She has gone,—she has left us in passion and pride,—Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side!She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow,And turned on her brother the face of a foe!O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,We can never forget that our hearts have been one,—Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's name,From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame!You were always too ready to fire at a touch;But we said: "She is hasty,—she does not mean much."We have scowled when you uttered some turbulent threat;But Friendship still whispered: "Forgive and forget."Has our love all died out? Have its altars grown cold?Has the curse come at last which the fathers foretold?Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chainThat her petulant children would sever in vain.They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with their spoil,—Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil,Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their caves,And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves:In vain is the strife! When its fury is past,Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last,As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snowRoll mingled in peace through the valleys below.Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky;Man breaks not the medal when God cuts the die!Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with steel,The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal!O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,There are battles with fate that can never be won!The star-flowering banner must never be furled,For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world!Go, then, our rash sister, afar and aloof,—Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof;But when your heart aches and your feet have grown sore,Remember the pathway that leads to our door!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
She has gone,—she has left us in passion and pride,—Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side!She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow,And turned on her brother the face of a foe!O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,We can never forget that our hearts have been one,—Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's name,From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame!You were always too ready to fire at a touch;But we said: "She is hasty,—she does not mean much."We have scowled when you uttered some turbulent threat;But Friendship still whispered: "Forgive and forget."Has our love all died out? Have its altars grown cold?Has the curse come at last which the fathers foretold?Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chainThat her petulant children would sever in vain.They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with their spoil,—Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil,Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their caves,And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves:In vain is the strife! When its fury is past,Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last,As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snowRoll mingled in peace through the valleys below.Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky;Man breaks not the medal when God cuts the die!Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with steel,The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal!O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,There are battles with fate that can never be won!The star-flowering banner must never be furled,For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world!Go, then, our rash sister, afar and aloof,—Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof;But when your heart aches and your feet have grown sore,Remember the pathway that leads to our door!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
She has gone,—she has left us in passion and pride,—Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side!She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow,And turned on her brother the face of a foe!
O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,We can never forget that our hearts have been one,—Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's name,From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame!
You were always too ready to fire at a touch;But we said: "She is hasty,—she does not mean much."We have scowled when you uttered some turbulent threat;But Friendship still whispered: "Forgive and forget."
Has our love all died out? Have its altars grown cold?Has the curse come at last which the fathers foretold?Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chainThat her petulant children would sever in vain.
They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with their spoil,—Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil,Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their caves,And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves:
In vain is the strife! When its fury is past,Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last,As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snowRoll mingled in peace through the valleys below.
Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky;Man breaks not the medal when God cuts the die!Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with steel,The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal!
O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,There are battles with fate that can never be won!The star-flowering banner must never be furled,For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world!
Go, then, our rash sister, afar and aloof,—Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof;But when your heart aches and your feet have grown sore,Remember the pathway that leads to our door!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Georgia, Alabama, Florida, North Carolina, Mississippi, and Louisiana followed South Carolina's lead in seceding and seizing United States forts and arsenals. On February 4, 1861, the first Confederate congress met at Montgomery, Ala., and a few days later, Jefferson Davis, of Mississippi, was chosen President, and Alexander H.Stephens, of Georgia, Vice-President, of the Confederate States.
Georgia, Alabama, Florida, North Carolina, Mississippi, and Louisiana followed South Carolina's lead in seceding and seizing United States forts and arsenals. On February 4, 1861, the first Confederate congress met at Montgomery, Ala., and a few days later, Jefferson Davis, of Mississippi, was chosen President, and Alexander H.Stephens, of Georgia, Vice-President, of the Confederate States.
JEFFERSON D.
You're a traitor convicted, you know very well!Jefferson D., Jefferson D.!You thought it a capital thing to rebel,Jefferson D.!But there's one thing I'll say:You'll discover some day,When you see a stout cotton cord hang from a tree,There's an accident happened you didn't foresee,Jefferson D.!What shall be found upon history's page?Jefferson D., Jefferson D.!When a student explores the republican age!Jefferson D.!He will find, as is meet,That at Judas's feetYou sit in your shame, with the impotent plea,That you hated the land and the law of the free,Jefferson D.!What do you see in your visions at night,Jefferson D., Jefferson D.?Does the spectacle furnish you any delight,Jefferson D.?Do you feel in disgraceThe black cap o'er your face,While the tremor creeps down from your heart to your knee,And freedom, insulted, approves the decree,Jefferson D.?Oh! long have we pleaded, till pleading is vain,Jefferson D., Jefferson D.!Your hands are imbrued with the blood of the slain,Jefferson D.!And at last, for the right,We arise in our might,A people united, resistless, and free,And declare that rebellion no longer shall be!Jefferson D.!H. S. Cornwell.
You're a traitor convicted, you know very well!Jefferson D., Jefferson D.!You thought it a capital thing to rebel,Jefferson D.!But there's one thing I'll say:You'll discover some day,When you see a stout cotton cord hang from a tree,There's an accident happened you didn't foresee,Jefferson D.!What shall be found upon history's page?Jefferson D., Jefferson D.!When a student explores the republican age!Jefferson D.!He will find, as is meet,That at Judas's feetYou sit in your shame, with the impotent plea,That you hated the land and the law of the free,Jefferson D.!What do you see in your visions at night,Jefferson D., Jefferson D.?Does the spectacle furnish you any delight,Jefferson D.?Do you feel in disgraceThe black cap o'er your face,While the tremor creeps down from your heart to your knee,And freedom, insulted, approves the decree,Jefferson D.?Oh! long have we pleaded, till pleading is vain,Jefferson D., Jefferson D.!Your hands are imbrued with the blood of the slain,Jefferson D.!And at last, for the right,We arise in our might,A people united, resistless, and free,And declare that rebellion no longer shall be!Jefferson D.!H. S. Cornwell.
You're a traitor convicted, you know very well!Jefferson D., Jefferson D.!You thought it a capital thing to rebel,Jefferson D.!But there's one thing I'll say:You'll discover some day,When you see a stout cotton cord hang from a tree,There's an accident happened you didn't foresee,Jefferson D.!
What shall be found upon history's page?Jefferson D., Jefferson D.!When a student explores the republican age!Jefferson D.!He will find, as is meet,That at Judas's feetYou sit in your shame, with the impotent plea,That you hated the land and the law of the free,Jefferson D.!
What do you see in your visions at night,Jefferson D., Jefferson D.?Does the spectacle furnish you any delight,Jefferson D.?Do you feel in disgraceThe black cap o'er your face,While the tremor creeps down from your heart to your knee,And freedom, insulted, approves the decree,Jefferson D.?
Oh! long have we pleaded, till pleading is vain,Jefferson D., Jefferson D.!Your hands are imbrued with the blood of the slain,Jefferson D.!And at last, for the right,We arise in our might,A people united, resistless, and free,And declare that rebellion no longer shall be!Jefferson D.!
H. S. Cornwell.
Davis was inaugurated on February 18, 1861, and declared in his inaugural that the attitude of the Southern States was purely one of self-defence. "All we want," he said, "is to be let alone."
Davis was inaugurated on February 18, 1861, and declared in his inaugural that the attitude of the Southern States was purely one of self-defence. "All we want," he said, "is to be let alone."
THE OLD COVE
"All we ask is to be let alone."
[February 18, 1861]
As vonce I valked by a dismal svamp,There sot an Old Cove in the dark and damp,And at everybody as passed that roadA stick or a stone this Old Cove throwed.And venever he flung his stick or his stone,He'd set up a song of "Let me alone.""Let me alone, for I loves to shyThese bits of things at the passers-by—Let me alone, for I've got your tinAnd lots of other traps snugly in;—Let me alone, I'm riggin' a boatTo grab votever you've got afloat;—In a veek or so I expects to comeAnd turn you out of your 'ouse and 'ome;—I'm a quiet Old Cove," says he, with a groan:"All I axes is—Let me alone."Just then came along on the self-same vay,Another Old Cove, and began for to say—"Let you alone! That's comin' it strong!—You'vebenlet alone a darned sight too long;—Of all the sarce that ever I heerd!Put down that stick! (You may well look skeered.)Let go that stone! If you once show fight,I'll knock you higher than ary kite.You must hev a lesson to stop your tricks,And cure you of shying them stones and sticks,—And I'll hev my hardware back and my cash,And knock your scow into tarnal smash,And if ever I catches you round my ranch,I'll string you up to the nearest branch."The best you can do is to go to bed,And keep a decent tongue in your head;For I reckon, before you and I are done,You'll wish you had left honest folks alone."The Old Cove stopped, and t'other Old CoveHe sot quite still in his cypress grove,And he looked at his stick revolvin' slowWhether 'twere safe to shy it or no,—And he grumbled on, in an injured tone,"All that I axed vos,let me alone."Henry Howard Brownell.
As vonce I valked by a dismal svamp,There sot an Old Cove in the dark and damp,And at everybody as passed that roadA stick or a stone this Old Cove throwed.And venever he flung his stick or his stone,He'd set up a song of "Let me alone.""Let me alone, for I loves to shyThese bits of things at the passers-by—Let me alone, for I've got your tinAnd lots of other traps snugly in;—Let me alone, I'm riggin' a boatTo grab votever you've got afloat;—In a veek or so I expects to comeAnd turn you out of your 'ouse and 'ome;—I'm a quiet Old Cove," says he, with a groan:"All I axes is—Let me alone."Just then came along on the self-same vay,Another Old Cove, and began for to say—"Let you alone! That's comin' it strong!—You'vebenlet alone a darned sight too long;—Of all the sarce that ever I heerd!Put down that stick! (You may well look skeered.)Let go that stone! If you once show fight,I'll knock you higher than ary kite.You must hev a lesson to stop your tricks,And cure you of shying them stones and sticks,—And I'll hev my hardware back and my cash,And knock your scow into tarnal smash,And if ever I catches you round my ranch,I'll string you up to the nearest branch."The best you can do is to go to bed,And keep a decent tongue in your head;For I reckon, before you and I are done,You'll wish you had left honest folks alone."The Old Cove stopped, and t'other Old CoveHe sot quite still in his cypress grove,And he looked at his stick revolvin' slowWhether 'twere safe to shy it or no,—And he grumbled on, in an injured tone,"All that I axed vos,let me alone."Henry Howard Brownell.
As vonce I valked by a dismal svamp,There sot an Old Cove in the dark and damp,And at everybody as passed that roadA stick or a stone this Old Cove throwed.And venever he flung his stick or his stone,He'd set up a song of "Let me alone."
"Let me alone, for I loves to shyThese bits of things at the passers-by—Let me alone, for I've got your tinAnd lots of other traps snugly in;—Let me alone, I'm riggin' a boatTo grab votever you've got afloat;—In a veek or so I expects to comeAnd turn you out of your 'ouse and 'ome;—I'm a quiet Old Cove," says he, with a groan:"All I axes is—Let me alone."
Just then came along on the self-same vay,Another Old Cove, and began for to say—"Let you alone! That's comin' it strong!—You'vebenlet alone a darned sight too long;—Of all the sarce that ever I heerd!Put down that stick! (You may well look skeered.)Let go that stone! If you once show fight,I'll knock you higher than ary kite.You must hev a lesson to stop your tricks,And cure you of shying them stones and sticks,—And I'll hev my hardware back and my cash,And knock your scow into tarnal smash,And if ever I catches you round my ranch,I'll string you up to the nearest branch.
"The best you can do is to go to bed,And keep a decent tongue in your head;For I reckon, before you and I are done,You'll wish you had left honest folks alone."The Old Cove stopped, and t'other Old CoveHe sot quite still in his cypress grove,And he looked at his stick revolvin' slowWhether 'twere safe to shy it or no,—And he grumbled on, in an injured tone,"All that I axed vos,let me alone."
Henry Howard Brownell.
Texas, by a majority of over three to one, voted to join the Confederacy, and seized more than a million dollars' worth of government munitions. Some were saved by the Union troops, notably those at Fort Duncan.
Texas, by a majority of over three to one, voted to join the Confederacy, and seized more than a million dollars' worth of government munitions. Some were saved by the Union troops, notably those at Fort Duncan.
A SPOOL OF THREAD
[March, 1861]
Well, yes, I've lived in Texas since the spring of '61;And I'll relate the story, though I fear, sir, when 'tis done,'Twill be little worth your hearing, it was such a simple thing,Unheralded in verses that the grander poets sing.There had come a guest unbidden, at the opening of the year,To find a lodgment in our hearts, and the tenant's name was fear;For secession's drawing mandate was a call for men and arms,And each recurring eventide but brought us fresh alarms.They had notified the General that he must yield to fate,And all the muniments of war surrender to the state,But he sent from San Antonio an order to the seaTo convey on board the steamer all the fort's artillery.Right royal was his purpose, but the foe divined his plan,And the wily Texans set a guard to intercept the manDetailed to bear the message; they placed their watch with careThat neither scout nor citizen should pass it unaware.Well, this was rather awkward, sir, as doubtless you will say,But the Major, who was chief of staff, resolved to have his wayDespite the watchful provost guard; so he asked his wife to send,With a box of knick-knacks, a letter to her friend;And the missive held one sentence I remember to this day:"The thread is for your neighbor, Mr. French, across the way."He dispatched a youthful courier. Of course, as you will know,The Texans searched him thoroughly and ordered him to showThe contents of the letter. They read it o'er and o'er,But failed to find the message they had hindered once before.So it reached the English lady, and she wondered at the word,But gave the thread to Major French, explaining that she heardHe wished a spool of cotton, and great was his surpriseAt such a trifle sent, unasked, through leagues of hostile spies."There's some hidden purpose, doubtless, in the curious gift," he said.Then he tore away the label, and inside the spool of threadWas Major Nichol's order, bidding him convey to seaAll the arms and ammunition from Fort Duncan's battery."Down to Brazon speed your horses," thus the Major's letter ran,"Shift equipments and munitions, and embark them if you can."Yes, the transfer was effected, for the ships lay close at hand,Ere the Texans guessed their purpose, they had vanished from the land.Do I know it for a fact, sir? 'Tis no story that I've read—I was but a boy in war time, and I carried him the thread.Sophie E. Eastman.
Well, yes, I've lived in Texas since the spring of '61;And I'll relate the story, though I fear, sir, when 'tis done,'Twill be little worth your hearing, it was such a simple thing,Unheralded in verses that the grander poets sing.There had come a guest unbidden, at the opening of the year,To find a lodgment in our hearts, and the tenant's name was fear;For secession's drawing mandate was a call for men and arms,And each recurring eventide but brought us fresh alarms.They had notified the General that he must yield to fate,And all the muniments of war surrender to the state,But he sent from San Antonio an order to the seaTo convey on board the steamer all the fort's artillery.Right royal was his purpose, but the foe divined his plan,And the wily Texans set a guard to intercept the manDetailed to bear the message; they placed their watch with careThat neither scout nor citizen should pass it unaware.Well, this was rather awkward, sir, as doubtless you will say,But the Major, who was chief of staff, resolved to have his wayDespite the watchful provost guard; so he asked his wife to send,With a box of knick-knacks, a letter to her friend;And the missive held one sentence I remember to this day:"The thread is for your neighbor, Mr. French, across the way."He dispatched a youthful courier. Of course, as you will know,The Texans searched him thoroughly and ordered him to showThe contents of the letter. They read it o'er and o'er,But failed to find the message they had hindered once before.So it reached the English lady, and she wondered at the word,But gave the thread to Major French, explaining that she heardHe wished a spool of cotton, and great was his surpriseAt such a trifle sent, unasked, through leagues of hostile spies."There's some hidden purpose, doubtless, in the curious gift," he said.Then he tore away the label, and inside the spool of threadWas Major Nichol's order, bidding him convey to seaAll the arms and ammunition from Fort Duncan's battery."Down to Brazon speed your horses," thus the Major's letter ran,"Shift equipments and munitions, and embark them if you can."Yes, the transfer was effected, for the ships lay close at hand,Ere the Texans guessed their purpose, they had vanished from the land.Do I know it for a fact, sir? 'Tis no story that I've read—I was but a boy in war time, and I carried him the thread.Sophie E. Eastman.
Well, yes, I've lived in Texas since the spring of '61;And I'll relate the story, though I fear, sir, when 'tis done,'Twill be little worth your hearing, it was such a simple thing,Unheralded in verses that the grander poets sing.
There had come a guest unbidden, at the opening of the year,To find a lodgment in our hearts, and the tenant's name was fear;For secession's drawing mandate was a call for men and arms,And each recurring eventide but brought us fresh alarms.
They had notified the General that he must yield to fate,And all the muniments of war surrender to the state,But he sent from San Antonio an order to the seaTo convey on board the steamer all the fort's artillery.
Right royal was his purpose, but the foe divined his plan,And the wily Texans set a guard to intercept the manDetailed to bear the message; they placed their watch with careThat neither scout nor citizen should pass it unaware.
Well, this was rather awkward, sir, as doubtless you will say,But the Major, who was chief of staff, resolved to have his wayDespite the watchful provost guard; so he asked his wife to send,With a box of knick-knacks, a letter to her friend;And the missive held one sentence I remember to this day:"The thread is for your neighbor, Mr. French, across the way."
He dispatched a youthful courier. Of course, as you will know,The Texans searched him thoroughly and ordered him to showThe contents of the letter. They read it o'er and o'er,But failed to find the message they had hindered once before.
So it reached the English lady, and she wondered at the word,But gave the thread to Major French, explaining that she heardHe wished a spool of cotton, and great was his surpriseAt such a trifle sent, unasked, through leagues of hostile spies.
"There's some hidden purpose, doubtless, in the curious gift," he said.Then he tore away the label, and inside the spool of threadWas Major Nichol's order, bidding him convey to seaAll the arms and ammunition from Fort Duncan's battery."Down to Brazon speed your horses," thus the Major's letter ran,"Shift equipments and munitions, and embark them if you can."
Yes, the transfer was effected, for the ships lay close at hand,Ere the Texans guessed their purpose, they had vanished from the land.Do I know it for a fact, sir? 'Tis no story that I've read—I was but a boy in war time, and I carried him the thread.
Sophie E. Eastman.
On March 4, 1861, Abraham Lincoln was inaugurated President of the United States. In his address he stated that he had no intention of interfering with slavery in the states; but that acts of violence within any state against the authority of the United States were insurrectionary and would be repressed. In the Confederate States this announcement was construed to mean war.
On March 4, 1861, Abraham Lincoln was inaugurated President of the United States. In his address he stated that he had no intention of interfering with slavery in the states; but that acts of violence within any state against the authority of the United States were insurrectionary and would be repressed. In the Confederate States this announcement was construed to mean war.
GOD SAVE OUR PRESIDENT
[March 4, 1861]
All hail! Unfurl the Stripes and Stars!The banner of the free!Ten times ten thousand patriots greetThe shrine of Liberty!Come, with one heart, one hope, one aim,An undivided band,To elevate, with solemn rites,The ruler of our land!Not to invest a potentateWith robes of majesty,—Not to confer a kingly crown,Nor bend a subject knee.We bow beneath no sceptred sway,Obey no royal nod:—Columbia's sons, erect and free,Kneel only to their God!Our ruler boasts no titled rank,No ancient, princely line,—No regal right to sovereignty,Ancestral and divine.A patriot,—at his country's call,Responding to her voice;One of the people,—he becomesA sovereign by our choice!And now, before the mighty pileWe've reared to Liberty,He swears to cherish and defendThe charter of the free!God of our country! seal his oathWith Thy supreme assent.God save the Union of the States!God save our President!Francis DeHaes Janvier.
All hail! Unfurl the Stripes and Stars!The banner of the free!Ten times ten thousand patriots greetThe shrine of Liberty!Come, with one heart, one hope, one aim,An undivided band,To elevate, with solemn rites,The ruler of our land!Not to invest a potentateWith robes of majesty,—Not to confer a kingly crown,Nor bend a subject knee.We bow beneath no sceptred sway,Obey no royal nod:—Columbia's sons, erect and free,Kneel only to their God!Our ruler boasts no titled rank,No ancient, princely line,—No regal right to sovereignty,Ancestral and divine.A patriot,—at his country's call,Responding to her voice;One of the people,—he becomesA sovereign by our choice!And now, before the mighty pileWe've reared to Liberty,He swears to cherish and defendThe charter of the free!God of our country! seal his oathWith Thy supreme assent.God save the Union of the States!God save our President!Francis DeHaes Janvier.
All hail! Unfurl the Stripes and Stars!The banner of the free!Ten times ten thousand patriots greetThe shrine of Liberty!Come, with one heart, one hope, one aim,An undivided band,To elevate, with solemn rites,The ruler of our land!
Not to invest a potentateWith robes of majesty,—Not to confer a kingly crown,Nor bend a subject knee.We bow beneath no sceptred sway,Obey no royal nod:—Columbia's sons, erect and free,Kneel only to their God!
Our ruler boasts no titled rank,No ancient, princely line,—No regal right to sovereignty,Ancestral and divine.A patriot,—at his country's call,Responding to her voice;One of the people,—he becomesA sovereign by our choice!
And now, before the mighty pileWe've reared to Liberty,He swears to cherish and defendThe charter of the free!God of our country! seal his oathWith Thy supreme assent.God save the Union of the States!God save our President!
Francis DeHaes Janvier.
THE GAUNTLET
In the fall of 1860 Major Robert Anderson was selected to command the little garrison at Fort Moultrie, in Charleston harbor. In spite of his entreaties, no reinforcements were sent him, and on the night of December 26 he abandoned Fort Moultrie, which his little force was incapable of defending, and moved to Fort Sumter, where he remained in spite of the state's protests.
In the fall of 1860 Major Robert Anderson was selected to command the little garrison at Fort Moultrie, in Charleston harbor. In spite of his entreaties, no reinforcements were sent him, and on the night of December 26 he abandoned Fort Moultrie, which his little force was incapable of defending, and moved to Fort Sumter, where he remained in spite of the state's protests.
BOB ANDERSON, MY BEAU
(Miss Columbia Sings)
Bob Anderson, my beau, Bob, when we were first aquent,You were in Mex-i-co, Bob, because by order sent;But now you are in Sumter, Bob, because you chose to go;And blessings on you anyhow, Bob Anderson, my beau!Bob Anderson, my beau, Bob, I really don't know whetherI ought to like you so, Bob, considering that feather;I don't like standing armies, Bob, as very well you know,ButI love a man that dares to act, Bob Anderson, my beau.
Bob Anderson, my beau, Bob, when we were first aquent,You were in Mex-i-co, Bob, because by order sent;But now you are in Sumter, Bob, because you chose to go;And blessings on you anyhow, Bob Anderson, my beau!Bob Anderson, my beau, Bob, I really don't know whetherI ought to like you so, Bob, considering that feather;I don't like standing armies, Bob, as very well you know,ButI love a man that dares to act, Bob Anderson, my beau.
Bob Anderson, my beau, Bob, when we were first aquent,You were in Mex-i-co, Bob, because by order sent;But now you are in Sumter, Bob, because you chose to go;And blessings on you anyhow, Bob Anderson, my beau!
Bob Anderson, my beau, Bob, I really don't know whetherI ought to like you so, Bob, considering that feather;I don't like standing armies, Bob, as very well you know,ButI love a man that dares to act, Bob Anderson, my beau.
Fort Moultrie was seized by the South Carolina troops, which were assembled in force under command of General Pierre T. Beauregard, and it was decided to bombard Sumter.
Fort Moultrie was seized by the South Carolina troops, which were assembled in force under command of General Pierre T. Beauregard, and it was decided to bombard Sumter.
ON FORT SUMTER
It was a noble Roman,In Rome's imperial day,Who heard a coward croakerBefore the battle say—"They're safe in such a fortress;There is no way to shake it"—"On, on!" exclaimed the hero,"I'll find a way, or make it!"IsFameyour aspiration?Her path is steep and high;In vain he seeks the temple,Content to gaze and sigh;The crowded town is waiting,But healonecan take itWho says, with "Southern firmness,""I'll find a way, or make it!"IsGloryyour ambition?There is no royal road;Alike we all must labor,Must climb to her abode;Who feels the thirst forglory,In Helicon may slake it,If he has but the "Southern will,""To find a way, or make it!"Is Sumter worth the getting?It must be bravely sought;With wishing and with frettingThe boon cannot be bought;Toallthe prize is open,But only he can take itWho says, with "Southern courage,""I'll find a way, or make it!"In all impassioned warfare,The tale has ever been,That victory crowns the valiant,The brave are they who win.Though strong is "Sumter Fortress,"AHerostill may take it,Who says, with "Southern daring,""I'll find a way, or make it!"Charleston, S. C.,Mercury.
It was a noble Roman,In Rome's imperial day,Who heard a coward croakerBefore the battle say—"They're safe in such a fortress;There is no way to shake it"—"On, on!" exclaimed the hero,"I'll find a way, or make it!"IsFameyour aspiration?Her path is steep and high;In vain he seeks the temple,Content to gaze and sigh;The crowded town is waiting,But healonecan take itWho says, with "Southern firmness,""I'll find a way, or make it!"IsGloryyour ambition?There is no royal road;Alike we all must labor,Must climb to her abode;Who feels the thirst forglory,In Helicon may slake it,If he has but the "Southern will,""To find a way, or make it!"Is Sumter worth the getting?It must be bravely sought;With wishing and with frettingThe boon cannot be bought;Toallthe prize is open,But only he can take itWho says, with "Southern courage,""I'll find a way, or make it!"In all impassioned warfare,The tale has ever been,That victory crowns the valiant,The brave are they who win.Though strong is "Sumter Fortress,"AHerostill may take it,Who says, with "Southern daring,""I'll find a way, or make it!"Charleston, S. C.,Mercury.
It was a noble Roman,In Rome's imperial day,Who heard a coward croakerBefore the battle say—"They're safe in such a fortress;There is no way to shake it"—"On, on!" exclaimed the hero,"I'll find a way, or make it!"
IsFameyour aspiration?Her path is steep and high;In vain he seeks the temple,Content to gaze and sigh;The crowded town is waiting,But healonecan take itWho says, with "Southern firmness,""I'll find a way, or make it!"
IsGloryyour ambition?There is no royal road;Alike we all must labor,Must climb to her abode;Who feels the thirst forglory,In Helicon may slake it,If he has but the "Southern will,""To find a way, or make it!"
Is Sumter worth the getting?It must be bravely sought;With wishing and with frettingThe boon cannot be bought;Toallthe prize is open,But only he can take itWho says, with "Southern courage,""I'll find a way, or make it!"
In all impassioned warfare,The tale has ever been,That victory crowns the valiant,The brave are they who win.Though strong is "Sumter Fortress,"AHerostill may take it,Who says, with "Southern daring,""I'll find a way, or make it!"
Charleston, S. C.,Mercury.
On April 11 Beauregard summoned Anderson to surrender. Anderson promptly refused, and at 4.30 o'clock on the morning of April 12, 1861, the first gun against Sumter was fired. The fort answered promptly, and a terrific bombardment continued all day. The fort's ammunition was exhausted by the 13th, and Major Anderson accepted the terms of evacuation offered by General Beauregard. On the afternoon of Sunday, April 14, the little garrison marched out of the fort with colors flying and drums beating. Not a man had been killed on either side.
On April 11 Beauregard summoned Anderson to surrender. Anderson promptly refused, and at 4.30 o'clock on the morning of April 12, 1861, the first gun against Sumter was fired. The fort answered promptly, and a terrific bombardment continued all day. The fort's ammunition was exhausted by the 13th, and Major Anderson accepted the terms of evacuation offered by General Beauregard. On the afternoon of Sunday, April 14, the little garrison marched out of the fort with colors flying and drums beating. Not a man had been killed on either side.
SUMTER
[April 12, 1861]
Came the morning of that dayWhen the God to whom we prayGave the soul of Henry ClayTo the land;How we loved him, living, dying!But his birthday banners flyingSaw us asking and replyingHand to hand.For we knew that far away,Round the fort in Charleston Bay,Hung the dark impending fray,Soon to fall;And that Sumter's brave defenderHad the summons to surrenderSeventy loyal hearts and tender—(Those were all!)And we knew the April sunLit the length of many a gun—Hosts of batteries to the oneIsland crag;Guns and mortars grimly frowning,Johnson, Moultrie, Pinckney, crowning,And ten thousand men disowningThe old flag.Oh, the fury of the fightEven then was at its height!Yet no breath, from noon till night,Reached us here;We had almost ceased to wonder,And the day had faded under,When the echo of the thunderFilled each ear!Then our hearts more fiercely beat,As we crowded on the street,Hot to gather and repeatAll the tale;All the doubtful chances turning,Till our souls with shame were burning,As if twice our bitter yearningCould avail!Who had fired the earliest gun?Was the fort by traitors won?Was there succor? What was doneWho could know?And once more our thoughts would wanderTo the gallant, lone commander,On his battered ramparts granderThan the foe.Not too long the brave shall wait:On their own heads be their fate,Who against the hallowed StateDare begin;Flag defied and compact riven!In the record of high HeavenHow shall Southern men be shrivenFor the sin!Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Came the morning of that dayWhen the God to whom we prayGave the soul of Henry ClayTo the land;How we loved him, living, dying!But his birthday banners flyingSaw us asking and replyingHand to hand.For we knew that far away,Round the fort in Charleston Bay,Hung the dark impending fray,Soon to fall;And that Sumter's brave defenderHad the summons to surrenderSeventy loyal hearts and tender—(Those were all!)And we knew the April sunLit the length of many a gun—Hosts of batteries to the oneIsland crag;Guns and mortars grimly frowning,Johnson, Moultrie, Pinckney, crowning,And ten thousand men disowningThe old flag.Oh, the fury of the fightEven then was at its height!Yet no breath, from noon till night,Reached us here;We had almost ceased to wonder,And the day had faded under,When the echo of the thunderFilled each ear!Then our hearts more fiercely beat,As we crowded on the street,Hot to gather and repeatAll the tale;All the doubtful chances turning,Till our souls with shame were burning,As if twice our bitter yearningCould avail!Who had fired the earliest gun?Was the fort by traitors won?Was there succor? What was doneWho could know?And once more our thoughts would wanderTo the gallant, lone commander,On his battered ramparts granderThan the foe.Not too long the brave shall wait:On their own heads be their fate,Who against the hallowed StateDare begin;Flag defied and compact riven!In the record of high HeavenHow shall Southern men be shrivenFor the sin!Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Came the morning of that dayWhen the God to whom we prayGave the soul of Henry ClayTo the land;How we loved him, living, dying!But his birthday banners flyingSaw us asking and replyingHand to hand.
For we knew that far away,Round the fort in Charleston Bay,Hung the dark impending fray,Soon to fall;And that Sumter's brave defenderHad the summons to surrenderSeventy loyal hearts and tender—(Those were all!)
And we knew the April sunLit the length of many a gun—Hosts of batteries to the oneIsland crag;Guns and mortars grimly frowning,Johnson, Moultrie, Pinckney, crowning,And ten thousand men disowningThe old flag.
Oh, the fury of the fightEven then was at its height!Yet no breath, from noon till night,Reached us here;We had almost ceased to wonder,And the day had faded under,When the echo of the thunderFilled each ear!
Then our hearts more fiercely beat,As we crowded on the street,Hot to gather and repeatAll the tale;All the doubtful chances turning,Till our souls with shame were burning,As if twice our bitter yearningCould avail!
Who had fired the earliest gun?Was the fort by traitors won?Was there succor? What was doneWho could know?And once more our thoughts would wanderTo the gallant, lone commander,On his battered ramparts granderThan the foe.
Not too long the brave shall wait:On their own heads be their fate,Who against the hallowed StateDare begin;Flag defied and compact riven!In the record of high HeavenHow shall Southern men be shrivenFor the sin!
Edmund Clarence Stedman.
THE BATTLE OF MORRIS' ISLAND
A CHEERFUL TRAGEDY
[April 12, 1861]
IThe morn was cloudy and dark and gray,When the first Columbiad blazed away,Showing that there was the d—l to payWith the braves on Morris' Island;They fired their cannon again and again,Hoping that Major Anderson's menWould answer back, but 'twas all in vainAt first, on Morris' Island:Hokee pokee, winkee wum,Shattering shot and thundering bomb,Fiddle and fife and rattling drum,At the battle of Morris' Island!IIAt length, as rose the morning sun,Fort Sumter fired a single gun,Which made the chivalry want to runAway from Morris' Island;But they had made so much of a boastOf their fancy batteries on the coast,That each felt bound to stick to his postDown there on Morris' Island.IIIThen there was firing in hot haste;The chivalry stripped them to the waist,And, brave as lions, they sternly faced—Their grog, on Morris' Island!The spirit of Seventy-six raged high,The cannons roared and the men grew dry—'Twas marvellous like the Fourth of July,That fight on Morris' Island.IVAll day they fought, till the night came down;It rained; the fellows were tired and blown,And they wished they were safely back to town,Away from Morris' Island.One can't expect the bravest menTo shoot their cannons off in the rain,So all grew peaceful and still again,At the works on Morris' Island.VBut after the heroes all had slept,To his gun each warrior swiftly leapt,Brisk, as the numerous fleas that creptIn the sand on Morris' Island;And all that day they fired their shot,Heated in furnaces, piping hot,Hoping to send Fort Sumter to potAnd glory to Morris' Island.VIFinally, wearying of the joke,Starved with hunger and blind with smokeFrom blazing barracks of pine and oak,Set fire from Morris' Island,The gallant Anderson struck his flagAnd packed his things in a carpet-bag,While cheers from bobtail, rag, and tag,Arose on Morris' Island.VIIThen came the comforting piece of funOf counting the noses one by one,To see if anything had been doneOn glorious Morris' Island:"Nobody hurt!" the cry arose;There was not missing a single nose,And this was the sadly ludicrous closeOf the battle of Morris' Island.VIIIBut, gentle gunners, just wait and seeWhat sort of a battle there yet will be;You'll hardly escape so easily,Next time on Morris' Island!There's a man in Washington with a will,Who won't mind shooting a little "to kill,"If it proves that We Have a Government Still,Even on Morris' Island!Hokee pokee, winkee wum,Shattering shot and thundering bomb,Look out for the battle that's yet to comeDown there on Morris' Island!
IThe morn was cloudy and dark and gray,When the first Columbiad blazed away,Showing that there was the d—l to payWith the braves on Morris' Island;They fired their cannon again and again,Hoping that Major Anderson's menWould answer back, but 'twas all in vainAt first, on Morris' Island:Hokee pokee, winkee wum,Shattering shot and thundering bomb,Fiddle and fife and rattling drum,At the battle of Morris' Island!IIAt length, as rose the morning sun,Fort Sumter fired a single gun,Which made the chivalry want to runAway from Morris' Island;But they had made so much of a boastOf their fancy batteries on the coast,That each felt bound to stick to his postDown there on Morris' Island.IIIThen there was firing in hot haste;The chivalry stripped them to the waist,And, brave as lions, they sternly faced—Their grog, on Morris' Island!The spirit of Seventy-six raged high,The cannons roared and the men grew dry—'Twas marvellous like the Fourth of July,That fight on Morris' Island.IVAll day they fought, till the night came down;It rained; the fellows were tired and blown,And they wished they were safely back to town,Away from Morris' Island.One can't expect the bravest menTo shoot their cannons off in the rain,So all grew peaceful and still again,At the works on Morris' Island.VBut after the heroes all had slept,To his gun each warrior swiftly leapt,Brisk, as the numerous fleas that creptIn the sand on Morris' Island;And all that day they fired their shot,Heated in furnaces, piping hot,Hoping to send Fort Sumter to potAnd glory to Morris' Island.VIFinally, wearying of the joke,Starved with hunger and blind with smokeFrom blazing barracks of pine and oak,Set fire from Morris' Island,The gallant Anderson struck his flagAnd packed his things in a carpet-bag,While cheers from bobtail, rag, and tag,Arose on Morris' Island.VIIThen came the comforting piece of funOf counting the noses one by one,To see if anything had been doneOn glorious Morris' Island:"Nobody hurt!" the cry arose;There was not missing a single nose,And this was the sadly ludicrous closeOf the battle of Morris' Island.VIIIBut, gentle gunners, just wait and seeWhat sort of a battle there yet will be;You'll hardly escape so easily,Next time on Morris' Island!There's a man in Washington with a will,Who won't mind shooting a little "to kill,"If it proves that We Have a Government Still,Even on Morris' Island!Hokee pokee, winkee wum,Shattering shot and thundering bomb,Look out for the battle that's yet to comeDown there on Morris' Island!
IThe morn was cloudy and dark and gray,When the first Columbiad blazed away,Showing that there was the d—l to payWith the braves on Morris' Island;They fired their cannon again and again,Hoping that Major Anderson's menWould answer back, but 'twas all in vainAt first, on Morris' Island:Hokee pokee, winkee wum,Shattering shot and thundering bomb,Fiddle and fife and rattling drum,At the battle of Morris' Island!
IIAt length, as rose the morning sun,Fort Sumter fired a single gun,Which made the chivalry want to runAway from Morris' Island;But they had made so much of a boastOf their fancy batteries on the coast,That each felt bound to stick to his postDown there on Morris' Island.
IIIThen there was firing in hot haste;The chivalry stripped them to the waist,And, brave as lions, they sternly faced—Their grog, on Morris' Island!The spirit of Seventy-six raged high,The cannons roared and the men grew dry—'Twas marvellous like the Fourth of July,That fight on Morris' Island.
IVAll day they fought, till the night came down;It rained; the fellows were tired and blown,And they wished they were safely back to town,Away from Morris' Island.One can't expect the bravest menTo shoot their cannons off in the rain,So all grew peaceful and still again,At the works on Morris' Island.
VBut after the heroes all had slept,To his gun each warrior swiftly leapt,Brisk, as the numerous fleas that creptIn the sand on Morris' Island;And all that day they fired their shot,Heated in furnaces, piping hot,Hoping to send Fort Sumter to potAnd glory to Morris' Island.
VIFinally, wearying of the joke,Starved with hunger and blind with smokeFrom blazing barracks of pine and oak,Set fire from Morris' Island,The gallant Anderson struck his flagAnd packed his things in a carpet-bag,While cheers from bobtail, rag, and tag,Arose on Morris' Island.
VIIThen came the comforting piece of funOf counting the noses one by one,To see if anything had been doneOn glorious Morris' Island:"Nobody hurt!" the cry arose;There was not missing a single nose,And this was the sadly ludicrous closeOf the battle of Morris' Island.
VIIIBut, gentle gunners, just wait and seeWhat sort of a battle there yet will be;You'll hardly escape so easily,Next time on Morris' Island!There's a man in Washington with a will,Who won't mind shooting a little "to kill,"If it proves that We Have a Government Still,Even on Morris' Island!Hokee pokee, winkee wum,Shattering shot and thundering bomb,Look out for the battle that's yet to comeDown there on Morris' Island!
Anderson's total force numbered one hundred and twenty-eight. The South Carolina army opposed to him numbered about six thousand, and was made up largely of the best blood of the state. Planters and their sons, men of wealth and family, did not scruple to serve in the ranks. Their sweethearts and wives turned out in gala attire to witness their triumph, and when the fort surrendered, Charleston gave itself up to joy.
Anderson's total force numbered one hundred and twenty-eight. The South Carolina army opposed to him numbered about six thousand, and was made up largely of the best blood of the state. Planters and their sons, men of wealth and family, did not scruple to serve in the ranks. Their sweethearts and wives turned out in gala attire to witness their triumph, and when the fort surrendered, Charleston gave itself up to joy.
SUMTER—A BALLAD OF 1861
'Twas on the twelfth of April,Before the break of day.We heard the guns of MoultrieGive signal for the fray.Anon across the watersThere boomed the answering gun,From north and south came flash on flash;The battle had begun.The mortars belched their deadly foodAnd spiteful whizz'd the balls,A fearful storm of iron hailedOn Sumter's doomèd walls.We watched the meteor flight of shell,And saw the lightning flash—Saw where each fiery missile fell,And heard the sullen crash.The morn was dark and cloudyYet till the sun arose,No answer to our gallant boysCame booming from our foes.Then through the dark and murky cloudsThe morning sunlight came,And forth from Sumter's frowning wallsBurst sudden sheets of flame.Then shot and shell flew thick and fast,The war-dogs howling spoke,And thundering came their angry roar,Through wreathing clouds of smoke.Again to fight for libertyOur gallant sons had come,They smiled when came the bugle call,And laughed when tapped the drum.From cotton and from corn field,From desk and forum, too,From work bench and from anvil cameOur gallant boys and true!A hireling band had come to awe,Our chains to rivet fast;Yon lofty pile scowls on our homesSeaward the hostile mast.But gallant freemen man our guns,—No mercenary host,Who barter for their honor's price,And of their baseness boast.Now came our stately matrons,And maidens, too, by scores;Oh! Carolina's beauty shoneLike love-lights on her shores.See yonder, anxious gazing,Alone a matron stands,The tear-drop glistening on each lid,And tightly clasped her hands.For there, exposed to deadly fire,Her husband and her son—"Father," she spoke, and heavenward look'd,"Father, thy will be done."See yonder group of maidens,No joyous laughter now,For cares lie heavy on each heartAnd cloud each anxious brow;For brothers dear and lovers fondAre there amid the strife;Tearful the sister's anxious gaze—Pallid the promised wife.Yet breathed no heart one thought of fear,Prompt at their country's call,They yielded forth their dearest hopes,And gave to honor all!Now comes a message from below—Oh! quick the tidings tell—"At Moultrie and Fort Johnson, too,And Morris', all are well!"Then mark the joyous bright'ning;See how each bosom swells;That friends and loved ones all are safe,Each to the other tells.All day the shot flew thick and fast,All night the cannon roared,While wreathed in smoke stern Sumter stoodAnd vengeful answer poured.Again the sun rose, bright and clear,'Twas on the thirteenth day,While, lo! at prudent distance moored,Five hostile vessels lay.With choicest Abolition crews,—The bravest oftheirbrave,—They'd come to pull our Crescent downAnd dig Secession's grave."See, see, how Sumter's banner trails,They're signalling for aid.See you no boats of armed men?Is yet no movement made?"Now densest smoke and lurid flamesBurst out o'er Sumter's walls;"The fort's on fire," is the cry,Again for aid he calls.See you no boats or vessels yet?Dare they not riskoneshot;To make report grandiloquentOf aid they rendered not?Nor boat, nor vessel, leaves the fleet,"Let the old Major burn,We'll boast of what we would have done,If but—on our return."Go back, go back, ye cravens;Go back the way ye came;Ye gallant,would-bemen-of-war,Go! to your country's shame.'Mid fiery storm of shot and shell,'Mid smoke and roaring flame,See how Kentucky's gallant sonDoes honor to her name!See how he answers gun for gun—Hurrah! his flag is down!The white! the white! Oh see it wave!Is echoed all around.God save the gallant Anderson,All honor to his name,A soldier's duty nobly done,He's earned a hero's fame.Now ring the bells a joyous peal,And rend with shouts the air,We've torn the hated banner down,And placed the Crescent there.All honor to our gallant boys,Bring forth the roll of fame,And there in glowing lines inscribeEach patriot hero's name.Spread, spread the tidings far and wide,Ye winds take up the cry,"Our soil's redeemed from hateful yoke,We'll keep it pure or die."Columbia, S. C.,Banner.
'Twas on the twelfth of April,Before the break of day.We heard the guns of MoultrieGive signal for the fray.Anon across the watersThere boomed the answering gun,From north and south came flash on flash;The battle had begun.The mortars belched their deadly foodAnd spiteful whizz'd the balls,A fearful storm of iron hailedOn Sumter's doomèd walls.We watched the meteor flight of shell,And saw the lightning flash—Saw where each fiery missile fell,And heard the sullen crash.The morn was dark and cloudyYet till the sun arose,No answer to our gallant boysCame booming from our foes.Then through the dark and murky cloudsThe morning sunlight came,And forth from Sumter's frowning wallsBurst sudden sheets of flame.Then shot and shell flew thick and fast,The war-dogs howling spoke,And thundering came their angry roar,Through wreathing clouds of smoke.Again to fight for libertyOur gallant sons had come,They smiled when came the bugle call,And laughed when tapped the drum.From cotton and from corn field,From desk and forum, too,From work bench and from anvil cameOur gallant boys and true!A hireling band had come to awe,Our chains to rivet fast;Yon lofty pile scowls on our homesSeaward the hostile mast.But gallant freemen man our guns,—No mercenary host,Who barter for their honor's price,And of their baseness boast.Now came our stately matrons,And maidens, too, by scores;Oh! Carolina's beauty shoneLike love-lights on her shores.See yonder, anxious gazing,Alone a matron stands,The tear-drop glistening on each lid,And tightly clasped her hands.For there, exposed to deadly fire,Her husband and her son—"Father," she spoke, and heavenward look'd,"Father, thy will be done."See yonder group of maidens,No joyous laughter now,For cares lie heavy on each heartAnd cloud each anxious brow;For brothers dear and lovers fondAre there amid the strife;Tearful the sister's anxious gaze—Pallid the promised wife.Yet breathed no heart one thought of fear,Prompt at their country's call,They yielded forth their dearest hopes,And gave to honor all!Now comes a message from below—Oh! quick the tidings tell—"At Moultrie and Fort Johnson, too,And Morris', all are well!"Then mark the joyous bright'ning;See how each bosom swells;That friends and loved ones all are safe,Each to the other tells.All day the shot flew thick and fast,All night the cannon roared,While wreathed in smoke stern Sumter stoodAnd vengeful answer poured.Again the sun rose, bright and clear,'Twas on the thirteenth day,While, lo! at prudent distance moored,Five hostile vessels lay.With choicest Abolition crews,—The bravest oftheirbrave,—They'd come to pull our Crescent downAnd dig Secession's grave."See, see, how Sumter's banner trails,They're signalling for aid.See you no boats of armed men?Is yet no movement made?"Now densest smoke and lurid flamesBurst out o'er Sumter's walls;"The fort's on fire," is the cry,Again for aid he calls.See you no boats or vessels yet?Dare they not riskoneshot;To make report grandiloquentOf aid they rendered not?Nor boat, nor vessel, leaves the fleet,"Let the old Major burn,We'll boast of what we would have done,If but—on our return."Go back, go back, ye cravens;Go back the way ye came;Ye gallant,would-bemen-of-war,Go! to your country's shame.'Mid fiery storm of shot and shell,'Mid smoke and roaring flame,See how Kentucky's gallant sonDoes honor to her name!See how he answers gun for gun—Hurrah! his flag is down!The white! the white! Oh see it wave!Is echoed all around.God save the gallant Anderson,All honor to his name,A soldier's duty nobly done,He's earned a hero's fame.Now ring the bells a joyous peal,And rend with shouts the air,We've torn the hated banner down,And placed the Crescent there.All honor to our gallant boys,Bring forth the roll of fame,And there in glowing lines inscribeEach patriot hero's name.Spread, spread the tidings far and wide,Ye winds take up the cry,"Our soil's redeemed from hateful yoke,We'll keep it pure or die."Columbia, S. C.,Banner.
'Twas on the twelfth of April,Before the break of day.We heard the guns of MoultrieGive signal for the fray.
Anon across the watersThere boomed the answering gun,From north and south came flash on flash;The battle had begun.
The mortars belched their deadly foodAnd spiteful whizz'd the balls,A fearful storm of iron hailedOn Sumter's doomèd walls.
We watched the meteor flight of shell,And saw the lightning flash—Saw where each fiery missile fell,And heard the sullen crash.
The morn was dark and cloudyYet till the sun arose,No answer to our gallant boysCame booming from our foes.
Then through the dark and murky cloudsThe morning sunlight came,And forth from Sumter's frowning wallsBurst sudden sheets of flame.
Then shot and shell flew thick and fast,The war-dogs howling spoke,And thundering came their angry roar,Through wreathing clouds of smoke.
Again to fight for libertyOur gallant sons had come,They smiled when came the bugle call,And laughed when tapped the drum.
From cotton and from corn field,From desk and forum, too,From work bench and from anvil cameOur gallant boys and true!
A hireling band had come to awe,Our chains to rivet fast;Yon lofty pile scowls on our homesSeaward the hostile mast.
But gallant freemen man our guns,—No mercenary host,Who barter for their honor's price,And of their baseness boast.
Now came our stately matrons,And maidens, too, by scores;Oh! Carolina's beauty shoneLike love-lights on her shores.
See yonder, anxious gazing,Alone a matron stands,The tear-drop glistening on each lid,And tightly clasped her hands.
For there, exposed to deadly fire,Her husband and her son—"Father," she spoke, and heavenward look'd,"Father, thy will be done."
See yonder group of maidens,No joyous laughter now,For cares lie heavy on each heartAnd cloud each anxious brow;
For brothers dear and lovers fondAre there amid the strife;Tearful the sister's anxious gaze—Pallid the promised wife.
Yet breathed no heart one thought of fear,Prompt at their country's call,They yielded forth their dearest hopes,And gave to honor all!
Now comes a message from below—Oh! quick the tidings tell—"At Moultrie and Fort Johnson, too,And Morris', all are well!"
Then mark the joyous bright'ning;See how each bosom swells;That friends and loved ones all are safe,Each to the other tells.
All day the shot flew thick and fast,All night the cannon roared,While wreathed in smoke stern Sumter stoodAnd vengeful answer poured.
Again the sun rose, bright and clear,'Twas on the thirteenth day,While, lo! at prudent distance moored,Five hostile vessels lay.
With choicest Abolition crews,—The bravest oftheirbrave,—They'd come to pull our Crescent downAnd dig Secession's grave.
"See, see, how Sumter's banner trails,They're signalling for aid.See you no boats of armed men?Is yet no movement made?"
Now densest smoke and lurid flamesBurst out o'er Sumter's walls;"The fort's on fire," is the cry,Again for aid he calls.
See you no boats or vessels yet?Dare they not riskoneshot;To make report grandiloquentOf aid they rendered not?
Nor boat, nor vessel, leaves the fleet,"Let the old Major burn,We'll boast of what we would have done,If but—on our return."
Go back, go back, ye cravens;Go back the way ye came;Ye gallant,would-bemen-of-war,Go! to your country's shame.
'Mid fiery storm of shot and shell,'Mid smoke and roaring flame,See how Kentucky's gallant sonDoes honor to her name!
See how he answers gun for gun—Hurrah! his flag is down!The white! the white! Oh see it wave!Is echoed all around.
God save the gallant Anderson,All honor to his name,A soldier's duty nobly done,He's earned a hero's fame.
Now ring the bells a joyous peal,And rend with shouts the air,We've torn the hated banner down,And placed the Crescent there.
All honor to our gallant boys,Bring forth the roll of fame,And there in glowing lines inscribeEach patriot hero's name.
Spread, spread the tidings far and wide,Ye winds take up the cry,"Our soil's redeemed from hateful yoke,We'll keep it pure or die."
Columbia, S. C.,Banner.
Very different was the reception of the news at the North. At last war had begun. The time for argument and compromise and entreaty was past. The time for action was at hand.
Very different was the reception of the news at the North. At last war had begun. The time for argument and compromise and entreaty was past. The time for action was at hand.
THE FIGHT AT SUMTER
'Twas a wonderful brave fight!Through the day and all night,March! Halt! Left! Right!So they formed:And one thousand to ten,The bold Palmetto menSumter stormed.The smoke in a cloudClosed her in like a shroud,While the cannon roared aloudFrom the Port;And the red cannon-ballsPloughed the gray granite wallsOf the Fort.Sumter's gunners at their places,With their gunpowdered faces,Shook their shoulders from their braces,And strippedStark and white to the waist,Just to give the foe a taste,And be whipped.In the town, through every street,Tramp, tramp, went the feet,For they said the Federal fleetHove in sight;And down the wharves they ran,Every woman, child, and man,To the fight.On the fort the old flag waved,And the barking batteries braved,While the bold seven thousand ravedAs they fought;For each blinding sheet of flameFrom her cannon thundered shame!—So they thought.And strange enough to tell,Though the gunners fired well,And the balls ploughed red as hellThrough the dirt;Though the shells burst and scattered,And the fortress walls were shattered,—None were hurt.But the fort—so hot she grew,As the cannon-balls flew,That each man began to stewAt his gun;They were not afraid to die,But this making Patriot pieWas not fun.So, to make the story short,The traitors got the fortAfter thirty hours' sportWith the balls;But the victory is not theirs,Though their brazen banner flaresFrom the walls.It were better they should dareThe lion in his lair,Or defy the grizzly bearIn his den,Than to wake the fearful cryThat is rising up on highFrom our men.To our banner we are clinging,And a song we are singing,Whose chorus is ringingFrom each mouth;'Tis "The old ConstitutionAnd a stern retributionTo the South."Vanity Fair, April 27, 1861.
'Twas a wonderful brave fight!Through the day and all night,March! Halt! Left! Right!So they formed:And one thousand to ten,The bold Palmetto menSumter stormed.The smoke in a cloudClosed her in like a shroud,While the cannon roared aloudFrom the Port;And the red cannon-ballsPloughed the gray granite wallsOf the Fort.Sumter's gunners at their places,With their gunpowdered faces,Shook their shoulders from their braces,And strippedStark and white to the waist,Just to give the foe a taste,And be whipped.In the town, through every street,Tramp, tramp, went the feet,For they said the Federal fleetHove in sight;And down the wharves they ran,Every woman, child, and man,To the fight.On the fort the old flag waved,And the barking batteries braved,While the bold seven thousand ravedAs they fought;For each blinding sheet of flameFrom her cannon thundered shame!—So they thought.And strange enough to tell,Though the gunners fired well,And the balls ploughed red as hellThrough the dirt;Though the shells burst and scattered,And the fortress walls were shattered,—None were hurt.But the fort—so hot she grew,As the cannon-balls flew,That each man began to stewAt his gun;They were not afraid to die,But this making Patriot pieWas not fun.So, to make the story short,The traitors got the fortAfter thirty hours' sportWith the balls;But the victory is not theirs,Though their brazen banner flaresFrom the walls.It were better they should dareThe lion in his lair,Or defy the grizzly bearIn his den,Than to wake the fearful cryThat is rising up on highFrom our men.To our banner we are clinging,And a song we are singing,Whose chorus is ringingFrom each mouth;'Tis "The old ConstitutionAnd a stern retributionTo the South."Vanity Fair, April 27, 1861.
'Twas a wonderful brave fight!Through the day and all night,March! Halt! Left! Right!So they formed:And one thousand to ten,The bold Palmetto menSumter stormed.
The smoke in a cloudClosed her in like a shroud,While the cannon roared aloudFrom the Port;And the red cannon-ballsPloughed the gray granite wallsOf the Fort.
Sumter's gunners at their places,With their gunpowdered faces,Shook their shoulders from their braces,And strippedStark and white to the waist,Just to give the foe a taste,And be whipped.
In the town, through every street,Tramp, tramp, went the feet,For they said the Federal fleetHove in sight;And down the wharves they ran,Every woman, child, and man,To the fight.
On the fort the old flag waved,And the barking batteries braved,While the bold seven thousand ravedAs they fought;For each blinding sheet of flameFrom her cannon thundered shame!—So they thought.
And strange enough to tell,Though the gunners fired well,And the balls ploughed red as hellThrough the dirt;Though the shells burst and scattered,And the fortress walls were shattered,—None were hurt.
But the fort—so hot she grew,As the cannon-balls flew,That each man began to stewAt his gun;They were not afraid to die,But this making Patriot pieWas not fun.
So, to make the story short,The traitors got the fortAfter thirty hours' sportWith the balls;But the victory is not theirs,Though their brazen banner flaresFrom the walls.
It were better they should dareThe lion in his lair,Or defy the grizzly bearIn his den,Than to wake the fearful cryThat is rising up on highFrom our men.
To our banner we are clinging,And a song we are singing,Whose chorus is ringingFrom each mouth;'Tis "The old ConstitutionAnd a stern retributionTo the South."
Vanity Fair, April 27, 1861.
SUMTER
So, theywillhave it!The Black Witch (curse on her)Always had won herGreediest demand—for we gave it—All but our honor!Thirty hours thunderedSiege-guns and mortars—(Flames in the quarters!)One to a hundredStood our brave Forters!No more of parties!—Let them all moulder—Here's work that's bolder!Forward, my hearties!Shoulder to shoulder.Sight o'er the trunnion—Send home the rammer—Linstock and hammer!Speak for the Union!Tones that won't stammer!Men of Columbia,Leal hearts from Annan,Brave lads of Shannon!We are all one to-day—On with the cannon!Henry Howard Brownell.
So, theywillhave it!The Black Witch (curse on her)Always had won herGreediest demand—for we gave it—All but our honor!Thirty hours thunderedSiege-guns and mortars—(Flames in the quarters!)One to a hundredStood our brave Forters!No more of parties!—Let them all moulder—Here's work that's bolder!Forward, my hearties!Shoulder to shoulder.Sight o'er the trunnion—Send home the rammer—Linstock and hammer!Speak for the Union!Tones that won't stammer!Men of Columbia,Leal hearts from Annan,Brave lads of Shannon!We are all one to-day—On with the cannon!Henry Howard Brownell.
So, theywillhave it!The Black Witch (curse on her)Always had won herGreediest demand—for we gave it—All but our honor!
Thirty hours thunderedSiege-guns and mortars—(Flames in the quarters!)One to a hundredStood our brave Forters!
No more of parties!—Let them all moulder—Here's work that's bolder!Forward, my hearties!Shoulder to shoulder.
Sight o'er the trunnion—Send home the rammer—Linstock and hammer!Speak for the Union!Tones that won't stammer!
Men of Columbia,Leal hearts from Annan,Brave lads of Shannon!We are all one to-day—On with the cannon!
Henry Howard Brownell.
Nor was there any hesitation as to what that action should be. On Monday, April 15, 1861, President Lincoln issued a call for seventy-five thousand militia to suppress combinations obstructing the execution of the laws in seven of the Southern states.
Nor was there any hesitation as to what that action should be. On Monday, April 15, 1861, President Lincoln issued a call for seventy-five thousand militia to suppress combinations obstructing the execution of the laws in seven of the Southern states.
THE GREAT BELL ROLAND
SUGGESTED BY THE PRESIDENT'S CALL FOR VOLUNTEERS
IToll! Roland, toll!—High in St. Bavon's tower,At midnight hour,The great bell Roland spoke,And all who slept in Ghent awoke.—What meant its iron stroke?Why caught each man his blade?Why the hot haste he made?Why echoed every streetWith tramp of thronging feet—All flying to the city's wall?It was the callKnown well to all,That Freedom stood in peril of some foe:And even timid hearts grew boldWhenever Roland tolled,And every hand a sword could hold;—For menWere patriots then,Three hundred years ago!IIToll! Roland, toll!Bell never yet was hung,Between whose lips there swungSo true and brave a tongue!—If men be patriots still,At thy first soundTrue hearts will bound,Great souls will thrill—Then toll! and wake the testIn each man's breast,And let him stand confess'd!IIIToll! Roland, toll!—Not in St. Bavon's towerAt midnight hour,—Nor by the Scheldt, nor far-off Zuyder Zee;But here—this side the sea!—And here in broad, bright day!Toll! Roland, toll!For not by night awaitsA brave foe at the gates,But Treason stalks abroad—inside!—at noon!Toll! Thy alarm is not too soon!To arms! Ring out the Leader's call!Reëcho it from East to West,Till every dauntless breastSwell beneath plume and crest!Toll! Roland, toll!Till swords from scabbards leap!Toll! Roland, toll!—What tears can widows weepLess bitter than when brave men fall?Toll! Roland, toll!Till cottager from cottage-wallSnatch pouch and powder-horn and gun—The heritage of sire to son,Ere half of Freedom's work was done!Toll! Roland, toll!Till son, in memory of his sire,Once more shall load and fire!Toll! Roland, toll!Till volunteers find out the artOf aiming at a traitor's heart!IVToll! Roland, toll!—St. Bavon's stately towerStands to this hour,—And by its side stands Freedom yet in Ghent;For when the bells now ring,Men shout, "God save the King!"Until the air is rent!—Amen!—So let it be;For a true king is heWho keeps his people free.Toll! Roland, toll!This side the sea!No longer they, but we,Have now such need of thee!Toll! Roland, toll!And let thy iron throatRing out its warning note,Till Freedom's perils be outbraved,And Freedom's flag, wherever waved,Shall overshadow none enslaved!Toll! till from either ocean's strand,Brave men shall clasp each other's hand,And shout, "God save our native land!"—And love the land which God hath saved!Toll! Roland, toll!Theodore Tilton.Independent, April 18, 1861.
IToll! Roland, toll!—High in St. Bavon's tower,At midnight hour,The great bell Roland spoke,And all who slept in Ghent awoke.—What meant its iron stroke?Why caught each man his blade?Why the hot haste he made?Why echoed every streetWith tramp of thronging feet—All flying to the city's wall?It was the callKnown well to all,That Freedom stood in peril of some foe:And even timid hearts grew boldWhenever Roland tolled,And every hand a sword could hold;—For menWere patriots then,Three hundred years ago!IIToll! Roland, toll!Bell never yet was hung,Between whose lips there swungSo true and brave a tongue!—If men be patriots still,At thy first soundTrue hearts will bound,Great souls will thrill—Then toll! and wake the testIn each man's breast,And let him stand confess'd!IIIToll! Roland, toll!—Not in St. Bavon's towerAt midnight hour,—Nor by the Scheldt, nor far-off Zuyder Zee;But here—this side the sea!—And here in broad, bright day!Toll! Roland, toll!For not by night awaitsA brave foe at the gates,But Treason stalks abroad—inside!—at noon!Toll! Thy alarm is not too soon!To arms! Ring out the Leader's call!Reëcho it from East to West,Till every dauntless breastSwell beneath plume and crest!Toll! Roland, toll!Till swords from scabbards leap!Toll! Roland, toll!—What tears can widows weepLess bitter than when brave men fall?Toll! Roland, toll!Till cottager from cottage-wallSnatch pouch and powder-horn and gun—The heritage of sire to son,Ere half of Freedom's work was done!Toll! Roland, toll!Till son, in memory of his sire,Once more shall load and fire!Toll! Roland, toll!Till volunteers find out the artOf aiming at a traitor's heart!IVToll! Roland, toll!—St. Bavon's stately towerStands to this hour,—And by its side stands Freedom yet in Ghent;For when the bells now ring,Men shout, "God save the King!"Until the air is rent!—Amen!—So let it be;For a true king is heWho keeps his people free.Toll! Roland, toll!This side the sea!No longer they, but we,Have now such need of thee!Toll! Roland, toll!And let thy iron throatRing out its warning note,Till Freedom's perils be outbraved,And Freedom's flag, wherever waved,Shall overshadow none enslaved!Toll! till from either ocean's strand,Brave men shall clasp each other's hand,And shout, "God save our native land!"—And love the land which God hath saved!Toll! Roland, toll!Theodore Tilton.Independent, April 18, 1861.
IToll! Roland, toll!—High in St. Bavon's tower,At midnight hour,The great bell Roland spoke,And all who slept in Ghent awoke.—What meant its iron stroke?Why caught each man his blade?Why the hot haste he made?Why echoed every streetWith tramp of thronging feet—All flying to the city's wall?It was the callKnown well to all,That Freedom stood in peril of some foe:And even timid hearts grew boldWhenever Roland tolled,And every hand a sword could hold;—For menWere patriots then,Three hundred years ago!
IIToll! Roland, toll!Bell never yet was hung,Between whose lips there swungSo true and brave a tongue!—If men be patriots still,At thy first soundTrue hearts will bound,Great souls will thrill—Then toll! and wake the testIn each man's breast,And let him stand confess'd!
IIIToll! Roland, toll!—Not in St. Bavon's towerAt midnight hour,—Nor by the Scheldt, nor far-off Zuyder Zee;But here—this side the sea!—And here in broad, bright day!Toll! Roland, toll!For not by night awaitsA brave foe at the gates,But Treason stalks abroad—inside!—at noon!Toll! Thy alarm is not too soon!To arms! Ring out the Leader's call!Reëcho it from East to West,Till every dauntless breastSwell beneath plume and crest!Toll! Roland, toll!Till swords from scabbards leap!Toll! Roland, toll!—What tears can widows weepLess bitter than when brave men fall?Toll! Roland, toll!Till cottager from cottage-wallSnatch pouch and powder-horn and gun—The heritage of sire to son,Ere half of Freedom's work was done!Toll! Roland, toll!Till son, in memory of his sire,Once more shall load and fire!Toll! Roland, toll!Till volunteers find out the artOf aiming at a traitor's heart!
IVToll! Roland, toll!—St. Bavon's stately towerStands to this hour,—And by its side stands Freedom yet in Ghent;For when the bells now ring,Men shout, "God save the King!"Until the air is rent!—Amen!—So let it be;For a true king is heWho keeps his people free.Toll! Roland, toll!This side the sea!No longer they, but we,Have now such need of thee!Toll! Roland, toll!And let thy iron throatRing out its warning note,Till Freedom's perils be outbraved,And Freedom's flag, wherever waved,Shall overshadow none enslaved!Toll! till from either ocean's strand,Brave men shall clasp each other's hand,And shout, "God save our native land!"—And love the land which God hath saved!Toll! Roland, toll!
Theodore Tilton.
Independent, April 18, 1861.
MEN OF THE NORTH AND WEST[7]