There was no union in the land,Though wise men labored longWith links of clay and ropes of sandTo bind the right and wrong.There was no temper in the bladeThat once could cleave a chain;Its edge was dull with touch of tradeAnd clogged with rust of gain.The sand and clay must shrink awayBefore the lava tide:By blows and blood and fire assayThe metal must be tried.Here sledge and anvil met, and whenThe furnace fiercest roared,God's undiscerning workingmenReforged His people's sword.Enough for them to ask and knowThe moment's duty clear—The bayonets flashed it there below,The guns proclaimed it here:To do and dare, and die at need,But while life lasts, to fight—For right or wrong a simple creed,But simplest for the right.They faltered not who stood that dayAnd held this post of dread;Nor cowards they who wore the grayUntil the gray was red.For every wreath the victor wearsThe vanquished half may claim;And every monument declaresA common pride and fame.We raise no altar stones to Hate,Who never bowed to Fear:No province crouches at our gate,To shame our triumph here.Here standing by a dead wrong's graveThe blindest now may see,The blow that liberates the slaveBut sets the master free!When ills beset the nation's lifeToo dangerous to bear,The sword must be the surgeon's knife,Too merciful to spare.O Soldier of our common land,'Tis thine to bear that bladeLoose in the sheath, or firm in hand,But ever unafraid.When foreign foes assail our right,One nation trusts to thee—To wield it well in worthy fight—The sword of Meade and Lee!James Jeffrey Roche.
There was no union in the land,Though wise men labored longWith links of clay and ropes of sandTo bind the right and wrong.There was no temper in the bladeThat once could cleave a chain;Its edge was dull with touch of tradeAnd clogged with rust of gain.The sand and clay must shrink awayBefore the lava tide:By blows and blood and fire assayThe metal must be tried.Here sledge and anvil met, and whenThe furnace fiercest roared,God's undiscerning workingmenReforged His people's sword.Enough for them to ask and knowThe moment's duty clear—The bayonets flashed it there below,The guns proclaimed it here:To do and dare, and die at need,But while life lasts, to fight—For right or wrong a simple creed,But simplest for the right.They faltered not who stood that dayAnd held this post of dread;Nor cowards they who wore the grayUntil the gray was red.For every wreath the victor wearsThe vanquished half may claim;And every monument declaresA common pride and fame.We raise no altar stones to Hate,Who never bowed to Fear:No province crouches at our gate,To shame our triumph here.Here standing by a dead wrong's graveThe blindest now may see,The blow that liberates the slaveBut sets the master free!When ills beset the nation's lifeToo dangerous to bear,The sword must be the surgeon's knife,Too merciful to spare.O Soldier of our common land,'Tis thine to bear that bladeLoose in the sheath, or firm in hand,But ever unafraid.When foreign foes assail our right,One nation trusts to thee—To wield it well in worthy fight—The sword of Meade and Lee!James Jeffrey Roche.
There was no union in the land,Though wise men labored longWith links of clay and ropes of sandTo bind the right and wrong.
There was no temper in the bladeThat once could cleave a chain;Its edge was dull with touch of tradeAnd clogged with rust of gain.
The sand and clay must shrink awayBefore the lava tide:By blows and blood and fire assayThe metal must be tried.
Here sledge and anvil met, and whenThe furnace fiercest roared,God's undiscerning workingmenReforged His people's sword.
Enough for them to ask and knowThe moment's duty clear—The bayonets flashed it there below,The guns proclaimed it here:
To do and dare, and die at need,But while life lasts, to fight—For right or wrong a simple creed,But simplest for the right.
They faltered not who stood that dayAnd held this post of dread;Nor cowards they who wore the grayUntil the gray was red.
For every wreath the victor wearsThe vanquished half may claim;And every monument declaresA common pride and fame.
We raise no altar stones to Hate,Who never bowed to Fear:No province crouches at our gate,To shame our triumph here.
Here standing by a dead wrong's graveThe blindest now may see,The blow that liberates the slaveBut sets the master free!
When ills beset the nation's lifeToo dangerous to bear,The sword must be the surgeon's knife,Too merciful to spare.
O Soldier of our common land,'Tis thine to bear that bladeLoose in the sheath, or firm in hand,But ever unafraid.
When foreign foes assail our right,One nation trusts to thee—To wield it well in worthy fight—The sword of Meade and Lee!
James Jeffrey Roche.
Lee commenced his retreat next morning, and was able to gain the Potomac, with his whole train, virtually without molestation. But the North was too rejoiced by the withdrawal of the invaders to mourn at their escape.
Lee commenced his retreat next morning, and was able to gain the Potomac, with his whole train, virtually without molestation. But the North was too rejoiced by the withdrawal of the invaders to mourn at their escape.
THE BATTLE-FIELD
GETTYSBURG
Those were the conquered, still too proud to yield—These were the victors, yet too poor for shrouds!Here scarlet Slaughter slew her countless crowdsHeaped high in ranks where'er the hot guns pealed.The brooks that wandered through the battlefieldFlowed slowly on in ever-reddening streams;Here where the rank wheat waves and golden gleams,The dreadful squadrons, thundering, charged and reeled.Within the blossoming clover many a boneLying unsepulchred, has bleached to white;While gentlest hearts that only love had known,Have ached with anguish at the awful sight;And War's gaunt Vultures that were lean, have grownGorged in the darkness in a single night!Lloyd Mifflin.
Those were the conquered, still too proud to yield—These were the victors, yet too poor for shrouds!Here scarlet Slaughter slew her countless crowdsHeaped high in ranks where'er the hot guns pealed.The brooks that wandered through the battlefieldFlowed slowly on in ever-reddening streams;Here where the rank wheat waves and golden gleams,The dreadful squadrons, thundering, charged and reeled.Within the blossoming clover many a boneLying unsepulchred, has bleached to white;While gentlest hearts that only love had known,Have ached with anguish at the awful sight;And War's gaunt Vultures that were lean, have grownGorged in the darkness in a single night!Lloyd Mifflin.
Those were the conquered, still too proud to yield—These were the victors, yet too poor for shrouds!Here scarlet Slaughter slew her countless crowdsHeaped high in ranks where'er the hot guns pealed.The brooks that wandered through the battlefieldFlowed slowly on in ever-reddening streams;Here where the rank wheat waves and golden gleams,The dreadful squadrons, thundering, charged and reeled.Within the blossoming clover many a boneLying unsepulchred, has bleached to white;While gentlest hearts that only love had known,Have ached with anguish at the awful sight;And War's gaunt Vultures that were lean, have grownGorged in the darkness in a single night!
Lloyd Mifflin.
Among the thousands who took part in that terrific three days' struggle none was more remarkable than oldJohn Burns, a veteran of the War of 1812 and of the Mexican War, who, rejected at the outbreak of the Civil War on account of his age, nevertheless shouldered his rifle and helped repel the invaders, when they approached his home at Gettysburg.
Among the thousands who took part in that terrific three days' struggle none was more remarkable than oldJohn Burns, a veteran of the War of 1812 and of the Mexican War, who, rejected at the outbreak of the Civil War on account of his age, nevertheless shouldered his rifle and helped repel the invaders, when they approached his home at Gettysburg.
JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG
Have you heard the story that gossips tellOf Burns of Gettysburg? No? Ah, well:Brief is the glory that hero earns,Briefer the story of poor John Burns:He was the fellow who won renown,—The only man who didn't back downWhen the rebels rode through his native town;But held his own in the fight next day,When all his townsfolk ran away.That was in July, sixty-three,—The very day that General Lee,Flower of Southern chivalry,Baffled and beaten, backward reeledFrom a stubborn Meade and a barren field.I might tell how, but the day before,John Burns stood at his cottage door,Looking down the village street,Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine,He heard the low of his gathered kine,And felt their breath with incense sweet;Or I might say, when the sunset burnedThe old farm gable, he thought it turnedThe milk that fell like a babbling floodInto the milk-pail, red as blood!Or how he fancied the hum of beesWere bullets buzzing among the trees.But all such fanciful thoughts as theseWere strange to a practical man like Burns,Who minded only his own concerns,Troubled no more by fancies fineThan one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine,Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact,Slow to argue, but quick to act.That was the reason, as some folks say,He fought so well on that terrible day.And it was terrible. On the rightRaged for hours the heady fight,Thundered the battery's double bass,—Difficult music for men to face;While on the left—where now the gravesUndulate like the living wavesThat all that day unceasing sweptUp to the pits the rebels kept—Round-shot ploughed the upland glades,Sown with bullets, reaped with blades;Shattered fences here and thereTossed their splinters in the air;The very trees were stripped and bare;The barns that once held yellow grainWere heaped with harvests of the slain;The cattle bellowed on the plain,The turkeys screamed with might and main,The brooding barn-fowl left their restWith strange shells bursting in each nest.Just where the tide of battle turns,Erect and lonely, stood old John Burns.How do you think the man was dressed?He wore an ancient, long buff vest,Yellow as saffron,—but his best;And, buttoned over his manly breast,Was a bright blue coat with a rolling collar,And large gilt buttons,—size of a dollar,—With tails that the country-folk called "swaller."He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat,White as the locks on which it sat.Never had such a sight been seenFor forty years on the village green,Since old John Burns was a country beau,And went to the "quiltings" long ago.Close at his elbows all that day,Veterans of the Peninsula,Sunburnt and bearded, charged away;And striplings, downy of lip and chin,—Clerks that the Home-Guard mustered in,—Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore,Then at the rifle his right hand bore;And hailed him, from out their youthful lore,With scraps of a slangy repertoire:"How are you, White Hat?" "Put her through!""Your head's level!" and "Bully for you!"Called him "Daddy,"—begged he'd discloseThe name of his tailor who made his clothes,And what was the value he set on those;While Burns, unmindful of jeer or scoff,Stood there picking the rebels off,—With his long brown rifle, and bell-crowned hat,And the swallow-tails they were laughing at.'Twas but a moment, for that respectWhich clothes all courage their voices checked;And something the wildest could understandSpake in the old man's strong right hand,And his corded throat, and the lurking frownOf his eyebrows under his old bell-crown;Until, as they gazed, there crept an aweThrough the ranks in whispers, and some men saw,In the antique vestments and long white hair,The Past of the Nation in battle there;And some of the soldiers since declareThat the gleam of his old white hat afar,Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre,That day was their oriflamme of war.So raged the battle. You know the rest:How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed,Broke at the final charge and ran.At which John Burns—a practical man—Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows,And then went back to his bees and cows.That is the story of old John Burns;This is the moral the reader learns:In fighting the battle, the question's whetherYou'll show a hat that's white, or a feather.Bret Harte.
Have you heard the story that gossips tellOf Burns of Gettysburg? No? Ah, well:Brief is the glory that hero earns,Briefer the story of poor John Burns:He was the fellow who won renown,—The only man who didn't back downWhen the rebels rode through his native town;But held his own in the fight next day,When all his townsfolk ran away.That was in July, sixty-three,—The very day that General Lee,Flower of Southern chivalry,Baffled and beaten, backward reeledFrom a stubborn Meade and a barren field.I might tell how, but the day before,John Burns stood at his cottage door,Looking down the village street,Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine,He heard the low of his gathered kine,And felt their breath with incense sweet;Or I might say, when the sunset burnedThe old farm gable, he thought it turnedThe milk that fell like a babbling floodInto the milk-pail, red as blood!Or how he fancied the hum of beesWere bullets buzzing among the trees.But all such fanciful thoughts as theseWere strange to a practical man like Burns,Who minded only his own concerns,Troubled no more by fancies fineThan one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine,Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact,Slow to argue, but quick to act.That was the reason, as some folks say,He fought so well on that terrible day.And it was terrible. On the rightRaged for hours the heady fight,Thundered the battery's double bass,—Difficult music for men to face;While on the left—where now the gravesUndulate like the living wavesThat all that day unceasing sweptUp to the pits the rebels kept—Round-shot ploughed the upland glades,Sown with bullets, reaped with blades;Shattered fences here and thereTossed their splinters in the air;The very trees were stripped and bare;The barns that once held yellow grainWere heaped with harvests of the slain;The cattle bellowed on the plain,The turkeys screamed with might and main,The brooding barn-fowl left their restWith strange shells bursting in each nest.Just where the tide of battle turns,Erect and lonely, stood old John Burns.How do you think the man was dressed?He wore an ancient, long buff vest,Yellow as saffron,—but his best;And, buttoned over his manly breast,Was a bright blue coat with a rolling collar,And large gilt buttons,—size of a dollar,—With tails that the country-folk called "swaller."He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat,White as the locks on which it sat.Never had such a sight been seenFor forty years on the village green,Since old John Burns was a country beau,And went to the "quiltings" long ago.Close at his elbows all that day,Veterans of the Peninsula,Sunburnt and bearded, charged away;And striplings, downy of lip and chin,—Clerks that the Home-Guard mustered in,—Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore,Then at the rifle his right hand bore;And hailed him, from out their youthful lore,With scraps of a slangy repertoire:"How are you, White Hat?" "Put her through!""Your head's level!" and "Bully for you!"Called him "Daddy,"—begged he'd discloseThe name of his tailor who made his clothes,And what was the value he set on those;While Burns, unmindful of jeer or scoff,Stood there picking the rebels off,—With his long brown rifle, and bell-crowned hat,And the swallow-tails they were laughing at.'Twas but a moment, for that respectWhich clothes all courage their voices checked;And something the wildest could understandSpake in the old man's strong right hand,And his corded throat, and the lurking frownOf his eyebrows under his old bell-crown;Until, as they gazed, there crept an aweThrough the ranks in whispers, and some men saw,In the antique vestments and long white hair,The Past of the Nation in battle there;And some of the soldiers since declareThat the gleam of his old white hat afar,Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre,That day was their oriflamme of war.So raged the battle. You know the rest:How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed,Broke at the final charge and ran.At which John Burns—a practical man—Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows,And then went back to his bees and cows.That is the story of old John Burns;This is the moral the reader learns:In fighting the battle, the question's whetherYou'll show a hat that's white, or a feather.Bret Harte.
Have you heard the story that gossips tellOf Burns of Gettysburg? No? Ah, well:Brief is the glory that hero earns,Briefer the story of poor John Burns:He was the fellow who won renown,—The only man who didn't back downWhen the rebels rode through his native town;But held his own in the fight next day,When all his townsfolk ran away.That was in July, sixty-three,—The very day that General Lee,Flower of Southern chivalry,Baffled and beaten, backward reeledFrom a stubborn Meade and a barren field.
I might tell how, but the day before,John Burns stood at his cottage door,Looking down the village street,Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine,He heard the low of his gathered kine,And felt their breath with incense sweet;Or I might say, when the sunset burnedThe old farm gable, he thought it turnedThe milk that fell like a babbling floodInto the milk-pail, red as blood!Or how he fancied the hum of beesWere bullets buzzing among the trees.But all such fanciful thoughts as theseWere strange to a practical man like Burns,Who minded only his own concerns,Troubled no more by fancies fineThan one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine,Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact,Slow to argue, but quick to act.That was the reason, as some folks say,He fought so well on that terrible day.
And it was terrible. On the rightRaged for hours the heady fight,Thundered the battery's double bass,—Difficult music for men to face;While on the left—where now the gravesUndulate like the living wavesThat all that day unceasing sweptUp to the pits the rebels kept—Round-shot ploughed the upland glades,Sown with bullets, reaped with blades;Shattered fences here and thereTossed their splinters in the air;The very trees were stripped and bare;The barns that once held yellow grainWere heaped with harvests of the slain;The cattle bellowed on the plain,The turkeys screamed with might and main,The brooding barn-fowl left their restWith strange shells bursting in each nest.
Just where the tide of battle turns,Erect and lonely, stood old John Burns.How do you think the man was dressed?He wore an ancient, long buff vest,Yellow as saffron,—but his best;And, buttoned over his manly breast,Was a bright blue coat with a rolling collar,And large gilt buttons,—size of a dollar,—With tails that the country-folk called "swaller."He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat,White as the locks on which it sat.Never had such a sight been seenFor forty years on the village green,Since old John Burns was a country beau,And went to the "quiltings" long ago.
Close at his elbows all that day,Veterans of the Peninsula,Sunburnt and bearded, charged away;And striplings, downy of lip and chin,—Clerks that the Home-Guard mustered in,—Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore,Then at the rifle his right hand bore;And hailed him, from out their youthful lore,With scraps of a slangy repertoire:"How are you, White Hat?" "Put her through!""Your head's level!" and "Bully for you!"Called him "Daddy,"—begged he'd discloseThe name of his tailor who made his clothes,And what was the value he set on those;While Burns, unmindful of jeer or scoff,Stood there picking the rebels off,—With his long brown rifle, and bell-crowned hat,And the swallow-tails they were laughing at.
'Twas but a moment, for that respectWhich clothes all courage their voices checked;And something the wildest could understandSpake in the old man's strong right hand,And his corded throat, and the lurking frownOf his eyebrows under his old bell-crown;Until, as they gazed, there crept an aweThrough the ranks in whispers, and some men saw,In the antique vestments and long white hair,The Past of the Nation in battle there;And some of the soldiers since declareThat the gleam of his old white hat afar,Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre,That day was their oriflamme of war.
So raged the battle. You know the rest:How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed,Broke at the final charge and ran.At which John Burns—a practical man—Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows,And then went back to his bees and cows.
That is the story of old John Burns;This is the moral the reader learns:In fighting the battle, the question's whetherYou'll show a hat that's white, or a feather.
Bret Harte.
Never was the Union nearer dissolution than it was on the eve of Gettysburg. A counter-revolution had been planned, but Lee was defeated and the plot failed. A force of four thousand raiders, under John H. Morgan, had dashed across Kentucky, into Indiana and Ohio, expecting support from the peace faction; but the result of Gettysburg spoiled all that, and Morgan and his men were surrounded and captured while trying to get back across the Ohio River.
Never was the Union nearer dissolution than it was on the eve of Gettysburg. A counter-revolution had been planned, but Lee was defeated and the plot failed. A force of four thousand raiders, under John H. Morgan, had dashed across Kentucky, into Indiana and Ohio, expecting support from the peace faction; but the result of Gettysburg spoiled all that, and Morgan and his men were surrounded and captured while trying to get back across the Ohio River.
KENTUCKY BELLE
Summer of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone away—Gone to the county-town, sir, to sell our first load of hay—We lived in the log house yonder, poor as you've ever seen;Röschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen.Conrad, he took the oxen, but he left Kentucky Belle.How much we thought of Kentuck, I couldn't begin to tell—Came from the Blue-Grass country; my father gave her to meWhen I rode North with Conrad, away from Tennessee.Conrad lived in Ohio—a German he is, you know—The house stood in broad corn-fields, stretching on, row after row.The old folks made me welcome; they were kind as kind could be;But I kept longing, longing, for the hills of Tennessee.Oh! for a sight of water, the shadowed slope of a hill!Clouds that hang on the summit, a wind that never is still!But the level land went stretching away to meet the sky—Never a rise, from north to south, to rest the weary eye!From east to west no river to shine out under the moon,Nothing to make a shadow in the yellow afternoon:Only the breathless sunshine, as I looked out, all forlorn;Only the "rustle, rustle," as I walked among the corn.When I fell sick with pining, we didn't wait any more,But moved away from the corn-lands, out to this river shore—The Tuscarawas it's called, sir—off there's a hill, you see—And now I've grown to like it next best to the Tennessee.I was at work that morning. Some one came riding like madOver the bridge and up the road—Farmer Rouf's little lad.Bareback he rode; he had no hat; he hardly stopped to say,"Morgan's men are coming, Frau; they're galloping on this way."I'm sent to warn the neighbors. He isn't a mile behind;He sweeps up all the horses—every horse that he can find.Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men,With bowie-knives and pistols, are galloping up the glen!"The lad rode down the valley, and I stood still at the door;The baby laughed and prattled, playing with spools on the floor;Kentuck was out in the pasture; Conrad, my man, was gone.Near, nearer, Morgan's men were galloping, galloping on!Sudden I picked up baby, and ran to the pasture-bar."Kentuck!" I called—"Kentucky!" She knew me ever so far!I led her down the gully that turns off there to the right,And tied her to the bushes; her head was just out of sight.As I ran back to the log house, at once there came a sound—The ring of hoofs, galloping hoofs, trembling over the ground—Coming into the turnpike, out from the White-Woman Glen—Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men.As near they drew and nearer, my heart beat fast in alarm;But still I stood in the doorway with baby on my arm.They came; they passed; with spur and whip in haste they sped along—Morgan, Morgan the raider, and his band, six hundred strong.Weary they looked and jaded, riding through night and through day;Pushing on East to the river, many long miles away,To the border-strip where Virginia runs up into the West,And fording the Upper Ohio before they could stop to rest.On like the wind they hurried, and Morgan rode in advance;Bright were his eyes like live coals, as he gave me a sideways glance;I was just breathing freely, after my choking pain,When the last one of the troopers suddenly drew his rein.Frightened I was to death, sir; I scarce dared look in his face,As he asked for a drink of water, and glanced around the place.I gave him a cup and he smiled—'twas only a boy, you see;Faint and worn, with dim blue eyes; and he'd sailed on the Tennessee.Only sixteen he was, sir—a fond mother's only son—Off and away with Morgan before his life has begun!The damp drops stood on his temples—drawn was the boyish mouth;And I thought me of the mother waiting down in the South.Oh! pluck was he to the backbone, and clear grit through and through;Boasted and bragged like a trooper, but the big words wouldn't do;—The boy was dying, sir, dying, as plain as plain could be,Worn out by his ride with Morgan up from the Tennessee.But when I told the laddie that I too was from the South,Water came in his dim eyes, and quivers around his mouth."Do you know the Blue-Grass country?" he wistful began to say;Then swayed like a willow-sapling, and fainted dead away.I had him into the log house, and worked and brought him to;I fed him and I coaxed him, as I thought his mother'd do;And when the lad grew better, and the noise in his head was gone,Morgan's men were miles away, galloping, galloping on."Oh, I must go," he muttered; "I must be up and away!Morgan—Morgan is waiting for me! Oh, what will Morgan say?"But I heard a sound of tramping and kept him back from the door—The ringing sound of horses' hoofs that I had heard before.And on, on, came the soldiers—the Michigan cavalry—And fast they rode, and black they looked, galloping rapidly,—They had followed hard on Morgan's track; they had followed day and night;But of Morgan and Morgan's raiders they had never caught a sight.And rich Ohio sat startled through all those summer days;For strange, wild men were galloping over her broad highways—Now here, now there, now seen, now gone, now north, now east, now west,Through river-valleys and corn-land farms, sweeping away her best.A bold ride and a long ride! But they were taken at last.They almost reached the river by galloping hard and fast;But the boys in blue were upon them ere ever they gained the ford,And Morgan, Morgan the raider, laid down his terrible sword.Well, I kept the boy till evening—kept him against his will—But he was too weak to follow, and sat there pale and still.When it was cool and dusky—you'll wonder to hear me tell—But I stole down to that gully, and brought up Kentucky Belle.I kissed the star on her forehead—my pretty gentle lass—But I knew that she'd be happy back in the old Blue Grass.A suit of clothes of Conrad's, with all the money I had,And Kentuck, pretty Kentuck, I gave to the worn-out lad.I guided him to the southward as well as I knew how;The boy rode off with many thanks, and many a backward bow;And then the glow it faded, and my heart began to swell,As down the glen away she went, my lost Kentucky Belle!When Conrad came in the evening, the moon was shining high;Baby and I were both crying—I couldn't tell him why—But a battered suit of rebel gray was hanging on the wall,And a thin old horse, with drooping head, stood in Kentucky's stall.Well, he was kind, and never once said a hard word to me;He knew I couldn't help it—'twas all for the Tennessee.But, after the war was over, just think what came to pass—A letter, sir; and the two were safe back in the old Blue Grass.The lad had got across the border, riding Kentucky Belle;And Kentuck she was thriving, and fat, and hearty, and well;He cared for her, and kept her, nor touched her with whip or spur.Ah! we've had many horses since, but never a horse like her!Constance Fenimore Woolson.
Summer of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone away—Gone to the county-town, sir, to sell our first load of hay—We lived in the log house yonder, poor as you've ever seen;Röschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen.Conrad, he took the oxen, but he left Kentucky Belle.How much we thought of Kentuck, I couldn't begin to tell—Came from the Blue-Grass country; my father gave her to meWhen I rode North with Conrad, away from Tennessee.Conrad lived in Ohio—a German he is, you know—The house stood in broad corn-fields, stretching on, row after row.The old folks made me welcome; they were kind as kind could be;But I kept longing, longing, for the hills of Tennessee.Oh! for a sight of water, the shadowed slope of a hill!Clouds that hang on the summit, a wind that never is still!But the level land went stretching away to meet the sky—Never a rise, from north to south, to rest the weary eye!From east to west no river to shine out under the moon,Nothing to make a shadow in the yellow afternoon:Only the breathless sunshine, as I looked out, all forlorn;Only the "rustle, rustle," as I walked among the corn.When I fell sick with pining, we didn't wait any more,But moved away from the corn-lands, out to this river shore—The Tuscarawas it's called, sir—off there's a hill, you see—And now I've grown to like it next best to the Tennessee.I was at work that morning. Some one came riding like madOver the bridge and up the road—Farmer Rouf's little lad.Bareback he rode; he had no hat; he hardly stopped to say,"Morgan's men are coming, Frau; they're galloping on this way."I'm sent to warn the neighbors. He isn't a mile behind;He sweeps up all the horses—every horse that he can find.Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men,With bowie-knives and pistols, are galloping up the glen!"The lad rode down the valley, and I stood still at the door;The baby laughed and prattled, playing with spools on the floor;Kentuck was out in the pasture; Conrad, my man, was gone.Near, nearer, Morgan's men were galloping, galloping on!Sudden I picked up baby, and ran to the pasture-bar."Kentuck!" I called—"Kentucky!" She knew me ever so far!I led her down the gully that turns off there to the right,And tied her to the bushes; her head was just out of sight.As I ran back to the log house, at once there came a sound—The ring of hoofs, galloping hoofs, trembling over the ground—Coming into the turnpike, out from the White-Woman Glen—Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men.As near they drew and nearer, my heart beat fast in alarm;But still I stood in the doorway with baby on my arm.They came; they passed; with spur and whip in haste they sped along—Morgan, Morgan the raider, and his band, six hundred strong.Weary they looked and jaded, riding through night and through day;Pushing on East to the river, many long miles away,To the border-strip where Virginia runs up into the West,And fording the Upper Ohio before they could stop to rest.On like the wind they hurried, and Morgan rode in advance;Bright were his eyes like live coals, as he gave me a sideways glance;I was just breathing freely, after my choking pain,When the last one of the troopers suddenly drew his rein.Frightened I was to death, sir; I scarce dared look in his face,As he asked for a drink of water, and glanced around the place.I gave him a cup and he smiled—'twas only a boy, you see;Faint and worn, with dim blue eyes; and he'd sailed on the Tennessee.Only sixteen he was, sir—a fond mother's only son—Off and away with Morgan before his life has begun!The damp drops stood on his temples—drawn was the boyish mouth;And I thought me of the mother waiting down in the South.Oh! pluck was he to the backbone, and clear grit through and through;Boasted and bragged like a trooper, but the big words wouldn't do;—The boy was dying, sir, dying, as plain as plain could be,Worn out by his ride with Morgan up from the Tennessee.But when I told the laddie that I too was from the South,Water came in his dim eyes, and quivers around his mouth."Do you know the Blue-Grass country?" he wistful began to say;Then swayed like a willow-sapling, and fainted dead away.I had him into the log house, and worked and brought him to;I fed him and I coaxed him, as I thought his mother'd do;And when the lad grew better, and the noise in his head was gone,Morgan's men were miles away, galloping, galloping on."Oh, I must go," he muttered; "I must be up and away!Morgan—Morgan is waiting for me! Oh, what will Morgan say?"But I heard a sound of tramping and kept him back from the door—The ringing sound of horses' hoofs that I had heard before.And on, on, came the soldiers—the Michigan cavalry—And fast they rode, and black they looked, galloping rapidly,—They had followed hard on Morgan's track; they had followed day and night;But of Morgan and Morgan's raiders they had never caught a sight.And rich Ohio sat startled through all those summer days;For strange, wild men were galloping over her broad highways—Now here, now there, now seen, now gone, now north, now east, now west,Through river-valleys and corn-land farms, sweeping away her best.A bold ride and a long ride! But they were taken at last.They almost reached the river by galloping hard and fast;But the boys in blue were upon them ere ever they gained the ford,And Morgan, Morgan the raider, laid down his terrible sword.Well, I kept the boy till evening—kept him against his will—But he was too weak to follow, and sat there pale and still.When it was cool and dusky—you'll wonder to hear me tell—But I stole down to that gully, and brought up Kentucky Belle.I kissed the star on her forehead—my pretty gentle lass—But I knew that she'd be happy back in the old Blue Grass.A suit of clothes of Conrad's, with all the money I had,And Kentuck, pretty Kentuck, I gave to the worn-out lad.I guided him to the southward as well as I knew how;The boy rode off with many thanks, and many a backward bow;And then the glow it faded, and my heart began to swell,As down the glen away she went, my lost Kentucky Belle!When Conrad came in the evening, the moon was shining high;Baby and I were both crying—I couldn't tell him why—But a battered suit of rebel gray was hanging on the wall,And a thin old horse, with drooping head, stood in Kentucky's stall.Well, he was kind, and never once said a hard word to me;He knew I couldn't help it—'twas all for the Tennessee.But, after the war was over, just think what came to pass—A letter, sir; and the two were safe back in the old Blue Grass.The lad had got across the border, riding Kentucky Belle;And Kentuck she was thriving, and fat, and hearty, and well;He cared for her, and kept her, nor touched her with whip or spur.Ah! we've had many horses since, but never a horse like her!Constance Fenimore Woolson.
Summer of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone away—Gone to the county-town, sir, to sell our first load of hay—We lived in the log house yonder, poor as you've ever seen;Röschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen.
Conrad, he took the oxen, but he left Kentucky Belle.How much we thought of Kentuck, I couldn't begin to tell—Came from the Blue-Grass country; my father gave her to meWhen I rode North with Conrad, away from Tennessee.
Conrad lived in Ohio—a German he is, you know—The house stood in broad corn-fields, stretching on, row after row.The old folks made me welcome; they were kind as kind could be;But I kept longing, longing, for the hills of Tennessee.
Oh! for a sight of water, the shadowed slope of a hill!Clouds that hang on the summit, a wind that never is still!But the level land went stretching away to meet the sky—Never a rise, from north to south, to rest the weary eye!
From east to west no river to shine out under the moon,Nothing to make a shadow in the yellow afternoon:Only the breathless sunshine, as I looked out, all forlorn;Only the "rustle, rustle," as I walked among the corn.
When I fell sick with pining, we didn't wait any more,But moved away from the corn-lands, out to this river shore—The Tuscarawas it's called, sir—off there's a hill, you see—And now I've grown to like it next best to the Tennessee.
I was at work that morning. Some one came riding like madOver the bridge and up the road—Farmer Rouf's little lad.Bareback he rode; he had no hat; he hardly stopped to say,"Morgan's men are coming, Frau; they're galloping on this way.
"I'm sent to warn the neighbors. He isn't a mile behind;He sweeps up all the horses—every horse that he can find.Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men,With bowie-knives and pistols, are galloping up the glen!"
The lad rode down the valley, and I stood still at the door;The baby laughed and prattled, playing with spools on the floor;Kentuck was out in the pasture; Conrad, my man, was gone.Near, nearer, Morgan's men were galloping, galloping on!
Sudden I picked up baby, and ran to the pasture-bar."Kentuck!" I called—"Kentucky!" She knew me ever so far!I led her down the gully that turns off there to the right,And tied her to the bushes; her head was just out of sight.
As I ran back to the log house, at once there came a sound—The ring of hoofs, galloping hoofs, trembling over the ground—Coming into the turnpike, out from the White-Woman Glen—Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men.
As near they drew and nearer, my heart beat fast in alarm;But still I stood in the doorway with baby on my arm.They came; they passed; with spur and whip in haste they sped along—Morgan, Morgan the raider, and his band, six hundred strong.
Weary they looked and jaded, riding through night and through day;Pushing on East to the river, many long miles away,To the border-strip where Virginia runs up into the West,And fording the Upper Ohio before they could stop to rest.
On like the wind they hurried, and Morgan rode in advance;Bright were his eyes like live coals, as he gave me a sideways glance;I was just breathing freely, after my choking pain,When the last one of the troopers suddenly drew his rein.
Frightened I was to death, sir; I scarce dared look in his face,As he asked for a drink of water, and glanced around the place.I gave him a cup and he smiled—'twas only a boy, you see;Faint and worn, with dim blue eyes; and he'd sailed on the Tennessee.
Only sixteen he was, sir—a fond mother's only son—Off and away with Morgan before his life has begun!The damp drops stood on his temples—drawn was the boyish mouth;And I thought me of the mother waiting down in the South.
Oh! pluck was he to the backbone, and clear grit through and through;Boasted and bragged like a trooper, but the big words wouldn't do;—The boy was dying, sir, dying, as plain as plain could be,Worn out by his ride with Morgan up from the Tennessee.
But when I told the laddie that I too was from the South,Water came in his dim eyes, and quivers around his mouth."Do you know the Blue-Grass country?" he wistful began to say;Then swayed like a willow-sapling, and fainted dead away.
I had him into the log house, and worked and brought him to;I fed him and I coaxed him, as I thought his mother'd do;And when the lad grew better, and the noise in his head was gone,Morgan's men were miles away, galloping, galloping on.
"Oh, I must go," he muttered; "I must be up and away!Morgan—Morgan is waiting for me! Oh, what will Morgan say?"But I heard a sound of tramping and kept him back from the door—The ringing sound of horses' hoofs that I had heard before.
And on, on, came the soldiers—the Michigan cavalry—And fast they rode, and black they looked, galloping rapidly,—They had followed hard on Morgan's track; they had followed day and night;But of Morgan and Morgan's raiders they had never caught a sight.
And rich Ohio sat startled through all those summer days;For strange, wild men were galloping over her broad highways—Now here, now there, now seen, now gone, now north, now east, now west,Through river-valleys and corn-land farms, sweeping away her best.
A bold ride and a long ride! But they were taken at last.They almost reached the river by galloping hard and fast;But the boys in blue were upon them ere ever they gained the ford,And Morgan, Morgan the raider, laid down his terrible sword.
Well, I kept the boy till evening—kept him against his will—But he was too weak to follow, and sat there pale and still.When it was cool and dusky—you'll wonder to hear me tell—But I stole down to that gully, and brought up Kentucky Belle.
I kissed the star on her forehead—my pretty gentle lass—But I knew that she'd be happy back in the old Blue Grass.A suit of clothes of Conrad's, with all the money I had,And Kentuck, pretty Kentuck, I gave to the worn-out lad.
I guided him to the southward as well as I knew how;The boy rode off with many thanks, and many a backward bow;And then the glow it faded, and my heart began to swell,As down the glen away she went, my lost Kentucky Belle!
When Conrad came in the evening, the moon was shining high;Baby and I were both crying—I couldn't tell him why—But a battered suit of rebel gray was hanging on the wall,And a thin old horse, with drooping head, stood in Kentucky's stall.
Well, he was kind, and never once said a hard word to me;He knew I couldn't help it—'twas all for the Tennessee.But, after the war was over, just think what came to pass—A letter, sir; and the two were safe back in the old Blue Grass.
The lad had got across the border, riding Kentucky Belle;And Kentuck she was thriving, and fat, and hearty, and well;He cared for her, and kept her, nor touched her with whip or spur.Ah! we've had many horses since, but never a horse like her!
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
Part of the same plot was the draft riot which broke out in New York City on July 13, 1863. It lasted four days, and four hundred people were killed by the rioters. The draft was temporarily suspended, but was quietly resumed in August.
Part of the same plot was the draft riot which broke out in New York City on July 13, 1863. It lasted four days, and four hundred people were killed by the rioters. The draft was temporarily suspended, but was quietly resumed in August.
THE DRAFT RIOT
IN THE UNIVERSITY TOWER: NEW YORK, July, 1863
Is it the wind, the many-tongued, the weird,That cries in sharp distress about the eaves?Is it the wind whose gathering shout is heardWith voice of peoples myriad like the leaves?Is it the wind? Fly to the casement, quick,And when the roar comes thick,Fling wide the sash,Await the crash!Nothing. Some various solitary cries,—Some sauntering woman's short hard laugh,Or honester, a dog's bark,—these ariseFrom lamplit street up to this free flagstaff:Nothing remains of that low threatening sound;The wind raves not the eaves around.Clasp casement to,—You heard not true.Hark there again! a roar that holds a shriek!But not without—no, from below it comes:What pulses up from solid earth to wreckA vengeful word on towers and lofty domes?What angry booming doth the trembling ear,Glued to the stone wall, hear—So deep, no airIts weight can bear?Grieve! 'tis the voice of ignorance and vice,—The rage of slaves who fancy they are free:Men who would keep men slaves at any price,Too blind their own black manacles to see.Grieve! 'tis that grisly spectre with a torch,Riot—that bloodies every porch,Hurls justice downAnd burns the town.Charles de Kay.
Is it the wind, the many-tongued, the weird,That cries in sharp distress about the eaves?Is it the wind whose gathering shout is heardWith voice of peoples myriad like the leaves?Is it the wind? Fly to the casement, quick,And when the roar comes thick,Fling wide the sash,Await the crash!Nothing. Some various solitary cries,—Some sauntering woman's short hard laugh,Or honester, a dog's bark,—these ariseFrom lamplit street up to this free flagstaff:Nothing remains of that low threatening sound;The wind raves not the eaves around.Clasp casement to,—You heard not true.Hark there again! a roar that holds a shriek!But not without—no, from below it comes:What pulses up from solid earth to wreckA vengeful word on towers and lofty domes?What angry booming doth the trembling ear,Glued to the stone wall, hear—So deep, no airIts weight can bear?Grieve! 'tis the voice of ignorance and vice,—The rage of slaves who fancy they are free:Men who would keep men slaves at any price,Too blind their own black manacles to see.Grieve! 'tis that grisly spectre with a torch,Riot—that bloodies every porch,Hurls justice downAnd burns the town.Charles de Kay.
Is it the wind, the many-tongued, the weird,That cries in sharp distress about the eaves?Is it the wind whose gathering shout is heardWith voice of peoples myriad like the leaves?Is it the wind? Fly to the casement, quick,And when the roar comes thick,Fling wide the sash,Await the crash!
Nothing. Some various solitary cries,—Some sauntering woman's short hard laugh,Or honester, a dog's bark,—these ariseFrom lamplit street up to this free flagstaff:Nothing remains of that low threatening sound;The wind raves not the eaves around.Clasp casement to,—You heard not true.
Hark there again! a roar that holds a shriek!But not without—no, from below it comes:What pulses up from solid earth to wreckA vengeful word on towers and lofty domes?What angry booming doth the trembling ear,Glued to the stone wall, hear—So deep, no airIts weight can bear?
Grieve! 'tis the voice of ignorance and vice,—The rage of slaves who fancy they are free:Men who would keep men slaves at any price,Too blind their own black manacles to see.Grieve! 'tis that grisly spectre with a torch,Riot—that bloodies every porch,Hurls justice downAnd burns the town.
Charles de Kay.
On November 19, 1863, a portion of the battle-field of Gettysburg was consecrated as a national military cemetery. It was there that President Lincoln's famous Gettysburg address, prepared almost on the spur of the moment, was delivered. He said:—"Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us;—that from these honored dead, we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion;—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."
On November 19, 1863, a portion of the battle-field of Gettysburg was consecrated as a national military cemetery. It was there that President Lincoln's famous Gettysburg address, prepared almost on the spur of the moment, was delivered. He said:—
"Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us;—that from these honored dead, we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion;—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."
LINCOLN AT GETTYSBURG
From the "Gettysburg Ode"
[November 19, 1863]
After the eyes that looked, the lips that spakeHere, from the shadows of impending death,Those words of solemn breath,What voice may fitly breakThe silence, doubly hallowed, left by him?We can but bow the head, with eyes grown dim,And, as a Nation's litany, repeatThe phrase his martyrdom hath made complete,Noble as then, but now more sadly sweet;"Let us, the Living, rather dedicateOurselves to the unfinished work, which theyThus far advanced so nobly on its way,And save the perilled State!Let us, upon this field where they, the brave,Their last full measure of devotion gave,Highly resolve they have not died in vain!—That, under God, the Nation's later birthOf Freedom, and the people's gainOf their own Sovereignty, shall never waneAnd perish from the circle of the earth!"From such a perfect text, shall Song aspireTo light her faded fire,And into wandering music turnIts virtue, simple, sorrowful, and stern?His voice all elegies anticipated;For, whatsoe'er the strain,We hear that one refrain:"We consecrate ourselves to them, the Consecrated!"Bayard Taylor.
After the eyes that looked, the lips that spakeHere, from the shadows of impending death,Those words of solemn breath,What voice may fitly breakThe silence, doubly hallowed, left by him?We can but bow the head, with eyes grown dim,And, as a Nation's litany, repeatThe phrase his martyrdom hath made complete,Noble as then, but now more sadly sweet;"Let us, the Living, rather dedicateOurselves to the unfinished work, which theyThus far advanced so nobly on its way,And save the perilled State!Let us, upon this field where they, the brave,Their last full measure of devotion gave,Highly resolve they have not died in vain!—That, under God, the Nation's later birthOf Freedom, and the people's gainOf their own Sovereignty, shall never waneAnd perish from the circle of the earth!"From such a perfect text, shall Song aspireTo light her faded fire,And into wandering music turnIts virtue, simple, sorrowful, and stern?His voice all elegies anticipated;For, whatsoe'er the strain,We hear that one refrain:"We consecrate ourselves to them, the Consecrated!"Bayard Taylor.
After the eyes that looked, the lips that spakeHere, from the shadows of impending death,Those words of solemn breath,What voice may fitly breakThe silence, doubly hallowed, left by him?We can but bow the head, with eyes grown dim,And, as a Nation's litany, repeatThe phrase his martyrdom hath made complete,Noble as then, but now more sadly sweet;"Let us, the Living, rather dedicateOurselves to the unfinished work, which theyThus far advanced so nobly on its way,And save the perilled State!Let us, upon this field where they, the brave,Their last full measure of devotion gave,Highly resolve they have not died in vain!—That, under God, the Nation's later birthOf Freedom, and the people's gainOf their own Sovereignty, shall never waneAnd perish from the circle of the earth!"From such a perfect text, shall Song aspireTo light her faded fire,And into wandering music turnIts virtue, simple, sorrowful, and stern?His voice all elegies anticipated;For, whatsoe'er the strain,We hear that one refrain:"We consecrate ourselves to them, the Consecrated!"
Bayard Taylor.
WITH GRANT ON THE MISSISSIPPI
Grant had a brief repose after his victories at Shiloh and Corinth; then he addressed himself to the capture of Vicksburg. The Confederates had made a second Gibraltar of the place, and so long as they held it had command of the Mississippi. Early in April, 1863, he collected his army at New Carthage, just below Vicksburg, and on the night of April 16, Porter's fleet ran past the batteries, the object of this perilous enterprise being to afford means for carrying the troops across the river and for covering the movement.
Grant had a brief repose after his victories at Shiloh and Corinth; then he addressed himself to the capture of Vicksburg. The Confederates had made a second Gibraltar of the place, and so long as they held it had command of the Mississippi. Early in April, 1863, he collected his army at New Carthage, just below Vicksburg, and on the night of April 16, Porter's fleet ran past the batteries, the object of this perilous enterprise being to afford means for carrying the troops across the river and for covering the movement.
RUNNING THE BATTERIES
(As observed from the anchorage above Vicksburg, April, 1863)
A moonless night—a friendly one;A haze dimmed the shadowy shoreAs the first lampless boat slid silent on;Hist! and we spake no more;We but pointed, and stilly, to what we saw.We felt the dew, and seemed to feelThe secret like a burden laid.The first boat melts; and a second keelIs blent with the foliaged shade—Their midnight rounds have the rebel officers made?Unspied as yet. A third—a fourth—Gunboat and transport in Indian fileUpon the war-path, smooth from the North;But the watch may they hope to beguile?The manned river-batteries stretch far mile on mile.A flame leaps out; they are seen;Another and another gun roars;We tell the course of the boats through the screenBy each further fort that pours,And we guess how they jump from their beds on those shrouded shores.Converging fires. We speak, though low:"That blastful furnace can they thread?""Why, Shadrach, Meshach, and AbednegoCame out all right, we read;The Lord, be sure, he helps his people, Ned."How we strain our gaze. On bluffs they shunA golden growing flame appears—Confirms to a silvery steadfast one:"The town is afire!" crows Hugh; "three cheers!"Lot stops his mouth: "Nay, lad, better three tears."A purposed light; it shows our fleet;Yet a little late in its searching ray,So far and strong that in phantom cheatLank on the deck our shadows lay;The shining flag-ship stings their guns to furious play.How dread to mark her near the glareAnd glade of death the beacon throwsAthwart the racing waters there;One by one each plainer grows,Then speeds a blazoned target to our gladdened foes.The impartial cresset lights as wellThe fixed forts to the boats that run;And, plunged from the ports, their answers swellBack to each fortress dun;Ponderous words speaks every monster gun.Fearless they flash through gates of flame,The salamanders hard to hit,Though vivid shows each bulky frame;And never the batteries intermit,Nor the boat's huge guns; they fire and flit.Anon a lull. The beacon dies."Are they out of that strait accurst?"But other flames now dawning rise,Not mellowly brilliant like the first,But rolled in smoke, whose whitish volumes burst.A baleful brand, a hurrying torchWhereby anew the boats are seen—A burning transport all alurch!Breathless we gaze; yet still we gleanGlimpses of beauty as we eager lean.The effulgence takes an amber glowWhich bathes the hillside villas far;Affrighted ladies mark the showPainting the pale magnolia—The fair, false, Circe light of cruel War.The barge drifts doomed, a plague-struck one,Shoreward in yawls the sailors fly.But the gauntlet now is nearly run,The spleenful forts by fits reply,And the burning boat dies down in morning's sky.All out of range. Adieu, Messieurs!Jeers, as it speeds, our parting gun.So burst we through their barriersAnd menaces every one;So Porter proves himself a brave man's son.Herman Melville.
A moonless night—a friendly one;A haze dimmed the shadowy shoreAs the first lampless boat slid silent on;Hist! and we spake no more;We but pointed, and stilly, to what we saw.We felt the dew, and seemed to feelThe secret like a burden laid.The first boat melts; and a second keelIs blent with the foliaged shade—Their midnight rounds have the rebel officers made?Unspied as yet. A third—a fourth—Gunboat and transport in Indian fileUpon the war-path, smooth from the North;But the watch may they hope to beguile?The manned river-batteries stretch far mile on mile.A flame leaps out; they are seen;Another and another gun roars;We tell the course of the boats through the screenBy each further fort that pours,And we guess how they jump from their beds on those shrouded shores.Converging fires. We speak, though low:"That blastful furnace can they thread?""Why, Shadrach, Meshach, and AbednegoCame out all right, we read;The Lord, be sure, he helps his people, Ned."How we strain our gaze. On bluffs they shunA golden growing flame appears—Confirms to a silvery steadfast one:"The town is afire!" crows Hugh; "three cheers!"Lot stops his mouth: "Nay, lad, better three tears."A purposed light; it shows our fleet;Yet a little late in its searching ray,So far and strong that in phantom cheatLank on the deck our shadows lay;The shining flag-ship stings their guns to furious play.How dread to mark her near the glareAnd glade of death the beacon throwsAthwart the racing waters there;One by one each plainer grows,Then speeds a blazoned target to our gladdened foes.The impartial cresset lights as wellThe fixed forts to the boats that run;And, plunged from the ports, their answers swellBack to each fortress dun;Ponderous words speaks every monster gun.Fearless they flash through gates of flame,The salamanders hard to hit,Though vivid shows each bulky frame;And never the batteries intermit,Nor the boat's huge guns; they fire and flit.Anon a lull. The beacon dies."Are they out of that strait accurst?"But other flames now dawning rise,Not mellowly brilliant like the first,But rolled in smoke, whose whitish volumes burst.A baleful brand, a hurrying torchWhereby anew the boats are seen—A burning transport all alurch!Breathless we gaze; yet still we gleanGlimpses of beauty as we eager lean.The effulgence takes an amber glowWhich bathes the hillside villas far;Affrighted ladies mark the showPainting the pale magnolia—The fair, false, Circe light of cruel War.The barge drifts doomed, a plague-struck one,Shoreward in yawls the sailors fly.But the gauntlet now is nearly run,The spleenful forts by fits reply,And the burning boat dies down in morning's sky.All out of range. Adieu, Messieurs!Jeers, as it speeds, our parting gun.So burst we through their barriersAnd menaces every one;So Porter proves himself a brave man's son.Herman Melville.
A moonless night—a friendly one;A haze dimmed the shadowy shoreAs the first lampless boat slid silent on;Hist! and we spake no more;We but pointed, and stilly, to what we saw.
We felt the dew, and seemed to feelThe secret like a burden laid.The first boat melts; and a second keelIs blent with the foliaged shade—Their midnight rounds have the rebel officers made?
Unspied as yet. A third—a fourth—Gunboat and transport in Indian fileUpon the war-path, smooth from the North;But the watch may they hope to beguile?The manned river-batteries stretch far mile on mile.
A flame leaps out; they are seen;Another and another gun roars;We tell the course of the boats through the screenBy each further fort that pours,And we guess how they jump from their beds on those shrouded shores.
Converging fires. We speak, though low:"That blastful furnace can they thread?""Why, Shadrach, Meshach, and AbednegoCame out all right, we read;The Lord, be sure, he helps his people, Ned."
How we strain our gaze. On bluffs they shunA golden growing flame appears—Confirms to a silvery steadfast one:"The town is afire!" crows Hugh; "three cheers!"Lot stops his mouth: "Nay, lad, better three tears."
A purposed light; it shows our fleet;Yet a little late in its searching ray,So far and strong that in phantom cheatLank on the deck our shadows lay;The shining flag-ship stings their guns to furious play.
How dread to mark her near the glareAnd glade of death the beacon throwsAthwart the racing waters there;One by one each plainer grows,Then speeds a blazoned target to our gladdened foes.
The impartial cresset lights as wellThe fixed forts to the boats that run;And, plunged from the ports, their answers swellBack to each fortress dun;Ponderous words speaks every monster gun.
Fearless they flash through gates of flame,The salamanders hard to hit,Though vivid shows each bulky frame;And never the batteries intermit,Nor the boat's huge guns; they fire and flit.
Anon a lull. The beacon dies."Are they out of that strait accurst?"But other flames now dawning rise,Not mellowly brilliant like the first,But rolled in smoke, whose whitish volumes burst.
A baleful brand, a hurrying torchWhereby anew the boats are seen—A burning transport all alurch!Breathless we gaze; yet still we gleanGlimpses of beauty as we eager lean.
The effulgence takes an amber glowWhich bathes the hillside villas far;Affrighted ladies mark the showPainting the pale magnolia—The fair, false, Circe light of cruel War.
The barge drifts doomed, a plague-struck one,Shoreward in yawls the sailors fly.But the gauntlet now is nearly run,The spleenful forts by fits reply,And the burning boat dies down in morning's sky.
All out of range. Adieu, Messieurs!Jeers, as it speeds, our parting gun.So burst we through their barriersAnd menaces every one;So Porter proves himself a brave man's son.
Herman Melville.
The army was at once taken across the river and on May 19, 1863, a general assault was made on the town. This was repulsed with severe loss, and Grant thereupon settled down for a regular siege.
The army was at once taken across the river and on May 19, 1863, a general assault was made on the town. This was repulsed with severe loss, and Grant thereupon settled down for a regular siege.
BEFORE VICKSBURG
[May 18-July 4, 1863]
While Sherman stood beneath the hottest fire,That from the lines of Vicksburg gleamed,And bomb-shells tumbled in their smoky gyre,And grape-shot hissed, and case-shot screamed;Back from the front there came,Weeping and sorely lame,The merest child, the youngest faceMan ever saw in such a fearful place.Stifling his tears, he limped his chief to meet;But when he paused, and tottering stood,Around the circle of his little feetThere spread a pool of bright, young blood.Shocked at his doleful case,Sherman cried, "Halt! front face!Who are you? Speak, my gallant boy!""A drummer, sir:—Fifty-fifth Illinois.""Are you not hit?" "That's nothing. Only sendSome cartridges: our men are out;And the foe press us." "But, my little friend—""Don't mind me! Did you hear that shout?What if our men be driven?Oh, for the love of Heaven,Send to my Colonel, General dear!""But you?" "Oh, I shall easily find the rear.""I'll see to that," cried Sherman; and a drop,Angels might envy, dimmed his eye,As the boy, toiling towards the hill's hard top,Turned round, and with his shrill child's cryShouted, "Oh, don't forget!We'll win the battle yet!But let our soldiers have some more,More cartridges, sir,—calibre fifty-four!"George Henry Boker.
While Sherman stood beneath the hottest fire,That from the lines of Vicksburg gleamed,And bomb-shells tumbled in their smoky gyre,And grape-shot hissed, and case-shot screamed;Back from the front there came,Weeping and sorely lame,The merest child, the youngest faceMan ever saw in such a fearful place.Stifling his tears, he limped his chief to meet;But when he paused, and tottering stood,Around the circle of his little feetThere spread a pool of bright, young blood.Shocked at his doleful case,Sherman cried, "Halt! front face!Who are you? Speak, my gallant boy!""A drummer, sir:—Fifty-fifth Illinois.""Are you not hit?" "That's nothing. Only sendSome cartridges: our men are out;And the foe press us." "But, my little friend—""Don't mind me! Did you hear that shout?What if our men be driven?Oh, for the love of Heaven,Send to my Colonel, General dear!""But you?" "Oh, I shall easily find the rear.""I'll see to that," cried Sherman; and a drop,Angels might envy, dimmed his eye,As the boy, toiling towards the hill's hard top,Turned round, and with his shrill child's cryShouted, "Oh, don't forget!We'll win the battle yet!But let our soldiers have some more,More cartridges, sir,—calibre fifty-four!"George Henry Boker.
While Sherman stood beneath the hottest fire,That from the lines of Vicksburg gleamed,And bomb-shells tumbled in their smoky gyre,And grape-shot hissed, and case-shot screamed;Back from the front there came,Weeping and sorely lame,The merest child, the youngest faceMan ever saw in such a fearful place.
Stifling his tears, he limped his chief to meet;But when he paused, and tottering stood,Around the circle of his little feetThere spread a pool of bright, young blood.Shocked at his doleful case,Sherman cried, "Halt! front face!Who are you? Speak, my gallant boy!""A drummer, sir:—Fifty-fifth Illinois."
"Are you not hit?" "That's nothing. Only sendSome cartridges: our men are out;And the foe press us." "But, my little friend—""Don't mind me! Did you hear that shout?What if our men be driven?Oh, for the love of Heaven,Send to my Colonel, General dear!""But you?" "Oh, I shall easily find the rear."
"I'll see to that," cried Sherman; and a drop,Angels might envy, dimmed his eye,As the boy, toiling towards the hill's hard top,Turned round, and with his shrill child's cryShouted, "Oh, don't forget!We'll win the battle yet!But let our soldiers have some more,More cartridges, sir,—calibre fifty-four!"
George Henry Boker.
The place was completely invested and a terrific bombardment maintained until July 3, 1863, when the town surrendered, and on the next day, the Confederate troops in the place, to the number of twenty-seven thousand, laid down their arms.
The place was completely invested and a terrific bombardment maintained until July 3, 1863, when the town surrendered, and on the next day, the Confederate troops in the place, to the number of twenty-seven thousand, laid down their arms.
VICKSBURG
For sixty days and upwards,A storm of shell and shotRained round us in a flaming shower,But still we faltered not."If the noble city perish,"Our grand young leader said,"Let the only walls the foe shall scaleBe ramparts of the dead!"For sixty days and upwards,The eye of heaven waxed dim;And e'en throughout God's holy morn,O'er Christian prayer and hymn,Arose a hissing tumult,As if the fiends in airStrove to engulf the voice of faithIn the shrieks of their despair.There was wailing in the houses,There was trembling on the marts,While the tempest raged and thundered,'Mid the silent thrill of hearts;But the Lord, our shield, was with us,And ere a month had sped,Our very women walked the streetsWith scarce one throb of dread.And the little children gambolled,Their faces purely raised,Just for a wondering moment,As the huge bombs whirled and blazed;Then turned with silvery laughterTo the sports which children love,Thrice-mailed in the sweet, instinctive thoughtThat the good God watched above.Yet the hailing bolts fell faster,From scores of flame-clad ships,And about us, denser, darker,Grew the conflict's wild eclipse,Till a solid cloud closed o'er us,Like a type of doom and ire,Whence shot a thousand quivering tonguesOf forked and vengeful fire.But the unseen hands of angelsThose death-shafts warned aside,And the dove of heavenly mercyRuled o'er the battle tide:In the houses ceased the wailing,And through the war-scarred martsThe people strode, with step of hope,To the music in their hearts.Paul Hamilton Hayne.
For sixty days and upwards,A storm of shell and shotRained round us in a flaming shower,But still we faltered not."If the noble city perish,"Our grand young leader said,"Let the only walls the foe shall scaleBe ramparts of the dead!"For sixty days and upwards,The eye of heaven waxed dim;And e'en throughout God's holy morn,O'er Christian prayer and hymn,Arose a hissing tumult,As if the fiends in airStrove to engulf the voice of faithIn the shrieks of their despair.There was wailing in the houses,There was trembling on the marts,While the tempest raged and thundered,'Mid the silent thrill of hearts;But the Lord, our shield, was with us,And ere a month had sped,Our very women walked the streetsWith scarce one throb of dread.And the little children gambolled,Their faces purely raised,Just for a wondering moment,As the huge bombs whirled and blazed;Then turned with silvery laughterTo the sports which children love,Thrice-mailed in the sweet, instinctive thoughtThat the good God watched above.Yet the hailing bolts fell faster,From scores of flame-clad ships,And about us, denser, darker,Grew the conflict's wild eclipse,Till a solid cloud closed o'er us,Like a type of doom and ire,Whence shot a thousand quivering tonguesOf forked and vengeful fire.But the unseen hands of angelsThose death-shafts warned aside,And the dove of heavenly mercyRuled o'er the battle tide:In the houses ceased the wailing,And through the war-scarred martsThe people strode, with step of hope,To the music in their hearts.Paul Hamilton Hayne.
For sixty days and upwards,A storm of shell and shotRained round us in a flaming shower,But still we faltered not."If the noble city perish,"Our grand young leader said,"Let the only walls the foe shall scaleBe ramparts of the dead!"
For sixty days and upwards,The eye of heaven waxed dim;And e'en throughout God's holy morn,O'er Christian prayer and hymn,Arose a hissing tumult,As if the fiends in airStrove to engulf the voice of faithIn the shrieks of their despair.
There was wailing in the houses,There was trembling on the marts,While the tempest raged and thundered,'Mid the silent thrill of hearts;But the Lord, our shield, was with us,And ere a month had sped,Our very women walked the streetsWith scarce one throb of dread.
And the little children gambolled,Their faces purely raised,Just for a wondering moment,As the huge bombs whirled and blazed;Then turned with silvery laughterTo the sports which children love,Thrice-mailed in the sweet, instinctive thoughtThat the good God watched above.
Yet the hailing bolts fell faster,From scores of flame-clad ships,And about us, denser, darker,Grew the conflict's wild eclipse,Till a solid cloud closed o'er us,Like a type of doom and ire,Whence shot a thousand quivering tonguesOf forked and vengeful fire.
But the unseen hands of angelsThose death-shafts warned aside,And the dove of heavenly mercyRuled o'er the battle tide:In the houses ceased the wailing,And through the war-scarred martsThe people strode, with step of hope,To the music in their hearts.
Paul Hamilton Hayne.
Just at noon of July 4, 1863, the Stars and Stripes was run up over the court-house, and the Union troops, seeing it, started to sing "The Battle-Cry of Freedom." By mid-afternoon the possession of the post was absolute and the Union fleet lay at the levee.
Just at noon of July 4, 1863, the Stars and Stripes was run up over the court-house, and the Union troops, seeing it, started to sing "The Battle-Cry of Freedom." By mid-afternoon the possession of the post was absolute and the Union fleet lay at the levee.
THE BATTLE-CRY OF FREEDOM
Yes, we'll rally round the flag, boys, we'll rally once again,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom,We will rally from the hill-side, we'll gather from the plain,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.Chorus—The Union forever, hurrah! boys, hurrah!Down with the traitor, up with the star,While we rally round the flag, boys, rally once again,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.We are springing to the call of our brothers gone before,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom,And we'll fill the vacant ranks with a million freemen more,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.We will welcome to our numbers the loyal, true, and brave,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom,And altho' they may be poor, not a man shall be a slave,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.So we're springing to the call from the East and from the West,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom,And we'll hurl the rebel crew from the land we love the best,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.George Frederick Root.
Yes, we'll rally round the flag, boys, we'll rally once again,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom,We will rally from the hill-side, we'll gather from the plain,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.Chorus—The Union forever, hurrah! boys, hurrah!Down with the traitor, up with the star,While we rally round the flag, boys, rally once again,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.We are springing to the call of our brothers gone before,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom,And we'll fill the vacant ranks with a million freemen more,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.We will welcome to our numbers the loyal, true, and brave,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom,And altho' they may be poor, not a man shall be a slave,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.So we're springing to the call from the East and from the West,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom,And we'll hurl the rebel crew from the land we love the best,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.George Frederick Root.
Yes, we'll rally round the flag, boys, we'll rally once again,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom,We will rally from the hill-side, we'll gather from the plain,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.Chorus—The Union forever, hurrah! boys, hurrah!Down with the traitor, up with the star,While we rally round the flag, boys, rally once again,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.
We are springing to the call of our brothers gone before,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom,And we'll fill the vacant ranks with a million freemen more,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.
We will welcome to our numbers the loyal, true, and brave,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom,And altho' they may be poor, not a man shall be a slave,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.
So we're springing to the call from the East and from the West,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom,And we'll hurl the rebel crew from the land we love the best,Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.
George Frederick Root.
Meanwhile, General Banks had been besieging Port Hudson, a position scarcely less formidable than Vicksburg, and on May 24, 1863, had driven the Confederates within their inner line of intrenchments. Three days later, a general assault took place, in which the First and Second Louisiana, colored troops, bore a prominent part.
Meanwhile, General Banks had been besieging Port Hudson, a position scarcely less formidable than Vicksburg, and on May 24, 1863, had driven the Confederates within their inner line of intrenchments. Three days later, a general assault took place, in which the First and Second Louisiana, colored troops, bore a prominent part.
THE BLACK REGIMENT
[May 27, 1863]
Dark as the clouds of even,Ranked in the western heaven,Waiting the breath that liftsAll the dead mass, and driftsTempest and falling brandOver a ruined land,—So still and orderly,Arm to arm, knee to knee,Waiting the great event,Stands the black regiment.Down the long dusky lineTeeth gleam and eyeballs shine;And the bright bayonet,Bristling and firmly set,Flashed with a purpose grand,Long ere the sharp commandOf the fierce rolling drumTold them their time had come,Told them what work was sentFor the black regiment."Now," the flag-sergeant cried,"Though death and hell betide,Let the whole nation seeIf we are fit to beFree in this land; or boundDown, like the whining hound,—Bound with red stripes of painIn our old chains again!"Oh, what a shout there wentFrom the black regiment!"Charge!" trump and drum awoke;Onward the bondmen broke;Bayonet and sabre-strokeVainly opposed their rush.Through the wild battle's crush,With but one thought aflush,Driving their lords like chaff,In the guns' mouths they laugh;Or at the slippery brands,Leaping with open hands,Down they tear man and horse,Down in their awful course;Trampling with bloody heelOver the crashing steel,All their eyes forward bent,Rushed the black regiment."Freedom!" their battle-cry,—"Freedom! or leave to die!"Ah! and they meant the word,Not as with us 'tis heard,Not a mere party shout:They gave their spirits out;Trusted the end to God,And on the gory sodRolled in triumphant blood.Glad to strike one free blow,Whether for weal or woe;Glad to breathe one free breath,Though on the lips of death;Praying,—alas! in vain!That they might fall again,So they could once more seeThat burst to liberty!This was what "freedom" lentTo the black regiment.Hundreds on hundreds fell;But they are resting well;Scourges, and shackles strongNever shall do them wrong.Oh, to the living few,Soldiers, be just and true!Hail them as comrades tried;Fight with them side by side;Never, in field or tent,Scorn the black regiment!George Henry Boker.
Dark as the clouds of even,Ranked in the western heaven,Waiting the breath that liftsAll the dead mass, and driftsTempest and falling brandOver a ruined land,—So still and orderly,Arm to arm, knee to knee,Waiting the great event,Stands the black regiment.Down the long dusky lineTeeth gleam and eyeballs shine;And the bright bayonet,Bristling and firmly set,Flashed with a purpose grand,Long ere the sharp commandOf the fierce rolling drumTold them their time had come,Told them what work was sentFor the black regiment."Now," the flag-sergeant cried,"Though death and hell betide,Let the whole nation seeIf we are fit to beFree in this land; or boundDown, like the whining hound,—Bound with red stripes of painIn our old chains again!"Oh, what a shout there wentFrom the black regiment!"Charge!" trump and drum awoke;Onward the bondmen broke;Bayonet and sabre-strokeVainly opposed their rush.Through the wild battle's crush,With but one thought aflush,Driving their lords like chaff,In the guns' mouths they laugh;Or at the slippery brands,Leaping with open hands,Down they tear man and horse,Down in their awful course;Trampling with bloody heelOver the crashing steel,All their eyes forward bent,Rushed the black regiment."Freedom!" their battle-cry,—"Freedom! or leave to die!"Ah! and they meant the word,Not as with us 'tis heard,Not a mere party shout:They gave their spirits out;Trusted the end to God,And on the gory sodRolled in triumphant blood.Glad to strike one free blow,Whether for weal or woe;Glad to breathe one free breath,Though on the lips of death;Praying,—alas! in vain!That they might fall again,So they could once more seeThat burst to liberty!This was what "freedom" lentTo the black regiment.Hundreds on hundreds fell;But they are resting well;Scourges, and shackles strongNever shall do them wrong.Oh, to the living few,Soldiers, be just and true!Hail them as comrades tried;Fight with them side by side;Never, in field or tent,Scorn the black regiment!George Henry Boker.
Dark as the clouds of even,Ranked in the western heaven,Waiting the breath that liftsAll the dead mass, and driftsTempest and falling brandOver a ruined land,—So still and orderly,Arm to arm, knee to knee,Waiting the great event,Stands the black regiment.
Down the long dusky lineTeeth gleam and eyeballs shine;And the bright bayonet,Bristling and firmly set,Flashed with a purpose grand,Long ere the sharp commandOf the fierce rolling drumTold them their time had come,Told them what work was sentFor the black regiment.
"Now," the flag-sergeant cried,"Though death and hell betide,Let the whole nation seeIf we are fit to beFree in this land; or boundDown, like the whining hound,—Bound with red stripes of painIn our old chains again!"Oh, what a shout there wentFrom the black regiment!
"Charge!" trump and drum awoke;Onward the bondmen broke;Bayonet and sabre-strokeVainly opposed their rush.Through the wild battle's crush,With but one thought aflush,Driving their lords like chaff,In the guns' mouths they laugh;Or at the slippery brands,Leaping with open hands,Down they tear man and horse,Down in their awful course;Trampling with bloody heelOver the crashing steel,All their eyes forward bent,Rushed the black regiment.
"Freedom!" their battle-cry,—"Freedom! or leave to die!"Ah! and they meant the word,Not as with us 'tis heard,Not a mere party shout:They gave their spirits out;Trusted the end to God,And on the gory sodRolled in triumphant blood.Glad to strike one free blow,Whether for weal or woe;Glad to breathe one free breath,Though on the lips of death;Praying,—alas! in vain!That they might fall again,So they could once more seeThat burst to liberty!This was what "freedom" lentTo the black regiment.
Hundreds on hundreds fell;But they are resting well;Scourges, and shackles strongNever shall do them wrong.Oh, to the living few,Soldiers, be just and true!Hail them as comrades tried;Fight with them side by side;Never, in field or tent,Scorn the black regiment!
George Henry Boker.
Shortly after the fall of Vicksburg, Grant was severely injured by a fall from a horse, and it was some months before he could take the field again. Most of his troops were sent to reinforce the Army of the Cumberland, under Rosecrans, which was operating against the Confederates under Bragg, in Tennessee. Chattanooga was occupied by the Union forces on September 16, 1863. Rosecrans pushed forward to the Chickamauga valley, where, on September 18, Bragg attacked in force. The battle raged for two days, the Union line was broken, and General Thomas and his division were isolated on a slope of Missionary Ridge. Assault after assault was delivered against him, but he stood like a rock, and at sundown still held the position.
Shortly after the fall of Vicksburg, Grant was severely injured by a fall from a horse, and it was some months before he could take the field again. Most of his troops were sent to reinforce the Army of the Cumberland, under Rosecrans, which was operating against the Confederates under Bragg, in Tennessee. Chattanooga was occupied by the Union forces on September 16, 1863. Rosecrans pushed forward to the Chickamauga valley, where, on September 18, Bragg attacked in force. The battle raged for two days, the Union line was broken, and General Thomas and his division were isolated on a slope of Missionary Ridge. Assault after assault was delivered against him, but he stood like a rock, and at sundown still held the position.
THE BALLAD OF CHICKAMAUGA
[September 19, 20, 1863]