, slowing,Whose ranks, earth-thinned, are filling otherwhere,Who wore the gray—the gray, alas! still showingOn bleaching hair.
For forty years you've watched this land grow stronger,For forty years you've been its bulwark, stay;Tarry awhile; pause yet a little longerUpon the way.
And set our feet where there may be no turning,And set our faces straight on duty's track,Where there may be for stray, strange goods no yearningNor looking back.
And when for you the last tattoo has sounded,And on death's silent field you've pitched your tent,When, bowed through tears, the arc of life has roundedTo full content,
We that are left will count it guerdon royal,Our heritage no years can take away,That we were born of those, unflinching, loyal,Who wore the gray.
Irene Fowler Brown.
The bitterness which the great struggle had engendered gradually gave place to a kindlier feeling. As early as 1867, the women of Columbus, Miss., decorated alike the graves of Confederate and Union soldiers, an action which was the first of many such.
The bitterness which the great struggle had engendered gradually gave place to a kindlier feeling. As early as 1867, the women of Columbus, Miss., decorated alike the graves of Confederate and Union soldiers, an action which was the first of many such.
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY
[1867]
By the flow of the inland river,Whence the fleets of iron have fled,Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,Asleep are the ranks of the dead:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;Under the one, the Blue,Under the other, the Gray.These in the robings of glory,Those in the gloom of defeat,All with the battle-blood gory,In the dusk of eternity meet:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;Under the laurel, the Blue,Under the willow, the Gray.From the silence of sorrowful hoursThe desolate mourners go,Lovingly laden with flowersAlike for the friend and the foe:Under the sod and the dewWaiting the judgment-day;Under the roses, the Blue,Under the lilies, the Gray.So with an equal splendor,The morning sun-rays fall,With a touch impartially tender,On the blossoms blooming for all:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;Broidered with gold, the Blue,Mellowed with gold, the Gray.So, when the summer calleth,On forest and field of grain,With an equal murmur fallethThe cooling drip of the rain:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;Wet with the rain, the Blue,Wet with the rain, the Gray.Sadly, but not with upbraiding,The generous deed was done,In the storm of the years that are fadingNo braver battle was won:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;Under the blossoms, the Blue,Under the garlands, the Gray.No more shall the war-cry sever,Or the winding rivers be red;They banish our anger foreverWhen they laurel the graves of our dead!Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;Love and tears for the Blue,Tears and love for the Gray.Francis Miles Finch.
By the flow of the inland river,Whence the fleets of iron have fled,Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,Asleep are the ranks of the dead:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;Under the one, the Blue,Under the other, the Gray.These in the robings of glory,Those in the gloom of defeat,All with the battle-blood gory,In the dusk of eternity meet:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;Under the laurel, the Blue,Under the willow, the Gray.From the silence of sorrowful hoursThe desolate mourners go,Lovingly laden with flowersAlike for the friend and the foe:Under the sod and the dewWaiting the judgment-day;Under the roses, the Blue,Under the lilies, the Gray.So with an equal splendor,The morning sun-rays fall,With a touch impartially tender,On the blossoms blooming for all:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;Broidered with gold, the Blue,Mellowed with gold, the Gray.So, when the summer calleth,On forest and field of grain,With an equal murmur fallethThe cooling drip of the rain:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;Wet with the rain, the Blue,Wet with the rain, the Gray.Sadly, but not with upbraiding,The generous deed was done,In the storm of the years that are fadingNo braver battle was won:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;Under the blossoms, the Blue,Under the garlands, the Gray.No more shall the war-cry sever,Or the winding rivers be red;They banish our anger foreverWhen they laurel the graves of our dead!Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;Love and tears for the Blue,Tears and love for the Gray.Francis Miles Finch.
By the flow of the inland river,Whence the fleets of iron have fled,Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,Asleep are the ranks of the dead:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;Under the one, the Blue,Under the other, the Gray.
These in the robings of glory,Those in the gloom of defeat,All with the battle-blood gory,In the dusk of eternity meet:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;Under the laurel, the Blue,Under the willow, the Gray.
From the silence of sorrowful hoursThe desolate mourners go,Lovingly laden with flowersAlike for the friend and the foe:Under the sod and the dewWaiting the judgment-day;Under the roses, the Blue,Under the lilies, the Gray.
So with an equal splendor,The morning sun-rays fall,With a touch impartially tender,On the blossoms blooming for all:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;Broidered with gold, the Blue,Mellowed with gold, the Gray.
So, when the summer calleth,On forest and field of grain,With an equal murmur fallethThe cooling drip of the rain:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;Wet with the rain, the Blue,Wet with the rain, the Gray.
Sadly, but not with upbraiding,The generous deed was done,In the storm of the years that are fadingNo braver battle was won:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;Under the blossoms, the Blue,Under the garlands, the Gray.
No more shall the war-cry sever,Or the winding rivers be red;They banish our anger foreverWhen they laurel the graves of our dead!Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;Love and tears for the Blue,Tears and love for the Gray.
Francis Miles Finch.
When the South was swept by yellow fever a few years later, the North rushed to its relief in a way which showed how completely old animosities had been forgotten.
When the South was swept by yellow fever a few years later, the North rushed to its relief in a way which showed how completely old animosities had been forgotten.
THE STRICKEN SOUTH TO THE NORTH
When ruthful time the South's memorial places—Her heroes' graves—had wreathed in grass and flowers;When Peace ethereal, crowned by all her graces,Returned to make more bright the summer hours;When doubtful hearts revived, and hopes grew stronger;When old sore-cankering wounds that pierced and stung,Throbbed with their first, mad, feverous pain no longer,While the fair future spake with flattering tongue;When once, once more she felt her pulses beatingTo rhythms of healthful joy and brave desire;Lo! round her doomed horizon darkly meeting,A pall of blood-red vapors veined with fire!Oh! ghastly portent of fast-coming sorrows!Of doom that blasts the blood and blights the breath,Robs youth and manhood of all golden morrows—And life's clear goblet brims with wine of death!—Oh! swift fulfilment of this portent dreary!Oh! nightmare rule of ruin, racked by fears,Heartbroken wail, and solemnmiserere,Imperious anguish, and soul-melting tears!Oh! faith, thrust downward from celestial splendors,Oh! love grief-bound, with palely-murmurous mouth!Oh! agonized by life's supreme surrenders—Behold her now—the scourged and suffering South!No balm in Gilead? nay, but while her forehead,Pallid and drooping, lies in foulest dust,There steals across the desolate spaces torrid,A voice of manful cheer and heavenly trust,A hand redeeming breaks the frozen starknessOf palsied nerve, and dull, despondent brain;Rolls back the curtain of malignant darkness,And shows the eternal blue of heaven again—Revealing there, o'er worlds convulsed and shaken,That face whose mystic tenderness enticedTo hope new-born earth's lost bereaved, forsaken!Ah! still beyond the tempest smiles the Christ!Whose voice? Whose hand? Oh, thanks divinest Master,Thanks for those grand emotions which impartGrace to the North to feel the South's disaster,The South to bow with touched and cordial heart!Now, now at last the links which war had brokenAre welded fast, at mercy's charmed commands;Now, now at last the magic words are spokenWhich blend in one two long-divided lands!O North! you came with warrior strife and clangor;You left our South one gory burial ground;But love, more potent than your haughtiest anger,Subdues the souls which hate could only wound!Paul Hamilton Hayne.
When ruthful time the South's memorial places—Her heroes' graves—had wreathed in grass and flowers;When Peace ethereal, crowned by all her graces,Returned to make more bright the summer hours;When doubtful hearts revived, and hopes grew stronger;When old sore-cankering wounds that pierced and stung,Throbbed with their first, mad, feverous pain no longer,While the fair future spake with flattering tongue;When once, once more she felt her pulses beatingTo rhythms of healthful joy and brave desire;Lo! round her doomed horizon darkly meeting,A pall of blood-red vapors veined with fire!Oh! ghastly portent of fast-coming sorrows!Of doom that blasts the blood and blights the breath,Robs youth and manhood of all golden morrows—And life's clear goblet brims with wine of death!—Oh! swift fulfilment of this portent dreary!Oh! nightmare rule of ruin, racked by fears,Heartbroken wail, and solemnmiserere,Imperious anguish, and soul-melting tears!Oh! faith, thrust downward from celestial splendors,Oh! love grief-bound, with palely-murmurous mouth!Oh! agonized by life's supreme surrenders—Behold her now—the scourged and suffering South!No balm in Gilead? nay, but while her forehead,Pallid and drooping, lies in foulest dust,There steals across the desolate spaces torrid,A voice of manful cheer and heavenly trust,A hand redeeming breaks the frozen starknessOf palsied nerve, and dull, despondent brain;Rolls back the curtain of malignant darkness,And shows the eternal blue of heaven again—Revealing there, o'er worlds convulsed and shaken,That face whose mystic tenderness enticedTo hope new-born earth's lost bereaved, forsaken!Ah! still beyond the tempest smiles the Christ!Whose voice? Whose hand? Oh, thanks divinest Master,Thanks for those grand emotions which impartGrace to the North to feel the South's disaster,The South to bow with touched and cordial heart!Now, now at last the links which war had brokenAre welded fast, at mercy's charmed commands;Now, now at last the magic words are spokenWhich blend in one two long-divided lands!O North! you came with warrior strife and clangor;You left our South one gory burial ground;But love, more potent than your haughtiest anger,Subdues the souls which hate could only wound!Paul Hamilton Hayne.
When ruthful time the South's memorial places—Her heroes' graves—had wreathed in grass and flowers;When Peace ethereal, crowned by all her graces,Returned to make more bright the summer hours;When doubtful hearts revived, and hopes grew stronger;When old sore-cankering wounds that pierced and stung,Throbbed with their first, mad, feverous pain no longer,While the fair future spake with flattering tongue;When once, once more she felt her pulses beatingTo rhythms of healthful joy and brave desire;Lo! round her doomed horizon darkly meeting,A pall of blood-red vapors veined with fire!
Oh! ghastly portent of fast-coming sorrows!Of doom that blasts the blood and blights the breath,Robs youth and manhood of all golden morrows—And life's clear goblet brims with wine of death!—Oh! swift fulfilment of this portent dreary!Oh! nightmare rule of ruin, racked by fears,Heartbroken wail, and solemnmiserere,Imperious anguish, and soul-melting tears!Oh! faith, thrust downward from celestial splendors,Oh! love grief-bound, with palely-murmurous mouth!Oh! agonized by life's supreme surrenders—Behold her now—the scourged and suffering South!
No balm in Gilead? nay, but while her forehead,Pallid and drooping, lies in foulest dust,There steals across the desolate spaces torrid,A voice of manful cheer and heavenly trust,A hand redeeming breaks the frozen starknessOf palsied nerve, and dull, despondent brain;Rolls back the curtain of malignant darkness,And shows the eternal blue of heaven again—Revealing there, o'er worlds convulsed and shaken,That face whose mystic tenderness enticedTo hope new-born earth's lost bereaved, forsaken!Ah! still beyond the tempest smiles the Christ!
Whose voice? Whose hand? Oh, thanks divinest Master,Thanks for those grand emotions which impartGrace to the North to feel the South's disaster,The South to bow with touched and cordial heart!Now, now at last the links which war had brokenAre welded fast, at mercy's charmed commands;Now, now at last the magic words are spokenWhich blend in one two long-divided lands!O North! you came with warrior strife and clangor;You left our South one gory burial ground;But love, more potent than your haughtiest anger,Subdues the souls which hate could only wound!
Paul Hamilton Hayne.
On July 29, 1866, the first submarine cable was completed between Ireland and Newfoundland, the enterprise having been undertaken and carried through by Cyrus West Field.
On July 29, 1866, the first submarine cable was completed between Ireland and Newfoundland, the enterprise having been undertaken and carried through by Cyrus West Field.
HOW CYRUS LAID THE CABLE
[July 29, 1866]
Come, listen all unto my song;It is no silly fable;'Tis all about the mighty cordThey call the Atlantic Cable.Bold Cyrus Field he said, says he,"I have a pretty notionThat I can run a telegraphAcross the Atlantic Ocean."Then all the people laughed, and saidThey'd like to see him do it;He might get half-seas over, butHe never could go through it.To carry out his foolish planHe never would be able;He might as well go hang himselfWith his Atlantic Cable.But Cyrus was a valiant man,A fellow of decision;And heeded not their mocking words,Their laughter and derision.Twice did his bravest efforts fail,And yet his mind was stable;He wa'n't the man to break his heartBecause he broke his cable."Once more, my gallant boys!" he cried;"Three times!—you know the fable(I'll make itthirty," muttered he,"But I will lay the cable!").Once more they tried,—hurrah! hurrah!What means this great commotion?The Lord be praised! the cable's laidAcross the Atlantic Ocean!Loud ring the bells,—for, flashing throughSix hundred leagues of water,Old Mother England's benisonSalutes her eldest daughter!O'er all the land the tidings speed,And soon, in every nation,They'll hear about the cable withProfoundest admiration!Now, long live President and Queen;And long live gallant Cyrus;And may his courage, faith, and zealWith emulation fire us;And may we honor evermoreThe manly, bold, and stable;And tell our sons, to make them brave,How Cyrus laid the cable!John Godfrey Saxe.
Come, listen all unto my song;It is no silly fable;'Tis all about the mighty cordThey call the Atlantic Cable.Bold Cyrus Field he said, says he,"I have a pretty notionThat I can run a telegraphAcross the Atlantic Ocean."Then all the people laughed, and saidThey'd like to see him do it;He might get half-seas over, butHe never could go through it.To carry out his foolish planHe never would be able;He might as well go hang himselfWith his Atlantic Cable.But Cyrus was a valiant man,A fellow of decision;And heeded not their mocking words,Their laughter and derision.Twice did his bravest efforts fail,And yet his mind was stable;He wa'n't the man to break his heartBecause he broke his cable."Once more, my gallant boys!" he cried;"Three times!—you know the fable(I'll make itthirty," muttered he,"But I will lay the cable!").Once more they tried,—hurrah! hurrah!What means this great commotion?The Lord be praised! the cable's laidAcross the Atlantic Ocean!Loud ring the bells,—for, flashing throughSix hundred leagues of water,Old Mother England's benisonSalutes her eldest daughter!O'er all the land the tidings speed,And soon, in every nation,They'll hear about the cable withProfoundest admiration!Now, long live President and Queen;And long live gallant Cyrus;And may his courage, faith, and zealWith emulation fire us;And may we honor evermoreThe manly, bold, and stable;And tell our sons, to make them brave,How Cyrus laid the cable!John Godfrey Saxe.
Come, listen all unto my song;It is no silly fable;'Tis all about the mighty cordThey call the Atlantic Cable.
Bold Cyrus Field he said, says he,"I have a pretty notionThat I can run a telegraphAcross the Atlantic Ocean."
Then all the people laughed, and saidThey'd like to see him do it;He might get half-seas over, butHe never could go through it.
To carry out his foolish planHe never would be able;He might as well go hang himselfWith his Atlantic Cable.
But Cyrus was a valiant man,A fellow of decision;And heeded not their mocking words,Their laughter and derision.
Twice did his bravest efforts fail,And yet his mind was stable;He wa'n't the man to break his heartBecause he broke his cable.
"Once more, my gallant boys!" he cried;"Three times!—you know the fable(I'll make itthirty," muttered he,"But I will lay the cable!").
Once more they tried,—hurrah! hurrah!What means this great commotion?The Lord be praised! the cable's laidAcross the Atlantic Ocean!
Loud ring the bells,—for, flashing throughSix hundred leagues of water,Old Mother England's benisonSalutes her eldest daughter!
O'er all the land the tidings speed,And soon, in every nation,They'll hear about the cable withProfoundest admiration!
Now, long live President and Queen;And long live gallant Cyrus;And may his courage, faith, and zealWith emulation fire us;
And may we honor evermoreThe manly, bold, and stable;And tell our sons, to make them brave,How Cyrus laid the cable!
John Godfrey Saxe.
THE CABLE HYMN
O lonely bay of Trinity,O dreary shores, give ear!Lean down unto the white-lipped seaThe voice of God to hear!From world to world His couriers fly,Thought-winged and shod with fire;The angel of His stormy skyRides down the sunken wire.What saith the herald of the Lord?"The world's long strife is done;Close wedded by that mystic cord,Its continents are one."And one in heart, as one in blood,Shall all her peoples be;The hands of human brotherhoodAre clasped beneath the sea."Through Orient seas, o'er Afric's plainAnd Asian mountains borne,The vigor of the Northern brainShall nerve the world outworn."From clime to clime, from shore to shore,Shall thrill the magic thread;The new Prometheus steals once moreThe fire that wakes the dead."Throb on, strong pulse of thunder! beatFrom answering beach to beach;Fuse nations in thy kindly heat,And melt the chains of each!Wild terror of the sky above,Glide tamed and dumb below!Bear gently, Ocean's carrier-dove,Thy errands to and fro.Weave on, swift shuttle of the Lord,Beneath the deep so far,The bridal robe of earth's accord,The funeral shroud of war!For lo! the fall of Ocean's wallSpace mocked and time outrun;And round the world the thought of allIs as the thought of one!The poles unite, the zones agree,The tongues of striving cease;As on the Sea of GalileeThe Christ is whispering, Peace!John Greenleaf Whittier.
O lonely bay of Trinity,O dreary shores, give ear!Lean down unto the white-lipped seaThe voice of God to hear!From world to world His couriers fly,Thought-winged and shod with fire;The angel of His stormy skyRides down the sunken wire.What saith the herald of the Lord?"The world's long strife is done;Close wedded by that mystic cord,Its continents are one."And one in heart, as one in blood,Shall all her peoples be;The hands of human brotherhoodAre clasped beneath the sea."Through Orient seas, o'er Afric's plainAnd Asian mountains borne,The vigor of the Northern brainShall nerve the world outworn."From clime to clime, from shore to shore,Shall thrill the magic thread;The new Prometheus steals once moreThe fire that wakes the dead."Throb on, strong pulse of thunder! beatFrom answering beach to beach;Fuse nations in thy kindly heat,And melt the chains of each!Wild terror of the sky above,Glide tamed and dumb below!Bear gently, Ocean's carrier-dove,Thy errands to and fro.Weave on, swift shuttle of the Lord,Beneath the deep so far,The bridal robe of earth's accord,The funeral shroud of war!For lo! the fall of Ocean's wallSpace mocked and time outrun;And round the world the thought of allIs as the thought of one!The poles unite, the zones agree,The tongues of striving cease;As on the Sea of GalileeThe Christ is whispering, Peace!John Greenleaf Whittier.
O lonely bay of Trinity,O dreary shores, give ear!Lean down unto the white-lipped seaThe voice of God to hear!
From world to world His couriers fly,Thought-winged and shod with fire;The angel of His stormy skyRides down the sunken wire.
What saith the herald of the Lord?"The world's long strife is done;Close wedded by that mystic cord,Its continents are one.
"And one in heart, as one in blood,Shall all her peoples be;The hands of human brotherhoodAre clasped beneath the sea.
"Through Orient seas, o'er Afric's plainAnd Asian mountains borne,The vigor of the Northern brainShall nerve the world outworn.
"From clime to clime, from shore to shore,Shall thrill the magic thread;The new Prometheus steals once moreThe fire that wakes the dead."
Throb on, strong pulse of thunder! beatFrom answering beach to beach;Fuse nations in thy kindly heat,And melt the chains of each!
Wild terror of the sky above,Glide tamed and dumb below!Bear gently, Ocean's carrier-dove,Thy errands to and fro.
Weave on, swift shuttle of the Lord,Beneath the deep so far,The bridal robe of earth's accord,The funeral shroud of war!
For lo! the fall of Ocean's wallSpace mocked and time outrun;And round the world the thought of allIs as the thought of one!
The poles unite, the zones agree,The tongues of striving cease;As on the Sea of GalileeThe Christ is whispering, Peace!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
The most notable accomplishment of Johnson's administration was the purchase from Russia in 1867 of the territory of Alaska. The price paid was $7,200,000, and the cession was formally made on June 20.
The most notable accomplishment of Johnson's administration was the purchase from Russia in 1867 of the territory of Alaska. The price paid was $7,200,000, and the cession was formally made on June 20.
AN ARCTIC VISION
[June 20, 1867]
Where the short-legged EsquimauxWaddle in the ice and snow,And the playful Polar bearNips the hunter unaware;Where by day they track the ermine,And by night another vermin,—Segment of the frigid zone,Where the temperature aloneWarms on St. Elias' cone;Polar dock, where Nature slipsFrom the ways her icy ships;Land of fox and deer and sable,Shore end of our western cable,—Let the news that flying goesThrill through all your Arctic floes,And reverberate the boastFrom the cliffs off Beechey's coast,Till the tidings, circling roundEvery bay of Norton Sound,Throw the vocal tide-wave backTo the isles of Kodiac.Let the stately Polar bearsWaltz around the pole in pairs,And the walrus, in his glee,Bare his tusk of ivory;While the bold sea-unicornCalmly takes an extra horn;All ye Polar skies, reveal yourVery rarest of parhelia;Trip it, all ye merry dancers,In the airiest of "Lancers";Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide,One inch farther to the tide,Nor in rash precipitationUpset Tyndall's calculation.Know you not what fate awaits you,Or to whom the future mates you?All ye icebergs make salaam,—You belong to Uncle Sam!On the spot where Eugene SueLed his wretched Wandering Jew,Stands a form whose features strikeRuss and Esquimaux alike.He it is whom Skalds of oldIn their Runic rhymes foretold;Lean of flank and lank of jaw,See the real Northern Thor!See the awful Yankee leeringJust across the Straits of Behring;On the drifted snow, too plain,Sinks his fresh tobacco stain,Just beside the deep inden-Tation of his Number 10.Leaning on his icy hammerStands the hero of this drama,And above the wild-duck's clamor,In his own peculiar grammar,With its linguistic disguises,Lo, the Arctic prologue rises:"Wall, I reckon 'tain't so bad,Seein' ez 'twas all they had;True, the Springs are rather lateAnd early Falls predominate;But the ice crop's pretty sure,And the air is kind o' pure;'Tain't so very mean a trade,When the land is all surveyed.There's a right smart chance for fur-chaseAll along this recent purchase,And, unless the stories fail,Every fish from cod to whale;Rocks, too; mebbe quartz; let's see,—'Twould be strange if there should be,—Seems I've heerd such stories told;Eh!—why, bless us,—yes, it's gold!"While the blows are falling thickFrom his California pick,You may recognize the ThorOf the vision that I saw,—Freed from legendary glamour,See the real magician's hammer.Bret Harte.
Where the short-legged EsquimauxWaddle in the ice and snow,And the playful Polar bearNips the hunter unaware;Where by day they track the ermine,And by night another vermin,—Segment of the frigid zone,Where the temperature aloneWarms on St. Elias' cone;Polar dock, where Nature slipsFrom the ways her icy ships;Land of fox and deer and sable,Shore end of our western cable,—Let the news that flying goesThrill through all your Arctic floes,And reverberate the boastFrom the cliffs off Beechey's coast,Till the tidings, circling roundEvery bay of Norton Sound,Throw the vocal tide-wave backTo the isles of Kodiac.Let the stately Polar bearsWaltz around the pole in pairs,And the walrus, in his glee,Bare his tusk of ivory;While the bold sea-unicornCalmly takes an extra horn;All ye Polar skies, reveal yourVery rarest of parhelia;Trip it, all ye merry dancers,In the airiest of "Lancers";Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide,One inch farther to the tide,Nor in rash precipitationUpset Tyndall's calculation.Know you not what fate awaits you,Or to whom the future mates you?All ye icebergs make salaam,—You belong to Uncle Sam!On the spot where Eugene SueLed his wretched Wandering Jew,Stands a form whose features strikeRuss and Esquimaux alike.He it is whom Skalds of oldIn their Runic rhymes foretold;Lean of flank and lank of jaw,See the real Northern Thor!See the awful Yankee leeringJust across the Straits of Behring;On the drifted snow, too plain,Sinks his fresh tobacco stain,Just beside the deep inden-Tation of his Number 10.Leaning on his icy hammerStands the hero of this drama,And above the wild-duck's clamor,In his own peculiar grammar,With its linguistic disguises,Lo, the Arctic prologue rises:"Wall, I reckon 'tain't so bad,Seein' ez 'twas all they had;True, the Springs are rather lateAnd early Falls predominate;But the ice crop's pretty sure,And the air is kind o' pure;'Tain't so very mean a trade,When the land is all surveyed.There's a right smart chance for fur-chaseAll along this recent purchase,And, unless the stories fail,Every fish from cod to whale;Rocks, too; mebbe quartz; let's see,—'Twould be strange if there should be,—Seems I've heerd such stories told;Eh!—why, bless us,—yes, it's gold!"While the blows are falling thickFrom his California pick,You may recognize the ThorOf the vision that I saw,—Freed from legendary glamour,See the real magician's hammer.Bret Harte.
Where the short-legged EsquimauxWaddle in the ice and snow,And the playful Polar bearNips the hunter unaware;Where by day they track the ermine,And by night another vermin,—Segment of the frigid zone,Where the temperature aloneWarms on St. Elias' cone;Polar dock, where Nature slipsFrom the ways her icy ships;Land of fox and deer and sable,Shore end of our western cable,—Let the news that flying goesThrill through all your Arctic floes,And reverberate the boastFrom the cliffs off Beechey's coast,Till the tidings, circling roundEvery bay of Norton Sound,Throw the vocal tide-wave backTo the isles of Kodiac.Let the stately Polar bearsWaltz around the pole in pairs,And the walrus, in his glee,Bare his tusk of ivory;While the bold sea-unicornCalmly takes an extra horn;All ye Polar skies, reveal yourVery rarest of parhelia;Trip it, all ye merry dancers,In the airiest of "Lancers";Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide,One inch farther to the tide,Nor in rash precipitationUpset Tyndall's calculation.Know you not what fate awaits you,Or to whom the future mates you?All ye icebergs make salaam,—You belong to Uncle Sam!
On the spot where Eugene SueLed his wretched Wandering Jew,Stands a form whose features strikeRuss and Esquimaux alike.He it is whom Skalds of oldIn their Runic rhymes foretold;Lean of flank and lank of jaw,See the real Northern Thor!See the awful Yankee leeringJust across the Straits of Behring;On the drifted snow, too plain,Sinks his fresh tobacco stain,Just beside the deep inden-Tation of his Number 10.
Leaning on his icy hammerStands the hero of this drama,And above the wild-duck's clamor,In his own peculiar grammar,With its linguistic disguises,Lo, the Arctic prologue rises:"Wall, I reckon 'tain't so bad,Seein' ez 'twas all they had;True, the Springs are rather lateAnd early Falls predominate;But the ice crop's pretty sure,And the air is kind o' pure;'Tain't so very mean a trade,When the land is all surveyed.There's a right smart chance for fur-chaseAll along this recent purchase,And, unless the stories fail,Every fish from cod to whale;Rocks, too; mebbe quartz; let's see,—'Twould be strange if there should be,—Seems I've heerd such stories told;Eh!—why, bless us,—yes, it's gold!"
While the blows are falling thickFrom his California pick,You may recognize the ThorOf the vision that I saw,—Freed from legendary glamour,See the real magician's hammer.
Bret Harte.
ALASKA