Come, rouse up, ye bold-hearted Whigs of Kentucky,And show the nation what deeds you can do;The high-road to victory lies open before yeWhile led to the charge by Old Tippecanoe.When Indians were scalping our friends and our brothers,To Ohio's frontier he gallantly flew;And thousands of innocent infants, and mothers,Were saved by the valor of Tippecanoe.When savage Tecumseh was rallying his forces,In innocent blood his hands to imbrue;Our hero despis'd all his bloody associates,And won the proud name of Old Tippecanoe.And when this Tecumseh and his brother Proctor,To capture Fort Meigs their utmost did do;Our gallant old hero again play'd the Doctor,And gave them a dose like at Tippecanoe.And then on the Thames, on the fifth of October,Where musket balls whizz'd as they flew;He blasted their prospects, and rent them asunder,Just like he had done on the Tippecanoe.Let Greece praise the deeds of her great AlexanderAnd Rome boast of Cæsar and Scipio too;Just like Cincinnatus, that noble commander,Is our old Hero of Tippecanoe.For when the foes of his country no longer could harm her,To the shades of retirement he quickly withdrew;And now at North Bend see theHONEST OLD FARMER,Who won the green laurel at Tippecanoe.And when to the National Council elected,The good of his country still see him pursue,And every poor man by him thus protected,Should ever remember "Old Tippecanoe."And now from retirement the People doth call him,Because he is Honest and Qualified too;And for One Term they soon will install himAs President—"Hero of Tippecanoe."Letknavescall him "coward," andfoolscall him "granny"To answer theirpurpose—this never will do;When rallied around him we'll routlittleVanny,And give him a Thames—or a fullWaterloo.The Republican banner of Freedom is flying,The Eagle of Liberty soars in your view;Then rally my hearties—all slanders defying,And thunder huzza! for "Old Tippecanoe."Among the supporters of brave General Jackson,There are many Republicans, honest and true,To such we say "come out from among them,"And "go it for" Tyler and "Tippecanoe."
Come, rouse up, ye bold-hearted Whigs of Kentucky,And show the nation what deeds you can do;The high-road to victory lies open before yeWhile led to the charge by Old Tippecanoe.When Indians were scalping our friends and our brothers,To Ohio's frontier he gallantly flew;And thousands of innocent infants, and mothers,Were saved by the valor of Tippecanoe.When savage Tecumseh was rallying his forces,In innocent blood his hands to imbrue;Our hero despis'd all his bloody associates,And won the proud name of Old Tippecanoe.And when this Tecumseh and his brother Proctor,To capture Fort Meigs their utmost did do;Our gallant old hero again play'd the Doctor,And gave them a dose like at Tippecanoe.And then on the Thames, on the fifth of October,Where musket balls whizz'd as they flew;He blasted their prospects, and rent them asunder,Just like he had done on the Tippecanoe.Let Greece praise the deeds of her great AlexanderAnd Rome boast of Cæsar and Scipio too;Just like Cincinnatus, that noble commander,Is our old Hero of Tippecanoe.For when the foes of his country no longer could harm her,To the shades of retirement he quickly withdrew;And now at North Bend see theHONEST OLD FARMER,Who won the green laurel at Tippecanoe.And when to the National Council elected,The good of his country still see him pursue,And every poor man by him thus protected,Should ever remember "Old Tippecanoe."And now from retirement the People doth call him,Because he is Honest and Qualified too;And for One Term they soon will install himAs President—"Hero of Tippecanoe."Letknavescall him "coward," andfoolscall him "granny"To answer theirpurpose—this never will do;When rallied around him we'll routlittleVanny,And give him a Thames—or a fullWaterloo.The Republican banner of Freedom is flying,The Eagle of Liberty soars in your view;Then rally my hearties—all slanders defying,And thunder huzza! for "Old Tippecanoe."Among the supporters of brave General Jackson,There are many Republicans, honest and true,To such we say "come out from among them,"And "go it for" Tyler and "Tippecanoe."
Come, rouse up, ye bold-hearted Whigs of Kentucky,And show the nation what deeds you can do;The high-road to victory lies open before yeWhile led to the charge by Old Tippecanoe.
When Indians were scalping our friends and our brothers,To Ohio's frontier he gallantly flew;And thousands of innocent infants, and mothers,Were saved by the valor of Tippecanoe.
When savage Tecumseh was rallying his forces,In innocent blood his hands to imbrue;Our hero despis'd all his bloody associates,And won the proud name of Old Tippecanoe.
And when this Tecumseh and his brother Proctor,To capture Fort Meigs their utmost did do;Our gallant old hero again play'd the Doctor,And gave them a dose like at Tippecanoe.
And then on the Thames, on the fifth of October,Where musket balls whizz'd as they flew;He blasted their prospects, and rent them asunder,Just like he had done on the Tippecanoe.
Let Greece praise the deeds of her great AlexanderAnd Rome boast of Cæsar and Scipio too;Just like Cincinnatus, that noble commander,Is our old Hero of Tippecanoe.
For when the foes of his country no longer could harm her,To the shades of retirement he quickly withdrew;And now at North Bend see theHONEST OLD FARMER,Who won the green laurel at Tippecanoe.
And when to the National Council elected,The good of his country still see him pursue,And every poor man by him thus protected,Should ever remember "Old Tippecanoe."
And now from retirement the People doth call him,Because he is Honest and Qualified too;And for One Term they soon will install himAs President—"Hero of Tippecanoe."
Letknavescall him "coward," andfoolscall him "granny"To answer theirpurpose—this never will do;When rallied around him we'll routlittleVanny,And give him a Thames—or a fullWaterloo.
The Republican banner of Freedom is flying,The Eagle of Liberty soars in your view;Then rally my hearties—all slanders defying,And thunder huzza! for "Old Tippecanoe."
Among the supporters of brave General Jackson,There are many Republicans, honest and true,To such we say "come out from among them,"And "go it for" Tyler and "Tippecanoe."
Harrison was inaugurated March 4, 1841. He was at that time sixty-eight years of age, but he took up the work of his office with a vigor almost youthful. On March 27, however, he contracted a chill, pneumonia developed, and he died April 4. The vice-president, John Tyler, at once took the oath of office as president.
Harrison was inaugurated March 4, 1841. He was at that time sixty-eight years of age, but he took up the work of his office with a vigor almost youthful. On March 27, however, he contracted a chill, pneumonia developed, and he died April 4. The vice-president, John Tyler, at once took the oath of office as president.
THE DEATH OF HARRISON
[April 4, 1841]
What! soar'd the old eagle to die at the sun!Lies he stiff with spread wings at the goal he had won!Are there spirits more blest than the "Planet of Even,"Who mount to their zenith, then melt into Heaven—No waning of fire, no quenching of ray,But rising, still rising, when passing away?Farewell, gallant eagle! thou'rt buried in light!God-speed into Heaven, lost star of our night!Death! Death in the White House! Ah, never before,Trod his skeleton foot on the President's floor!He is look'd for in hovel, and dreaded in hall—The king in his closet keeps hatchment and pall—The youth in his birthplace, the old man at home,Make clean from the door-stone the path to the tomb;—But the lord of this mansion was cradled not here—In a churchyard far-off stands his beckoning bier!He is here as the wave-crest heaves flashing on high—As the arrow is stopp'd by its prize in the sky—The arrow to earth, and the foam to the shore—Death finds them when swiftness and sparkle are o'er—But Harrison's death fills the climax of story—He went with his old stride—from glory to glory!Lay his sword on his breast! There's no spot on its bladeIn whose cankering breath his bright laurels will fade!'Twas the first to lead on at humanity's call—It was stay'd with sweet mercy when "glory" was all!As calm in the council as gallant in war,He fought for its country and not its "hurrah!"In the path of the hero with pity he trod—Let him pass—with his sword—to the presence of God!What more? Shall we on with his ashes? Yet, stay!He hath ruled the wide realm of a king in his day!At his word, like a monarch's, went treasure and land—The bright gold of thousands has pass'd through his hand.Is there nothing to show of his glittering hoard?No jewel to deck the rude hilt of his sword—No trappings—no horses?—what had he, but now?On!—on with his ashes!—HE LEFT BUT HIS PLOUGH!Braveold Cincinnatus! Unwind ye his sheet!Let him sleep as he lived—with his purse at this feet!Follow now, as ye list! The first mourner to-dayIs the nation—whose father is taken away!Wife, children, and neighbor, may moan on his knell—He was "lover and friend" to his country, as well!For the stars on our banner, grown suddenly dim,Let us weep, in our darkness—but weep not for him!Not for him—who, departing, leaves millions in tears!Not for him—who has died full of honor and years!Not for him—who ascended Fame's ladder so highFrom the round at the top he has stepp'd to the sky!Nathaniel Parker Willis.
What! soar'd the old eagle to die at the sun!Lies he stiff with spread wings at the goal he had won!Are there spirits more blest than the "Planet of Even,"Who mount to their zenith, then melt into Heaven—No waning of fire, no quenching of ray,But rising, still rising, when passing away?Farewell, gallant eagle! thou'rt buried in light!God-speed into Heaven, lost star of our night!Death! Death in the White House! Ah, never before,Trod his skeleton foot on the President's floor!He is look'd for in hovel, and dreaded in hall—The king in his closet keeps hatchment and pall—The youth in his birthplace, the old man at home,Make clean from the door-stone the path to the tomb;—But the lord of this mansion was cradled not here—In a churchyard far-off stands his beckoning bier!He is here as the wave-crest heaves flashing on high—As the arrow is stopp'd by its prize in the sky—The arrow to earth, and the foam to the shore—Death finds them when swiftness and sparkle are o'er—But Harrison's death fills the climax of story—He went with his old stride—from glory to glory!Lay his sword on his breast! There's no spot on its bladeIn whose cankering breath his bright laurels will fade!'Twas the first to lead on at humanity's call—It was stay'd with sweet mercy when "glory" was all!As calm in the council as gallant in war,He fought for its country and not its "hurrah!"In the path of the hero with pity he trod—Let him pass—with his sword—to the presence of God!What more? Shall we on with his ashes? Yet, stay!He hath ruled the wide realm of a king in his day!At his word, like a monarch's, went treasure and land—The bright gold of thousands has pass'd through his hand.Is there nothing to show of his glittering hoard?No jewel to deck the rude hilt of his sword—No trappings—no horses?—what had he, but now?On!—on with his ashes!—HE LEFT BUT HIS PLOUGH!Braveold Cincinnatus! Unwind ye his sheet!Let him sleep as he lived—with his purse at this feet!Follow now, as ye list! The first mourner to-dayIs the nation—whose father is taken away!Wife, children, and neighbor, may moan on his knell—He was "lover and friend" to his country, as well!For the stars on our banner, grown suddenly dim,Let us weep, in our darkness—but weep not for him!Not for him—who, departing, leaves millions in tears!Not for him—who has died full of honor and years!Not for him—who ascended Fame's ladder so highFrom the round at the top he has stepp'd to the sky!Nathaniel Parker Willis.
What! soar'd the old eagle to die at the sun!Lies he stiff with spread wings at the goal he had won!Are there spirits more blest than the "Planet of Even,"Who mount to their zenith, then melt into Heaven—No waning of fire, no quenching of ray,But rising, still rising, when passing away?Farewell, gallant eagle! thou'rt buried in light!God-speed into Heaven, lost star of our night!
Death! Death in the White House! Ah, never before,Trod his skeleton foot on the President's floor!He is look'd for in hovel, and dreaded in hall—The king in his closet keeps hatchment and pall—The youth in his birthplace, the old man at home,Make clean from the door-stone the path to the tomb;—But the lord of this mansion was cradled not here—In a churchyard far-off stands his beckoning bier!He is here as the wave-crest heaves flashing on high—As the arrow is stopp'd by its prize in the sky—The arrow to earth, and the foam to the shore—Death finds them when swiftness and sparkle are o'er—But Harrison's death fills the climax of story—He went with his old stride—from glory to glory!
Lay his sword on his breast! There's no spot on its bladeIn whose cankering breath his bright laurels will fade!'Twas the first to lead on at humanity's call—It was stay'd with sweet mercy when "glory" was all!As calm in the council as gallant in war,He fought for its country and not its "hurrah!"In the path of the hero with pity he trod—Let him pass—with his sword—to the presence of God!
What more? Shall we on with his ashes? Yet, stay!He hath ruled the wide realm of a king in his day!At his word, like a monarch's, went treasure and land—The bright gold of thousands has pass'd through his hand.Is there nothing to show of his glittering hoard?No jewel to deck the rude hilt of his sword—No trappings—no horses?—what had he, but now?On!—on with his ashes!—HE LEFT BUT HIS PLOUGH!Braveold Cincinnatus! Unwind ye his sheet!Let him sleep as he lived—with his purse at this feet!
Follow now, as ye list! The first mourner to-dayIs the nation—whose father is taken away!Wife, children, and neighbor, may moan on his knell—He was "lover and friend" to his country, as well!For the stars on our banner, grown suddenly dim,Let us weep, in our darkness—but weep not for him!Not for him—who, departing, leaves millions in tears!Not for him—who has died full of honor and years!Not for him—who ascended Fame's ladder so highFrom the round at the top he has stepp'd to the sky!
Nathaniel Parker Willis.
THE WAR WITH MEXICO
In 1821 Mexico acquired her independence of Spain, but the country became the prey of military adventurers, who were made presidents by proclamation, and retained office as long as they had an army to support them. In 1834 Santa Anna, who was in power at the time, abolished the constitution and established a military despotism. The citizens of the province of Texas, which had been largely settled from the United States, revolted and declared their independence. General Cos, the military governor, and fifteen hundred men, were besieged at Bejar, and forced to surrender, after a desperate assault led by Benjamin R. Milam.
In 1821 Mexico acquired her independence of Spain, but the country became the prey of military adventurers, who were made presidents by proclamation, and retained office as long as they had an army to support them. In 1834 Santa Anna, who was in power at the time, abolished the constitution and established a military despotism. The citizens of the province of Texas, which had been largely settled from the United States, revolted and declared their independence. General Cos, the military governor, and fifteen hundred men, were besieged at Bejar, and forced to surrender, after a desperate assault led by Benjamin R. Milam.
THE VALOR OF BEN MILAM
[December 5-11, 1835]
Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio?Such was the thrilling word we heard in the chill December glow;Such was the thrilling word we heard, and a ringing, answering cryWent up from the dun adobe walls to the cloudless Texas sky.He had won from the reek of a Mexique jail back without map or chart,With his mother-wit and his hero-grit and his stanch Kentucky heart;He had trudged by vale and by mountain trail, and by thorny and thirsty plain,And now, with joy on his grizzled brow, he had come to his own again.They're the spawn of Hell!we heard him tell;they will knife and lie and cheat;At the board of none of the swarthy horde would I deign to sit at meat;They hold it naught that I bled and fought when Spain was their ruthless foe;Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio?It was four to one, not gun for gun, but never a curse cared we,Three hundred faithful and fearless men who had sworn to make Texas free.It was mighty odds, by all the gods, this brute of the Mexique dam,But it was not much for heroes such as followed old Ben Milam!With rifle-crack and sabre-hack we drove them back in the street;From house to house in the red carouse we hastened their flying feet;And ever that shout kept pealing out with a swift and sure death-blow:Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio?Behind the walls from the hurtling balls Cos cowered and swore in his beard,While we slashed and slew from dawn till dew, and, Bexar, how we cheered!But ere failed each ruse, and the white of truce on the failing day was thrown,Our fearless soul had gone to the goal, the Land of the Great Unknown.Death brought the darksome boon too soon to this truest one of the true,Or, men of the fated Alamo, Milam had died with you!So when their names that now are Fame's—the scorner of braggart sham;—In song be praised, let a rouse be raised for the name of Ben Milam!Clinton Scollard.
Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio?Such was the thrilling word we heard in the chill December glow;Such was the thrilling word we heard, and a ringing, answering cryWent up from the dun adobe walls to the cloudless Texas sky.He had won from the reek of a Mexique jail back without map or chart,With his mother-wit and his hero-grit and his stanch Kentucky heart;He had trudged by vale and by mountain trail, and by thorny and thirsty plain,And now, with joy on his grizzled brow, he had come to his own again.They're the spawn of Hell!we heard him tell;they will knife and lie and cheat;At the board of none of the swarthy horde would I deign to sit at meat;They hold it naught that I bled and fought when Spain was their ruthless foe;Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio?It was four to one, not gun for gun, but never a curse cared we,Three hundred faithful and fearless men who had sworn to make Texas free.It was mighty odds, by all the gods, this brute of the Mexique dam,But it was not much for heroes such as followed old Ben Milam!With rifle-crack and sabre-hack we drove them back in the street;From house to house in the red carouse we hastened their flying feet;And ever that shout kept pealing out with a swift and sure death-blow:Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio?Behind the walls from the hurtling balls Cos cowered and swore in his beard,While we slashed and slew from dawn till dew, and, Bexar, how we cheered!But ere failed each ruse, and the white of truce on the failing day was thrown,Our fearless soul had gone to the goal, the Land of the Great Unknown.Death brought the darksome boon too soon to this truest one of the true,Or, men of the fated Alamo, Milam had died with you!So when their names that now are Fame's—the scorner of braggart sham;—In song be praised, let a rouse be raised for the name of Ben Milam!Clinton Scollard.
Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio?Such was the thrilling word we heard in the chill December glow;Such was the thrilling word we heard, and a ringing, answering cryWent up from the dun adobe walls to the cloudless Texas sky.
He had won from the reek of a Mexique jail back without map or chart,With his mother-wit and his hero-grit and his stanch Kentucky heart;He had trudged by vale and by mountain trail, and by thorny and thirsty plain,And now, with joy on his grizzled brow, he had come to his own again.
They're the spawn of Hell!we heard him tell;they will knife and lie and cheat;At the board of none of the swarthy horde would I deign to sit at meat;They hold it naught that I bled and fought when Spain was their ruthless foe;Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio?
It was four to one, not gun for gun, but never a curse cared we,Three hundred faithful and fearless men who had sworn to make Texas free.It was mighty odds, by all the gods, this brute of the Mexique dam,But it was not much for heroes such as followed old Ben Milam!
With rifle-crack and sabre-hack we drove them back in the street;From house to house in the red carouse we hastened their flying feet;And ever that shout kept pealing out with a swift and sure death-blow:Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio?
Behind the walls from the hurtling balls Cos cowered and swore in his beard,While we slashed and slew from dawn till dew, and, Bexar, how we cheered!But ere failed each ruse, and the white of truce on the failing day was thrown,Our fearless soul had gone to the goal, the Land of the Great Unknown.
Death brought the darksome boon too soon to this truest one of the true,Or, men of the fated Alamo, Milam had died with you!So when their names that now are Fame's—the scorner of braggart sham;—In song be praised, let a rouse be raised for the name of Ben Milam!
Clinton Scollard.
BEN MILAM
Oft shall the soldier think of thee,Thou dauntless leader of the brave,Who on the heights of TyrannyWon Freedom and a glorious grave.And o'er thy tomb shall pilgrims weep,And pray to heaven in murmurs lowThat peaceful be the hero's sleepWho conquered San Antonio.Enshrined on Honor's deathless scroll,A nation's thanks will tell thy fame;Long as her beauteous rivers rollShall Freedom's votaries hymn thy name.For bravest of the Texan clime,Who fought to make her children free,Was Milam, and his death sublimeLinked with undying Liberty!William H. Wharton.
Oft shall the soldier think of thee,Thou dauntless leader of the brave,Who on the heights of TyrannyWon Freedom and a glorious grave.And o'er thy tomb shall pilgrims weep,And pray to heaven in murmurs lowThat peaceful be the hero's sleepWho conquered San Antonio.Enshrined on Honor's deathless scroll,A nation's thanks will tell thy fame;Long as her beauteous rivers rollShall Freedom's votaries hymn thy name.For bravest of the Texan clime,Who fought to make her children free,Was Milam, and his death sublimeLinked with undying Liberty!William H. Wharton.
Oft shall the soldier think of thee,Thou dauntless leader of the brave,Who on the heights of TyrannyWon Freedom and a glorious grave.
And o'er thy tomb shall pilgrims weep,And pray to heaven in murmurs lowThat peaceful be the hero's sleepWho conquered San Antonio.
Enshrined on Honor's deathless scroll,A nation's thanks will tell thy fame;Long as her beauteous rivers rollShall Freedom's votaries hymn thy name.
For bravest of the Texan clime,Who fought to make her children free,Was Milam, and his death sublimeLinked with undying Liberty!
William H. Wharton.
On February 23, 1836, Santa Anna appeared at the head of two thousand men before San Antonio. The town was guarded by a fort called the Alamo, held by Colonel William Travis and one hundred and fifty Texans. Travis sent to Gonzales for reinforcements and shut himself up in the fort. A few days later, thirty-two men got through the Mexican lines, swelling his force to one hundred and eighty-three. After a terrific struggle, the Mexicans carried the fort on March 6. Not one of the garrison survived.
On February 23, 1836, Santa Anna appeared at the head of two thousand men before San Antonio. The town was guarded by a fort called the Alamo, held by Colonel William Travis and one hundred and fifty Texans. Travis sent to Gonzales for reinforcements and shut himself up in the fort. A few days later, thirty-two men got through the Mexican lines, swelling his force to one hundred and eighty-three. After a terrific struggle, the Mexicans carried the fort on March 6. Not one of the garrison survived.
THE MEN OF THE ALAMO
[February 23-March 6, 1836]
To Houston at Gonzales town, ride, Ranger, for your life,Nor stop to say good-bye to-day to home, or child, or wife;But pass the word from ranch to ranch, to every Texan sword,That fifty hundred Mexicans have crossed the Nueces ford,With Castrillon and perjured Cos, Sesmá and Almontê,And Santa Anna ravenous for vengeance and for prey!They smite the land with fire and sword; the grass shall never growWhere northward sweeps that locust herd on San Antonio!Now who will bar the foeman's path, to gain a breathing space,Till Houston and his scattered men shall meet him face to face?Who holds his life as less than naught when home and honor call,And counts the guerdon full and fair for liberty to fall?Oh, who but Barrett Travis, the bravest of them all!With seven score of riflemen to play the rancher's game,And feed a counter-fire to halt the sweeping prairie flame;For Bowie of the broken blade is there to cheer them on,With Evans of Concepcion, who conquered Castrillon,And o'er their heads the Lone Star flag defiant floats on high,And no man thinks of yielding, and no man fears to die.But ere the siege is held a week a cry is heard without,A clash of arms, a rifle peal, the Ranger's ringing shout,And two-and-thirty beardless boys have bravely hewed their wayTo die with Travis if they must, to conquer if they may.Was ever valor held so cheap in Glory's mart beforeIn all the days of chivalry, in all the deeds of war?But once again the foemen gaze in wonderment and fearTo see a stranger break their lines and hear the Texans cheer.God! how they cheered to welcome him, those spent and starving men!For Davy Crockett by their side was worth an army then.The wounded ones forgot their wounds; the dying drew a breathTo hail the king of border men, then turned to laugh at death.For all knew Davy Crockett, blithe and generous as bold,And strong and rugged as the quartz that hides its heart of gold.His simple creed for word or deed true as the bullet sped,And rung the target straight: "Be sure you're right, then go ahead!"And were they right who fought the fight for Texas by his side?They questioned not; they faltered not; they only fought and died.Who hath an enemy like these, God's mercy slay him straight!—A thousand Mexicans lay deadoutside the convent gate,And half a thousand more must die before the fortress falls,And still the tide of war beats high around the leaguered walls.At last the bloody breach is won; the weakened lines give way;The wolves are swarming in the court; the lions stand at bay.The leader meets them at the breach, and wins the soldier's prize;A foeman's bosom sheathes his sword when gallant Travis dies.Now let the victor feast at will until his crest be red—We may not know what raptures fill the vulture with the dead.Let Santa Anna's valiant sword right bravely hew and hackThe senseless corse; its hands are cold; they will not strike him back.Let Bowie die, but 'ware the hand that wields his deadly knife;Four went to slay, and one comes back, so dear he sells his life.And last of all let Crockett fall, too proud to sue for grace,So grand in death the butcher dared not look upon his face.But far on San Jacinto's field the Texan toils are set,And Alamo's dread memory the Texan steel shall whet.And Fame shall tell their deeds who fell till all the years be run."Thermopylæ left one alive—the Alamo left none."James Jeffrey Roche.
To Houston at Gonzales town, ride, Ranger, for your life,Nor stop to say good-bye to-day to home, or child, or wife;But pass the word from ranch to ranch, to every Texan sword,That fifty hundred Mexicans have crossed the Nueces ford,With Castrillon and perjured Cos, Sesmá and Almontê,And Santa Anna ravenous for vengeance and for prey!They smite the land with fire and sword; the grass shall never growWhere northward sweeps that locust herd on San Antonio!Now who will bar the foeman's path, to gain a breathing space,Till Houston and his scattered men shall meet him face to face?Who holds his life as less than naught when home and honor call,And counts the guerdon full and fair for liberty to fall?Oh, who but Barrett Travis, the bravest of them all!With seven score of riflemen to play the rancher's game,And feed a counter-fire to halt the sweeping prairie flame;For Bowie of the broken blade is there to cheer them on,With Evans of Concepcion, who conquered Castrillon,And o'er their heads the Lone Star flag defiant floats on high,And no man thinks of yielding, and no man fears to die.But ere the siege is held a week a cry is heard without,A clash of arms, a rifle peal, the Ranger's ringing shout,And two-and-thirty beardless boys have bravely hewed their wayTo die with Travis if they must, to conquer if they may.Was ever valor held so cheap in Glory's mart beforeIn all the days of chivalry, in all the deeds of war?But once again the foemen gaze in wonderment and fearTo see a stranger break their lines and hear the Texans cheer.God! how they cheered to welcome him, those spent and starving men!For Davy Crockett by their side was worth an army then.The wounded ones forgot their wounds; the dying drew a breathTo hail the king of border men, then turned to laugh at death.For all knew Davy Crockett, blithe and generous as bold,And strong and rugged as the quartz that hides its heart of gold.His simple creed for word or deed true as the bullet sped,And rung the target straight: "Be sure you're right, then go ahead!"And were they right who fought the fight for Texas by his side?They questioned not; they faltered not; they only fought and died.Who hath an enemy like these, God's mercy slay him straight!—A thousand Mexicans lay deadoutside the convent gate,And half a thousand more must die before the fortress falls,And still the tide of war beats high around the leaguered walls.At last the bloody breach is won; the weakened lines give way;The wolves are swarming in the court; the lions stand at bay.The leader meets them at the breach, and wins the soldier's prize;A foeman's bosom sheathes his sword when gallant Travis dies.Now let the victor feast at will until his crest be red—We may not know what raptures fill the vulture with the dead.Let Santa Anna's valiant sword right bravely hew and hackThe senseless corse; its hands are cold; they will not strike him back.Let Bowie die, but 'ware the hand that wields his deadly knife;Four went to slay, and one comes back, so dear he sells his life.And last of all let Crockett fall, too proud to sue for grace,So grand in death the butcher dared not look upon his face.But far on San Jacinto's field the Texan toils are set,And Alamo's dread memory the Texan steel shall whet.And Fame shall tell their deeds who fell till all the years be run."Thermopylæ left one alive—the Alamo left none."James Jeffrey Roche.
To Houston at Gonzales town, ride, Ranger, for your life,Nor stop to say good-bye to-day to home, or child, or wife;But pass the word from ranch to ranch, to every Texan sword,That fifty hundred Mexicans have crossed the Nueces ford,With Castrillon and perjured Cos, Sesmá and Almontê,And Santa Anna ravenous for vengeance and for prey!They smite the land with fire and sword; the grass shall never growWhere northward sweeps that locust herd on San Antonio!
Now who will bar the foeman's path, to gain a breathing space,Till Houston and his scattered men shall meet him face to face?Who holds his life as less than naught when home and honor call,And counts the guerdon full and fair for liberty to fall?Oh, who but Barrett Travis, the bravest of them all!With seven score of riflemen to play the rancher's game,And feed a counter-fire to halt the sweeping prairie flame;For Bowie of the broken blade is there to cheer them on,With Evans of Concepcion, who conquered Castrillon,And o'er their heads the Lone Star flag defiant floats on high,And no man thinks of yielding, and no man fears to die.
But ere the siege is held a week a cry is heard without,A clash of arms, a rifle peal, the Ranger's ringing shout,And two-and-thirty beardless boys have bravely hewed their wayTo die with Travis if they must, to conquer if they may.Was ever valor held so cheap in Glory's mart beforeIn all the days of chivalry, in all the deeds of war?But once again the foemen gaze in wonderment and fearTo see a stranger break their lines and hear the Texans cheer.God! how they cheered to welcome him, those spent and starving men!For Davy Crockett by their side was worth an army then.The wounded ones forgot their wounds; the dying drew a breathTo hail the king of border men, then turned to laugh at death.For all knew Davy Crockett, blithe and generous as bold,And strong and rugged as the quartz that hides its heart of gold.His simple creed for word or deed true as the bullet sped,And rung the target straight: "Be sure you're right, then go ahead!"
And were they right who fought the fight for Texas by his side?They questioned not; they faltered not; they only fought and died.Who hath an enemy like these, God's mercy slay him straight!—A thousand Mexicans lay deadoutside the convent gate,And half a thousand more must die before the fortress falls,And still the tide of war beats high around the leaguered walls.At last the bloody breach is won; the weakened lines give way;The wolves are swarming in the court; the lions stand at bay.The leader meets them at the breach, and wins the soldier's prize;A foeman's bosom sheathes his sword when gallant Travis dies.Now let the victor feast at will until his crest be red—We may not know what raptures fill the vulture with the dead.Let Santa Anna's valiant sword right bravely hew and hackThe senseless corse; its hands are cold; they will not strike him back.Let Bowie die, but 'ware the hand that wields his deadly knife;Four went to slay, and one comes back, so dear he sells his life.And last of all let Crockett fall, too proud to sue for grace,So grand in death the butcher dared not look upon his face.
But far on San Jacinto's field the Texan toils are set,And Alamo's dread memory the Texan steel shall whet.And Fame shall tell their deeds who fell till all the years be run."Thermopylæ left one alive—the Alamo left none."
James Jeffrey Roche.
THE DEFENCE OF THE ALAMO
[March 6, 1835]
Santa Ana came storming, as a storm might come;There was rumble of cannon; there was rattle of blade;There was cavalry, infantry, bugle and drum—Full seven thousand in pomp and parade.The chivalry, flower of Mexico;And a gaunt two hundred in the Alamo!And thirty lay sick, and some were shot through;For the siege had been bitter, and bloody, and long."Surrender, or die!"—"Men, what willyoudo?"And Travis, great Travis, drew sword, quick and strong;Drew a line at his feet.... "Will you come? Will you go?Idie with my wounded, in the Alamo."The Bowie gasped, "Lead me over that line!"Then Crockett, one hand to the sick, one hand to his gun,Crossed with him; then never a word or a signTill all, sick or well, all, all save but one,One man. Then a woman stepped, praying, and slowAcross; to die at her post in the Alamo.Then that one coward fled, in the night, in that nightWhen all men silently prayed and thoughtOf home; of to-morrow; of God and the right,Till dawn; and with dawn came Travis's cannon-shot,In answer to insolent Mexico,From the old bell-tower of the Alamo.Then came Santa Ana; a crescent of flame!Then the red escalade; then the fight hand to hand;Such an unequal fight as never had nameSince the Persian hordes butchered that doomed Spartan band.All day—all day and all night; and the morning? so slow,Through the battle smoke mantling the Alamo.Now silence! Such silence! Two thousand lay deadIn a crescent outside! And within? Not a breathSave the gasp of a woman, with gory gashed head,All alone, all alone there, waiting for death;And she but a nurse. Yet when shall we knowAnother like this of the Alamo?Shout "Victory, victory, victory ho!"I say 'tis not always to the hosts that win!I say that the victory, high or low,Is given the hero who grapples with sin,Or legion or single; just asking to knowWhen duty fronts death in his Alamo.Joaquin Miller.
Santa Ana came storming, as a storm might come;There was rumble of cannon; there was rattle of blade;There was cavalry, infantry, bugle and drum—Full seven thousand in pomp and parade.The chivalry, flower of Mexico;And a gaunt two hundred in the Alamo!And thirty lay sick, and some were shot through;For the siege had been bitter, and bloody, and long."Surrender, or die!"—"Men, what willyoudo?"And Travis, great Travis, drew sword, quick and strong;Drew a line at his feet.... "Will you come? Will you go?Idie with my wounded, in the Alamo."The Bowie gasped, "Lead me over that line!"Then Crockett, one hand to the sick, one hand to his gun,Crossed with him; then never a word or a signTill all, sick or well, all, all save but one,One man. Then a woman stepped, praying, and slowAcross; to die at her post in the Alamo.Then that one coward fled, in the night, in that nightWhen all men silently prayed and thoughtOf home; of to-morrow; of God and the right,Till dawn; and with dawn came Travis's cannon-shot,In answer to insolent Mexico,From the old bell-tower of the Alamo.Then came Santa Ana; a crescent of flame!Then the red escalade; then the fight hand to hand;Such an unequal fight as never had nameSince the Persian hordes butchered that doomed Spartan band.All day—all day and all night; and the morning? so slow,Through the battle smoke mantling the Alamo.Now silence! Such silence! Two thousand lay deadIn a crescent outside! And within? Not a breathSave the gasp of a woman, with gory gashed head,All alone, all alone there, waiting for death;And she but a nurse. Yet when shall we knowAnother like this of the Alamo?Shout "Victory, victory, victory ho!"I say 'tis not always to the hosts that win!I say that the victory, high or low,Is given the hero who grapples with sin,Or legion or single; just asking to knowWhen duty fronts death in his Alamo.Joaquin Miller.
Santa Ana came storming, as a storm might come;There was rumble of cannon; there was rattle of blade;There was cavalry, infantry, bugle and drum—Full seven thousand in pomp and parade.The chivalry, flower of Mexico;And a gaunt two hundred in the Alamo!
And thirty lay sick, and some were shot through;For the siege had been bitter, and bloody, and long."Surrender, or die!"—"Men, what willyoudo?"And Travis, great Travis, drew sword, quick and strong;Drew a line at his feet.... "Will you come? Will you go?Idie with my wounded, in the Alamo."
The Bowie gasped, "Lead me over that line!"Then Crockett, one hand to the sick, one hand to his gun,Crossed with him; then never a word or a signTill all, sick or well, all, all save but one,One man. Then a woman stepped, praying, and slowAcross; to die at her post in the Alamo.
Then that one coward fled, in the night, in that nightWhen all men silently prayed and thoughtOf home; of to-morrow; of God and the right,Till dawn; and with dawn came Travis's cannon-shot,In answer to insolent Mexico,From the old bell-tower of the Alamo.
Then came Santa Ana; a crescent of flame!Then the red escalade; then the fight hand to hand;Such an unequal fight as never had nameSince the Persian hordes butchered that doomed Spartan band.All day—all day and all night; and the morning? so slow,Through the battle smoke mantling the Alamo.
Now silence! Such silence! Two thousand lay deadIn a crescent outside! And within? Not a breathSave the gasp of a woman, with gory gashed head,All alone, all alone there, waiting for death;And she but a nurse. Yet when shall we knowAnother like this of the Alamo?
Shout "Victory, victory, victory ho!"I say 'tis not always to the hosts that win!I say that the victory, high or low,Is given the hero who grapples with sin,Or legion or single; just asking to knowWhen duty fronts death in his Alamo.
Joaquin Miller.
A few days later, at Goliad, Colonel Fannin and four hundred soldiers surrendered to the Mexicans under solemn assurances that their lives would be spared. On March 27 the prisoners were marched out under guard and shot down like cattle in the shambles. This massacre aroused the wildest indignation, and recruits flocked to the army under Houston, and on April 21 surprised Santa Anna at San Jacinto, routed the Mexicans, and inflicted a terrible vengeance.
A few days later, at Goliad, Colonel Fannin and four hundred soldiers surrendered to the Mexicans under solemn assurances that their lives would be spared. On March 27 the prisoners were marched out under guard and shot down like cattle in the shambles. This massacre aroused the wildest indignation, and recruits flocked to the army under Houston, and on April 21 surprised Santa Anna at San Jacinto, routed the Mexicans, and inflicted a terrible vengeance.
THE FIGHT AT SAN JACINTO
[April 21, 1836]
"Now for a brisk and cheerful fight!"Said Harman, big and droll,As he coaxed his flint and steel for a light,And puffed at his cold clay bowl;"For we are a skulking lot," says he,"Of land-thieves hereabout,And the bold señores, two to one,Have come to smoke us out."Santa Anna and Castrillon,Almonte brave and gay,Portilla red from Goliad,And Cos with his smart array.Dulces and cigaritos,And the light guitar, ting-tum!Sant' Anna courts siesta—And Sam Houston taps his drum.The buck stands still in the timber—"Is't the patter of nuts that fall?"The foal of the wild mare whinnies—"Did he hear the Comanche call?"In the brake by the crawling bayouThe slinking she-wolves howl,And the mustang's snort in the river sedgeHas startled the paddling fowl.A soft low tap, and a muffled tap,And a roll not loud nor long—We would not break Sant' Anna's nap,Nor spoil Almonte's song.Saddles and knives and rifles!Lord! but the men were gladWhen Deaf Smith muttered "Alamo!"And Karnes hissed "Goliad!"The drummer tucked his sticks in his belt,And the fifer gripped his gun.Oh, for one free, wild Texan yell,And we took the slope in a run!But never a shout nor a shot we spent,Nor an oath nor a prayer that day,Till we faced the bravos, eye to eye,And then we blazed away.Then we knew the rapture of Ben Milam,And the glory that Travis made,With Bowie's lunge and Crockett's shot,And Fannin's dancing blade;And the heart of the fighter, bounding freeIn his joy so hot and mad—When Millard charged for Alamo,Lamar for Goliad.Deaf Smith rode straight, with reeking spur,Into the shock and rout:"I've hacked and burned the bayou bridge,There's no sneak's back-way out!"Muzzle or butt for Goliad,Pistol and blade and fist!Oh, for the knife that never glanced,And the gun that never missed!Dulces and cigaritos,Song and the mandolin!That gory swamp was a gruesome groveTo dance fandangos in.We bridged the bog with the sprawling herdThat fell in that frantic rout;We slew and slew till the sun set red,And the Texan star flashed out.John Williamson Palmer.
"Now for a brisk and cheerful fight!"Said Harman, big and droll,As he coaxed his flint and steel for a light,And puffed at his cold clay bowl;"For we are a skulking lot," says he,"Of land-thieves hereabout,And the bold señores, two to one,Have come to smoke us out."Santa Anna and Castrillon,Almonte brave and gay,Portilla red from Goliad,And Cos with his smart array.Dulces and cigaritos,And the light guitar, ting-tum!Sant' Anna courts siesta—And Sam Houston taps his drum.The buck stands still in the timber—"Is't the patter of nuts that fall?"The foal of the wild mare whinnies—"Did he hear the Comanche call?"In the brake by the crawling bayouThe slinking she-wolves howl,And the mustang's snort in the river sedgeHas startled the paddling fowl.A soft low tap, and a muffled tap,And a roll not loud nor long—We would not break Sant' Anna's nap,Nor spoil Almonte's song.Saddles and knives and rifles!Lord! but the men were gladWhen Deaf Smith muttered "Alamo!"And Karnes hissed "Goliad!"The drummer tucked his sticks in his belt,And the fifer gripped his gun.Oh, for one free, wild Texan yell,And we took the slope in a run!But never a shout nor a shot we spent,Nor an oath nor a prayer that day,Till we faced the bravos, eye to eye,And then we blazed away.Then we knew the rapture of Ben Milam,And the glory that Travis made,With Bowie's lunge and Crockett's shot,And Fannin's dancing blade;And the heart of the fighter, bounding freeIn his joy so hot and mad—When Millard charged for Alamo,Lamar for Goliad.Deaf Smith rode straight, with reeking spur,Into the shock and rout:"I've hacked and burned the bayou bridge,There's no sneak's back-way out!"Muzzle or butt for Goliad,Pistol and blade and fist!Oh, for the knife that never glanced,And the gun that never missed!Dulces and cigaritos,Song and the mandolin!That gory swamp was a gruesome groveTo dance fandangos in.We bridged the bog with the sprawling herdThat fell in that frantic rout;We slew and slew till the sun set red,And the Texan star flashed out.John Williamson Palmer.
"Now for a brisk and cheerful fight!"Said Harman, big and droll,As he coaxed his flint and steel for a light,And puffed at his cold clay bowl;"For we are a skulking lot," says he,"Of land-thieves hereabout,And the bold señores, two to one,Have come to smoke us out."
Santa Anna and Castrillon,Almonte brave and gay,Portilla red from Goliad,And Cos with his smart array.Dulces and cigaritos,And the light guitar, ting-tum!Sant' Anna courts siesta—And Sam Houston taps his drum.
The buck stands still in the timber—"Is't the patter of nuts that fall?"The foal of the wild mare whinnies—"Did he hear the Comanche call?"In the brake by the crawling bayouThe slinking she-wolves howl,And the mustang's snort in the river sedgeHas startled the paddling fowl.
A soft low tap, and a muffled tap,And a roll not loud nor long—We would not break Sant' Anna's nap,Nor spoil Almonte's song.Saddles and knives and rifles!Lord! but the men were gladWhen Deaf Smith muttered "Alamo!"And Karnes hissed "Goliad!"
The drummer tucked his sticks in his belt,And the fifer gripped his gun.Oh, for one free, wild Texan yell,And we took the slope in a run!But never a shout nor a shot we spent,Nor an oath nor a prayer that day,Till we faced the bravos, eye to eye,And then we blazed away.
Then we knew the rapture of Ben Milam,And the glory that Travis made,With Bowie's lunge and Crockett's shot,And Fannin's dancing blade;And the heart of the fighter, bounding freeIn his joy so hot and mad—When Millard charged for Alamo,Lamar for Goliad.
Deaf Smith rode straight, with reeking spur,Into the shock and rout:"I've hacked and burned the bayou bridge,There's no sneak's back-way out!"Muzzle or butt for Goliad,Pistol and blade and fist!Oh, for the knife that never glanced,And the gun that never missed!
Dulces and cigaritos,Song and the mandolin!That gory swamp was a gruesome groveTo dance fandangos in.We bridged the bog with the sprawling herdThat fell in that frantic rout;We slew and slew till the sun set red,And the Texan star flashed out.
John Williamson Palmer.
The victory at San Jacinto ended the war. Santa Anna at once signed a treaty recognizing the independence of Texas, and it was formally ratified May 14, 1836. The Republic of Texas was established, and commissioners were dispatched to Washington to secure recognition and proffer annexation.
The victory at San Jacinto ended the war. Santa Anna at once signed a treaty recognizing the independence of Texas, and it was formally ratified May 14, 1836. The Republic of Texas was established, and commissioners were dispatched to Washington to secure recognition and proffer annexation.
SONG OF TEXAS
Make room on our banner brightThat flaps in the lifting gale,For the orb that lit the fightIn Jacinto's storied vale.Through clouds, all dark of hue,It arose with radiant face;Oh, grant to a sister true,Ye stars, in your train a place!The blood of the Saxon flowsIn the veins of the men who cry,—"Give ear, give ear unto thoseWho pine for their native sky!We call on our MotherlandFor a home in Freedom's hall,—While stretching forth the hand,Oh, build no dividing wall!"The Mexican vaunteth no more;In strife we have tamed his pride;The coward raps not at your door,Speak out! shall it open wide?Oh, the wish of our hearts is strong,That the star of Jacinto's fightHave place in the flashing throngThat spangle your banner bright."William Henry Cuyler Hosmer.
Make room on our banner brightThat flaps in the lifting gale,For the orb that lit the fightIn Jacinto's storied vale.Through clouds, all dark of hue,It arose with radiant face;Oh, grant to a sister true,Ye stars, in your train a place!The blood of the Saxon flowsIn the veins of the men who cry,—"Give ear, give ear unto thoseWho pine for their native sky!We call on our MotherlandFor a home in Freedom's hall,—While stretching forth the hand,Oh, build no dividing wall!"The Mexican vaunteth no more;In strife we have tamed his pride;The coward raps not at your door,Speak out! shall it open wide?Oh, the wish of our hearts is strong,That the star of Jacinto's fightHave place in the flashing throngThat spangle your banner bright."William Henry Cuyler Hosmer.
Make room on our banner brightThat flaps in the lifting gale,For the orb that lit the fightIn Jacinto's storied vale.Through clouds, all dark of hue,It arose with radiant face;Oh, grant to a sister true,Ye stars, in your train a place!
The blood of the Saxon flowsIn the veins of the men who cry,—"Give ear, give ear unto thoseWho pine for their native sky!We call on our MotherlandFor a home in Freedom's hall,—While stretching forth the hand,Oh, build no dividing wall!
"The Mexican vaunteth no more;In strife we have tamed his pride;The coward raps not at your door,Speak out! shall it open wide?Oh, the wish of our hearts is strong,That the star of Jacinto's fightHave place in the flashing throngThat spangle your banner bright."
William Henry Cuyler Hosmer.
The question of the admission of Texas was destined to occasion the bitterest controversy that ever shook the Union. The struggle between the advocates of freedom and of slavery was at its height; the former feared that to annex Texas, with its two hundred thousand square miles, would be to seat the slave interests more firmly than ever in power. It would also involve war with Mexico. The controversy raged with unexampled venom, but on December 29, 1845, Texas was admitted to the Union.
The question of the admission of Texas was destined to occasion the bitterest controversy that ever shook the Union. The struggle between the advocates of freedom and of slavery was at its height; the former feared that to annex Texas, with its two hundred thousand square miles, would be to seat the slave interests more firmly than ever in power. It would also involve war with Mexico. The controversy raged with unexampled venom, but on December 29, 1845, Texas was admitted to the Union.
TEXAS
VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND
Up the hillside, down the glen,Rouse the sleeping citizen;Summon out the might of men!Like a lion growling low,Like a night-storm rising slow,Like the tread of unseen foe;It is coming, it is nigh!Stand your homes and altars by;On your own free thresholds die.Clang the bells in all your spires;On the gray hills of your siresFling to heaven your signal-fires.From Wachuset, lone and bleak,Unto Berkshire's tallest peak,Let the flame-tongued heralds speak.Oh, for God and duty stand,Heart to heart and hand to hand,Round the old graves of the land.Whoso shrinks or falters now,Whoso to the yoke would bow,Brand the craven on his brow!Freedom's soil hath only placeFor a free and fearless race,None for traitors false and base.Perish party, perish clan;Strike together while ye can,Like the arm of one strong man.Like that angel's voice sublime,Heard above a world of crime,Crying of the end of time;With one heart and with one mouth,Let the North unto the SouthSpeak the word befitting both:"What though Issachar be strong!Ye may load his back with wrongOvermuch and over long:"Patience with her cup o'errun,With her weary thread outspun,Murmurs that her work is done."Make our Union-bond a chain,Weak as tow in Freedom's strainLink by link shall snap in twain."Vainly shall your sand-wrought ropeBind the starry cluster up,Shattered over heaven's blue cope!"Give us bright though broken rays,Rather than eternal haze,Clouding o'er the full-orbed blaze."Take your land of sun and bloom;Only leave to Freedom roomFor her plough, and forge, and loom;"Take your slavery-blackened vales;Leave us but our own free gales,Blowing on our thousand sails."Boldly, or with treacherous art,Strike the blood-wrought chain apart;Break the Union's mighty heart;"Work the ruin, if ye will;Pluck upon your heads an illWhich shall grow and deepen still."With your bondman's right arm bare,With his heart of black despair,Stand alone, if stand ye dare!"Onward with your fell design;Dig the gulf and draw the line:Fire beneath your feet the mine:"Deeply, when the wide abyssYawns between your land and this,Shall ye feel your helplessness."By the hearth and in the bed,Shaken by a look or tread,Ye shall own a guilty dread."And the curse of unpaid toil,Downward through your generous soilLike a fire shall burn and spoil."Our bleak hills shall bud and blow,Vines our rocks shall overgrow,Plenty in our valleys flow;—"And when vengeance clouds your skies,Hither shall ye turn your eyes,As the lost on Paradise!"We but ask our rocky strand,Freedom's true and brother band,Freedom's strong and honest hand;"Valleys by the slave untrod,And the Pilgrim's mountain sod,Blessèd of our fathers' God!"John Greenleaf Whittier.
Up the hillside, down the glen,Rouse the sleeping citizen;Summon out the might of men!Like a lion growling low,Like a night-storm rising slow,Like the tread of unseen foe;It is coming, it is nigh!Stand your homes and altars by;On your own free thresholds die.Clang the bells in all your spires;On the gray hills of your siresFling to heaven your signal-fires.From Wachuset, lone and bleak,Unto Berkshire's tallest peak,Let the flame-tongued heralds speak.Oh, for God and duty stand,Heart to heart and hand to hand,Round the old graves of the land.Whoso shrinks or falters now,Whoso to the yoke would bow,Brand the craven on his brow!Freedom's soil hath only placeFor a free and fearless race,None for traitors false and base.Perish party, perish clan;Strike together while ye can,Like the arm of one strong man.Like that angel's voice sublime,Heard above a world of crime,Crying of the end of time;With one heart and with one mouth,Let the North unto the SouthSpeak the word befitting both:"What though Issachar be strong!Ye may load his back with wrongOvermuch and over long:"Patience with her cup o'errun,With her weary thread outspun,Murmurs that her work is done."Make our Union-bond a chain,Weak as tow in Freedom's strainLink by link shall snap in twain."Vainly shall your sand-wrought ropeBind the starry cluster up,Shattered over heaven's blue cope!"Give us bright though broken rays,Rather than eternal haze,Clouding o'er the full-orbed blaze."Take your land of sun and bloom;Only leave to Freedom roomFor her plough, and forge, and loom;"Take your slavery-blackened vales;Leave us but our own free gales,Blowing on our thousand sails."Boldly, or with treacherous art,Strike the blood-wrought chain apart;Break the Union's mighty heart;"Work the ruin, if ye will;Pluck upon your heads an illWhich shall grow and deepen still."With your bondman's right arm bare,With his heart of black despair,Stand alone, if stand ye dare!"Onward with your fell design;Dig the gulf and draw the line:Fire beneath your feet the mine:"Deeply, when the wide abyssYawns between your land and this,Shall ye feel your helplessness."By the hearth and in the bed,Shaken by a look or tread,Ye shall own a guilty dread."And the curse of unpaid toil,Downward through your generous soilLike a fire shall burn and spoil."Our bleak hills shall bud and blow,Vines our rocks shall overgrow,Plenty in our valleys flow;—"And when vengeance clouds your skies,Hither shall ye turn your eyes,As the lost on Paradise!"We but ask our rocky strand,Freedom's true and brother band,Freedom's strong and honest hand;"Valleys by the slave untrod,And the Pilgrim's mountain sod,Blessèd of our fathers' God!"John Greenleaf Whittier.
Up the hillside, down the glen,Rouse the sleeping citizen;Summon out the might of men!
Like a lion growling low,Like a night-storm rising slow,Like the tread of unseen foe;
It is coming, it is nigh!Stand your homes and altars by;On your own free thresholds die.
Clang the bells in all your spires;On the gray hills of your siresFling to heaven your signal-fires.
From Wachuset, lone and bleak,Unto Berkshire's tallest peak,Let the flame-tongued heralds speak.
Oh, for God and duty stand,Heart to heart and hand to hand,Round the old graves of the land.
Whoso shrinks or falters now,Whoso to the yoke would bow,Brand the craven on his brow!
Freedom's soil hath only placeFor a free and fearless race,None for traitors false and base.
Perish party, perish clan;Strike together while ye can,Like the arm of one strong man.
Like that angel's voice sublime,Heard above a world of crime,Crying of the end of time;
With one heart and with one mouth,Let the North unto the SouthSpeak the word befitting both:
"What though Issachar be strong!Ye may load his back with wrongOvermuch and over long:
"Patience with her cup o'errun,With her weary thread outspun,Murmurs that her work is done.
"Make our Union-bond a chain,Weak as tow in Freedom's strainLink by link shall snap in twain.
"Vainly shall your sand-wrought ropeBind the starry cluster up,Shattered over heaven's blue cope!
"Give us bright though broken rays,Rather than eternal haze,Clouding o'er the full-orbed blaze.
"Take your land of sun and bloom;Only leave to Freedom roomFor her plough, and forge, and loom;
"Take your slavery-blackened vales;Leave us but our own free gales,Blowing on our thousand sails.
"Boldly, or with treacherous art,Strike the blood-wrought chain apart;Break the Union's mighty heart;
"Work the ruin, if ye will;Pluck upon your heads an illWhich shall grow and deepen still.
"With your bondman's right arm bare,With his heart of black despair,Stand alone, if stand ye dare!
"Onward with your fell design;Dig the gulf and draw the line:Fire beneath your feet the mine:
"Deeply, when the wide abyssYawns between your land and this,Shall ye feel your helplessness.
"By the hearth and in the bed,Shaken by a look or tread,Ye shall own a guilty dread.
"And the curse of unpaid toil,Downward through your generous soilLike a fire shall burn and spoil.
"Our bleak hills shall bud and blow,Vines our rocks shall overgrow,Plenty in our valleys flow;—
"And when vengeance clouds your skies,Hither shall ye turn your eyes,As the lost on Paradise!
"We but ask our rocky strand,Freedom's true and brother band,Freedom's strong and honest hand;
"Valleys by the slave untrod,And the Pilgrim's mountain sod,Blessèd of our fathers' God!"
John Greenleaf Whittier.
The Mexican minister had already demanded his passports, and the annexation of Texas to theUnion was regarded by Mexico as an act of war. A Mexican army was collected on the Rio Grande, while an American army of occupation under General Zachary Taylor was thrown into Texas. The war awakened the most violent hostility in the North, and especially in New England, where it was held to be merely a pretext for extending slave territory.
The Mexican minister had already demanded his passports, and the annexation of Texas to theUnion was regarded by Mexico as an act of war. A Mexican army was collected on the Rio Grande, while an American army of occupation under General Zachary Taylor was thrown into Texas. The war awakened the most violent hostility in the North, and especially in New England, where it was held to be merely a pretext for extending slave territory.
MR. HOSEA BIGLOW SPEAKS
Thrash away, you'llhevto rattleOn them kittle-drums o' yourn,—'Taint a knowin' kind o' cattleThet is ketched with mouldy corn;Put in stiff, you fifer feller,Let folks see how spry you be,—Guess you'll toot till you are yeller'Fore you git ahold o' me!Thet air flag's a leetle rotten,Hope it aint your Sunday's best;—Fact! it takes a sight o' cottonTo stuff out a soger's chest:Sence we farmers hev to pay fer 't,Ef you must wear humps like these,S'posin' you should try salt hay fer 't,It would du ez slick ez grease.'Twouldn't suit them Southun fellers,They're a dreffle graspin' set,We must ollers blow the bellersWen they want their irons het;May be it's all right ez preachin',Butmynarves it kind o' grates,Wen I see the overreachin'O' them nigger-drivin' States.Them thet rule us, them slave-traders,Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth(Helped by Yankee renegaders),Thru the vartu o' the North!We begin to think it's naterTo take sarse an' not be riled;—Who'd expect to see a taterAll on eend at bein' biled?Ez fer war, I call it murder,—There you hev it plain an' flat;I don't want to go no furderThan my Testyment fer that;God hez sed so plump an' fairly,It's ez long ez it is broad,An' you've gut to git up airlyEf you want to take in God.'Taint your eppyletts an' feathersMake the thing a grain more right;'Taint afollerin' your bell-wethersWill excuse ye in His sight;Ef you take a sword an' dror it,An' go stick a feller thru,Guv'ment aint to answer for it,God'll send the bill to you.Wut's the use o' meetin'-goin'Every Sabbath, wet or dry,Ef it's right to go amowin'Feller-men like oats an' rye?I dunno but what it's pootyTrainin' round in bobtail coats,—But it's curus Christian dootyThis 'ere cuttin' folks's throats.They may talk o' Freedom's airyTell they're pupple in the face,—It's a grand gret cemetaryFer the barthrights of our race;They jest want this CalifornySo's to lug new slave-states inTo abuse ye, an' to scorn ye,An' to plunder ye like sin.Aint it cute to see a YankeeTake sech everlastin' pains,All to get the Devil's thankeeHelpin' on 'em weld their chains?Wy, it's jest ez clear es figgers,Clear ez one an' one make two,Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggersWant to make wite slaves o' you.Tell ye jest the eend I've come toArter cipherin' plaguy smart,An' it makes a handy sum, tu,Any gump could larn by heart;Laborin' man an' laborin' woman,Hev one glory an' one shame,Ev'y thin' thet's done inhumanInjers all on 'em the same.'Taint by turnin' out to hack folksYou're agoin' to git your right,Nor by lookin' down on black folksCoz you're put upon by wite;Slavery aint o' nary color,'Taint the hide thet makes it wus,All it keers fer in a feller'S jest to make him fill its pus.Want to tacklemein, du ye?I expect you'll hev to wait;Wen cold lead puts daylight thru yeYou'll begin to kal'late;S'pose the crows wun't fall to pickin'All the carkiss from your bones,Coz you helped to give a lickin'To them poor half-Spanish drones?Jest go home an' ask our NancyWether I'd be such a gooseEz to jine ye,—guess you'd fancyThe eternal bung wuz loose!She wants me fer home consumption,Let alone the hay's to mow,—Ef you're arter folks o' gumption,You've a darned long row to hoe.Take them editors thet's crowin'Like a cockerel three months old,—Don't ketch any on 'em goin',Though theybeso blasted bold;Aintthey a prime lot o' fellers?'Fore they think on 't guess they'll sprout(Like a peach thet's got the yellers),With the meanness bustin' out.Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin'Bigger pens to cram with slaves,Help the men thet's ollers dealin'Insults on your fathers' graves;Help the strong to grind the feeble,Help the many agin the few,Help the men thet call your peopleWitewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew!Massachusetts, God forgive her,She's akneelin' with the rest,She, thet ough' to ha' clung fereverIn her grand old eagle-nest;She thet ough' to stand so fearlessW'ile the wracks are round her hurled,Holdin' up a beacon peerlessTo the oppressed of all the world!Ha'n't they sold your colored seamen?Ha'n't they made your env'ys w'iz?Wut'll make ye act like freemen?Wut'll git your dander riz?Come, I tell you wut I'm thinkin'Is our dooty in this fix,They'd ha' done 't ez quick ez winkin'In the days o' seventy-six.Clang the bells in every steeple,Call all true men to disownThe tradoocers of our people,The enslavers o' their own;Let our dear old Bay State proudlyPut the trumpet to her mouth,Let her ring this messidge loudlyIn the ears of all the South:—"I'll return ye good fer evilMuch ez we frail mortils can,But I wun't go help the DevilMakin' man the cus o' man;Call me coward, call me traitor,Jest ez suits your mean idees,—Here I stand a tyrant-hater,An' the friend o' God an' Peace!"Ef I'dmyway I hed rutherWe should go to work an' part,They take one way, we take t'other,Guess it wouldn't break my heart;Man hed ough' to put asunderThem thet God has noways jined;An' I shouldn't gretly wonderEf there's thousands o' my mind.James Russell Lowell.
Thrash away, you'llhevto rattleOn them kittle-drums o' yourn,—'Taint a knowin' kind o' cattleThet is ketched with mouldy corn;Put in stiff, you fifer feller,Let folks see how spry you be,—Guess you'll toot till you are yeller'Fore you git ahold o' me!Thet air flag's a leetle rotten,Hope it aint your Sunday's best;—Fact! it takes a sight o' cottonTo stuff out a soger's chest:Sence we farmers hev to pay fer 't,Ef you must wear humps like these,S'posin' you should try salt hay fer 't,It would du ez slick ez grease.'Twouldn't suit them Southun fellers,They're a dreffle graspin' set,We must ollers blow the bellersWen they want their irons het;May be it's all right ez preachin',Butmynarves it kind o' grates,Wen I see the overreachin'O' them nigger-drivin' States.Them thet rule us, them slave-traders,Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth(Helped by Yankee renegaders),Thru the vartu o' the North!We begin to think it's naterTo take sarse an' not be riled;—Who'd expect to see a taterAll on eend at bein' biled?Ez fer war, I call it murder,—There you hev it plain an' flat;I don't want to go no furderThan my Testyment fer that;God hez sed so plump an' fairly,It's ez long ez it is broad,An' you've gut to git up airlyEf you want to take in God.'Taint your eppyletts an' feathersMake the thing a grain more right;'Taint afollerin' your bell-wethersWill excuse ye in His sight;Ef you take a sword an' dror it,An' go stick a feller thru,Guv'ment aint to answer for it,God'll send the bill to you.Wut's the use o' meetin'-goin'Every Sabbath, wet or dry,Ef it's right to go amowin'Feller-men like oats an' rye?I dunno but what it's pootyTrainin' round in bobtail coats,—But it's curus Christian dootyThis 'ere cuttin' folks's throats.They may talk o' Freedom's airyTell they're pupple in the face,—It's a grand gret cemetaryFer the barthrights of our race;They jest want this CalifornySo's to lug new slave-states inTo abuse ye, an' to scorn ye,An' to plunder ye like sin.Aint it cute to see a YankeeTake sech everlastin' pains,All to get the Devil's thankeeHelpin' on 'em weld their chains?Wy, it's jest ez clear es figgers,Clear ez one an' one make two,Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggersWant to make wite slaves o' you.Tell ye jest the eend I've come toArter cipherin' plaguy smart,An' it makes a handy sum, tu,Any gump could larn by heart;Laborin' man an' laborin' woman,Hev one glory an' one shame,Ev'y thin' thet's done inhumanInjers all on 'em the same.'Taint by turnin' out to hack folksYou're agoin' to git your right,Nor by lookin' down on black folksCoz you're put upon by wite;Slavery aint o' nary color,'Taint the hide thet makes it wus,All it keers fer in a feller'S jest to make him fill its pus.Want to tacklemein, du ye?I expect you'll hev to wait;Wen cold lead puts daylight thru yeYou'll begin to kal'late;S'pose the crows wun't fall to pickin'All the carkiss from your bones,Coz you helped to give a lickin'To them poor half-Spanish drones?Jest go home an' ask our NancyWether I'd be such a gooseEz to jine ye,—guess you'd fancyThe eternal bung wuz loose!She wants me fer home consumption,Let alone the hay's to mow,—Ef you're arter folks o' gumption,You've a darned long row to hoe.Take them editors thet's crowin'Like a cockerel three months old,—Don't ketch any on 'em goin',Though theybeso blasted bold;Aintthey a prime lot o' fellers?'Fore they think on 't guess they'll sprout(Like a peach thet's got the yellers),With the meanness bustin' out.Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin'Bigger pens to cram with slaves,Help the men thet's ollers dealin'Insults on your fathers' graves;Help the strong to grind the feeble,Help the many agin the few,Help the men thet call your peopleWitewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew!Massachusetts, God forgive her,She's akneelin' with the rest,She, thet ough' to ha' clung fereverIn her grand old eagle-nest;She thet ough' to stand so fearlessW'ile the wracks are round her hurled,Holdin' up a beacon peerlessTo the oppressed of all the world!Ha'n't they sold your colored seamen?Ha'n't they made your env'ys w'iz?Wut'll make ye act like freemen?Wut'll git your dander riz?Come, I tell you wut I'm thinkin'Is our dooty in this fix,They'd ha' done 't ez quick ez winkin'In the days o' seventy-six.Clang the bells in every steeple,Call all true men to disownThe tradoocers of our people,The enslavers o' their own;Let our dear old Bay State proudlyPut the trumpet to her mouth,Let her ring this messidge loudlyIn the ears of all the South:—"I'll return ye good fer evilMuch ez we frail mortils can,But I wun't go help the DevilMakin' man the cus o' man;Call me coward, call me traitor,Jest ez suits your mean idees,—Here I stand a tyrant-hater,An' the friend o' God an' Peace!"Ef I'dmyway I hed rutherWe should go to work an' part,They take one way, we take t'other,Guess it wouldn't break my heart;Man hed ough' to put asunderThem thet God has noways jined;An' I shouldn't gretly wonderEf there's thousands o' my mind.James Russell Lowell.
Thrash away, you'llhevto rattleOn them kittle-drums o' yourn,—'Taint a knowin' kind o' cattleThet is ketched with mouldy corn;Put in stiff, you fifer feller,Let folks see how spry you be,—Guess you'll toot till you are yeller'Fore you git ahold o' me!
Thet air flag's a leetle rotten,Hope it aint your Sunday's best;—Fact! it takes a sight o' cottonTo stuff out a soger's chest:Sence we farmers hev to pay fer 't,Ef you must wear humps like these,S'posin' you should try salt hay fer 't,It would du ez slick ez grease.
'Twouldn't suit them Southun fellers,They're a dreffle graspin' set,We must ollers blow the bellersWen they want their irons het;May be it's all right ez preachin',Butmynarves it kind o' grates,Wen I see the overreachin'O' them nigger-drivin' States.
Them thet rule us, them slave-traders,Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth(Helped by Yankee renegaders),Thru the vartu o' the North!We begin to think it's naterTo take sarse an' not be riled;—Who'd expect to see a taterAll on eend at bein' biled?
Ez fer war, I call it murder,—There you hev it plain an' flat;I don't want to go no furderThan my Testyment fer that;God hez sed so plump an' fairly,It's ez long ez it is broad,An' you've gut to git up airlyEf you want to take in God.
'Taint your eppyletts an' feathersMake the thing a grain more right;'Taint afollerin' your bell-wethersWill excuse ye in His sight;Ef you take a sword an' dror it,An' go stick a feller thru,Guv'ment aint to answer for it,God'll send the bill to you.
Wut's the use o' meetin'-goin'Every Sabbath, wet or dry,Ef it's right to go amowin'Feller-men like oats an' rye?I dunno but what it's pootyTrainin' round in bobtail coats,—But it's curus Christian dootyThis 'ere cuttin' folks's throats.
They may talk o' Freedom's airyTell they're pupple in the face,—It's a grand gret cemetaryFer the barthrights of our race;They jest want this CalifornySo's to lug new slave-states inTo abuse ye, an' to scorn ye,An' to plunder ye like sin.
Aint it cute to see a YankeeTake sech everlastin' pains,All to get the Devil's thankeeHelpin' on 'em weld their chains?Wy, it's jest ez clear es figgers,Clear ez one an' one make two,Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggersWant to make wite slaves o' you.
Tell ye jest the eend I've come toArter cipherin' plaguy smart,An' it makes a handy sum, tu,Any gump could larn by heart;Laborin' man an' laborin' woman,Hev one glory an' one shame,Ev'y thin' thet's done inhumanInjers all on 'em the same.
'Taint by turnin' out to hack folksYou're agoin' to git your right,Nor by lookin' down on black folksCoz you're put upon by wite;Slavery aint o' nary color,'Taint the hide thet makes it wus,All it keers fer in a feller'S jest to make him fill its pus.
Want to tacklemein, du ye?I expect you'll hev to wait;Wen cold lead puts daylight thru yeYou'll begin to kal'late;S'pose the crows wun't fall to pickin'All the carkiss from your bones,Coz you helped to give a lickin'To them poor half-Spanish drones?
Jest go home an' ask our NancyWether I'd be such a gooseEz to jine ye,—guess you'd fancyThe eternal bung wuz loose!She wants me fer home consumption,Let alone the hay's to mow,—Ef you're arter folks o' gumption,You've a darned long row to hoe.
Take them editors thet's crowin'Like a cockerel three months old,—Don't ketch any on 'em goin',Though theybeso blasted bold;Aintthey a prime lot o' fellers?'Fore they think on 't guess they'll sprout(Like a peach thet's got the yellers),With the meanness bustin' out.
Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin'Bigger pens to cram with slaves,Help the men thet's ollers dealin'Insults on your fathers' graves;Help the strong to grind the feeble,Help the many agin the few,Help the men thet call your peopleWitewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew!
Massachusetts, God forgive her,She's akneelin' with the rest,She, thet ough' to ha' clung fereverIn her grand old eagle-nest;She thet ough' to stand so fearlessW'ile the wracks are round her hurled,Holdin' up a beacon peerlessTo the oppressed of all the world!
Ha'n't they sold your colored seamen?Ha'n't they made your env'ys w'iz?Wut'll make ye act like freemen?Wut'll git your dander riz?Come, I tell you wut I'm thinkin'Is our dooty in this fix,They'd ha' done 't ez quick ez winkin'In the days o' seventy-six.
Clang the bells in every steeple,Call all true men to disownThe tradoocers of our people,The enslavers o' their own;Let our dear old Bay State proudlyPut the trumpet to her mouth,Let her ring this messidge loudlyIn the ears of all the South:—
"I'll return ye good fer evilMuch ez we frail mortils can,But I wun't go help the DevilMakin' man the cus o' man;Call me coward, call me traitor,Jest ez suits your mean idees,—Here I stand a tyrant-hater,An' the friend o' God an' Peace!"
Ef I'dmyway I hed rutherWe should go to work an' part,They take one way, we take t'other,Guess it wouldn't break my heart;Man hed ough' to put asunderThem thet God has noways jined;An' I shouldn't gretly wonderEf there's thousands o' my mind.
James Russell Lowell.
General Taylor took up his station opposite Matamoras, where the Mexican army was, and the Mexicans finally attacked Fort Brown, which Taylor had erected opposite one of their batteries. On May 7 Taylor started to relieve the fort, with a force of twenty-one hundred men, and at noon next day found the Mexican army, six thousand strong, drawn up before him at Palo Alto. Taylor ordered Lieutenant Blake to reconnoitre the enemy's position.
General Taylor took up his station opposite Matamoras, where the Mexican army was, and the Mexicans finally attacked Fort Brown, which Taylor had erected opposite one of their batteries. On May 7 Taylor started to relieve the fort, with a force of twenty-one hundred men, and at noon next day found the Mexican army, six thousand strong, drawn up before him at Palo Alto. Taylor ordered Lieutenant Blake to reconnoitre the enemy's position.
THE GUNS IN THE GRASS
[May 8, 1846]