Who has not heard of the dauntless Varuna?Who has not heard of the deeds she has done?Who shall not hear, while the brown MississippiRushes along from the snow to the sun?Crippled and leaking she entered the battle,Sinking and burning she fought through the fray;Crushed were her sides and the waves ran across her,Ere, like a death-wounded lion at bay,Sternly she closed in the last fatal grapple,Then in her triumph moved grandly away.Five of the rebels, like satellites round her,Burned in her orbit of splendor and fear;One, like the Pleiad of mystical story,Shot, terror-stricken, beyond her dread sphere.We who are waiting with crowns for the victors,Though we should offer the wealth of our store,Load the Varuna from deck down to kelson,Still would be niggard, such tribute to pourOn courage so boundless. It beggars possession,—It knocks for just payment at heaven's bright door!Cherish the heroes who fought the Varuna;Treat them as kings if they honor your way;Succor and comfort the sick and the wounded;Oh! for the dead let us all kneel to pray!George Henry Boker.
Who has not heard of the dauntless Varuna?Who has not heard of the deeds she has done?Who shall not hear, while the brown MississippiRushes along from the snow to the sun?Crippled and leaking she entered the battle,Sinking and burning she fought through the fray;Crushed were her sides and the waves ran across her,Ere, like a death-wounded lion at bay,Sternly she closed in the last fatal grapple,Then in her triumph moved grandly away.Five of the rebels, like satellites round her,Burned in her orbit of splendor and fear;One, like the Pleiad of mystical story,Shot, terror-stricken, beyond her dread sphere.We who are waiting with crowns for the victors,Though we should offer the wealth of our store,Load the Varuna from deck down to kelson,Still would be niggard, such tribute to pourOn courage so boundless. It beggars possession,—It knocks for just payment at heaven's bright door!Cherish the heroes who fought the Varuna;Treat them as kings if they honor your way;Succor and comfort the sick and the wounded;Oh! for the dead let us all kneel to pray!George Henry Boker.
Who has not heard of the dauntless Varuna?Who has not heard of the deeds she has done?Who shall not hear, while the brown MississippiRushes along from the snow to the sun?
Crippled and leaking she entered the battle,Sinking and burning she fought through the fray;Crushed were her sides and the waves ran across her,Ere, like a death-wounded lion at bay,Sternly she closed in the last fatal grapple,Then in her triumph moved grandly away.
Five of the rebels, like satellites round her,Burned in her orbit of splendor and fear;One, like the Pleiad of mystical story,Shot, terror-stricken, beyond her dread sphere.
We who are waiting with crowns for the victors,Though we should offer the wealth of our store,Load the Varuna from deck down to kelson,Still would be niggard, such tribute to pourOn courage so boundless. It beggars possession,—It knocks for just payment at heaven's bright door!
Cherish the heroes who fought the Varuna;Treat them as kings if they honor your way;Succor and comfort the sick and the wounded;Oh! for the dead let us all kneel to pray!
George Henry Boker.
New Orleans was panic-stricken. Many of the better class of citizens fled, and the town was given over to the mob. Drums were beaten, soldiers scampered hither and thither, and women ran through the streets demanding that the city be burned. The cotton on the levee was set on fire, and the torch was put to the wharves and shipping. Finally, on April 29, 1862, after a lot of silly rhodomontade, the city surrendered.
New Orleans was panic-stricken. Many of the better class of citizens fled, and the town was given over to the mob. Drums were beaten, soldiers scampered hither and thither, and women ran through the streets demanding that the city be burned. The cotton on the levee was set on fire, and the torch was put to the wharves and shipping. Finally, on April 29, 1862, after a lot of silly rhodomontade, the city surrendered.
THE SURRENDER OF NEW ORLEANS
[April 29, 1862]
All day long the guns at the forts,With far-off thunders and faint retorts,Had told the city that down the bayThe fleet of Farragut's war-ships lay;But now St. Philip and Jackson grimWere black and silent below the rimOf the southern sky, where the river spedLike a war-horse scenting the fight ahead.And we of the city, the women, and menToo old for facing the battle then,Saw all the signs of our weakness thereWith a patience born of a great despair.The river gnawed its neglected bank,The weeds in the unused streets grew rank,And flood and famine threatened thoseWho stayed there braving greater woes.Under the raking of shot and shellThe river fortresses fighting fell;The Chalmette batteries then boomed forth,But the slim, straight spars of the ships of the NorthMoved steadily on in their river-road,Like a tide that up from the ocean flowed.Then load after load, and pile upon pile,Lining the wharves for many a mile,Out of the cotton-presses and yards,With a grim industry which naught retards,The bales were carried and swiftly placedBy those who knew there was need of haste,And the torch was laid to the cotton so.Up from that bonfire the glare and glowWas seen by the watchers far away,And weeping and wailing those watchers say,"The city is lost! O men at the front,Braving the fortunes of war, and the bruntOf battle bearing with fearful cost,The city you loved and left is lost!"Ah, memories crowding so thick and fast,Ye were the first; is this the last?We gave with clamor our first great gift,With shouts which up to the heavens lift;We gave with silence our last best yield,Our last, best gleaning for Shiloh's field.With mute devotion we saw them go;But when the banners were furled and low,And the solid columns were thinned by war,We wondered what we had given for.And oh, the day when with muffled drumWe saw our dear, dead Johnston come!The blood of our slain ones seemed to pourFrom the eyes that should see them come no more.We measured our grief by each gallant deed;We measured our loss by our direful need;Our dead dreams rose from the vanquished past,And across the future their shadows cast.Our brave young hope, like a fallen tear,We laid on the grave of our Chevalier.And that last wild night! the east was redSo long 'fore the day had left its bed.With white, set faces, and smileless lips,We fired our vessels, we fired our ships.We saw the sails of the red flame liftO'er each fire-cargo we set adrift;To Farragut's fleet we sent them down,A warm, warm welcome from the town.But, alas, how quickly came the end!For down the river, below the bend,Like a threatening finger shook each mastOf the Yankee ships as they steamed up fast.Grim and terrible, black with men,Oh, for the Mississippi then!And—God be merciful!—there she came,A drifting wreck, a ship of flame.What a torch to light the stripes and starsThat had braved our forts and harbor bars!What a light, by which we saw vainly slipOur hopes to their death in that sinking ship!We shrieked with rage, and defeat, and dread,As down the river that phantom sped;But on the deck of a Yankee ship,One grim old tar, with a smiling lip,Patted the big black breech of his gun,As one who silently says, "Well done!"To-day the graves that were new are old,And a story done is a story told;But we of the city, the women and men,And boys unfitted for fighting then,Remember the day when our flag went down,And the stars and stripes waved over the town.Ah me! the bitter goes with the sweet,And a victory means another defeat;For, bound in Nature's inflexible laws,A glory for one is another'sLost Cause.Marion Manville.
All day long the guns at the forts,With far-off thunders and faint retorts,Had told the city that down the bayThe fleet of Farragut's war-ships lay;But now St. Philip and Jackson grimWere black and silent below the rimOf the southern sky, where the river spedLike a war-horse scenting the fight ahead.And we of the city, the women, and menToo old for facing the battle then,Saw all the signs of our weakness thereWith a patience born of a great despair.The river gnawed its neglected bank,The weeds in the unused streets grew rank,And flood and famine threatened thoseWho stayed there braving greater woes.Under the raking of shot and shellThe river fortresses fighting fell;The Chalmette batteries then boomed forth,But the slim, straight spars of the ships of the NorthMoved steadily on in their river-road,Like a tide that up from the ocean flowed.Then load after load, and pile upon pile,Lining the wharves for many a mile,Out of the cotton-presses and yards,With a grim industry which naught retards,The bales were carried and swiftly placedBy those who knew there was need of haste,And the torch was laid to the cotton so.Up from that bonfire the glare and glowWas seen by the watchers far away,And weeping and wailing those watchers say,"The city is lost! O men at the front,Braving the fortunes of war, and the bruntOf battle bearing with fearful cost,The city you loved and left is lost!"Ah, memories crowding so thick and fast,Ye were the first; is this the last?We gave with clamor our first great gift,With shouts which up to the heavens lift;We gave with silence our last best yield,Our last, best gleaning for Shiloh's field.With mute devotion we saw them go;But when the banners were furled and low,And the solid columns were thinned by war,We wondered what we had given for.And oh, the day when with muffled drumWe saw our dear, dead Johnston come!The blood of our slain ones seemed to pourFrom the eyes that should see them come no more.We measured our grief by each gallant deed;We measured our loss by our direful need;Our dead dreams rose from the vanquished past,And across the future their shadows cast.Our brave young hope, like a fallen tear,We laid on the grave of our Chevalier.And that last wild night! the east was redSo long 'fore the day had left its bed.With white, set faces, and smileless lips,We fired our vessels, we fired our ships.We saw the sails of the red flame liftO'er each fire-cargo we set adrift;To Farragut's fleet we sent them down,A warm, warm welcome from the town.But, alas, how quickly came the end!For down the river, below the bend,Like a threatening finger shook each mastOf the Yankee ships as they steamed up fast.Grim and terrible, black with men,Oh, for the Mississippi then!And—God be merciful!—there she came,A drifting wreck, a ship of flame.What a torch to light the stripes and starsThat had braved our forts and harbor bars!What a light, by which we saw vainly slipOur hopes to their death in that sinking ship!We shrieked with rage, and defeat, and dread,As down the river that phantom sped;But on the deck of a Yankee ship,One grim old tar, with a smiling lip,Patted the big black breech of his gun,As one who silently says, "Well done!"To-day the graves that were new are old,And a story done is a story told;But we of the city, the women and men,And boys unfitted for fighting then,Remember the day when our flag went down,And the stars and stripes waved over the town.Ah me! the bitter goes with the sweet,And a victory means another defeat;For, bound in Nature's inflexible laws,A glory for one is another'sLost Cause.Marion Manville.
All day long the guns at the forts,With far-off thunders and faint retorts,Had told the city that down the bayThe fleet of Farragut's war-ships lay;But now St. Philip and Jackson grimWere black and silent below the rimOf the southern sky, where the river spedLike a war-horse scenting the fight ahead.
And we of the city, the women, and menToo old for facing the battle then,Saw all the signs of our weakness thereWith a patience born of a great despair.The river gnawed its neglected bank,The weeds in the unused streets grew rank,And flood and famine threatened thoseWho stayed there braving greater woes.
Under the raking of shot and shellThe river fortresses fighting fell;The Chalmette batteries then boomed forth,But the slim, straight spars of the ships of the NorthMoved steadily on in their river-road,Like a tide that up from the ocean flowed.
Then load after load, and pile upon pile,Lining the wharves for many a mile,Out of the cotton-presses and yards,With a grim industry which naught retards,The bales were carried and swiftly placedBy those who knew there was need of haste,And the torch was laid to the cotton so.Up from that bonfire the glare and glowWas seen by the watchers far away,And weeping and wailing those watchers say,"The city is lost! O men at the front,Braving the fortunes of war, and the bruntOf battle bearing with fearful cost,The city you loved and left is lost!"
Ah, memories crowding so thick and fast,Ye were the first; is this the last?We gave with clamor our first great gift,With shouts which up to the heavens lift;We gave with silence our last best yield,Our last, best gleaning for Shiloh's field.With mute devotion we saw them go;But when the banners were furled and low,And the solid columns were thinned by war,We wondered what we had given for.
And oh, the day when with muffled drumWe saw our dear, dead Johnston come!The blood of our slain ones seemed to pourFrom the eyes that should see them come no more.We measured our grief by each gallant deed;We measured our loss by our direful need;Our dead dreams rose from the vanquished past,And across the future their shadows cast.Our brave young hope, like a fallen tear,We laid on the grave of our Chevalier.
And that last wild night! the east was redSo long 'fore the day had left its bed.With white, set faces, and smileless lips,We fired our vessels, we fired our ships.We saw the sails of the red flame liftO'er each fire-cargo we set adrift;To Farragut's fleet we sent them down,A warm, warm welcome from the town.
But, alas, how quickly came the end!For down the river, below the bend,Like a threatening finger shook each mastOf the Yankee ships as they steamed up fast.Grim and terrible, black with men,Oh, for the Mississippi then!And—God be merciful!—there she came,A drifting wreck, a ship of flame.
What a torch to light the stripes and starsThat had braved our forts and harbor bars!What a light, by which we saw vainly slipOur hopes to their death in that sinking ship!
We shrieked with rage, and defeat, and dread,As down the river that phantom sped;But on the deck of a Yankee ship,One grim old tar, with a smiling lip,Patted the big black breech of his gun,As one who silently says, "Well done!"
To-day the graves that were new are old,And a story done is a story told;But we of the city, the women and men,And boys unfitted for fighting then,Remember the day when our flag went down,And the stars and stripes waved over the town.Ah me! the bitter goes with the sweet,And a victory means another defeat;For, bound in Nature's inflexible laws,A glory for one is another'sLost Cause.
Marion Manville.
The national flag was hoisted over the mint, but was torn down and dragged through the streets in derision by a gang of men led by William B. Mumford. Mumford was captured and hanged for treason.
The national flag was hoisted over the mint, but was torn down and dragged through the streets in derision by a gang of men led by William B. Mumford. Mumford was captured and hanged for treason.
MUMFORD
THE MARTYR OF NEW ORLEANS
[May, 1862]
Where murdered Mumford liesBewailed in bitter sighs,Low bowed beneath the flag he lovedMartyrs of Liberty,Defenders of the Free!Come, humbly nigh,And learn to die!Ah, Freedom on that dayTurned fearfully away,While pitying angels lingered near,To gaze upon the sodRed with a martyr's blood;And woman's tearFell on his bier!Oh, God! that he should dieBeneath a Southern sky!Upon a felon's gallows swinging,Murdered by tyrant hand,—While round a helpless band,OnButler'snamePoured scorn and shame.But hark! loud pæans flyFrom earth to vaulted sky,He's crowned at Freedom's holy throne!List! sweet-voiced IsrafelTolls for the martyr's knell!Shout Southrons high,Our battle cry!Come all of Southern blood,Come kneel to Freedom's God!Here at her crimson altar swear!Accursed forever moreThe flag that Mumford tore,And o'er his graveOur colors wave.Ina M. Porter.
Where murdered Mumford liesBewailed in bitter sighs,Low bowed beneath the flag he lovedMartyrs of Liberty,Defenders of the Free!Come, humbly nigh,And learn to die!Ah, Freedom on that dayTurned fearfully away,While pitying angels lingered near,To gaze upon the sodRed with a martyr's blood;And woman's tearFell on his bier!Oh, God! that he should dieBeneath a Southern sky!Upon a felon's gallows swinging,Murdered by tyrant hand,—While round a helpless band,OnButler'snamePoured scorn and shame.But hark! loud pæans flyFrom earth to vaulted sky,He's crowned at Freedom's holy throne!List! sweet-voiced IsrafelTolls for the martyr's knell!Shout Southrons high,Our battle cry!Come all of Southern blood,Come kneel to Freedom's God!Here at her crimson altar swear!Accursed forever moreThe flag that Mumford tore,And o'er his graveOur colors wave.Ina M. Porter.
Where murdered Mumford liesBewailed in bitter sighs,Low bowed beneath the flag he lovedMartyrs of Liberty,Defenders of the Free!Come, humbly nigh,And learn to die!
Ah, Freedom on that dayTurned fearfully away,While pitying angels lingered near,To gaze upon the sodRed with a martyr's blood;And woman's tearFell on his bier!
Oh, God! that he should dieBeneath a Southern sky!Upon a felon's gallows swinging,Murdered by tyrant hand,—While round a helpless band,OnButler'snamePoured scorn and shame.
But hark! loud pæans flyFrom earth to vaulted sky,He's crowned at Freedom's holy throne!List! sweet-voiced IsrafelTolls for the martyr's knell!Shout Southrons high,Our battle cry!
Come all of Southern blood,Come kneel to Freedom's God!Here at her crimson altar swear!Accursed forever moreThe flag that Mumford tore,And o'er his graveOur colors wave.
Ina M. Porter.
The behavior of the women was especially insulting and culminated when one of them spat in the face of a Union officer. General Butler thereupon issued his famous Order No. 28, providing that any woman who insulted an officer or soldier of the United States should be treated as a woman of the town. The order was received with hysteria throughout the South, but it brought the people of New Orleans to their senses.
The behavior of the women was especially insulting and culminated when one of them spat in the face of a Union officer. General Butler thereupon issued his famous Order No. 28, providing that any woman who insulted an officer or soldier of the United States should be treated as a woman of the town. The order was received with hysteria throughout the South, but it brought the people of New Orleans to their senses.
BUTLER'S PROCLAMATION
[May 15, 1862]
Ay! drop the treacherous mask! throw byThe cloak that veiled thine instincts fell,Stand forth, thou base, incarnate Lie,Stamped with the signet brand of hell!At last we view thee as thou art,A trickster with a demon's heart.Off with disguise! no quarter nowTo rebel honor! thou wouldst strikeHot blushes up the anguished brow,And murder Fame and Strength alike.Beware! ten million hearts aflameWill burn with hate thou canst not tame!We know thee now! we know thy race!Thy dreadful purpose stands revealedNaked, before the nation's face!Comrades! let Mercy's font be sealed,While the black banner courts the wind,And cursed be he who lags behind!O soldiers, husbands, brothers, sires!Think that each stalwart blow ye giveShall quench the rage of lustful fires,And bid your glorious women livePure from a wrong whose tainted breathWere fouler than the foulest death.O soldiers, lovers, Christians, men!Think that each breeze that floats and diesO'er the red field, from mount or glen,Is burdened with a maiden's sighs—And each false soul that turns to flee,Consigns his love to infamy!Think! and strike home! the fabled mightOf Titans were a feeble powerTo that with which your arms should smiteIn the next awful battle-hour!And deadlier than the bolts of heavenShould flash your fury's fatal leven!No pity! let your thirsty bandsDrink their warm fill at caitiff veins;Dip deep in blood your wrathful hands,Nor pause to wipe those crimson stains.Slay! slay! with ruthless sword and will—The God of vengeance bids you "kill!"Yes! but there'sone who shall not dieIn battle harness! One for whomLurks in the darkness silentlyAnother and a sterner doom!A warrior's end should crown the brave—Forhim, swift cord! and felon grave!As loathsome, charnel vapors melt,Swept by invisible winds to naught,So, may this fiend of lust and guiltDie like nightmare's hideous thought!Naught left to mark the mother's name,Save—immortality of shame!Paul Hamilton Hayne.
Ay! drop the treacherous mask! throw byThe cloak that veiled thine instincts fell,Stand forth, thou base, incarnate Lie,Stamped with the signet brand of hell!At last we view thee as thou art,A trickster with a demon's heart.Off with disguise! no quarter nowTo rebel honor! thou wouldst strikeHot blushes up the anguished brow,And murder Fame and Strength alike.Beware! ten million hearts aflameWill burn with hate thou canst not tame!We know thee now! we know thy race!Thy dreadful purpose stands revealedNaked, before the nation's face!Comrades! let Mercy's font be sealed,While the black banner courts the wind,And cursed be he who lags behind!O soldiers, husbands, brothers, sires!Think that each stalwart blow ye giveShall quench the rage of lustful fires,And bid your glorious women livePure from a wrong whose tainted breathWere fouler than the foulest death.O soldiers, lovers, Christians, men!Think that each breeze that floats and diesO'er the red field, from mount or glen,Is burdened with a maiden's sighs—And each false soul that turns to flee,Consigns his love to infamy!Think! and strike home! the fabled mightOf Titans were a feeble powerTo that with which your arms should smiteIn the next awful battle-hour!And deadlier than the bolts of heavenShould flash your fury's fatal leven!No pity! let your thirsty bandsDrink their warm fill at caitiff veins;Dip deep in blood your wrathful hands,Nor pause to wipe those crimson stains.Slay! slay! with ruthless sword and will—The God of vengeance bids you "kill!"Yes! but there'sone who shall not dieIn battle harness! One for whomLurks in the darkness silentlyAnother and a sterner doom!A warrior's end should crown the brave—Forhim, swift cord! and felon grave!As loathsome, charnel vapors melt,Swept by invisible winds to naught,So, may this fiend of lust and guiltDie like nightmare's hideous thought!Naught left to mark the mother's name,Save—immortality of shame!Paul Hamilton Hayne.
Ay! drop the treacherous mask! throw byThe cloak that veiled thine instincts fell,Stand forth, thou base, incarnate Lie,Stamped with the signet brand of hell!At last we view thee as thou art,A trickster with a demon's heart.
Off with disguise! no quarter nowTo rebel honor! thou wouldst strikeHot blushes up the anguished brow,And murder Fame and Strength alike.Beware! ten million hearts aflameWill burn with hate thou canst not tame!
We know thee now! we know thy race!Thy dreadful purpose stands revealedNaked, before the nation's face!Comrades! let Mercy's font be sealed,While the black banner courts the wind,And cursed be he who lags behind!
O soldiers, husbands, brothers, sires!Think that each stalwart blow ye giveShall quench the rage of lustful fires,And bid your glorious women livePure from a wrong whose tainted breathWere fouler than the foulest death.
O soldiers, lovers, Christians, men!Think that each breeze that floats and diesO'er the red field, from mount or glen,Is burdened with a maiden's sighs—And each false soul that turns to flee,Consigns his love to infamy!
Think! and strike home! the fabled mightOf Titans were a feeble powerTo that with which your arms should smiteIn the next awful battle-hour!And deadlier than the bolts of heavenShould flash your fury's fatal leven!
No pity! let your thirsty bandsDrink their warm fill at caitiff veins;Dip deep in blood your wrathful hands,Nor pause to wipe those crimson stains.Slay! slay! with ruthless sword and will—The God of vengeance bids you "kill!"
Yes! but there'sone who shall not dieIn battle harness! One for whomLurks in the darkness silentlyAnother and a sterner doom!A warrior's end should crown the brave—Forhim, swift cord! and felon grave!
As loathsome, charnel vapors melt,Swept by invisible winds to naught,So, may this fiend of lust and guiltDie like nightmare's hideous thought!Naught left to mark the mother's name,Save—immortality of shame!
Paul Hamilton Hayne.
EMANCIPATION
Slavery had caused the war, and as the months passed, the President and his advisers became more and more convinced that the emancipation of the negroes would go far to end it. On August 31, 1861, John C. Frémont, in command of the Western Department, issued a proclamation freeing the slaves of secessionists in Missouri, but the President promptly countermanded it.
Slavery had caused the war, and as the months passed, the President and his advisers became more and more convinced that the emancipation of the negroes would go far to end it. On August 31, 1861, John C. Frémont, in command of the Western Department, issued a proclamation freeing the slaves of secessionists in Missouri, but the President promptly countermanded it.
TO JOHN C. FRÉMONT
[August 31, 1861]
Thy error, Frémont, simply was to actA brave man's part, without the statesman's tact,And, taking counsel but of common sense,To strike at cause as well as consequence.Oh, never yet since Roland wound his hornAt Roncesvalles, has a blast been blownFar-heard, wide-echoed, startling as thine own,Heard from the van of freedom's hope forlorn!It had been safer, doubtless, for the time,To flatter treason, and avoid offenceTo that Dark Power whose underlying crimeHeaves upward its perpetual turbulence.But if thine be the fate of all who breakThe ground for truth's seed, or forerun their yearsTill lost in distance, or with stout hearts makeA lane for freedom through the level spears,Still take thou courage! God has spoken through thee,Irrevocable, the mighty words, Be free!The land shakes with them, and the slave's dull earTurns from the rice-swamp stealthily to hear.Who would recall them now must first arrestThe winds that blow down from the free Northwest,Ruffling the Gulf; or like a scroll roll backThe Mississippi to its upper springs.Such words fulfil their prophecy, and lackBut the full time to harden into things.John Greenleaf Whittier.
Thy error, Frémont, simply was to actA brave man's part, without the statesman's tact,And, taking counsel but of common sense,To strike at cause as well as consequence.Oh, never yet since Roland wound his hornAt Roncesvalles, has a blast been blownFar-heard, wide-echoed, startling as thine own,Heard from the van of freedom's hope forlorn!It had been safer, doubtless, for the time,To flatter treason, and avoid offenceTo that Dark Power whose underlying crimeHeaves upward its perpetual turbulence.But if thine be the fate of all who breakThe ground for truth's seed, or forerun their yearsTill lost in distance, or with stout hearts makeA lane for freedom through the level spears,Still take thou courage! God has spoken through thee,Irrevocable, the mighty words, Be free!The land shakes with them, and the slave's dull earTurns from the rice-swamp stealthily to hear.Who would recall them now must first arrestThe winds that blow down from the free Northwest,Ruffling the Gulf; or like a scroll roll backThe Mississippi to its upper springs.Such words fulfil their prophecy, and lackBut the full time to harden into things.John Greenleaf Whittier.
Thy error, Frémont, simply was to actA brave man's part, without the statesman's tact,And, taking counsel but of common sense,To strike at cause as well as consequence.Oh, never yet since Roland wound his hornAt Roncesvalles, has a blast been blownFar-heard, wide-echoed, startling as thine own,Heard from the van of freedom's hope forlorn!It had been safer, doubtless, for the time,To flatter treason, and avoid offenceTo that Dark Power whose underlying crimeHeaves upward its perpetual turbulence.But if thine be the fate of all who breakThe ground for truth's seed, or forerun their yearsTill lost in distance, or with stout hearts makeA lane for freedom through the level spears,Still take thou courage! God has spoken through thee,Irrevocable, the mighty words, Be free!The land shakes with them, and the slave's dull earTurns from the rice-swamp stealthily to hear.Who would recall them now must first arrestThe winds that blow down from the free Northwest,Ruffling the Gulf; or like a scroll roll backThe Mississippi to its upper springs.Such words fulfil their prophecy, and lackBut the full time to harden into things.
John Greenleaf Whittier.
The slaves were, however, from the outbreak of hostilities, declared to be "contraband of war," and not returnable to their masters. On April 16, 1862, the President approved a bill freeing the slaves in the District of Columbia and compensating their owners.
The slaves were, however, from the outbreak of hostilities, declared to be "contraband of war," and not returnable to their masters. On April 16, 1862, the President approved a bill freeing the slaves in the District of Columbia and compensating their owners.
ASTRÆA AT THE CAPITOL
ABOLITION OF SLAVERY IN THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA, 1862
[April 16, 1862]
When first I saw our banner waveAbove the nation's council-hall,I heard beneath its marble wallThe clanking fetters of the slave!In the foul market-place I stood,And saw the Christian mother sold,And childhood with its locks of gold,Blue-eyed and fair with Saxon blood.I shut my eyes, I held my breath,And, smothering down the wrath and shameThat set my Northern blood aflame,Stood silent,—where to speak was death.Beside me gloomed the prison-cellWhere wasted one in slow declineFor uttering simple words of mine,And loving freedom all too well.The flag that floated from the domeFlapped menace in the morning air;I stood a perilled stranger whereThe human broker made his home.For crime was virtue: Gown and SwordAnd Law their threefold sanction gave,And to the quarry of the slaveWent hawking with our symbol-bird.On the oppressor's side was power;And yet I knew that every wrong,However old, however strong,But waited God's avenging hour.I knew that truth would crush the lie,—Somehow, sometime, the end would be;Yet scarcely dared I hope to seeThe triumph with my mortal eye.But now I see it! In the sunA free flag floats from yonder dome,And at the nation's hearth and homeThe justice long delayed is done.Not as we hoped, in calm of prayer,The message of deliverance comes,But heralded by roll of drumsOn waves of battle-troubled air!Midst sounds that madden and appall,The song that Bethlehem's shepherds knew!The harp of David melting throughThe demon-agonies of Saul!Not as we hoped; but what are we?Above our broken dreams and plansGod lays, with wiser hand than man's,The corner-stones of liberty.I cavil not with Him: the voiceThat freedom's blessed gospel tellsIs sweet to me as silver bells,Rejoicing! yea, I will rejoice!Dear friends still toiling in the sun;Ye dearer ones who, gone before,Are watching from the eternal shoreThe slow work by your hands begun,Rejoice with me! The chastening rodBlossoms with love; the furnace heatGrows cool beneath His blessed feetWhose form is as the Son of God!Rejoice! Our Marah's bitter springsAre sweetened; on our ground of griefRise day by day in strong reliefThe prophecies of better things.Rejoice in hope! The day and nightAre one with God, and one with themWho see by faith the cloudy hemOf Judgment fringed with Mercy's light!John Greenleaf Whittier.
When first I saw our banner waveAbove the nation's council-hall,I heard beneath its marble wallThe clanking fetters of the slave!In the foul market-place I stood,And saw the Christian mother sold,And childhood with its locks of gold,Blue-eyed and fair with Saxon blood.I shut my eyes, I held my breath,And, smothering down the wrath and shameThat set my Northern blood aflame,Stood silent,—where to speak was death.Beside me gloomed the prison-cellWhere wasted one in slow declineFor uttering simple words of mine,And loving freedom all too well.The flag that floated from the domeFlapped menace in the morning air;I stood a perilled stranger whereThe human broker made his home.For crime was virtue: Gown and SwordAnd Law their threefold sanction gave,And to the quarry of the slaveWent hawking with our symbol-bird.On the oppressor's side was power;And yet I knew that every wrong,However old, however strong,But waited God's avenging hour.I knew that truth would crush the lie,—Somehow, sometime, the end would be;Yet scarcely dared I hope to seeThe triumph with my mortal eye.But now I see it! In the sunA free flag floats from yonder dome,And at the nation's hearth and homeThe justice long delayed is done.Not as we hoped, in calm of prayer,The message of deliverance comes,But heralded by roll of drumsOn waves of battle-troubled air!Midst sounds that madden and appall,The song that Bethlehem's shepherds knew!The harp of David melting throughThe demon-agonies of Saul!Not as we hoped; but what are we?Above our broken dreams and plansGod lays, with wiser hand than man's,The corner-stones of liberty.I cavil not with Him: the voiceThat freedom's blessed gospel tellsIs sweet to me as silver bells,Rejoicing! yea, I will rejoice!Dear friends still toiling in the sun;Ye dearer ones who, gone before,Are watching from the eternal shoreThe slow work by your hands begun,Rejoice with me! The chastening rodBlossoms with love; the furnace heatGrows cool beneath His blessed feetWhose form is as the Son of God!Rejoice! Our Marah's bitter springsAre sweetened; on our ground of griefRise day by day in strong reliefThe prophecies of better things.Rejoice in hope! The day and nightAre one with God, and one with themWho see by faith the cloudy hemOf Judgment fringed with Mercy's light!John Greenleaf Whittier.
When first I saw our banner waveAbove the nation's council-hall,I heard beneath its marble wallThe clanking fetters of the slave!
In the foul market-place I stood,And saw the Christian mother sold,And childhood with its locks of gold,Blue-eyed and fair with Saxon blood.
I shut my eyes, I held my breath,And, smothering down the wrath and shameThat set my Northern blood aflame,Stood silent,—where to speak was death.
Beside me gloomed the prison-cellWhere wasted one in slow declineFor uttering simple words of mine,And loving freedom all too well.
The flag that floated from the domeFlapped menace in the morning air;I stood a perilled stranger whereThe human broker made his home.
For crime was virtue: Gown and SwordAnd Law their threefold sanction gave,And to the quarry of the slaveWent hawking with our symbol-bird.
On the oppressor's side was power;And yet I knew that every wrong,However old, however strong,But waited God's avenging hour.
I knew that truth would crush the lie,—Somehow, sometime, the end would be;Yet scarcely dared I hope to seeThe triumph with my mortal eye.
But now I see it! In the sunA free flag floats from yonder dome,And at the nation's hearth and homeThe justice long delayed is done.
Not as we hoped, in calm of prayer,The message of deliverance comes,But heralded by roll of drumsOn waves of battle-troubled air!
Midst sounds that madden and appall,The song that Bethlehem's shepherds knew!The harp of David melting throughThe demon-agonies of Saul!
Not as we hoped; but what are we?Above our broken dreams and plansGod lays, with wiser hand than man's,The corner-stones of liberty.
I cavil not with Him: the voiceThat freedom's blessed gospel tellsIs sweet to me as silver bells,Rejoicing! yea, I will rejoice!
Dear friends still toiling in the sun;Ye dearer ones who, gone before,Are watching from the eternal shoreThe slow work by your hands begun,
Rejoice with me! The chastening rodBlossoms with love; the furnace heatGrows cool beneath His blessed feetWhose form is as the Son of God!
Rejoice! Our Marah's bitter springsAre sweetened; on our ground of griefRise day by day in strong reliefThe prophecies of better things.
Rejoice in hope! The day and nightAre one with God, and one with themWho see by faith the cloudy hemOf Judgment fringed with Mercy's light!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
At last the President resolved to throw down the gauntlet, and on September 22, 1862, proclaimed that all slaves should be freed in such states as were in rebellion against the United States on January 1, 1863. The South continued in rebellion, and the proclamation went into effect on the first day of the new year.
At last the President resolved to throw down the gauntlet, and on September 22, 1862, proclaimed that all slaves should be freed in such states as were in rebellion against the United States on January 1, 1863. The South continued in rebellion, and the proclamation went into effect on the first day of the new year.
BOSTON HYMN
[January 1, 1863]
The word of the Lord by nightTo the watching Pilgrims came,As they sat by the seaside,And filled their hearts with flame.God said, I am tired of kings,I suffer them no more;Up to my ear the morning bringsThe outrage of the poor.Think ye I made this ballA field of havoc and war,Where tyrants great and tyrants smallMight harry the weak and poor?My angel—his name is Freedom—Choose him to be your king;He shall cut pathways east and west,And fend you with his wing.Lo! I uncover the land,Which I hid of old time in the West,As the sculptor uncovers the statueWhen he has wrought his best;I show Columbia, of the rocksWhich dip their foot in the seas,And soar to the air-borne flocksOf clouds and the boreal fleece.I will divide my goods;Call in the wretch and slave;None shall rule but the humble,And none but Toil shall have.I will have never a noble,No lineage counted great;Fishers and choppers and ploughmenShall constitute a state.Go, cut down trees in the forestAnd trim the straightest boughs;Cut down trees in the forestAnd build me a wooden house.Call the people together,The young men and the sires,The digger in the harvest-field,Hireling and him that hires;And here in a pine state-houseThey shall choose men to ruleIn every needful faculty,In church and state and school.Lo, now! if these poor menCan govern the land and sea,And make just laws below the sun,As planets faithful be.And ye shall succor men;'Tis nobleness to serve;Help them who cannot help again:Beware from right to swerve.I break your bonds and masterships,And I unchain the slave:Free be his heart and hand henceforthAs wind and wandering wave.I cause from every creatureHis proper good to flow;As much as he is and doeth,So much he shall bestow.But, laying hands on another,To coin his labor and sweat,He goes in pawn to his victimFor eternal years in debt.To-day unbind the captive,So only are ye unbound;Lift up a people from the dust,Trump of their rescue, sound!Pay ransom to the ownerAnd fill the bag to the brim.Who is the owner? The slave is ownerAnd ever was. Pay him.O North! give him beauty for rags,And honor, O South! for his shame;Nevada! coin thy golden cragsWith Freedom's image and name.Up! and the dusky raceThat sat in darkness long,—Be swift their feet as antelopes,And as behemoth strong.Come, East and West and North,By races, as snowflakes,And carry my purpose forth,Which neither halts nor shakes.My will fulfilled shall be,For, in daylight or in dark,My thunderbolt has eyes to seeHis way home to the mark.Ralph Waldo Emerson.
The word of the Lord by nightTo the watching Pilgrims came,As they sat by the seaside,And filled their hearts with flame.God said, I am tired of kings,I suffer them no more;Up to my ear the morning bringsThe outrage of the poor.Think ye I made this ballA field of havoc and war,Where tyrants great and tyrants smallMight harry the weak and poor?My angel—his name is Freedom—Choose him to be your king;He shall cut pathways east and west,And fend you with his wing.Lo! I uncover the land,Which I hid of old time in the West,As the sculptor uncovers the statueWhen he has wrought his best;I show Columbia, of the rocksWhich dip their foot in the seas,And soar to the air-borne flocksOf clouds and the boreal fleece.I will divide my goods;Call in the wretch and slave;None shall rule but the humble,And none but Toil shall have.I will have never a noble,No lineage counted great;Fishers and choppers and ploughmenShall constitute a state.Go, cut down trees in the forestAnd trim the straightest boughs;Cut down trees in the forestAnd build me a wooden house.Call the people together,The young men and the sires,The digger in the harvest-field,Hireling and him that hires;And here in a pine state-houseThey shall choose men to ruleIn every needful faculty,In church and state and school.Lo, now! if these poor menCan govern the land and sea,And make just laws below the sun,As planets faithful be.And ye shall succor men;'Tis nobleness to serve;Help them who cannot help again:Beware from right to swerve.I break your bonds and masterships,And I unchain the slave:Free be his heart and hand henceforthAs wind and wandering wave.I cause from every creatureHis proper good to flow;As much as he is and doeth,So much he shall bestow.But, laying hands on another,To coin his labor and sweat,He goes in pawn to his victimFor eternal years in debt.To-day unbind the captive,So only are ye unbound;Lift up a people from the dust,Trump of their rescue, sound!Pay ransom to the ownerAnd fill the bag to the brim.Who is the owner? The slave is ownerAnd ever was. Pay him.O North! give him beauty for rags,And honor, O South! for his shame;Nevada! coin thy golden cragsWith Freedom's image and name.Up! and the dusky raceThat sat in darkness long,—Be swift their feet as antelopes,And as behemoth strong.Come, East and West and North,By races, as snowflakes,And carry my purpose forth,Which neither halts nor shakes.My will fulfilled shall be,For, in daylight or in dark,My thunderbolt has eyes to seeHis way home to the mark.Ralph Waldo Emerson.
The word of the Lord by nightTo the watching Pilgrims came,As they sat by the seaside,And filled their hearts with flame.
God said, I am tired of kings,I suffer them no more;Up to my ear the morning bringsThe outrage of the poor.
Think ye I made this ballA field of havoc and war,Where tyrants great and tyrants smallMight harry the weak and poor?
My angel—his name is Freedom—Choose him to be your king;He shall cut pathways east and west,And fend you with his wing.
Lo! I uncover the land,Which I hid of old time in the West,As the sculptor uncovers the statueWhen he has wrought his best;
I show Columbia, of the rocksWhich dip their foot in the seas,And soar to the air-borne flocksOf clouds and the boreal fleece.
I will divide my goods;Call in the wretch and slave;None shall rule but the humble,And none but Toil shall have.
I will have never a noble,No lineage counted great;Fishers and choppers and ploughmenShall constitute a state.
Go, cut down trees in the forestAnd trim the straightest boughs;Cut down trees in the forestAnd build me a wooden house.
Call the people together,The young men and the sires,The digger in the harvest-field,Hireling and him that hires;
And here in a pine state-houseThey shall choose men to ruleIn every needful faculty,In church and state and school.
Lo, now! if these poor menCan govern the land and sea,And make just laws below the sun,As planets faithful be.
And ye shall succor men;'Tis nobleness to serve;Help them who cannot help again:Beware from right to swerve.
I break your bonds and masterships,And I unchain the slave:Free be his heart and hand henceforthAs wind and wandering wave.
I cause from every creatureHis proper good to flow;As much as he is and doeth,So much he shall bestow.
But, laying hands on another,To coin his labor and sweat,He goes in pawn to his victimFor eternal years in debt.
To-day unbind the captive,So only are ye unbound;Lift up a people from the dust,Trump of their rescue, sound!
Pay ransom to the ownerAnd fill the bag to the brim.Who is the owner? The slave is ownerAnd ever was. Pay him.
O North! give him beauty for rags,And honor, O South! for his shame;Nevada! coin thy golden cragsWith Freedom's image and name.
Up! and the dusky raceThat sat in darkness long,—Be swift their feet as antelopes,And as behemoth strong.
Come, East and West and North,By races, as snowflakes,And carry my purpose forth,Which neither halts nor shakes.
My will fulfilled shall be,For, in daylight or in dark,My thunderbolt has eyes to seeHis way home to the mark.
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
THE PROCLAMATION
[January 1, 1863]
Saint Patrick, slave to Milcho of the herdsOf Ballymena, wakened with these words:"Arise, and fleeOut from the land of bondage, and be free!"Glad as a soul in pain, who hears from heavenThe angels singing of his sins forgiven,And, wondering, seesHis prison opening to their golden keys,He rose a man who laid him down a slave,Shook from his locks the ashes of the grave,And outward trodInto the glorious liberty of God.He cast the symbols of his shame away;And, passing where the sleeping Milcho lay,Though back and limbSmarted with wrong, he prayed, "God pardon him!"So went he forth; but in God's time he cameTo light on Uilline's hills a holy flame;And, dying, gaveThe land a saint that lost him as a slave.O dark, sad millions, patiently and dumbWaiting for God, your hour, at last, has come,And freedom's songBreaks the long silence of your night of wrong!Arise and flee! shake off the vile restraintOf ages; but, like Ballymena's saint,The oppressor spare,Heap only on his head the coals of prayer.Go forth, like him! like him return again,To bless the land whereon in bitter painYe toiled at first,And heal with freedom what your slavery cursed.John Greenleaf Whittier.
Saint Patrick, slave to Milcho of the herdsOf Ballymena, wakened with these words:"Arise, and fleeOut from the land of bondage, and be free!"Glad as a soul in pain, who hears from heavenThe angels singing of his sins forgiven,And, wondering, seesHis prison opening to their golden keys,He rose a man who laid him down a slave,Shook from his locks the ashes of the grave,And outward trodInto the glorious liberty of God.He cast the symbols of his shame away;And, passing where the sleeping Milcho lay,Though back and limbSmarted with wrong, he prayed, "God pardon him!"So went he forth; but in God's time he cameTo light on Uilline's hills a holy flame;And, dying, gaveThe land a saint that lost him as a slave.O dark, sad millions, patiently and dumbWaiting for God, your hour, at last, has come,And freedom's songBreaks the long silence of your night of wrong!Arise and flee! shake off the vile restraintOf ages; but, like Ballymena's saint,The oppressor spare,Heap only on his head the coals of prayer.Go forth, like him! like him return again,To bless the land whereon in bitter painYe toiled at first,And heal with freedom what your slavery cursed.John Greenleaf Whittier.
Saint Patrick, slave to Milcho of the herdsOf Ballymena, wakened with these words:"Arise, and fleeOut from the land of bondage, and be free!"
Glad as a soul in pain, who hears from heavenThe angels singing of his sins forgiven,And, wondering, seesHis prison opening to their golden keys,
He rose a man who laid him down a slave,Shook from his locks the ashes of the grave,And outward trodInto the glorious liberty of God.
He cast the symbols of his shame away;And, passing where the sleeping Milcho lay,Though back and limbSmarted with wrong, he prayed, "God pardon him!"
So went he forth; but in God's time he cameTo light on Uilline's hills a holy flame;And, dying, gaveThe land a saint that lost him as a slave.
O dark, sad millions, patiently and dumbWaiting for God, your hour, at last, has come,And freedom's songBreaks the long silence of your night of wrong!
Arise and flee! shake off the vile restraintOf ages; but, like Ballymena's saint,The oppressor spare,Heap only on his head the coals of prayer.
Go forth, like him! like him return again,To bless the land whereon in bitter painYe toiled at first,And heal with freedom what your slavery cursed.
John Greenleaf Whittier.
The Emancipation Proclamation was received with little enthusiasm except in New England, and early in 1863 certain politicians proposed to form a new Union, excluding the New England states because of their hostility to slavery and consequent obnoxiousness to the South.
The Emancipation Proclamation was received with little enthusiasm except in New England, and early in 1863 certain politicians proposed to form a new Union, excluding the New England states because of their hostility to slavery and consequent obnoxiousness to the South.
TREASON'S LAST DEVICE
[January 19, 1863]
"Who deserves greatnessDeserves your hate....Yon common cry of curs, whose breath I loatheAs reek o' the rotten fens."Coriolanus.
"Who deserves greatnessDeserves your hate....Yon common cry of curs, whose breath I loatheAs reek o' the rotten fens."Coriolanus.
"Who deserves greatnessDeserves your hate....Yon common cry of curs, whose breath I loatheAs reek o' the rotten fens."
Coriolanus.
"Hark! hark! the dogs do bark."Nursery Rhyme.
"Hark! hark! the dogs do bark."Nursery Rhyme.
"Hark! hark! the dogs do bark."
Nursery Rhyme.
Sons of New England, in the fray,Do you hear the clamor behind your back?Do you hear the yelping of Blanche and Tray?Sweetheart, and all the mongrel pack?Girded well with her ocean crags,Little our mother heeds their noise;Her eyes are fixed on crimsoned flags:But you—do you hear it, Yankee boys?Do you hear them say that the patriot fireBurns on her altars too pure and bright,To the darkened heavens leaping higher,Though drenched with the blood of every fight?That in the light of its searching flameTreason and tyrants stand revealed,And the yielding craven is put to shameOn Capitol floor or foughten field?Do you hear the hissing voice, which saithThat she—who bore through all the landThe lyre of Freedom, the torch of Faith,And young Invention's mystic wand—Should gather her skirts and dwell apart,With not one of her sisters to share her fate,—A Hagar, wandering sick at heart?A pariah, bearing the Nation's hate?Sons, who have peopled the distant West,And planted the Pilgrim vine anew,Where, by a richer soil carest,It grows as ever its parent grew,—Say, do you hear,—while the very bellsOf your churches ring with her ancient voice,And the song of your children sweetly tellsHow true was the land of your fathers' choice,—Do you hear the traitors who bid you speakThe word that shall sever the sacred tie?And ye, who dwell by the golden Peak,Has the subtle whisper glided by?Has it crost the immemorial plainsTo coasts where the gray Pacific roars,And the Pilgrim blood in the people's veinsIs pure as the wealth of their mountain ores?Spirits of sons who, side by side,In a hundred battles fought and fell,Whom now no East and West divide,In the isles where the shades of heroes dwell,—Say, has it reached your glorious rest,And ruffled the calm which crowns you there,—The shame that recreants have confestThe plot that floats in the troubled air?Sons of New England, here and there,Wherever men are still holding byThe honor our fathers left so fair,—Say, do you hear the cowards' cry?Crouching among her grand old crags,Lightly our mother heeds their noise,With her fond eyes fixed on distant flags;But you—do you hear it, Yankee boys?Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Sons of New England, in the fray,Do you hear the clamor behind your back?Do you hear the yelping of Blanche and Tray?Sweetheart, and all the mongrel pack?Girded well with her ocean crags,Little our mother heeds their noise;Her eyes are fixed on crimsoned flags:But you—do you hear it, Yankee boys?Do you hear them say that the patriot fireBurns on her altars too pure and bright,To the darkened heavens leaping higher,Though drenched with the blood of every fight?That in the light of its searching flameTreason and tyrants stand revealed,And the yielding craven is put to shameOn Capitol floor or foughten field?Do you hear the hissing voice, which saithThat she—who bore through all the landThe lyre of Freedom, the torch of Faith,And young Invention's mystic wand—Should gather her skirts and dwell apart,With not one of her sisters to share her fate,—A Hagar, wandering sick at heart?A pariah, bearing the Nation's hate?Sons, who have peopled the distant West,And planted the Pilgrim vine anew,Where, by a richer soil carest,It grows as ever its parent grew,—Say, do you hear,—while the very bellsOf your churches ring with her ancient voice,And the song of your children sweetly tellsHow true was the land of your fathers' choice,—Do you hear the traitors who bid you speakThe word that shall sever the sacred tie?And ye, who dwell by the golden Peak,Has the subtle whisper glided by?Has it crost the immemorial plainsTo coasts where the gray Pacific roars,And the Pilgrim blood in the people's veinsIs pure as the wealth of their mountain ores?Spirits of sons who, side by side,In a hundred battles fought and fell,Whom now no East and West divide,In the isles where the shades of heroes dwell,—Say, has it reached your glorious rest,And ruffled the calm which crowns you there,—The shame that recreants have confestThe plot that floats in the troubled air?Sons of New England, here and there,Wherever men are still holding byThe honor our fathers left so fair,—Say, do you hear the cowards' cry?Crouching among her grand old crags,Lightly our mother heeds their noise,With her fond eyes fixed on distant flags;But you—do you hear it, Yankee boys?Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Sons of New England, in the fray,Do you hear the clamor behind your back?Do you hear the yelping of Blanche and Tray?Sweetheart, and all the mongrel pack?Girded well with her ocean crags,Little our mother heeds their noise;Her eyes are fixed on crimsoned flags:But you—do you hear it, Yankee boys?
Do you hear them say that the patriot fireBurns on her altars too pure and bright,To the darkened heavens leaping higher,Though drenched with the blood of every fight?That in the light of its searching flameTreason and tyrants stand revealed,And the yielding craven is put to shameOn Capitol floor or foughten field?
Do you hear the hissing voice, which saithThat she—who bore through all the landThe lyre of Freedom, the torch of Faith,And young Invention's mystic wand—Should gather her skirts and dwell apart,With not one of her sisters to share her fate,—A Hagar, wandering sick at heart?A pariah, bearing the Nation's hate?
Sons, who have peopled the distant West,And planted the Pilgrim vine anew,Where, by a richer soil carest,It grows as ever its parent grew,—Say, do you hear,—while the very bellsOf your churches ring with her ancient voice,And the song of your children sweetly tellsHow true was the land of your fathers' choice,—
Do you hear the traitors who bid you speakThe word that shall sever the sacred tie?And ye, who dwell by the golden Peak,Has the subtle whisper glided by?Has it crost the immemorial plainsTo coasts where the gray Pacific roars,And the Pilgrim blood in the people's veinsIs pure as the wealth of their mountain ores?
Spirits of sons who, side by side,In a hundred battles fought and fell,Whom now no East and West divide,In the isles where the shades of heroes dwell,—Say, has it reached your glorious rest,And ruffled the calm which crowns you there,—The shame that recreants have confestThe plot that floats in the troubled air?
Sons of New England, here and there,Wherever men are still holding byThe honor our fathers left so fair,—Say, do you hear the cowards' cry?Crouching among her grand old crags,Lightly our mother heeds their noise,With her fond eyes fixed on distant flags;But you—do you hear it, Yankee boys?
Edmund Clarence Stedman.
On January 31, 1865, Congress adopted an amendment to the constitution forever abolishing slavery in the United States. On December 18, 1865, it was announced that the amendment had been ratified by the requisite number of states.
On January 31, 1865, Congress adopted an amendment to the constitution forever abolishing slavery in the United States. On December 18, 1865, it was announced that the amendment had been ratified by the requisite number of states.
LAUS DEO!
On hearing the bells ringon the passage of the constitutional amendment abolishing slavery.
It is done!Clang of bell and roar of gunSend the tidings up and down.How the belfries rock and reel!How the great guns, peal on peal,Fling the joy from town to town!Ring, O bells!Every stroke exulting tellsOf the burial hour of crime.Loud and long, that all may hear,Ring for every listening earOf Eternity and Time!Let us kneel:God's own voice is in that peal,And this spot is holy ground.Lord, forgive us! What are we,That our eyes this glory see,That our ears have heard the sound!For the LordOn the whirlwind is abroad;In the earthquake He has spoken;He has smitten with His thunderThe iron walls asunder,And the gates of brass are broken!Loud and longLift the old exulting song;Sing with Miriam by the sea,He has cast the mighty down;Horse and rider sink and drown;"He hath triumphed gloriously!"Did we dare,In our agony of prayer,Ask for more than He has done?When was ever His right handOver any time or landStretched as now beneath the sun?How they pale,Ancient myth and song and tale,In this wonder of our days,When the cruel rod of warBlossoms white with righteous lawAnd the wrath of man is praise!Blotted out!All within and all aboutShall a fresher life begin;Freer breathe the universeAs it rolls its heavy curseOn the dead and buried sin!It is done!In the circuit of the sunShall the sound thereof go forth.It shall bid the sad rejoice,It shall give the dumb a voice,It shall belt with joy the earth!Ring and swing,Bells of joy! On morning's wingSend the song of praise abroad!With a sound of broken chainsTell the nations that He reigns,Who alone is Lord and God!John Greenleaf Whittier.
It is done!Clang of bell and roar of gunSend the tidings up and down.How the belfries rock and reel!How the great guns, peal on peal,Fling the joy from town to town!Ring, O bells!Every stroke exulting tellsOf the burial hour of crime.Loud and long, that all may hear,Ring for every listening earOf Eternity and Time!Let us kneel:God's own voice is in that peal,And this spot is holy ground.Lord, forgive us! What are we,That our eyes this glory see,That our ears have heard the sound!For the LordOn the whirlwind is abroad;In the earthquake He has spoken;He has smitten with His thunderThe iron walls asunder,And the gates of brass are broken!Loud and longLift the old exulting song;Sing with Miriam by the sea,He has cast the mighty down;Horse and rider sink and drown;"He hath triumphed gloriously!"Did we dare,In our agony of prayer,Ask for more than He has done?When was ever His right handOver any time or landStretched as now beneath the sun?How they pale,Ancient myth and song and tale,In this wonder of our days,When the cruel rod of warBlossoms white with righteous lawAnd the wrath of man is praise!Blotted out!All within and all aboutShall a fresher life begin;Freer breathe the universeAs it rolls its heavy curseOn the dead and buried sin!It is done!In the circuit of the sunShall the sound thereof go forth.It shall bid the sad rejoice,It shall give the dumb a voice,It shall belt with joy the earth!Ring and swing,Bells of joy! On morning's wingSend the song of praise abroad!With a sound of broken chainsTell the nations that He reigns,Who alone is Lord and God!John Greenleaf Whittier.
It is done!Clang of bell and roar of gunSend the tidings up and down.How the belfries rock and reel!How the great guns, peal on peal,Fling the joy from town to town!
Ring, O bells!Every stroke exulting tellsOf the burial hour of crime.Loud and long, that all may hear,Ring for every listening earOf Eternity and Time!
Let us kneel:God's own voice is in that peal,And this spot is holy ground.Lord, forgive us! What are we,That our eyes this glory see,That our ears have heard the sound!
For the LordOn the whirlwind is abroad;In the earthquake He has spoken;He has smitten with His thunderThe iron walls asunder,And the gates of brass are broken!
Loud and longLift the old exulting song;Sing with Miriam by the sea,He has cast the mighty down;Horse and rider sink and drown;"He hath triumphed gloriously!"
Did we dare,In our agony of prayer,Ask for more than He has done?When was ever His right handOver any time or landStretched as now beneath the sun?
How they pale,Ancient myth and song and tale,In this wonder of our days,When the cruel rod of warBlossoms white with righteous lawAnd the wrath of man is praise!
Blotted out!All within and all aboutShall a fresher life begin;Freer breathe the universeAs it rolls its heavy curseOn the dead and buried sin!
It is done!In the circuit of the sunShall the sound thereof go forth.It shall bid the sad rejoice,It shall give the dumb a voice,It shall belt with joy the earth!
Ring and swing,Bells of joy! On morning's wingSend the song of praise abroad!With a sound of broken chainsTell the nations that He reigns,Who alone is Lord and God!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
THE "GRAND ARMY'S" SECOND CAMPAIGN
After its defeat at Fredericksburg, the Grand Army of the Potomac had gone into winter quarters. General Joseph Hooker was appointed to command it and found it weak and shaken. Meanwhile, the Confederate cavalry was busy, especially the guerrillas under John S. Mosby, who, in March, 1863, made a daring and successful raid upon the Union lines.
After its defeat at Fredericksburg, the Grand Army of the Potomac had gone into winter quarters. General Joseph Hooker was appointed to command it and found it weak and shaken. Meanwhile, the Confederate cavalry was busy, especially the guerrillas under John S. Mosby, who, in March, 1863, made a daring and successful raid upon the Union lines.
MOSBY AT HAMILTON
[March 16, 1863]
Down Loudon Lanes, with swinging reinsAnd clash of spur and sabre,And bugling of the battle horn,Six score and eight we rode at morn,Six score and eight of Southern born,All tried in love and labor.Full in the sun at Hamilton,We met the South's invaders;Who, over fifteen hundred strong,'Mid blazing homes had marched alongAll night, with Northern shout and songTo crush the rebel raiders.Down Loudon Lanes, with streaming manes,We spurred in wild March weather;And all along our war-scarred wayThe graves of Southern heroes lay,Our guide-posts to revenge that day,As we rode grim together.Old tales still tell some miracleOf saints in holy writing—But who shall say while hundreds fledBefore the few that Mosby led,Unless the noblest of our deadCharged with us then when fighting?While Yankee cheers still stunned our ears,Of troops at Harper's Ferry,While Sheridan led on his Huns,And Richmond rocked to roaring guns,We felt the South still had some sonsShe would not scorn to bury.Madison Cawein.
Down Loudon Lanes, with swinging reinsAnd clash of spur and sabre,And bugling of the battle horn,Six score and eight we rode at morn,Six score and eight of Southern born,All tried in love and labor.Full in the sun at Hamilton,We met the South's invaders;Who, over fifteen hundred strong,'Mid blazing homes had marched alongAll night, with Northern shout and songTo crush the rebel raiders.Down Loudon Lanes, with streaming manes,We spurred in wild March weather;And all along our war-scarred wayThe graves of Southern heroes lay,Our guide-posts to revenge that day,As we rode grim together.Old tales still tell some miracleOf saints in holy writing—But who shall say while hundreds fledBefore the few that Mosby led,Unless the noblest of our deadCharged with us then when fighting?While Yankee cheers still stunned our ears,Of troops at Harper's Ferry,While Sheridan led on his Huns,And Richmond rocked to roaring guns,We felt the South still had some sonsShe would not scorn to bury.Madison Cawein.
Down Loudon Lanes, with swinging reinsAnd clash of spur and sabre,And bugling of the battle horn,Six score and eight we rode at morn,Six score and eight of Southern born,All tried in love and labor.
Full in the sun at Hamilton,We met the South's invaders;Who, over fifteen hundred strong,'Mid blazing homes had marched alongAll night, with Northern shout and songTo crush the rebel raiders.
Down Loudon Lanes, with streaming manes,We spurred in wild March weather;And all along our war-scarred wayThe graves of Southern heroes lay,Our guide-posts to revenge that day,As we rode grim together.
Old tales still tell some miracleOf saints in holy writing—But who shall say while hundreds fledBefore the few that Mosby led,Unless the noblest of our deadCharged with us then when fighting?
While Yankee cheers still stunned our ears,Of troops at Harper's Ferry,While Sheridan led on his Huns,And Richmond rocked to roaring guns,We felt the South still had some sonsShe would not scorn to bury.
Madison Cawein.
A few days after Mosby's exploit, a desperately contested battle occurred at Kelly's Ford, Va., when the National troops under General W. W. Averill attacked and were defeated by a Confederate force under General Fitzhugh Lee. Among the Confederate dead was General John Pelham.
A few days after Mosby's exploit, a desperately contested battle occurred at Kelly's Ford, Va., when the National troops under General W. W. Averill attacked and were defeated by a Confederate force under General Fitzhugh Lee. Among the Confederate dead was General John Pelham.
JOHN PELHAM
[March 17, 1863]
Just as the spring came laughing through the strife,With all its gorgeous cheer,In the bright April of historic life,Fell the great cannoneer.The wondrous lulling of a hero's breathHis bleeding country weeps;Hushed in the alabaster arms of Death,Our young Marcellus sleeps.Nobler and grander than the Child of RomeCurbing his chariot steeds,The knightly scion of a Southern homeDazzled the land with deeds.Gentlest and bravest in the battle-brunt,The champion of the truth,He bore his banner to the very frontOf our immortal youth.A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow,The fiery pang of shells,—And there's a wail of immemorial woeIn Alabama dells.The pennon drops that led the sacred bandAlong the crimson field;The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless handOver the spotless shield.We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face;While round the lips and eyes,Couched in their marble slumber, flashed the graceOf a divine surprise.O mother of a blessed soul on high!Thy tears may soon be shed;Think of thy boy with princes of the skyAmong the Southern dead!How must he smile on this dull world beneath,Fevered with swift renown,—He, with the martyr's amaranthine wreathTwining the victor's crown!James Ryder Randall.
Just as the spring came laughing through the strife,With all its gorgeous cheer,In the bright April of historic life,Fell the great cannoneer.The wondrous lulling of a hero's breathHis bleeding country weeps;Hushed in the alabaster arms of Death,Our young Marcellus sleeps.Nobler and grander than the Child of RomeCurbing his chariot steeds,The knightly scion of a Southern homeDazzled the land with deeds.Gentlest and bravest in the battle-brunt,The champion of the truth,He bore his banner to the very frontOf our immortal youth.A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow,The fiery pang of shells,—And there's a wail of immemorial woeIn Alabama dells.The pennon drops that led the sacred bandAlong the crimson field;The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless handOver the spotless shield.We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face;While round the lips and eyes,Couched in their marble slumber, flashed the graceOf a divine surprise.O mother of a blessed soul on high!Thy tears may soon be shed;Think of thy boy with princes of the skyAmong the Southern dead!How must he smile on this dull world beneath,Fevered with swift renown,—He, with the martyr's amaranthine wreathTwining the victor's crown!James Ryder Randall.
Just as the spring came laughing through the strife,With all its gorgeous cheer,In the bright April of historic life,Fell the great cannoneer.
The wondrous lulling of a hero's breathHis bleeding country weeps;Hushed in the alabaster arms of Death,Our young Marcellus sleeps.
Nobler and grander than the Child of RomeCurbing his chariot steeds,The knightly scion of a Southern homeDazzled the land with deeds.
Gentlest and bravest in the battle-brunt,The champion of the truth,He bore his banner to the very frontOf our immortal youth.
A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow,The fiery pang of shells,—And there's a wail of immemorial woeIn Alabama dells.
The pennon drops that led the sacred bandAlong the crimson field;The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless handOver the spotless shield.
We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face;While round the lips and eyes,Couched in their marble slumber, flashed the graceOf a divine surprise.
O mother of a blessed soul on high!Thy tears may soon be shed;Think of thy boy with princes of the skyAmong the Southern dead!
How must he smile on this dull world beneath,Fevered with swift renown,—He, with the martyr's amaranthine wreathTwining the victor's crown!
James Ryder Randall.
By the middle of April, 1863, Hooker had his army in shape to advance, and on the 28th began to cross the Rappahannock for the purpose of attacking Lee, who held a strong position in the rear of Fredericksburg. On April 30 Hooker's army was all across and bivouacked that night at Chancellorsville.
By the middle of April, 1863, Hooker had his army in shape to advance, and on the 28th began to cross the Rappahannock for the purpose of attacking Lee, who held a strong position in the rear of Fredericksburg. On April 30 Hooker's army was all across and bivouacked that night at Chancellorsville.
HOOKER'S ACROSS
[May 1, 1863]