Men of the North and West,Wake in your might,Prepare, as the rebels have done,For the fight!You cannot shrink from the test;Rise! Men of the North and West!They have torn down your banner of stars;They have trampled the laws;They have stifled the freedom they hate,For no cause!Do you love it or slavery best?Speak! Men of the North and West.They strike at the life of the State:Shall the murder be done?They cry: "We are two!" And you:"We are one!"You must meet them, then, breast to breast;On! Men of the North and West!Not with words; they laugh them to scorn,And tears they despise;But with swords in your hands and deathIn your eyes!Strike home! leave to God all the rest;Strike! Men of the North and West.Richard Henry Stoddard.
Men of the North and West,Wake in your might,Prepare, as the rebels have done,For the fight!You cannot shrink from the test;Rise! Men of the North and West!They have torn down your banner of stars;They have trampled the laws;They have stifled the freedom they hate,For no cause!Do you love it or slavery best?Speak! Men of the North and West.They strike at the life of the State:Shall the murder be done?They cry: "We are two!" And you:"We are one!"You must meet them, then, breast to breast;On! Men of the North and West!Not with words; they laugh them to scorn,And tears they despise;But with swords in your hands and deathIn your eyes!Strike home! leave to God all the rest;Strike! Men of the North and West.Richard Henry Stoddard.
Men of the North and West,Wake in your might,Prepare, as the rebels have done,For the fight!You cannot shrink from the test;Rise! Men of the North and West!
They have torn down your banner of stars;They have trampled the laws;They have stifled the freedom they hate,For no cause!Do you love it or slavery best?Speak! Men of the North and West.
They strike at the life of the State:Shall the murder be done?They cry: "We are two!" And you:"We are one!"You must meet them, then, breast to breast;On! Men of the North and West!
Not with words; they laugh them to scorn,And tears they despise;But with swords in your hands and deathIn your eyes!Strike home! leave to God all the rest;Strike! Men of the North and West.
Richard Henry Stoddard.
OUT AND FIGHT
Out and fight! The clouds are breaking,Far and wide the red light streams,North and west see millions wakingFrom their night-mare, doubting dreams.War is coming. As the thunder'Mid the mountain caverns rolls,Driving rains in torrents under,So the wild roar wakes our souls.Out and fight! The time is overFor all truce and compromise,Words of calm are words of folly,Peaceful dreams are painted lies;Sumter's flames in Southern watersAre the first wild beacon light,And on Northern hills reflectedGive the signal for the fight.Out and fight! Endure no longerGoading insult, brazen guilt;Be the battle to the knife blade,And the knife blade to the hilt,Till the sacred zone of FreedomGirds the whole Atlantic strand,And the braggart and the GasconBe extinguished from the land.Charles Godfrey Leland.Vanity Fair, April 27, 1861.
Out and fight! The clouds are breaking,Far and wide the red light streams,North and west see millions wakingFrom their night-mare, doubting dreams.War is coming. As the thunder'Mid the mountain caverns rolls,Driving rains in torrents under,So the wild roar wakes our souls.Out and fight! The time is overFor all truce and compromise,Words of calm are words of folly,Peaceful dreams are painted lies;Sumter's flames in Southern watersAre the first wild beacon light,And on Northern hills reflectedGive the signal for the fight.Out and fight! Endure no longerGoading insult, brazen guilt;Be the battle to the knife blade,And the knife blade to the hilt,Till the sacred zone of FreedomGirds the whole Atlantic strand,And the braggart and the GasconBe extinguished from the land.Charles Godfrey Leland.Vanity Fair, April 27, 1861.
Out and fight! The clouds are breaking,Far and wide the red light streams,North and west see millions wakingFrom their night-mare, doubting dreams.War is coming. As the thunder'Mid the mountain caverns rolls,Driving rains in torrents under,So the wild roar wakes our souls.
Out and fight! The time is overFor all truce and compromise,Words of calm are words of folly,Peaceful dreams are painted lies;Sumter's flames in Southern watersAre the first wild beacon light,And on Northern hills reflectedGive the signal for the fight.
Out and fight! Endure no longerGoading insult, brazen guilt;Be the battle to the knife blade,And the knife blade to the hilt,Till the sacred zone of FreedomGirds the whole Atlantic strand,And the braggart and the GasconBe extinguished from the land.
Charles Godfrey Leland.
Vanity Fair, April 27, 1861.
NO MORE WORDS
No more words;Try it with your swords!Try it with the arms of your bravest and your best!You are proud of your manhood, now put it to the test;Not another word;Try it by the sword!No more notes;Try it by the throatsOf the cannon that will roar till the earth and air be shaken;For they speak what they mean, and they cannot be mistaken;No more doubt;Come—fight it out!No child's play!Waste not a day;Serve out the deadliest weapons that you know;Let them pitilessly hail on the faces of the foe;No blind strife;Waste not one life.You that in the frontBear the battle's brunt—When the sun gleams at dawn on the bayonets abreast,Remember 'tis for government and country you contest;For love of all you guard,Stand, and strike hard!You at home that stayFrom danger far away,Leave not a jot to chance, while you rest in quiet ease;Quick! forge the bolts of death; quick! ship them o'er the seas;If War's feet are lame,Yours will be the blame.You, my lads, abroad,"Steady!" be your word;You, at home, be the anchor of your soldiers young and brave;Spare no cost, none is lost, that may strengthen or may save;Sloth were sin and shame,Now play out the game!Franklin Lushington.
No more words;Try it with your swords!Try it with the arms of your bravest and your best!You are proud of your manhood, now put it to the test;Not another word;Try it by the sword!No more notes;Try it by the throatsOf the cannon that will roar till the earth and air be shaken;For they speak what they mean, and they cannot be mistaken;No more doubt;Come—fight it out!No child's play!Waste not a day;Serve out the deadliest weapons that you know;Let them pitilessly hail on the faces of the foe;No blind strife;Waste not one life.You that in the frontBear the battle's brunt—When the sun gleams at dawn on the bayonets abreast,Remember 'tis for government and country you contest;For love of all you guard,Stand, and strike hard!You at home that stayFrom danger far away,Leave not a jot to chance, while you rest in quiet ease;Quick! forge the bolts of death; quick! ship them o'er the seas;If War's feet are lame,Yours will be the blame.You, my lads, abroad,"Steady!" be your word;You, at home, be the anchor of your soldiers young and brave;Spare no cost, none is lost, that may strengthen or may save;Sloth were sin and shame,Now play out the game!Franklin Lushington.
No more words;Try it with your swords!Try it with the arms of your bravest and your best!You are proud of your manhood, now put it to the test;Not another word;Try it by the sword!
No more notes;Try it by the throatsOf the cannon that will roar till the earth and air be shaken;For they speak what they mean, and they cannot be mistaken;No more doubt;Come—fight it out!
No child's play!Waste not a day;Serve out the deadliest weapons that you know;Let them pitilessly hail on the faces of the foe;No blind strife;Waste not one life.
You that in the frontBear the battle's brunt—When the sun gleams at dawn on the bayonets abreast,Remember 'tis for government and country you contest;For love of all you guard,Stand, and strike hard!
You at home that stayFrom danger far away,Leave not a jot to chance, while you rest in quiet ease;Quick! forge the bolts of death; quick! ship them o'er the seas;If War's feet are lame,Yours will be the blame.
You, my lads, abroad,"Steady!" be your word;You, at home, be the anchor of your soldiers young and brave;Spare no cost, none is lost, that may strengthen or may save;Sloth were sin and shame,Now play out the game!
Franklin Lushington.
"At the darkest hour in the history of the republic," Emerson wrote, "when it looked as if the nation would be dismembered, pulverized into its original elements, the attack on Fort Sumter crystallized the North into a unit, and the hope of mankind was saved."
"At the darkest hour in the history of the republic," Emerson wrote, "when it looked as if the nation would be dismembered, pulverized into its original elements, the attack on Fort Sumter crystallized the North into a unit, and the hope of mankind was saved."
OUR COUNTRY'S CALL
Lay down the axe; fling by the spade;Leave in its track the toiling plough;The rifle and the bayonet-bladeFor arms like yours were fitter now;And let the hands that ply the penQuit the light task, and learn to wieldThe horseman's crooked brand, and reinThe charger on the battle-field.Our country calls; away! away!To where the blood-stream blots the green.Strike to defend the gentlest swayThat Time in all his course has seen.See, from a thousand coverts—see,Spring the armed foes that haunt her track;They rush to smite her down, and weMust beat the banded traitors back.Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave,And moved as soon to fear and flight,Men of the glade and forest! leaveYour woodcraft for the field of fight.The arms that wield the axe must pourAn iron tempest on the foe;His serried ranks shall reel beforeThe arm that lays the panther low.And ye, who breast the mountain-stormBy grassy steep or highland lake,Come, for the land ye love, to formA bulwark that no foe can break.Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mockThe whirlwind, stand in her defence;The blast as soon shall move the rockAs rushing squadrons bear ye thence.And ye, whose homes are by her grandSwift rivers, rising far away,Come from the depth of her green land,As mighty in your march as they;As terrible as when the rainsHave swelled them over bank and borne,With sudden floods to drown the plainsAnd sweep along the woods uptorn.And ye, who throng, beside the deep,Her ports and hamlets of the strand,In number like the waves that leapOn his long-murmuring marge of sand—Come like that deep, when, o'er his brimHe rises, all his floods to pour,And flings the proudest barks that swim,A helpless wreck, against the shore!Few, few were they whose swords of oldWon the fair land in which we dwell,But we are many, we who holdThe grim resolve to guard it well.Strike, for that broad and goodly land,Blow after blow, till men shall seeThat Might and Right move hand in hand,And glorious must their triumph be!William Cullen Bryant.
Lay down the axe; fling by the spade;Leave in its track the toiling plough;The rifle and the bayonet-bladeFor arms like yours were fitter now;And let the hands that ply the penQuit the light task, and learn to wieldThe horseman's crooked brand, and reinThe charger on the battle-field.Our country calls; away! away!To where the blood-stream blots the green.Strike to defend the gentlest swayThat Time in all his course has seen.See, from a thousand coverts—see,Spring the armed foes that haunt her track;They rush to smite her down, and weMust beat the banded traitors back.Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave,And moved as soon to fear and flight,Men of the glade and forest! leaveYour woodcraft for the field of fight.The arms that wield the axe must pourAn iron tempest on the foe;His serried ranks shall reel beforeThe arm that lays the panther low.And ye, who breast the mountain-stormBy grassy steep or highland lake,Come, for the land ye love, to formA bulwark that no foe can break.Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mockThe whirlwind, stand in her defence;The blast as soon shall move the rockAs rushing squadrons bear ye thence.And ye, whose homes are by her grandSwift rivers, rising far away,Come from the depth of her green land,As mighty in your march as they;As terrible as when the rainsHave swelled them over bank and borne,With sudden floods to drown the plainsAnd sweep along the woods uptorn.And ye, who throng, beside the deep,Her ports and hamlets of the strand,In number like the waves that leapOn his long-murmuring marge of sand—Come like that deep, when, o'er his brimHe rises, all his floods to pour,And flings the proudest barks that swim,A helpless wreck, against the shore!Few, few were they whose swords of oldWon the fair land in which we dwell,But we are many, we who holdThe grim resolve to guard it well.Strike, for that broad and goodly land,Blow after blow, till men shall seeThat Might and Right move hand in hand,And glorious must their triumph be!William Cullen Bryant.
Lay down the axe; fling by the spade;Leave in its track the toiling plough;The rifle and the bayonet-bladeFor arms like yours were fitter now;And let the hands that ply the penQuit the light task, and learn to wieldThe horseman's crooked brand, and reinThe charger on the battle-field.
Our country calls; away! away!To where the blood-stream blots the green.Strike to defend the gentlest swayThat Time in all his course has seen.See, from a thousand coverts—see,Spring the armed foes that haunt her track;They rush to smite her down, and weMust beat the banded traitors back.
Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave,And moved as soon to fear and flight,Men of the glade and forest! leaveYour woodcraft for the field of fight.The arms that wield the axe must pourAn iron tempest on the foe;His serried ranks shall reel beforeThe arm that lays the panther low.
And ye, who breast the mountain-stormBy grassy steep or highland lake,Come, for the land ye love, to formA bulwark that no foe can break.Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mockThe whirlwind, stand in her defence;The blast as soon shall move the rockAs rushing squadrons bear ye thence.
And ye, whose homes are by her grandSwift rivers, rising far away,Come from the depth of her green land,As mighty in your march as they;As terrible as when the rainsHave swelled them over bank and borne,With sudden floods to drown the plainsAnd sweep along the woods uptorn.
And ye, who throng, beside the deep,Her ports and hamlets of the strand,In number like the waves that leapOn his long-murmuring marge of sand—Come like that deep, when, o'er his brimHe rises, all his floods to pour,And flings the proudest barks that swim,A helpless wreck, against the shore!
Few, few were they whose swords of oldWon the fair land in which we dwell,But we are many, we who holdThe grim resolve to guard it well.Strike, for that broad and goodly land,Blow after blow, till men shall seeThat Might and Right move hand in hand,And glorious must their triumph be!
William Cullen Bryant.
The people of the South were also wildly enthusiastic for the war. Prompted by the belief that they must arm to defend their property and their liberties, they rose as one man. All hearts were in the cause.
The people of the South were also wildly enthusiastic for the war. Prompted by the belief that they must arm to defend their property and their liberties, they rose as one man. All hearts were in the cause.
DIXIE
Southrons, hear your country call you!Up, lest worse than death befall you!To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie!Lo! all the beacon-fires are lighted,—Let all hearts be now united!To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie!Advance the flag of Dixie!Hurrah! hurrah!For Dixie's land we take our stand,And live and die for Dixie!To arms! To arms!And conquer peace for Dixie!To arms! To arms!And conquer peace for Dixie!Hear the Northern thunders mutter!Northern flags in South winds flutter!Send them back your fierce defiance!Stamp upon the accursed alliance!Fear no danger! Shun no labor!Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre!Shoulder pressing close to shoulder,Let the odds make each heart bolder!How the South's great heart rejoicesAt your cannons' ringing voices!For faith betrayed, and pledges broken,Wrongs inflicted, insults spoken.Strong as lions, swift as eagles,Back to their kennels hunt these beagles!Cut the unequal bonds asunder!Let them hence each other plunder!Swear upon your country's altarNever to submit or falter,Till the spoilers are defeated,Till the Lord's work is completed!Halt not till our FederationSecures among earth's powers its station!Then at peace, and crowned with glory,Hear your children tell the story!If the loved ones weep in sadness,Victory soon shall bring them gladness,—To arms!Exultant pride soon vanish sorrow;Smiles chase tears away to-morrow.To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie!Advance the flag of Dixie!Hurrah! hurrah!For Dixie's land we take our stand,And live or die for Dixie!To arms! To arms!And conquer peace for Dixie!To arms! To arms!And conquer peace for Dixie!Albert Pike.
Southrons, hear your country call you!Up, lest worse than death befall you!To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie!Lo! all the beacon-fires are lighted,—Let all hearts be now united!To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie!Advance the flag of Dixie!Hurrah! hurrah!For Dixie's land we take our stand,And live and die for Dixie!To arms! To arms!And conquer peace for Dixie!To arms! To arms!And conquer peace for Dixie!Hear the Northern thunders mutter!Northern flags in South winds flutter!Send them back your fierce defiance!Stamp upon the accursed alliance!Fear no danger! Shun no labor!Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre!Shoulder pressing close to shoulder,Let the odds make each heart bolder!How the South's great heart rejoicesAt your cannons' ringing voices!For faith betrayed, and pledges broken,Wrongs inflicted, insults spoken.Strong as lions, swift as eagles,Back to their kennels hunt these beagles!Cut the unequal bonds asunder!Let them hence each other plunder!Swear upon your country's altarNever to submit or falter,Till the spoilers are defeated,Till the Lord's work is completed!Halt not till our FederationSecures among earth's powers its station!Then at peace, and crowned with glory,Hear your children tell the story!If the loved ones weep in sadness,Victory soon shall bring them gladness,—To arms!Exultant pride soon vanish sorrow;Smiles chase tears away to-morrow.To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie!Advance the flag of Dixie!Hurrah! hurrah!For Dixie's land we take our stand,And live or die for Dixie!To arms! To arms!And conquer peace for Dixie!To arms! To arms!And conquer peace for Dixie!Albert Pike.
Southrons, hear your country call you!Up, lest worse than death befall you!To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie!Lo! all the beacon-fires are lighted,—Let all hearts be now united!To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie!Advance the flag of Dixie!Hurrah! hurrah!For Dixie's land we take our stand,And live and die for Dixie!To arms! To arms!And conquer peace for Dixie!To arms! To arms!And conquer peace for Dixie!
Hear the Northern thunders mutter!Northern flags in South winds flutter!Send them back your fierce defiance!Stamp upon the accursed alliance!
Fear no danger! Shun no labor!Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre!Shoulder pressing close to shoulder,Let the odds make each heart bolder!
How the South's great heart rejoicesAt your cannons' ringing voices!For faith betrayed, and pledges broken,Wrongs inflicted, insults spoken.
Strong as lions, swift as eagles,Back to their kennels hunt these beagles!Cut the unequal bonds asunder!Let them hence each other plunder!
Swear upon your country's altarNever to submit or falter,Till the spoilers are defeated,Till the Lord's work is completed!
Halt not till our FederationSecures among earth's powers its station!Then at peace, and crowned with glory,Hear your children tell the story!
If the loved ones weep in sadness,Victory soon shall bring them gladness,—To arms!Exultant pride soon vanish sorrow;Smiles chase tears away to-morrow.To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie!Advance the flag of Dixie!Hurrah! hurrah!For Dixie's land we take our stand,And live or die for Dixie!To arms! To arms!And conquer peace for Dixie!To arms! To arms!And conquer peace for Dixie!
Albert Pike.
A CRY TO ARMS
Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side!Ho, dwellers in the vales!Ho, ye who by the chafing tideHave roughened in the gales!Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot,Lay by the bloodless spade;Let desk and case and counter rot,And burn your books of trade!The despot roves your fairest lands;And till he flies or fears,Your fields must grow but armèd bands,Your sheaves be sheaves of spears!Give up to mildew and to rustThe useless tools of gain,And feed your country's sacred dustWith floods of crimson rain!Come with the weapons at your call—With musket, pike, or knife;He wields the deadliest blade of allWho lightest holds his life.The arm that drives its unbought blowsWith all a patriot's scorn,Might brain a tyrant with a roseOr stab him with a thorn.Does any falter? Let him turnTo some brave maiden's eyes,And catch the holy fires that burnIn those sublunar skies.Oh, could you like your women feel,And in their spirit march,A day might see your lines of steelBeneath the victor's arch!What hope, O God! would not grow warmWhen thoughts like these give cheer?The lily calmly braves the storm,And shall the palm-tree fear?No! rather let its branches courtThe rack that sweeps the plain;And from the lily's regal portLearn how to breast the strain.Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side!Ho, dwellers in the vales!Ho, ye who by the roaring tideHave roughened in the gales!Come, flocking gayly to the fight,From forest, hill, and lake;We battle for our country's right,And for the lily's sake!Henry Timrod.
Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side!Ho, dwellers in the vales!Ho, ye who by the chafing tideHave roughened in the gales!Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot,Lay by the bloodless spade;Let desk and case and counter rot,And burn your books of trade!The despot roves your fairest lands;And till he flies or fears,Your fields must grow but armèd bands,Your sheaves be sheaves of spears!Give up to mildew and to rustThe useless tools of gain,And feed your country's sacred dustWith floods of crimson rain!Come with the weapons at your call—With musket, pike, or knife;He wields the deadliest blade of allWho lightest holds his life.The arm that drives its unbought blowsWith all a patriot's scorn,Might brain a tyrant with a roseOr stab him with a thorn.Does any falter? Let him turnTo some brave maiden's eyes,And catch the holy fires that burnIn those sublunar skies.Oh, could you like your women feel,And in their spirit march,A day might see your lines of steelBeneath the victor's arch!What hope, O God! would not grow warmWhen thoughts like these give cheer?The lily calmly braves the storm,And shall the palm-tree fear?No! rather let its branches courtThe rack that sweeps the plain;And from the lily's regal portLearn how to breast the strain.Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side!Ho, dwellers in the vales!Ho, ye who by the roaring tideHave roughened in the gales!Come, flocking gayly to the fight,From forest, hill, and lake;We battle for our country's right,And for the lily's sake!Henry Timrod.
Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side!Ho, dwellers in the vales!Ho, ye who by the chafing tideHave roughened in the gales!Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot,Lay by the bloodless spade;Let desk and case and counter rot,And burn your books of trade!
The despot roves your fairest lands;And till he flies or fears,Your fields must grow but armèd bands,Your sheaves be sheaves of spears!Give up to mildew and to rustThe useless tools of gain,And feed your country's sacred dustWith floods of crimson rain!
Come with the weapons at your call—With musket, pike, or knife;He wields the deadliest blade of allWho lightest holds his life.The arm that drives its unbought blowsWith all a patriot's scorn,Might brain a tyrant with a roseOr stab him with a thorn.
Does any falter? Let him turnTo some brave maiden's eyes,And catch the holy fires that burnIn those sublunar skies.Oh, could you like your women feel,And in their spirit march,A day might see your lines of steelBeneath the victor's arch!
What hope, O God! would not grow warmWhen thoughts like these give cheer?The lily calmly braves the storm,And shall the palm-tree fear?No! rather let its branches courtThe rack that sweeps the plain;And from the lily's regal portLearn how to breast the strain.
Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side!Ho, dwellers in the vales!Ho, ye who by the roaring tideHave roughened in the gales!Come, flocking gayly to the fight,From forest, hill, and lake;We battle for our country's right,And for the lily's sake!
Henry Timrod.
"WE CONQUER OR DIE"
The war drum is beating, prepare for the fight,The stern bigot Northman exults in his might;Gird on your bright weapons, your foemen are nigh,And this be our watchword, "We conquer or die."The trumpet is sounding from mountain to shore,Your swords and your lances must slumber no more,Fling forth to the sunlight your banner on high,Inscribed with the watchword, "We conquer or die."March on the battlefield, there to do or dare,With shoulder to shoulder, all danger to share,And let your proud watchword ring up to the sky,Till the blue arch reëchoes, "We conquer or die."Press forward undaunted nor think of retreat,The enemy's host on the threshold to meet;Strike firm, till the foeman before you shall fly,Appalled by the watchword, "We conquer or die."Go forth in the pathway our forefathers trod;We, too, fight for freedom—our Captain is God,Their blood in our veins, with their honors we vie,Theirs, too, was the watchword, "We conquer or die."We strike for the South—Mountain, Valley, and Plain,For the South we will conquer again and again;Her day of salvation and triumph is nigh,Ours, then, be the watchword, "We conquer or die."James Pierpont.
The war drum is beating, prepare for the fight,The stern bigot Northman exults in his might;Gird on your bright weapons, your foemen are nigh,And this be our watchword, "We conquer or die."The trumpet is sounding from mountain to shore,Your swords and your lances must slumber no more,Fling forth to the sunlight your banner on high,Inscribed with the watchword, "We conquer or die."March on the battlefield, there to do or dare,With shoulder to shoulder, all danger to share,And let your proud watchword ring up to the sky,Till the blue arch reëchoes, "We conquer or die."Press forward undaunted nor think of retreat,The enemy's host on the threshold to meet;Strike firm, till the foeman before you shall fly,Appalled by the watchword, "We conquer or die."Go forth in the pathway our forefathers trod;We, too, fight for freedom—our Captain is God,Their blood in our veins, with their honors we vie,Theirs, too, was the watchword, "We conquer or die."We strike for the South—Mountain, Valley, and Plain,For the South we will conquer again and again;Her day of salvation and triumph is nigh,Ours, then, be the watchword, "We conquer or die."James Pierpont.
The war drum is beating, prepare for the fight,The stern bigot Northman exults in his might;Gird on your bright weapons, your foemen are nigh,And this be our watchword, "We conquer or die."
The trumpet is sounding from mountain to shore,Your swords and your lances must slumber no more,Fling forth to the sunlight your banner on high,Inscribed with the watchword, "We conquer or die."
March on the battlefield, there to do or dare,With shoulder to shoulder, all danger to share,And let your proud watchword ring up to the sky,Till the blue arch reëchoes, "We conquer or die."
Press forward undaunted nor think of retreat,The enemy's host on the threshold to meet;Strike firm, till the foeman before you shall fly,Appalled by the watchword, "We conquer or die."
Go forth in the pathway our forefathers trod;We, too, fight for freedom—our Captain is God,Their blood in our veins, with their honors we vie,Theirs, too, was the watchword, "We conquer or die."
We strike for the South—Mountain, Valley, and Plain,For the South we will conquer again and again;Her day of salvation and triumph is nigh,Ours, then, be the watchword, "We conquer or die."
James Pierpont.
"CALL ALL"
Whoop! the Doodles have broken loose,Roaring round like the very deuce!Lice of Egypt, a hungry pack,—After 'em, boys, and drive 'em back.Bull-dog, terrier, cur, and fice,Back to the beggarly land of ice;Worry 'em, bite 'em, scratch and tearEverybody and everywhere.Old Kentucky is caved from under,Tennessee is split asunder,Alabama awaits attack,And Georgia bristles up her back.Old John Brown is dead and gone!Still his spirit is marching on,—Lantern-jawed, and legs, my boys,Long as an ape's from Illinois!Want a weapon? Gather a brick,Club or cudgel, or stone or stick;Anything with a blade or butt,Anything that can cleave or cut.Anything heavy, or hard, or keen!Any sort of slaying machine!Anything with a willing mind,And the steady arm of a man behind.Want a weapon? Why, capture one!Every Doodle has got a gun,Belt, and bayonet, bright and new;Kill a Doodle, and capture two!Shoulder to shoulder, son and sire!All, call all! to the feast of fire!Mother and maiden, and child and slave,A common triumph or a single grave.Rockingham, Va.,Register, 1861.
Whoop! the Doodles have broken loose,Roaring round like the very deuce!Lice of Egypt, a hungry pack,—After 'em, boys, and drive 'em back.Bull-dog, terrier, cur, and fice,Back to the beggarly land of ice;Worry 'em, bite 'em, scratch and tearEverybody and everywhere.Old Kentucky is caved from under,Tennessee is split asunder,Alabama awaits attack,And Georgia bristles up her back.Old John Brown is dead and gone!Still his spirit is marching on,—Lantern-jawed, and legs, my boys,Long as an ape's from Illinois!Want a weapon? Gather a brick,Club or cudgel, or stone or stick;Anything with a blade or butt,Anything that can cleave or cut.Anything heavy, or hard, or keen!Any sort of slaying machine!Anything with a willing mind,And the steady arm of a man behind.Want a weapon? Why, capture one!Every Doodle has got a gun,Belt, and bayonet, bright and new;Kill a Doodle, and capture two!Shoulder to shoulder, son and sire!All, call all! to the feast of fire!Mother and maiden, and child and slave,A common triumph or a single grave.Rockingham, Va.,Register, 1861.
Whoop! the Doodles have broken loose,Roaring round like the very deuce!Lice of Egypt, a hungry pack,—After 'em, boys, and drive 'em back.
Bull-dog, terrier, cur, and fice,Back to the beggarly land of ice;Worry 'em, bite 'em, scratch and tearEverybody and everywhere.
Old Kentucky is caved from under,Tennessee is split asunder,Alabama awaits attack,And Georgia bristles up her back.
Old John Brown is dead and gone!Still his spirit is marching on,—Lantern-jawed, and legs, my boys,Long as an ape's from Illinois!
Want a weapon? Gather a brick,Club or cudgel, or stone or stick;Anything with a blade or butt,Anything that can cleave or cut.
Anything heavy, or hard, or keen!Any sort of slaying machine!Anything with a willing mind,And the steady arm of a man behind.
Want a weapon? Why, capture one!Every Doodle has got a gun,Belt, and bayonet, bright and new;Kill a Doodle, and capture two!
Shoulder to shoulder, son and sire!All, call all! to the feast of fire!Mother and maiden, and child and slave,A common triumph or a single grave.
Rockingham, Va.,Register, 1861.
THE BONNIE BLUE FLAG
Come, brothers! rally for the right!The bravest of the braveSends forth her ringing battle-cryBeside the Atlantic wave!She leads the way in honor's path;Come, brothers, near and far,Come rally round the Bonnie Blue FlagThat bears a single star!We've borne the Yankee trickery,The Yankee gibe and sneer,Till Yankee insolence and prideKnow neither shame nor fear;But ready now with shot and steelTheir brazen front to mar,We hoist aloft the Bonnie Blue FlagThat bears a single star.Now Georgia marches to the front,And close beside her comeHer sisters by the Mexique Sea,With pealing trump and drum;Till answering back from hill and glenThe rallying cry afar,A Nation hoists the Bonnie Blue FlagThat bears a single star.By every stone in Charleston Bay,By each beleaguered town,We swear to rest not, night nor day,But hunt the tyrants down!Till bathed in valor's holy bloodThe gazing world afarShall greet with shouts the Bonnie Blue FlagThat bears the cross and star!Annie Chambers Ketchum.
Come, brothers! rally for the right!The bravest of the braveSends forth her ringing battle-cryBeside the Atlantic wave!She leads the way in honor's path;Come, brothers, near and far,Come rally round the Bonnie Blue FlagThat bears a single star!We've borne the Yankee trickery,The Yankee gibe and sneer,Till Yankee insolence and prideKnow neither shame nor fear;But ready now with shot and steelTheir brazen front to mar,We hoist aloft the Bonnie Blue FlagThat bears a single star.Now Georgia marches to the front,And close beside her comeHer sisters by the Mexique Sea,With pealing trump and drum;Till answering back from hill and glenThe rallying cry afar,A Nation hoists the Bonnie Blue FlagThat bears a single star.By every stone in Charleston Bay,By each beleaguered town,We swear to rest not, night nor day,But hunt the tyrants down!Till bathed in valor's holy bloodThe gazing world afarShall greet with shouts the Bonnie Blue FlagThat bears the cross and star!Annie Chambers Ketchum.
Come, brothers! rally for the right!The bravest of the braveSends forth her ringing battle-cryBeside the Atlantic wave!She leads the way in honor's path;Come, brothers, near and far,Come rally round the Bonnie Blue FlagThat bears a single star!
We've borne the Yankee trickery,The Yankee gibe and sneer,Till Yankee insolence and prideKnow neither shame nor fear;But ready now with shot and steelTheir brazen front to mar,We hoist aloft the Bonnie Blue FlagThat bears a single star.
Now Georgia marches to the front,And close beside her comeHer sisters by the Mexique Sea,With pealing trump and drum;Till answering back from hill and glenThe rallying cry afar,A Nation hoists the Bonnie Blue FlagThat bears a single star.
By every stone in Charleston Bay,By each beleaguered town,We swear to rest not, night nor day,But hunt the tyrants down!Till bathed in valor's holy bloodThe gazing world afarShall greet with shouts the Bonnie Blue FlagThat bears the cross and star!
Annie Chambers Ketchum.
The Southern women were carried away by enthusiasm and excitement. They believed the South invincible, and regarded the men who did not rush to enlist as cowards and traitors.
The Southern women were carried away by enthusiasm and excitement. They believed the South invincible, and regarded the men who did not rush to enlist as cowards and traitors.
"I GIVE MY SOLDIER BOY A BLADE!"
I give my soldier boy a blade,In fair Damascus fashioned well:Who first the glittering falchion swayed,Who first beneath its fury fell,I know not; but I hope to know,That, for no mean or hireling trade.To guard no feeling base or low—I give my soldier boy the blade!Cool, calm, and clear—the lucid floodIn which its tempering work was done;—As calm, as clear, in wind and wood,Be thou where'er it sees the sun!For country's claim at honor's call,For outraged friend, insulted maid,At mercy's voice to bid it fall—I give my soldier boy the blade!The eye which marked its peerless edge,The hand that weighed its balanced poise,Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge,Are gone with all their flame and noise;Yet still the gleaming sword remains!So, when in dust I low am laid,Remember by these heartfelt strains,I give my soldier boy the blade!
I give my soldier boy a blade,In fair Damascus fashioned well:Who first the glittering falchion swayed,Who first beneath its fury fell,I know not; but I hope to know,That, for no mean or hireling trade.To guard no feeling base or low—I give my soldier boy the blade!Cool, calm, and clear—the lucid floodIn which its tempering work was done;—As calm, as clear, in wind and wood,Be thou where'er it sees the sun!For country's claim at honor's call,For outraged friend, insulted maid,At mercy's voice to bid it fall—I give my soldier boy the blade!The eye which marked its peerless edge,The hand that weighed its balanced poise,Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge,Are gone with all their flame and noise;Yet still the gleaming sword remains!So, when in dust I low am laid,Remember by these heartfelt strains,I give my soldier boy the blade!
I give my soldier boy a blade,In fair Damascus fashioned well:Who first the glittering falchion swayed,Who first beneath its fury fell,I know not; but I hope to know,That, for no mean or hireling trade.To guard no feeling base or low—I give my soldier boy the blade!
Cool, calm, and clear—the lucid floodIn which its tempering work was done;—As calm, as clear, in wind and wood,Be thou where'er it sees the sun!For country's claim at honor's call,For outraged friend, insulted maid,At mercy's voice to bid it fall—I give my soldier boy the blade!
The eye which marked its peerless edge,The hand that weighed its balanced poise,Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge,Are gone with all their flame and noise;Yet still the gleaming sword remains!So, when in dust I low am laid,Remember by these heartfelt strains,I give my soldier boy the blade!
THE NORTH GETS ITS LESSON
On Wednesday, April 16, 1861, the Sixth Massachusetts left Boston for Washington. Three days later it reached Baltimore, and started to march to the Camden Street station to take train for its destination.
On Wednesday, April 16, 1861, the Sixth Massachusetts left Boston for Washington. Three days later it reached Baltimore, and started to march to the Camden Street station to take train for its destination.
THE NINETEENTH OF APRIL
[1861]
This year, till late in April, the snow fell thick and light:Thy truce-flag, friendly Nature, in clinging drifts of white,Hung over field and city: now everywhere is seen,In place of that white quietness, a sudden glow of green.The verdure climbs the Common, beneath the leafless trees,To where the glorious Stars and Stripes are floating on the breeze.There, suddenly as spring awoke from winter's snow-draped gloom,The Passion-Flower of Seventy-Six is bursting into bloom.Dear is the time of roses, when earth to joy is wed,And garden-plat and meadow wear one generous flush of red;But now in dearer beauty, to her ancient colors true,Blooms the old town of Boston in red and white and blue.Along the whole awakening North are those bright emblems spread;A summer noon of patriotism is burning overhead:No party badges flaunting now, no word of clique or clan;But "Up for God and Union!" is the shout of every man.Oh, peace is dear to Northern hearts; our hard-earned homes more dear;But Freedom is beyond the price of any earthly cheer;And Freedom's flag is sacred; he who would work it harm,Let him, although a brother, beware our strong right arm!A brother! ah, the sorrow, the anguish of that word!The fratricidal strife begun, when will its end be heard?Not this the boon that patriot hearts have prayed and waited for;—We loved them, and we longed for peace: but they would have it war.Yes; war! on this memorial day, the day of Lexington,A lightning-thrill along the wires from heart to heart has run.Brave men we gazed on yesterday, to-day for us have bled:Again is Massachusetts blood the first for Freedom shed.To war,—and with our brethren, then,—if only this can be!Life hangs as nothing in the scale against dear Liberty!Though hearts be torn asunder, for Freedom we will fight:Our blood may seal the victory, but God will shield the Right!Lucy Larcom.
This year, till late in April, the snow fell thick and light:Thy truce-flag, friendly Nature, in clinging drifts of white,Hung over field and city: now everywhere is seen,In place of that white quietness, a sudden glow of green.The verdure climbs the Common, beneath the leafless trees,To where the glorious Stars and Stripes are floating on the breeze.There, suddenly as spring awoke from winter's snow-draped gloom,The Passion-Flower of Seventy-Six is bursting into bloom.Dear is the time of roses, when earth to joy is wed,And garden-plat and meadow wear one generous flush of red;But now in dearer beauty, to her ancient colors true,Blooms the old town of Boston in red and white and blue.Along the whole awakening North are those bright emblems spread;A summer noon of patriotism is burning overhead:No party badges flaunting now, no word of clique or clan;But "Up for God and Union!" is the shout of every man.Oh, peace is dear to Northern hearts; our hard-earned homes more dear;But Freedom is beyond the price of any earthly cheer;And Freedom's flag is sacred; he who would work it harm,Let him, although a brother, beware our strong right arm!A brother! ah, the sorrow, the anguish of that word!The fratricidal strife begun, when will its end be heard?Not this the boon that patriot hearts have prayed and waited for;—We loved them, and we longed for peace: but they would have it war.Yes; war! on this memorial day, the day of Lexington,A lightning-thrill along the wires from heart to heart has run.Brave men we gazed on yesterday, to-day for us have bled:Again is Massachusetts blood the first for Freedom shed.To war,—and with our brethren, then,—if only this can be!Life hangs as nothing in the scale against dear Liberty!Though hearts be torn asunder, for Freedom we will fight:Our blood may seal the victory, but God will shield the Right!Lucy Larcom.
This year, till late in April, the snow fell thick and light:Thy truce-flag, friendly Nature, in clinging drifts of white,Hung over field and city: now everywhere is seen,In place of that white quietness, a sudden glow of green.
The verdure climbs the Common, beneath the leafless trees,To where the glorious Stars and Stripes are floating on the breeze.There, suddenly as spring awoke from winter's snow-draped gloom,The Passion-Flower of Seventy-Six is bursting into bloom.
Dear is the time of roses, when earth to joy is wed,And garden-plat and meadow wear one generous flush of red;But now in dearer beauty, to her ancient colors true,Blooms the old town of Boston in red and white and blue.
Along the whole awakening North are those bright emblems spread;A summer noon of patriotism is burning overhead:No party badges flaunting now, no word of clique or clan;But "Up for God and Union!" is the shout of every man.
Oh, peace is dear to Northern hearts; our hard-earned homes more dear;But Freedom is beyond the price of any earthly cheer;And Freedom's flag is sacred; he who would work it harm,Let him, although a brother, beware our strong right arm!
A brother! ah, the sorrow, the anguish of that word!The fratricidal strife begun, when will its end be heard?Not this the boon that patriot hearts have prayed and waited for;—We loved them, and we longed for peace: but they would have it war.
Yes; war! on this memorial day, the day of Lexington,A lightning-thrill along the wires from heart to heart has run.Brave men we gazed on yesterday, to-day for us have bled:Again is Massachusetts blood the first for Freedom shed.
To war,—and with our brethren, then,—if only this can be!Life hangs as nothing in the scale against dear Liberty!Though hearts be torn asunder, for Freedom we will fight:Our blood may seal the victory, but God will shield the Right!
Lucy Larcom.
Baltimore was in a frenzy, the streets were crowded with Southern sympathizers, and an attack upon the troops soon began. A desperate fight followed, in which three soldiers were killed and about twenty wounded. Nine citizens of Baltimore were killed, and many wounded—how many is not known.
Baltimore was in a frenzy, the streets were crowded with Southern sympathizers, and an attack upon the troops soon began. A desperate fight followed, in which three soldiers were killed and about twenty wounded. Nine citizens of Baltimore were killed, and many wounded—how many is not known.
THROUGH BALTIMORE
[April 19, 1861]
'Twas Friday morn: the train drew nearThe city and the shore.Far through the sunshine, soft and clear,We saw the dear old flag appear,And in our hearts arose a cheerFor Baltimore.Across the broad Patapsco's wave,Old Fort McHenry boreThe starry banner of the brave,As when our fathers went to save,Or in the trenches find a graveAt Baltimore.Before us, pillared in the sky,We saw the statue soarOf Washington, serene and high:—Could traitors view that form, nor fly?Could patriots see, nor gladly dieFor Baltimore?"O city of our country's song!By that swift aid we boreWhen sorely pressed, receive the throngWho go to shield our flag from wrong,And give us welcome, warm and strong,In Baltimore!"We had no arms; as friends we came,As brothers evermore,To rally round one sacred name—The charter of our power and fame:We never dreamed of guilt and shameIn Baltimore.The coward mob upon us fell:McHenry's flag they tore:Surprised, borne backward by the swell,Beat down with mad, inhuman yell,Before us yawned a traitorous hellIn Baltimore!The streets our soldier-fathers trodBlushed with their children's gore;We saw the craven rulers nod,And dip in blood the civic rod—Shall such things be, O righteous God,In Baltimore?No, never! By that outrage black,A solemn oath we swore,To bring the Keystone's thousands back,Strike down the dastards who attack,And leave a red and fiery trackThrough Baltimore!Bow down, in haste, thy guilty head!God's wrath is swift and sore:The sky with gathering bolts is red,—Cleanse from thy skirts the slaughter shed,Or make thyself an ashen bed,O Baltimore!Bayard Taylor.
'Twas Friday morn: the train drew nearThe city and the shore.Far through the sunshine, soft and clear,We saw the dear old flag appear,And in our hearts arose a cheerFor Baltimore.Across the broad Patapsco's wave,Old Fort McHenry boreThe starry banner of the brave,As when our fathers went to save,Or in the trenches find a graveAt Baltimore.Before us, pillared in the sky,We saw the statue soarOf Washington, serene and high:—Could traitors view that form, nor fly?Could patriots see, nor gladly dieFor Baltimore?"O city of our country's song!By that swift aid we boreWhen sorely pressed, receive the throngWho go to shield our flag from wrong,And give us welcome, warm and strong,In Baltimore!"We had no arms; as friends we came,As brothers evermore,To rally round one sacred name—The charter of our power and fame:We never dreamed of guilt and shameIn Baltimore.The coward mob upon us fell:McHenry's flag they tore:Surprised, borne backward by the swell,Beat down with mad, inhuman yell,Before us yawned a traitorous hellIn Baltimore!The streets our soldier-fathers trodBlushed with their children's gore;We saw the craven rulers nod,And dip in blood the civic rod—Shall such things be, O righteous God,In Baltimore?No, never! By that outrage black,A solemn oath we swore,To bring the Keystone's thousands back,Strike down the dastards who attack,And leave a red and fiery trackThrough Baltimore!Bow down, in haste, thy guilty head!God's wrath is swift and sore:The sky with gathering bolts is red,—Cleanse from thy skirts the slaughter shed,Or make thyself an ashen bed,O Baltimore!Bayard Taylor.
'Twas Friday morn: the train drew nearThe city and the shore.Far through the sunshine, soft and clear,We saw the dear old flag appear,And in our hearts arose a cheerFor Baltimore.
Across the broad Patapsco's wave,Old Fort McHenry boreThe starry banner of the brave,As when our fathers went to save,Or in the trenches find a graveAt Baltimore.
Before us, pillared in the sky,We saw the statue soarOf Washington, serene and high:—Could traitors view that form, nor fly?Could patriots see, nor gladly dieFor Baltimore?
"O city of our country's song!By that swift aid we boreWhen sorely pressed, receive the throngWho go to shield our flag from wrong,And give us welcome, warm and strong,In Baltimore!"
We had no arms; as friends we came,As brothers evermore,To rally round one sacred name—The charter of our power and fame:We never dreamed of guilt and shameIn Baltimore.
The coward mob upon us fell:McHenry's flag they tore:Surprised, borne backward by the swell,Beat down with mad, inhuman yell,Before us yawned a traitorous hellIn Baltimore!
The streets our soldier-fathers trodBlushed with their children's gore;We saw the craven rulers nod,And dip in blood the civic rod—Shall such things be, O righteous God,In Baltimore?
No, never! By that outrage black,A solemn oath we swore,To bring the Keystone's thousands back,Strike down the dastards who attack,And leave a red and fiery trackThrough Baltimore!
Bow down, in haste, thy guilty head!God's wrath is swift and sore:The sky with gathering bolts is red,—Cleanse from thy skirts the slaughter shed,Or make thyself an ashen bed,O Baltimore!
Bayard Taylor.
The secessionists of Maryland were wild with wrath; but a Federal force under General Butler soon occupied Annapolis and Baltimore, the Union spirit of the state asserted itself, and there was never any further danger of its joining the Confederacy.
The secessionists of Maryland were wild with wrath; but a Federal force under General Butler soon occupied Annapolis and Baltimore, the Union spirit of the state asserted itself, and there was never any further danger of its joining the Confederacy.
MY MARYLAND
The despot's heel is on thy shore,Maryland!His torch is at thy temple door,Maryland!Avenge the patriotic goreThat flecked the streets of Baltimore,And be the battle-queen of yore,Maryland, my Maryland!Hark to an exiled son's appeal,Maryland!My Mother State, to thee I kneel,Maryland!For life and death, for woe and weal,Thy peerless chivalry reveal,And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,Maryland, my Maryland!Thou wilt not cower in the dust,Maryland!Thy beaming sword shall never rust,Maryland!Remember Carroll's sacred trust,Remember Howard's warlike thrust,And all thy slumberers with the just,Maryland, my Maryland!Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day,Maryland!Come with thy panoplied array,Maryland!With Ringgold's spirit for the fray,With Watson's blood at Monterey,With fearless Lowe and dashing May,Maryland, my Maryland!Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain,Maryland!Virginia should not call in vain,Maryland!She meets her sisters on the plain,—"Sic semper!" 'tis the proud refrainThat baffles minions back amain,Maryland!Arise in majesty again,Maryland, my Maryland!Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,Maryland!Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,Maryland!Come to thine own heroic throngStalking with Liberty along,And chant thy dauntless slogan-song,Maryland, my Maryland!I see the blush upon thy cheek,Maryland!For thou wast ever bravely meek,Maryland!But lo! there surges forth a shriek,From hill to hill, from creek to creek,Potomac calls to Chesapeake,Maryland, my Maryland!Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll,Maryland!Thou wilt not crook to his control,Maryland!Better the fire upon thee roll,Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,Than crucifixion of the soul,Maryland, my Maryland!I hear the distant thunder hum,Maryland!The Old Line's bugle, fife, and drum,Maryland!She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb;Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum!She breathes! She burns! She'll come! She'll come!Maryland, my Maryland!James Ryder Randall.
The despot's heel is on thy shore,Maryland!His torch is at thy temple door,Maryland!Avenge the patriotic goreThat flecked the streets of Baltimore,And be the battle-queen of yore,Maryland, my Maryland!Hark to an exiled son's appeal,Maryland!My Mother State, to thee I kneel,Maryland!For life and death, for woe and weal,Thy peerless chivalry reveal,And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,Maryland, my Maryland!Thou wilt not cower in the dust,Maryland!Thy beaming sword shall never rust,Maryland!Remember Carroll's sacred trust,Remember Howard's warlike thrust,And all thy slumberers with the just,Maryland, my Maryland!Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day,Maryland!Come with thy panoplied array,Maryland!With Ringgold's spirit for the fray,With Watson's blood at Monterey,With fearless Lowe and dashing May,Maryland, my Maryland!Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain,Maryland!Virginia should not call in vain,Maryland!She meets her sisters on the plain,—"Sic semper!" 'tis the proud refrainThat baffles minions back amain,Maryland!Arise in majesty again,Maryland, my Maryland!Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,Maryland!Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,Maryland!Come to thine own heroic throngStalking with Liberty along,And chant thy dauntless slogan-song,Maryland, my Maryland!I see the blush upon thy cheek,Maryland!For thou wast ever bravely meek,Maryland!But lo! there surges forth a shriek,From hill to hill, from creek to creek,Potomac calls to Chesapeake,Maryland, my Maryland!Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll,Maryland!Thou wilt not crook to his control,Maryland!Better the fire upon thee roll,Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,Than crucifixion of the soul,Maryland, my Maryland!I hear the distant thunder hum,Maryland!The Old Line's bugle, fife, and drum,Maryland!She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb;Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum!She breathes! She burns! She'll come! She'll come!Maryland, my Maryland!James Ryder Randall.
The despot's heel is on thy shore,Maryland!His torch is at thy temple door,Maryland!Avenge the patriotic goreThat flecked the streets of Baltimore,And be the battle-queen of yore,Maryland, my Maryland!
Hark to an exiled son's appeal,Maryland!My Mother State, to thee I kneel,Maryland!For life and death, for woe and weal,Thy peerless chivalry reveal,And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,Maryland, my Maryland!
Thou wilt not cower in the dust,Maryland!Thy beaming sword shall never rust,Maryland!Remember Carroll's sacred trust,Remember Howard's warlike thrust,And all thy slumberers with the just,Maryland, my Maryland!
Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day,Maryland!Come with thy panoplied array,Maryland!With Ringgold's spirit for the fray,With Watson's blood at Monterey,With fearless Lowe and dashing May,Maryland, my Maryland!
Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain,Maryland!Virginia should not call in vain,Maryland!She meets her sisters on the plain,—"Sic semper!" 'tis the proud refrainThat baffles minions back amain,Maryland!Arise in majesty again,Maryland, my Maryland!
Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,Maryland!Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,Maryland!Come to thine own heroic throngStalking with Liberty along,And chant thy dauntless slogan-song,Maryland, my Maryland!
I see the blush upon thy cheek,Maryland!For thou wast ever bravely meek,Maryland!But lo! there surges forth a shriek,From hill to hill, from creek to creek,Potomac calls to Chesapeake,Maryland, my Maryland!
Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll,Maryland!Thou wilt not crook to his control,Maryland!Better the fire upon thee roll,Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,Than crucifixion of the soul,Maryland, my Maryland!
I hear the distant thunder hum,Maryland!The Old Line's bugle, fife, and drum,Maryland!She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb;Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum!She breathes! She burns! She'll come! She'll come!Maryland, my Maryland!
James Ryder Randall.
On May 24, 1861, a Union force under Colonel Ephraim E. Ellsworth occupied Alexandria, Va. Over an inn called the Marshall House Ellsworth saw a Confederate flag flying and went in person to take it down. As he descended the stairs with the flag in his arms, the proprietor of the inn, a violent secessionist named Jackson, fired upon and killed him instantly. Jackson was shot a moment later by Francis E. Brownell, a New York Zouave.
On May 24, 1861, a Union force under Colonel Ephraim E. Ellsworth occupied Alexandria, Va. Over an inn called the Marshall House Ellsworth saw a Confederate flag flying and went in person to take it down. As he descended the stairs with the flag in his arms, the proprietor of the inn, a violent secessionist named Jackson, fired upon and killed him instantly. Jackson was shot a moment later by Francis E. Brownell, a New York Zouave.
ELLSWORTH
[May 24, 1861]
Who is this ye say is slain?Whose voice answers not again?Ellsworth, shall we call in vainOn thy name to-day?No! from every vale and hillOur response all hearts shall thrill,"Ellsworth's fame is with us still,Ne'er to pass away!"Bring that rebel banner low,Hoisted by a treacherous foe:'Twas for that they dealt the blow,Laid him in the dust.Raise aloft, that all may seeHis loved flag of Liberty.Forward, then, to victory,Or perish if we must!Hark to what Columbia saith:"Mourn not for his early death,With each patriot's dying breathStrength renewed is givenTo the cause of truth and right,To the land for which they fight.After darkness cometh light,—Such the law of Heaven."So we name him not in vain,Though he comes not back again!For his country he was slain;Ellsworth's blood shall riseTo our gracious Saviour—King:'Tis a holy gift we bring;Such a sacred offeringGod will not despise.
Who is this ye say is slain?Whose voice answers not again?Ellsworth, shall we call in vainOn thy name to-day?No! from every vale and hillOur response all hearts shall thrill,"Ellsworth's fame is with us still,Ne'er to pass away!"Bring that rebel banner low,Hoisted by a treacherous foe:'Twas for that they dealt the blow,Laid him in the dust.Raise aloft, that all may seeHis loved flag of Liberty.Forward, then, to victory,Or perish if we must!Hark to what Columbia saith:"Mourn not for his early death,With each patriot's dying breathStrength renewed is givenTo the cause of truth and right,To the land for which they fight.After darkness cometh light,—Such the law of Heaven."So we name him not in vain,Though he comes not back again!For his country he was slain;Ellsworth's blood shall riseTo our gracious Saviour—King:'Tis a holy gift we bring;Such a sacred offeringGod will not despise.
Who is this ye say is slain?Whose voice answers not again?Ellsworth, shall we call in vainOn thy name to-day?No! from every vale and hillOur response all hearts shall thrill,"Ellsworth's fame is with us still,Ne'er to pass away!"
Bring that rebel banner low,Hoisted by a treacherous foe:'Twas for that they dealt the blow,Laid him in the dust.Raise aloft, that all may seeHis loved flag of Liberty.Forward, then, to victory,Or perish if we must!
Hark to what Columbia saith:"Mourn not for his early death,With each patriot's dying breathStrength renewed is givenTo the cause of truth and right,To the land for which they fight.After darkness cometh light,—Such the law of Heaven."
So we name him not in vain,Though he comes not back again!For his country he was slain;Ellsworth's blood shall riseTo our gracious Saviour—King:'Tis a holy gift we bring;Such a sacred offeringGod will not despise.
COLONEL ELLSWORTH[8]
It fell upon us like a crushing woe,Sudden and terrible. "Can it be?" we said,"That he from whom we hoped so much, is dead,Most foully murdered ere he met the foe?"Why not? The men that would disrupt the StateBy such base plots as theirs—frauds, thefts, and lies—What code of honor do they recognize?They thirst for blood to satisfy their hate,Ourblood: so be it; but for every blowWoe shall befall them; not in their wild way,But stern and pitiless, we will repay,Until, like swollen streams,theirblood shall flow;And should we pause; the thought of Ellsworth slain,Will steel our aching hearts to strike again!Richard Henry Stoddard.
It fell upon us like a crushing woe,Sudden and terrible. "Can it be?" we said,"That he from whom we hoped so much, is dead,Most foully murdered ere he met the foe?"Why not? The men that would disrupt the StateBy such base plots as theirs—frauds, thefts, and lies—What code of honor do they recognize?They thirst for blood to satisfy their hate,Ourblood: so be it; but for every blowWoe shall befall them; not in their wild way,But stern and pitiless, we will repay,Until, like swollen streams,theirblood shall flow;And should we pause; the thought of Ellsworth slain,Will steel our aching hearts to strike again!Richard Henry Stoddard.
It fell upon us like a crushing woe,Sudden and terrible. "Can it be?" we said,"That he from whom we hoped so much, is dead,Most foully murdered ere he met the foe?"Why not? The men that would disrupt the StateBy such base plots as theirs—frauds, thefts, and lies—What code of honor do they recognize?They thirst for blood to satisfy their hate,Ourblood: so be it; but for every blowWoe shall befall them; not in their wild way,But stern and pitiless, we will repay,Until, like swollen streams,theirblood shall flow;And should we pause; the thought of Ellsworth slain,Will steel our aching hearts to strike again!
Richard Henry Stoddard.
ON THE DEATH OF "JACKSON"
[May 24, 1861]
Not where the battle redCovers with fame the dead,—Not where the trumpet callsVengeance for each that falls,—Not with his comrades dear,Not there—he fell not there.He grasps no brother's hand,He sees no patriot band;Daring alone the foeHe strikes—then waits the blow,Counting his life not dear,His was no heart to fear!Shout! shout, his deed of glory!Tell it in song and story;Tell it where soldiers braveRush fearless to their grave;Tell it—a magic spellIn that great deed shall dwell.Yes! he hath won a nameDeathless for aye to fame;Our flag baptized in blood,Always, as with a flood,Shall sweep the tyrant bandWhose feet pollute our land.Then, freemen, raise the cry,As freemen live or die!Arm! arm you for the fight!His banner in your sight;And this your battle-cry,"Jackson and victory!"
Not where the battle redCovers with fame the dead,—Not where the trumpet callsVengeance for each that falls,—Not with his comrades dear,Not there—he fell not there.He grasps no brother's hand,He sees no patriot band;Daring alone the foeHe strikes—then waits the blow,Counting his life not dear,His was no heart to fear!Shout! shout, his deed of glory!Tell it in song and story;Tell it where soldiers braveRush fearless to their grave;Tell it—a magic spellIn that great deed shall dwell.Yes! he hath won a nameDeathless for aye to fame;Our flag baptized in blood,Always, as with a flood,Shall sweep the tyrant bandWhose feet pollute our land.Then, freemen, raise the cry,As freemen live or die!Arm! arm you for the fight!His banner in your sight;And this your battle-cry,"Jackson and victory!"
Not where the battle redCovers with fame the dead,—Not where the trumpet callsVengeance for each that falls,—Not with his comrades dear,Not there—he fell not there.
He grasps no brother's hand,He sees no patriot band;Daring alone the foeHe strikes—then waits the blow,Counting his life not dear,His was no heart to fear!
Shout! shout, his deed of glory!Tell it in song and story;Tell it where soldiers braveRush fearless to their grave;Tell it—a magic spellIn that great deed shall dwell.
Yes! he hath won a nameDeathless for aye to fame;Our flag baptized in blood,Always, as with a flood,Shall sweep the tyrant bandWhose feet pollute our land.
Then, freemen, raise the cry,As freemen live or die!Arm! arm you for the fight!His banner in your sight;And this your battle-cry,"Jackson and victory!"
General Butler, meanwhile, had been sent with reinforcements to Fortress Monroe, and after making that important post secure, began various offensive measures against the Confederate posts in the neighborhood, manned largely by Virginians.
General Butler, meanwhile, had been sent with reinforcements to Fortress Monroe, and after making that important post secure, began various offensive measures against the Confederate posts in the neighborhood, manned largely by Virginians.
THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY
The knightliest of the knightly raceThat, since the days of old,Have kept the lamp of chivalryAlight in hearts of gold;The kindliest of the kindly bandThat, rarely hating ease,Yet rode with Spotswood round the land,And Raleigh round the seas;Who climbed the blue Virginian hillsAgainst embattled foes,And planted there, in valleys fair,The lily and the rose;Whose fragrance lives in many lands,Whose beauty stars the earth,And lights the hearths of happy homesWith loveliness and worth.We thought they slept!—the sons who keptThe names of noble sires,And slumbered while the darkness creptAround their vigil-fires;But aye the "Golden Horseshoe" knightsTheir old Dominion keep,Whose foes have found enchanted ground,But not a knight asleep!Francis Orrery Ticknor.
The knightliest of the knightly raceThat, since the days of old,Have kept the lamp of chivalryAlight in hearts of gold;The kindliest of the kindly bandThat, rarely hating ease,Yet rode with Spotswood round the land,And Raleigh round the seas;Who climbed the blue Virginian hillsAgainst embattled foes,And planted there, in valleys fair,The lily and the rose;Whose fragrance lives in many lands,Whose beauty stars the earth,And lights the hearths of happy homesWith loveliness and worth.We thought they slept!—the sons who keptThe names of noble sires,And slumbered while the darkness creptAround their vigil-fires;But aye the "Golden Horseshoe" knightsTheir old Dominion keep,Whose foes have found enchanted ground,But not a knight asleep!Francis Orrery Ticknor.
The knightliest of the knightly raceThat, since the days of old,Have kept the lamp of chivalryAlight in hearts of gold;The kindliest of the kindly bandThat, rarely hating ease,Yet rode with Spotswood round the land,And Raleigh round the seas;
Who climbed the blue Virginian hillsAgainst embattled foes,And planted there, in valleys fair,The lily and the rose;Whose fragrance lives in many lands,Whose beauty stars the earth,And lights the hearths of happy homesWith loveliness and worth.
We thought they slept!—the sons who keptThe names of noble sires,And slumbered while the darkness creptAround their vigil-fires;But aye the "Golden Horseshoe" knightsTheir old Dominion keep,Whose foes have found enchanted ground,But not a knight asleep!
Francis Orrery Ticknor.
On the night of June 9, 1861, Butler dispatched two expeditions against Great and Little Bethel, two churches on the Yorktown road, which had been strongly fortified. The columns got confused in the darkness, and fired upon each other. In the battle which followed, the same mistake was made, and the Union forces finally retreated, having suffered heavily.
On the night of June 9, 1861, Butler dispatched two expeditions against Great and Little Bethel, two churches on the Yorktown road, which had been strongly fortified. The columns got confused in the darkness, and fired upon each other. In the battle which followed, the same mistake was made, and the Union forces finally retreated, having suffered heavily.
BETHEL
[June 10, 1861]
We mustered at midnight, in darkness we formed,And the whisper went round of a fort to be stormed;But no drum-beat had called us, no trumpet we heard,And no voice of command, but our colonel's low word—"Column! Forward!"And out, through the mist, and the murk of the morn,From the beaches of Hampton our barges were borne;And we heard not a sound, save the sweep of the oar,Till the word of our colonel came up from the shore—"Column! Forward!"With hearts bounding bravely, and eyes all alight,As ye dance to soft music, so trod we that night;Through the aisles of the greenwood, with vines overarched,Tossing dew-drops, like gems, from our feet, as we marched—"Column! Forward!"As ye dance with the damsels, to viol and flute,So we skipped from the shadows, and mocked their pursuit;But the soft zephyrs chased us, with scents of the morn,As we passed by the hay-fields and green waving corn—"Column! Forward!"For the leaves were all laden with fragrance of June,And the flowers and the foliage with sweets were in tune;And the air was so calm, and the forest so dumb,That we heard our own heart-beats, like taps of a drum—"Column! Forward!"Till the lull of the lowlands was stirred by the breeze,And the buskins of morn brushed the tops of the trees,And the glintings of glory that slid from her trackBy the sheen of our rifles were gayly flung back—"Column! Forward!"And the woodlands grew purple with sunshiny mist,And the blue-crested hill-tops with roselight were kissed,And the earth gave her prayers to the sun in perfumes,Till we marched as through gardens, and trampled on blooms—"Column! Forward!"Ay, trampled on blossoms, and seared the sweet breathOf the greenwood with low-brooding vapors of death;O'er the flowers and the corn we were borne like a blast,And away to the forefront of battle we passed—"Column! Forward!"For the cannon's hoarse thunder roared out from the glades,And the sun was like lightning on banners and blades,When the long line of chanting Zouaves, like a flood,From the green of the woodlands rolled, crimson as blood—"Column! Forward!"While the sound of their song, like the surge of the seas,With the "Star-Spangled Banner" swelled over the leas;And the sword of Duryea, like a torch, led the way,Bearing down on the batteries of Bethel that day—"Column! Forward!"Through green tasselled cornfields our columns were thrown,And like corn by the red scythe of fire we were mown;While the cannon's fierce ploughings new-furrowed the plain,That our blood might be planted for Liberty's grain—"Column! Forward!"Oh! the fields of fair June have no lack of sweet flowers,But their rarest and best breathe no fragrance like ours;And the sunshine of June, sprinkling gold on the corn,Hath no harvest that ripeneth like Bethel's red morn—"Column! Forward!"When our heroes, like bridegrooms, with lips and with breath,Drank the first kiss of Danger and clasped her in death;And the heart of brave Winthrop grew mute with his lyre,When the plumes of his genius lay moulting in fire—"Column! Forward!"Where he fell shall be sunshine as bright as his name,And the grass where he slept shall be green as his fame;For the gold of the pen and the steel of the swordWrite his deeds—in his blood—on the land he adored—"Column! Forward!"And the soul of our comrade shall sweeten the air,And the flowers and the grass-blades his memory upbear;While the breath of his genius, like music in leaves,With the corn-tassels whispers, and sings in the sheaves—"Column! Forward!"A. J. H. Duganne.
We mustered at midnight, in darkness we formed,And the whisper went round of a fort to be stormed;But no drum-beat had called us, no trumpet we heard,And no voice of command, but our colonel's low word—"Column! Forward!"And out, through the mist, and the murk of the morn,From the beaches of Hampton our barges were borne;And we heard not a sound, save the sweep of the oar,Till the word of our colonel came up from the shore—"Column! Forward!"With hearts bounding bravely, and eyes all alight,As ye dance to soft music, so trod we that night;Through the aisles of the greenwood, with vines overarched,Tossing dew-drops, like gems, from our feet, as we marched—"Column! Forward!"As ye dance with the damsels, to viol and flute,So we skipped from the shadows, and mocked their pursuit;But the soft zephyrs chased us, with scents of the morn,As we passed by the hay-fields and green waving corn—"Column! Forward!"For the leaves were all laden with fragrance of June,And the flowers and the foliage with sweets were in tune;And the air was so calm, and the forest so dumb,That we heard our own heart-beats, like taps of a drum—"Column! Forward!"Till the lull of the lowlands was stirred by the breeze,And the buskins of morn brushed the tops of the trees,And the glintings of glory that slid from her trackBy the sheen of our rifles were gayly flung back—"Column! Forward!"And the woodlands grew purple with sunshiny mist,And the blue-crested hill-tops with roselight were kissed,And the earth gave her prayers to the sun in perfumes,Till we marched as through gardens, and trampled on blooms—"Column! Forward!"Ay, trampled on blossoms, and seared the sweet breathOf the greenwood with low-brooding vapors of death;O'er the flowers and the corn we were borne like a blast,And away to the forefront of battle we passed—"Column! Forward!"For the cannon's hoarse thunder roared out from the glades,And the sun was like lightning on banners and blades,When the long line of chanting Zouaves, like a flood,From the green of the woodlands rolled, crimson as blood—"Column! Forward!"While the sound of their song, like the surge of the seas,With the "Star-Spangled Banner" swelled over the leas;And the sword of Duryea, like a torch, led the way,Bearing down on the batteries of Bethel that day—"Column! Forward!"Through green tasselled cornfields our columns were thrown,And like corn by the red scythe of fire we were mown;While the cannon's fierce ploughings new-furrowed the plain,That our blood might be planted for Liberty's grain—"Column! Forward!"Oh! the fields of fair June have no lack of sweet flowers,But their rarest and best breathe no fragrance like ours;And the sunshine of June, sprinkling gold on the corn,Hath no harvest that ripeneth like Bethel's red morn—"Column! Forward!"When our heroes, like bridegrooms, with lips and with breath,Drank the first kiss of Danger and clasped her in death;And the heart of brave Winthrop grew mute with his lyre,When the plumes of his genius lay moulting in fire—"Column! Forward!"Where he fell shall be sunshine as bright as his name,And the grass where he slept shall be green as his fame;For the gold of the pen and the steel of the swordWrite his deeds—in his blood—on the land he adored—"Column! Forward!"And the soul of our comrade shall sweeten the air,And the flowers and the grass-blades his memory upbear;While the breath of his genius, like music in leaves,With the corn-tassels whispers, and sings in the sheaves—"Column! Forward!"A. J. H. Duganne.
We mustered at midnight, in darkness we formed,And the whisper went round of a fort to be stormed;But no drum-beat had called us, no trumpet we heard,And no voice of command, but our colonel's low word—"Column! Forward!"
And out, through the mist, and the murk of the morn,From the beaches of Hampton our barges were borne;And we heard not a sound, save the sweep of the oar,Till the word of our colonel came up from the shore—"Column! Forward!"
With hearts bounding bravely, and eyes all alight,As ye dance to soft music, so trod we that night;Through the aisles of the greenwood, with vines overarched,Tossing dew-drops, like gems, from our feet, as we marched—"Column! Forward!"
As ye dance with the damsels, to viol and flute,So we skipped from the shadows, and mocked their pursuit;But the soft zephyrs chased us, with scents of the morn,As we passed by the hay-fields and green waving corn—"Column! Forward!"
For the leaves were all laden with fragrance of June,And the flowers and the foliage with sweets were in tune;And the air was so calm, and the forest so dumb,That we heard our own heart-beats, like taps of a drum—"Column! Forward!"
Till the lull of the lowlands was stirred by the breeze,And the buskins of morn brushed the tops of the trees,And the glintings of glory that slid from her trackBy the sheen of our rifles were gayly flung back—"Column! Forward!"
And the woodlands grew purple with sunshiny mist,And the blue-crested hill-tops with roselight were kissed,And the earth gave her prayers to the sun in perfumes,Till we marched as through gardens, and trampled on blooms—"Column! Forward!"
Ay, trampled on blossoms, and seared the sweet breathOf the greenwood with low-brooding vapors of death;O'er the flowers and the corn we were borne like a blast,And away to the forefront of battle we passed—"Column! Forward!"
For the cannon's hoarse thunder roared out from the glades,And the sun was like lightning on banners and blades,When the long line of chanting Zouaves, like a flood,From the green of the woodlands rolled, crimson as blood—"Column! Forward!"
While the sound of their song, like the surge of the seas,With the "Star-Spangled Banner" swelled over the leas;And the sword of Duryea, like a torch, led the way,Bearing down on the batteries of Bethel that day—"Column! Forward!"
Through green tasselled cornfields our columns were thrown,And like corn by the red scythe of fire we were mown;While the cannon's fierce ploughings new-furrowed the plain,That our blood might be planted for Liberty's grain—"Column! Forward!"
Oh! the fields of fair June have no lack of sweet flowers,But their rarest and best breathe no fragrance like ours;And the sunshine of June, sprinkling gold on the corn,Hath no harvest that ripeneth like Bethel's red morn—"Column! Forward!"
When our heroes, like bridegrooms, with lips and with breath,Drank the first kiss of Danger and clasped her in death;And the heart of brave Winthrop grew mute with his lyre,When the plumes of his genius lay moulting in fire—"Column! Forward!"
Where he fell shall be sunshine as bright as his name,And the grass where he slept shall be green as his fame;For the gold of the pen and the steel of the swordWrite his deeds—in his blood—on the land he adored—"Column! Forward!"
And the soul of our comrade shall sweeten the air,And the flowers and the grass-blades his memory upbear;While the breath of his genius, like music in leaves,With the corn-tassels whispers, and sings in the sheaves—"Column! Forward!"
A. J. H. Duganne.
Among the Union dead was Major Theodore Winthrop. He had pressed eagerly forward, and as he sprang upon a log to get a view of the position, was shot through the head.
Among the Union dead was Major Theodore Winthrop. He had pressed eagerly forward, and as he sprang upon a log to get a view of the position, was shot through the head.
DIRGE
FOR ONE WHO FELL IN BATTLE
[June 10, 1861]