How history repeats itselfYou'll say when you remember Grant,Who, in his boyhood days, once soughtThroughout the lexicon for "can't."He could not find the word that day,The earnest boy whose name was Grant;He never found it through long years,With all their power to disenchant.No hostile host could give him pause;Rivers and mountains could not daunt;He never found that hindering word—The steadfast man whose name was Grant.Harriet Prescott Spofford.
How history repeats itselfYou'll say when you remember Grant,Who, in his boyhood days, once soughtThroughout the lexicon for "can't."He could not find the word that day,The earnest boy whose name was Grant;He never found it through long years,With all their power to disenchant.No hostile host could give him pause;Rivers and mountains could not daunt;He never found that hindering word—The steadfast man whose name was Grant.Harriet Prescott Spofford.
How history repeats itselfYou'll say when you remember Grant,Who, in his boyhood days, once soughtThroughout the lexicon for "can't."
He could not find the word that day,The earnest boy whose name was Grant;He never found it through long years,With all their power to disenchant.
No hostile host could give him pause;Rivers and mountains could not daunt;He never found that hindering word—The steadfast man whose name was Grant.
Harriet Prescott Spofford.
Grant used his cavalry most effectively, and he had a dashing leader in "Phil" Sheridan. Early in May, 1864, Sheridan and a strong force was sent on a raid around the Confederate lines, and on the 12th encountered General J. E. B. Stuart in force at Yellow Tavern. A sharp engagement followed, in which Stuart was killed.
Grant used his cavalry most effectively, and he had a dashing leader in "Phil" Sheridan. Early in May, 1864, Sheridan and a strong force was sent on a raid around the Confederate lines, and on the 12th encountered General J. E. B. Stuart in force at Yellow Tavern. A sharp engagement followed, in which Stuart was killed.
OBSEQUIES OF STUART
[May 12, 1864]
We could not pause, while yet the noontide airShook with the cannonade's incessant pealing,The funeral pageant fitly to prepare—A nation's grief revealing.The smoke, above the glimmering woodland wideThat skirts our southward border in its beauty,Marked where our heroes stood and fought and diedFor love and faith and duty.And still, what time the doubtful strife went on,We might not find expression for our sorrow;We could but lay our dear dumb warrior down,And gird us for the morrow.One weary year agone, when came a lullWith victory in the conflict's stormy closes,When the glad Spring, all flushed and beautiful,First mocked us with her roses,With dirge and bell and minute-gun, we paidSome few poor rites—an inexpressive tokenOf a great people's pain—to Jackson's shade,In agony unspoken.No wailing trumpet and no tolling bell,No cannon, save the battle's boom receding,When Stuart to the grave we bore, might tell,With hearts all crushed and bleeding.The crisis suited not with pomp, and sheWhose anguish bears the seal of consecrationHad wished his Christian obsequies should beThus void of ostentation.Only the maidens came, sweet flowers to twineAbove his form so still and cold and painless,Whose deeds upon our brightest records shine,Whose life and sword were stainless.They well remembered how he loved to dashInto the fight, festooned from summer bowers;How like a fountain's spray his sabre's flashLeaped from a mass of flowers.And so we carried to his place of restAll that of our great Paladin was mortal:The cross, and not the sabre, on his breast,That opes the heavenly portal.No more of tribute might to us remain;But there will still come a time when Freedom's martyrsA richer guerdon of renown shall gainThan gleams in stars and garters.I hear from out that sunlit land which liesBeyond these clouds that gather darkly o'er us,The happy sounds of industry ariseIn swelling peaceful chorus.And mingling with these sounds, the glad acclaimOf millions undisturbed by war's afflictions,Crowning each martyr's never-dying nameWith grateful benedictions.In some fair future garden of delights,Where flowers shall bloom and song-birds sweetly warble,Art shall erect the statues of our knightsIn living bronze and marble.And none of all that bright heroic throngShall wear to far-off time a semblance grander,Shall still be decked with fresher wreaths of song,Than this beloved commander.The Spanish legend tells us of the Cid,That after death he rode, erect, sedately,Along his lines, even as in life he did,In presence yet more stately;And thus our Stuart, at this moment, seemsTo ride out of our dark and troubled storyInto the region of romance and dreams,A realm of light and glory;And sometimes, when the silver bugles blow,That ghostly form, in battle reappearing,Shall lead his horsemen headlong on the foe,In victory careering!John Randolph Thompson.
We could not pause, while yet the noontide airShook with the cannonade's incessant pealing,The funeral pageant fitly to prepare—A nation's grief revealing.The smoke, above the glimmering woodland wideThat skirts our southward border in its beauty,Marked where our heroes stood and fought and diedFor love and faith and duty.And still, what time the doubtful strife went on,We might not find expression for our sorrow;We could but lay our dear dumb warrior down,And gird us for the morrow.One weary year agone, when came a lullWith victory in the conflict's stormy closes,When the glad Spring, all flushed and beautiful,First mocked us with her roses,With dirge and bell and minute-gun, we paidSome few poor rites—an inexpressive tokenOf a great people's pain—to Jackson's shade,In agony unspoken.No wailing trumpet and no tolling bell,No cannon, save the battle's boom receding,When Stuart to the grave we bore, might tell,With hearts all crushed and bleeding.The crisis suited not with pomp, and sheWhose anguish bears the seal of consecrationHad wished his Christian obsequies should beThus void of ostentation.Only the maidens came, sweet flowers to twineAbove his form so still and cold and painless,Whose deeds upon our brightest records shine,Whose life and sword were stainless.They well remembered how he loved to dashInto the fight, festooned from summer bowers;How like a fountain's spray his sabre's flashLeaped from a mass of flowers.And so we carried to his place of restAll that of our great Paladin was mortal:The cross, and not the sabre, on his breast,That opes the heavenly portal.No more of tribute might to us remain;But there will still come a time when Freedom's martyrsA richer guerdon of renown shall gainThan gleams in stars and garters.I hear from out that sunlit land which liesBeyond these clouds that gather darkly o'er us,The happy sounds of industry ariseIn swelling peaceful chorus.And mingling with these sounds, the glad acclaimOf millions undisturbed by war's afflictions,Crowning each martyr's never-dying nameWith grateful benedictions.In some fair future garden of delights,Where flowers shall bloom and song-birds sweetly warble,Art shall erect the statues of our knightsIn living bronze and marble.And none of all that bright heroic throngShall wear to far-off time a semblance grander,Shall still be decked with fresher wreaths of song,Than this beloved commander.The Spanish legend tells us of the Cid,That after death he rode, erect, sedately,Along his lines, even as in life he did,In presence yet more stately;And thus our Stuart, at this moment, seemsTo ride out of our dark and troubled storyInto the region of romance and dreams,A realm of light and glory;And sometimes, when the silver bugles blow,That ghostly form, in battle reappearing,Shall lead his horsemen headlong on the foe,In victory careering!John Randolph Thompson.
We could not pause, while yet the noontide airShook with the cannonade's incessant pealing,The funeral pageant fitly to prepare—A nation's grief revealing.
The smoke, above the glimmering woodland wideThat skirts our southward border in its beauty,Marked where our heroes stood and fought and diedFor love and faith and duty.
And still, what time the doubtful strife went on,We might not find expression for our sorrow;We could but lay our dear dumb warrior down,And gird us for the morrow.
One weary year agone, when came a lullWith victory in the conflict's stormy closes,When the glad Spring, all flushed and beautiful,First mocked us with her roses,
With dirge and bell and minute-gun, we paidSome few poor rites—an inexpressive tokenOf a great people's pain—to Jackson's shade,In agony unspoken.
No wailing trumpet and no tolling bell,No cannon, save the battle's boom receding,When Stuart to the grave we bore, might tell,With hearts all crushed and bleeding.
The crisis suited not with pomp, and sheWhose anguish bears the seal of consecrationHad wished his Christian obsequies should beThus void of ostentation.
Only the maidens came, sweet flowers to twineAbove his form so still and cold and painless,Whose deeds upon our brightest records shine,Whose life and sword were stainless.
They well remembered how he loved to dashInto the fight, festooned from summer bowers;How like a fountain's spray his sabre's flashLeaped from a mass of flowers.
And so we carried to his place of restAll that of our great Paladin was mortal:The cross, and not the sabre, on his breast,That opes the heavenly portal.
No more of tribute might to us remain;But there will still come a time when Freedom's martyrsA richer guerdon of renown shall gainThan gleams in stars and garters.
I hear from out that sunlit land which liesBeyond these clouds that gather darkly o'er us,The happy sounds of industry ariseIn swelling peaceful chorus.
And mingling with these sounds, the glad acclaimOf millions undisturbed by war's afflictions,Crowning each martyr's never-dying nameWith grateful benedictions.
In some fair future garden of delights,Where flowers shall bloom and song-birds sweetly warble,Art shall erect the statues of our knightsIn living bronze and marble.
And none of all that bright heroic throngShall wear to far-off time a semblance grander,Shall still be decked with fresher wreaths of song,Than this beloved commander.
The Spanish legend tells us of the Cid,That after death he rode, erect, sedately,Along his lines, even as in life he did,In presence yet more stately;
And thus our Stuart, at this moment, seemsTo ride out of our dark and troubled storyInto the region of romance and dreams,A realm of light and glory;
And sometimes, when the silver bugles blow,That ghostly form, in battle reappearing,Shall lead his horsemen headlong on the foe,In victory careering!
John Randolph Thompson.
Grant was overwhelming the Confederates by weight of numbers, and pushed slowly on. To divert him, Lee threw a portion of his army into the Shenandoah valley, and started again to invade Maryland and Pennsylvania. A body of Union troops contested their passage at Snicker's Ferry and a sharp skirmish followed.
Grant was overwhelming the Confederates by weight of numbers, and pushed slowly on. To divert him, Lee threw a portion of his army into the Shenandoah valley, and started again to invade Maryland and Pennsylvania. A body of Union troops contested their passage at Snicker's Ferry and a sharp skirmish followed.
A CHRISTOPHER OF THE SHENANDOAH
ISLAND FORD, SNICKER'S GAP, JULY 18, 1864
TOLD BY THE ORDERLY
Mute he sat in the saddle,—mute 'midst our full acclaim,As three times over we gave to the mountain echo his name.Then, "But I couldn't do less!" in a murmur remonstrant came.This was the deed his spirit set and his hand would not shun,When the vale of the Shenandoah had lost the glow of the sun,And the evening cloud and the battle smoke were blending in one.Retreating and ever retreating, the bank of the river we gained,Hope of the field was none, and choice but of flight remained,When there at the brink of the ford his horse he suddenly reined.For his vigilant eye had marked where, close by the oozy marge,Half-parted its moorings, there lay a battered and oarless barge."Quick! gather the wounded in!" and the flying stayed at his charge.They gathered the wounded in whence they fell by the river-bank,Lapped on the gleaming sand, or aswoon, 'mid the rushes dank;And they crowded the barge till its sides low down in the water sank.The river was wide, was deep, and heady the current flowed,A burdened and oarless craft!—straight into the stream he rodeBy the side of the barge, and drew it along with its moaning load.A moaning and ghastly load—the wounded—the dying—the dead!For ever upon their traces followed the whistling lead,Our bravest the mark, yet unscathed and undaunted, he pushed ahead.Alone? Save for one that from love of his leader or soldierly pride(Hearing his call for aid, and seeing that none replied),Plunged and swam by the crazy craft on the other side.But Heaven! what weary toil! for the river is wide, is deep;The current is swift, and the bank on the further side is steep.'Tis reached at last, and a hundred of ours to the rescue leap.Oh, they cheered as he rose from the stream and the water-drops flowed away!"But I couldn't do less!" in the silence that followed we heard him say;Then the wounded cheered, and the swooning awoke in the barge where they lay.And I?—Ah, well, I swam by the barge on the other side;But an orderly goes wherever his leader chooses to ride.Come life or come death I couldn't do less than follow his guide.Edith M. Thomas.
Mute he sat in the saddle,—mute 'midst our full acclaim,As three times over we gave to the mountain echo his name.Then, "But I couldn't do less!" in a murmur remonstrant came.This was the deed his spirit set and his hand would not shun,When the vale of the Shenandoah had lost the glow of the sun,And the evening cloud and the battle smoke were blending in one.Retreating and ever retreating, the bank of the river we gained,Hope of the field was none, and choice but of flight remained,When there at the brink of the ford his horse he suddenly reined.For his vigilant eye had marked where, close by the oozy marge,Half-parted its moorings, there lay a battered and oarless barge."Quick! gather the wounded in!" and the flying stayed at his charge.They gathered the wounded in whence they fell by the river-bank,Lapped on the gleaming sand, or aswoon, 'mid the rushes dank;And they crowded the barge till its sides low down in the water sank.The river was wide, was deep, and heady the current flowed,A burdened and oarless craft!—straight into the stream he rodeBy the side of the barge, and drew it along with its moaning load.A moaning and ghastly load—the wounded—the dying—the dead!For ever upon their traces followed the whistling lead,Our bravest the mark, yet unscathed and undaunted, he pushed ahead.Alone? Save for one that from love of his leader or soldierly pride(Hearing his call for aid, and seeing that none replied),Plunged and swam by the crazy craft on the other side.But Heaven! what weary toil! for the river is wide, is deep;The current is swift, and the bank on the further side is steep.'Tis reached at last, and a hundred of ours to the rescue leap.Oh, they cheered as he rose from the stream and the water-drops flowed away!"But I couldn't do less!" in the silence that followed we heard him say;Then the wounded cheered, and the swooning awoke in the barge where they lay.And I?—Ah, well, I swam by the barge on the other side;But an orderly goes wherever his leader chooses to ride.Come life or come death I couldn't do less than follow his guide.Edith M. Thomas.
Mute he sat in the saddle,—mute 'midst our full acclaim,As three times over we gave to the mountain echo his name.Then, "But I couldn't do less!" in a murmur remonstrant came.
This was the deed his spirit set and his hand would not shun,When the vale of the Shenandoah had lost the glow of the sun,And the evening cloud and the battle smoke were blending in one.
Retreating and ever retreating, the bank of the river we gained,Hope of the field was none, and choice but of flight remained,When there at the brink of the ford his horse he suddenly reined.
For his vigilant eye had marked where, close by the oozy marge,Half-parted its moorings, there lay a battered and oarless barge."Quick! gather the wounded in!" and the flying stayed at his charge.
They gathered the wounded in whence they fell by the river-bank,Lapped on the gleaming sand, or aswoon, 'mid the rushes dank;And they crowded the barge till its sides low down in the water sank.
The river was wide, was deep, and heady the current flowed,A burdened and oarless craft!—straight into the stream he rodeBy the side of the barge, and drew it along with its moaning load.
A moaning and ghastly load—the wounded—the dying—the dead!For ever upon their traces followed the whistling lead,Our bravest the mark, yet unscathed and undaunted, he pushed ahead.
Alone? Save for one that from love of his leader or soldierly pride(Hearing his call for aid, and seeing that none replied),Plunged and swam by the crazy craft on the other side.
But Heaven! what weary toil! for the river is wide, is deep;The current is swift, and the bank on the further side is steep.'Tis reached at last, and a hundred of ours to the rescue leap.
Oh, they cheered as he rose from the stream and the water-drops flowed away!"But I couldn't do less!" in the silence that followed we heard him say;Then the wounded cheered, and the swooning awoke in the barge where they lay.
And I?—Ah, well, I swam by the barge on the other side;But an orderly goes wherever his leader chooses to ride.Come life or come death I couldn't do less than follow his guide.
Edith M. Thomas.
The Confederate cavalry pushed on toward the Susquehanna, sacked Chambersburg, and filled all western Pennsylvania with panic. Grant at once got together a large force to repel this invasion, and placed it under command of General Sheridan. On September 19, 1864, the Confederates attacked his troops at Winchester, but Sheridan beat them off and punished them so severely that he supposed they had enough. With that impression, he went to Washington on official business, leaving his men strongly posted on Cedar Creek. There, on the morning of October 19, the Confederates attacked them, front, flank, and rear.
The Confederate cavalry pushed on toward the Susquehanna, sacked Chambersburg, and filled all western Pennsylvania with panic. Grant at once got together a large force to repel this invasion, and placed it under command of General Sheridan. On September 19, 1864, the Confederates attacked his troops at Winchester, but Sheridan beat them off and punished them so severely that he supposed they had enough. With that impression, he went to Washington on official business, leaving his men strongly posted on Cedar Creek. There, on the morning of October 19, the Confederates attacked them, front, flank, and rear.
SHERIDAN AT CEDAR CREEK
[October 19, 1864]
Shoe the steed with silverThat bore him to the fray,When he heard the guns at dawning—Miles away;When he heard them calling, calling—Mount! nor stay:Quick, or all is lost;They've surprised and stormed the post,They push your routed host—Gallop! retrieve the day.House the horse in ermine—For the foam-flake blewWhite through the red October;He thundered into view;They cheered him in the looming,Horseman and horse they knew.The turn of the tide began,The rally of bugles ran,He swung his hat in the van;The electric hoof-spark flew.Wreathe the steed and lead him—For the charge he ledTouched and turned the cypressInto amaranths for the headOf Philip, king of riders,Who raised them from the dead.The camp (at dawning lost)By eve, recovered—forced,Rang with laughter of the hostAs belated Early fled.Shroud the horse in sable—For the mounds they heap!There is firing in the Valley,And yet no strife they keep;It is the parting volley,It is the pathos deep.There is glory for the braveWho lead, and nobly save,But no knowledge in the graveWhere the nameless followers sleep.Herman Melville.
Shoe the steed with silverThat bore him to the fray,When he heard the guns at dawning—Miles away;When he heard them calling, calling—Mount! nor stay:Quick, or all is lost;They've surprised and stormed the post,They push your routed host—Gallop! retrieve the day.House the horse in ermine—For the foam-flake blewWhite through the red October;He thundered into view;They cheered him in the looming,Horseman and horse they knew.The turn of the tide began,The rally of bugles ran,He swung his hat in the van;The electric hoof-spark flew.Wreathe the steed and lead him—For the charge he ledTouched and turned the cypressInto amaranths for the headOf Philip, king of riders,Who raised them from the dead.The camp (at dawning lost)By eve, recovered—forced,Rang with laughter of the hostAs belated Early fled.Shroud the horse in sable—For the mounds they heap!There is firing in the Valley,And yet no strife they keep;It is the parting volley,It is the pathos deep.There is glory for the braveWho lead, and nobly save,But no knowledge in the graveWhere the nameless followers sleep.Herman Melville.
Shoe the steed with silverThat bore him to the fray,When he heard the guns at dawning—Miles away;When he heard them calling, calling—Mount! nor stay:Quick, or all is lost;They've surprised and stormed the post,They push your routed host—Gallop! retrieve the day.
House the horse in ermine—For the foam-flake blewWhite through the red October;He thundered into view;They cheered him in the looming,Horseman and horse they knew.The turn of the tide began,The rally of bugles ran,He swung his hat in the van;The electric hoof-spark flew.
Wreathe the steed and lead him—For the charge he ledTouched and turned the cypressInto amaranths for the headOf Philip, king of riders,Who raised them from the dead.The camp (at dawning lost)By eve, recovered—forced,Rang with laughter of the hostAs belated Early fled.
Shroud the horse in sable—For the mounds they heap!There is firing in the Valley,And yet no strife they keep;It is the parting volley,It is the pathos deep.There is glory for the braveWho lead, and nobly save,But no knowledge in the graveWhere the nameless followers sleep.
Herman Melville.
Sheridan, returning from Washington, had slept at Winchester the night of October 18, 1864, and early next morning heard the sounds of the battle. He mounted his horse and started for the field, reached there just in time to rally his retreating troops, turned a defeat into a decisive victory, and drove the invaders pell-mell back to Virginia.
Sheridan, returning from Washington, had slept at Winchester the night of October 18, 1864, and early next morning heard the sounds of the battle. He mounted his horse and started for the field, reached there just in time to rally his retreating troops, turned a defeat into a decisive victory, and drove the invaders pell-mell back to Virginia.
SHERIDAN'S RIDE
[October 19, 1864]
Up from the South, at break of day,Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,The affrighted air with a shudder bore,Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door,The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar,Telling the battle was on once more,And Sheridan twenty miles away.And wider still those billows of warThundered along the horizon's bar;And louder yet into Winchester rolledThe roar of that red sea uncontrolled,Making the blood of the listener cold,As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,With Sheridan twenty miles away.But there is a road from Winchester town,A good, broad highway leading down:And there, through the flush of the morning light,A steed as black as the steeds of nightWas seen to pass, as with eagle flight;As if he knew the terrible need,He stretched away with his utmost speed.Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay,With Sheridan fifteen miles away.Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south,The dust like smoke from the cannon's mouth,Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.The heart of the steed and the heart of the masterWere beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,With Sheridan only ten miles away.Under his spurning feet, the roadLike an arrowy Alpine river flowed,And the landscape sped away behindLike an ocean flying before the wind;And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire;But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire;He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,With Sheridan only five miles away.The first that the general saw were the groupsOf stragglers, and then the retreating troops;What was done? what to do? a glance told him both.Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath,He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas,And the wave of retreat checked its course there, becauseThe sight of the master compelled it to pause.With foam and with dust the black charger was gray;By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play,He seemed to the whole great army to say:"I have brought you Sheridan all the wayFrom Winchester down to save the day."Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan!Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man!And when their statues are placed on highUnder the dome of the Union sky,The American soldier's Temple of Fame,There, with the glorious general's name,Be it said, in letters both bold and bright:"Here is the steed that saved the dayBy carrying Sheridan into the fight,From Winchester—twenty miles away!"Thomas Buchanan Read.
Up from the South, at break of day,Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,The affrighted air with a shudder bore,Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door,The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar,Telling the battle was on once more,And Sheridan twenty miles away.And wider still those billows of warThundered along the horizon's bar;And louder yet into Winchester rolledThe roar of that red sea uncontrolled,Making the blood of the listener cold,As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,With Sheridan twenty miles away.But there is a road from Winchester town,A good, broad highway leading down:And there, through the flush of the morning light,A steed as black as the steeds of nightWas seen to pass, as with eagle flight;As if he knew the terrible need,He stretched away with his utmost speed.Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay,With Sheridan fifteen miles away.Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south,The dust like smoke from the cannon's mouth,Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.The heart of the steed and the heart of the masterWere beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,With Sheridan only ten miles away.Under his spurning feet, the roadLike an arrowy Alpine river flowed,And the landscape sped away behindLike an ocean flying before the wind;And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire;But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire;He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,With Sheridan only five miles away.The first that the general saw were the groupsOf stragglers, and then the retreating troops;What was done? what to do? a glance told him both.Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath,He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas,And the wave of retreat checked its course there, becauseThe sight of the master compelled it to pause.With foam and with dust the black charger was gray;By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play,He seemed to the whole great army to say:"I have brought you Sheridan all the wayFrom Winchester down to save the day."Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan!Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man!And when their statues are placed on highUnder the dome of the Union sky,The American soldier's Temple of Fame,There, with the glorious general's name,Be it said, in letters both bold and bright:"Here is the steed that saved the dayBy carrying Sheridan into the fight,From Winchester—twenty miles away!"Thomas Buchanan Read.
Up from the South, at break of day,Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,The affrighted air with a shudder bore,Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door,The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar,Telling the battle was on once more,And Sheridan twenty miles away.
And wider still those billows of warThundered along the horizon's bar;And louder yet into Winchester rolledThe roar of that red sea uncontrolled,Making the blood of the listener cold,As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,With Sheridan twenty miles away.
But there is a road from Winchester town,A good, broad highway leading down:And there, through the flush of the morning light,A steed as black as the steeds of nightWas seen to pass, as with eagle flight;As if he knew the terrible need,He stretched away with his utmost speed.Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay,With Sheridan fifteen miles away.
Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south,The dust like smoke from the cannon's mouth,Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.The heart of the steed and the heart of the masterWere beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,With Sheridan only ten miles away.
Under his spurning feet, the roadLike an arrowy Alpine river flowed,And the landscape sped away behindLike an ocean flying before the wind;And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire;But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire;He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,With Sheridan only five miles away.
The first that the general saw were the groupsOf stragglers, and then the retreating troops;What was done? what to do? a glance told him both.Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath,He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas,And the wave of retreat checked its course there, becauseThe sight of the master compelled it to pause.With foam and with dust the black charger was gray;By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play,He seemed to the whole great army to say:"I have brought you Sheridan all the wayFrom Winchester down to save the day."
Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan!Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man!And when their statues are placed on highUnder the dome of the Union sky,The American soldier's Temple of Fame,There, with the glorious general's name,Be it said, in letters both bold and bright:"Here is the steed that saved the dayBy carrying Sheridan into the fight,From Winchester—twenty miles away!"
Thomas Buchanan Read.
Grant, meanwhile, steadily tightened his grip on Richmond, and Lee at last perceived that to hold the capital longer would be to sacrifice his army. He withdrew during the night of April 2, 1865, and the Union troops entered the city unopposed next day.
Grant, meanwhile, steadily tightened his grip on Richmond, and Lee at last perceived that to hold the capital longer would be to sacrifice his army. He withdrew during the night of April 2, 1865, and the Union troops entered the city unopposed next day.
THE YEAR OF JUBILEE
[Sung by the negro troops as they entered Richmond]
Say, darkeys, hab you seen de massa,Wid de muffstash on he face,Go long de road some time dis mornin',Like he gwine leabe de place?He see de smoke way up de ribberWhar de Lincum gunboats lay;He took he hat an' leff berry sudden,And I spose he's runned away.De massa run, ha, ha!De darkey stay, ho, ho!It mus' be now de kingdum comin',An' de yar ob jubilo.He six foot one way an' two foot todder,An' he weigh six hundred poun';His coat so big he couldn't pay de tailor,An' it won't reach half way roun';He drill so much dey calls him cap'n,An' he git so mighty tanned,I spec he'll try to fool dem Yankees,For to tink he contraband.De massa run, ha, ha!De darkey stay, ho, ho!It mus' be now de kingdum comin',An' de yar ob jubilo.De darkeys got so lonesome libb'nIn de log hut on de lawn,Dey moved dere tings into massa's parlorFor to keep it while he gone.Dar's wine an' cider in de kitchin,An' de darkeys dey hab some,I spec it will be all fiscated.When de Lincum sojers come.De massa run, ha, ha!De darkey stay, ho, ho!It mus' be now de kingdum comin',An' de yar ob jubilo.De oberseer he makes us trubble,An' he dribe us roun' a spell,We lock him up in de smoke-house cellar,Wid de key flung in de well.De whip am lost, de han'-cuff broke,But de massy hab his pay;He big an' ole enough for to know betterDan to went an' run away.De massa run, ha, ha!De darkey stay, ho, ho!It mus' be now de kingdum comin',An' de yar ob jubilo.Henry Clay Work.
Say, darkeys, hab you seen de massa,Wid de muffstash on he face,Go long de road some time dis mornin',Like he gwine leabe de place?He see de smoke way up de ribberWhar de Lincum gunboats lay;He took he hat an' leff berry sudden,And I spose he's runned away.De massa run, ha, ha!De darkey stay, ho, ho!It mus' be now de kingdum comin',An' de yar ob jubilo.He six foot one way an' two foot todder,An' he weigh six hundred poun';His coat so big he couldn't pay de tailor,An' it won't reach half way roun';He drill so much dey calls him cap'n,An' he git so mighty tanned,I spec he'll try to fool dem Yankees,For to tink he contraband.De massa run, ha, ha!De darkey stay, ho, ho!It mus' be now de kingdum comin',An' de yar ob jubilo.De darkeys got so lonesome libb'nIn de log hut on de lawn,Dey moved dere tings into massa's parlorFor to keep it while he gone.Dar's wine an' cider in de kitchin,An' de darkeys dey hab some,I spec it will be all fiscated.When de Lincum sojers come.De massa run, ha, ha!De darkey stay, ho, ho!It mus' be now de kingdum comin',An' de yar ob jubilo.De oberseer he makes us trubble,An' he dribe us roun' a spell,We lock him up in de smoke-house cellar,Wid de key flung in de well.De whip am lost, de han'-cuff broke,But de massy hab his pay;He big an' ole enough for to know betterDan to went an' run away.De massa run, ha, ha!De darkey stay, ho, ho!It mus' be now de kingdum comin',An' de yar ob jubilo.Henry Clay Work.
Say, darkeys, hab you seen de massa,Wid de muffstash on he face,Go long de road some time dis mornin',Like he gwine leabe de place?He see de smoke way up de ribberWhar de Lincum gunboats lay;He took he hat an' leff berry sudden,And I spose he's runned away.De massa run, ha, ha!De darkey stay, ho, ho!It mus' be now de kingdum comin',An' de yar ob jubilo.
He six foot one way an' two foot todder,An' he weigh six hundred poun';His coat so big he couldn't pay de tailor,An' it won't reach half way roun';He drill so much dey calls him cap'n,An' he git so mighty tanned,I spec he'll try to fool dem Yankees,For to tink he contraband.De massa run, ha, ha!De darkey stay, ho, ho!It mus' be now de kingdum comin',An' de yar ob jubilo.
De darkeys got so lonesome libb'nIn de log hut on de lawn,Dey moved dere tings into massa's parlorFor to keep it while he gone.Dar's wine an' cider in de kitchin,An' de darkeys dey hab some,I spec it will be all fiscated.When de Lincum sojers come.De massa run, ha, ha!De darkey stay, ho, ho!It mus' be now de kingdum comin',An' de yar ob jubilo.
De oberseer he makes us trubble,An' he dribe us roun' a spell,We lock him up in de smoke-house cellar,Wid de key flung in de well.De whip am lost, de han'-cuff broke,But de massy hab his pay;He big an' ole enough for to know betterDan to went an' run away.De massa run, ha, ha!De darkey stay, ho, ho!It mus' be now de kingdum comin',An' de yar ob jubilo.
Henry Clay Work.
VIRGINIA CAPTA
APRIL, 1865
Unconquer'd captive!—close thine eye,And draw the ashen sackcloth o'er,And in thy speechless woe deploreThe fate that would not let thee die!The arm that wore the shield, strip bare;The hand that held the martial rein,And hurled the spear on many a plain,—Stretch—till they clasp the shackles there!The foot that once could crush the crown,Must drag the fetters, till it bleedBeneath their weight:—thou dost not needIt now, to tread the tyrant down.Thou thought'st him vanquished—boastful trust!—His lance, in twain—his sword, a wreck,—But with his heel upon thy neck,He holdstheeprostrate in the dust!Bend though thou must, beneath his will,Let not one abject moan have place;But with majestic, silent grace,Maintain thy regal bearing still.Look back through all thy storied past,And sit erect in conscious pride:No grander heroes ever died—No sterner, battled to the last!Weep, if thou wilt, with proud, sad mien,Thy blasted hopes—thy peace undone,—Yet brave, live on,—nor seek to shunThy fate, like Egypt's conquer'd Queen.Though forced a captive's place to fillIn the triumphal train,—yet there,Superbly, like Zenobia, wearThy chains,—Virginia Victrixstill!Margaret Junkin Preston.
Unconquer'd captive!—close thine eye,And draw the ashen sackcloth o'er,And in thy speechless woe deploreThe fate that would not let thee die!The arm that wore the shield, strip bare;The hand that held the martial rein,And hurled the spear on many a plain,—Stretch—till they clasp the shackles there!The foot that once could crush the crown,Must drag the fetters, till it bleedBeneath their weight:—thou dost not needIt now, to tread the tyrant down.Thou thought'st him vanquished—boastful trust!—His lance, in twain—his sword, a wreck,—But with his heel upon thy neck,He holdstheeprostrate in the dust!Bend though thou must, beneath his will,Let not one abject moan have place;But with majestic, silent grace,Maintain thy regal bearing still.Look back through all thy storied past,And sit erect in conscious pride:No grander heroes ever died—No sterner, battled to the last!Weep, if thou wilt, with proud, sad mien,Thy blasted hopes—thy peace undone,—Yet brave, live on,—nor seek to shunThy fate, like Egypt's conquer'd Queen.Though forced a captive's place to fillIn the triumphal train,—yet there,Superbly, like Zenobia, wearThy chains,—Virginia Victrixstill!Margaret Junkin Preston.
Unconquer'd captive!—close thine eye,And draw the ashen sackcloth o'er,And in thy speechless woe deploreThe fate that would not let thee die!
The arm that wore the shield, strip bare;The hand that held the martial rein,And hurled the spear on many a plain,—Stretch—till they clasp the shackles there!
The foot that once could crush the crown,Must drag the fetters, till it bleedBeneath their weight:—thou dost not needIt now, to tread the tyrant down.
Thou thought'st him vanquished—boastful trust!—His lance, in twain—his sword, a wreck,—But with his heel upon thy neck,He holdstheeprostrate in the dust!
Bend though thou must, beneath his will,Let not one abject moan have place;But with majestic, silent grace,Maintain thy regal bearing still.
Look back through all thy storied past,And sit erect in conscious pride:No grander heroes ever died—No sterner, battled to the last!
Weep, if thou wilt, with proud, sad mien,Thy blasted hopes—thy peace undone,—Yet brave, live on,—nor seek to shunThy fate, like Egypt's conquer'd Queen.
Though forced a captive's place to fillIn the triumphal train,—yet there,Superbly, like Zenobia, wearThy chains,—Virginia Victrixstill!
Margaret Junkin Preston.
Tidings of the fall of Richmond went over the North with lightning speed, and in every city, every town and hamlet, public demonstrations were held.
Tidings of the fall of Richmond went over the North with lightning speed, and in every city, every town and hamlet, public demonstrations were held.
THE FALL OF RICHMOND
THE TIDINGS RECEIVED IN THE NORTHERN METROPOLIS (APRIL, 1865)
What mean these peals from every tower,And crowds like seas that sway?The cannon reply; they speak the heartOf the People impassioned, and say—A city in flags for a city in flames,Richmond goes Babylon's way—Sing and pray.O weary years and woeful wars,And armies in the grave;But hearts unquelled at last deterThe helmed dilated Lucifer—Honor to Grant the brave,Whose three stars now like Orion's riseWhen wreck is on the wave—Bless his glaive.Well that the faith we firmly kept,And never our aim forsworeFor the Terrors that trooped from each recessWhen fainting we fought in the Wilderness,And Hell made loud hurrah;But God is in Heaven, and Grant in the Town,And Right through Might is Law—God's way adore.Herman Melville.
What mean these peals from every tower,And crowds like seas that sway?The cannon reply; they speak the heartOf the People impassioned, and say—A city in flags for a city in flames,Richmond goes Babylon's way—Sing and pray.O weary years and woeful wars,And armies in the grave;But hearts unquelled at last deterThe helmed dilated Lucifer—Honor to Grant the brave,Whose three stars now like Orion's riseWhen wreck is on the wave—Bless his glaive.Well that the faith we firmly kept,And never our aim forsworeFor the Terrors that trooped from each recessWhen fainting we fought in the Wilderness,And Hell made loud hurrah;But God is in Heaven, and Grant in the Town,And Right through Might is Law—God's way adore.Herman Melville.
What mean these peals from every tower,And crowds like seas that sway?The cannon reply; they speak the heartOf the People impassioned, and say—A city in flags for a city in flames,Richmond goes Babylon's way—Sing and pray.
O weary years and woeful wars,And armies in the grave;But hearts unquelled at last deterThe helmed dilated Lucifer—Honor to Grant the brave,Whose three stars now like Orion's riseWhen wreck is on the wave—Bless his glaive.
Well that the faith we firmly kept,And never our aim forsworeFor the Terrors that trooped from each recessWhen fainting we fought in the Wilderness,And Hell made loud hurrah;But God is in Heaven, and Grant in the Town,And Right through Might is Law—God's way adore.
Herman Melville.
Lee, meanwhile, was trying desperately to escape the force which Grant had sent in pursuit of him. His army was dreadfully shattered and without supplies; his horses were too weak to draw the cannon; and he soon found himself surrounded by a vastly superior force. To fight would have been folly; instead, he sent forward a white flag, and surrendered at two o'clock on the afternoon of Palm Sunday, April 9, 1865.
Lee, meanwhile, was trying desperately to escape the force which Grant had sent in pursuit of him. His army was dreadfully shattered and without supplies; his horses were too weak to draw the cannon; and he soon found himself surrounded by a vastly superior force. To fight would have been folly; instead, he sent forward a white flag, and surrendered at two o'clock on the afternoon of Palm Sunday, April 9, 1865.
THE SURRENDER AT APPOMATTOX
[April 9, 1865]
As billows upon billows roll,On victory victory breaks;Ere yet seven days from Richmond's fallAnd crowning triumph wakesThe loud joy-gun, whose thunders runBy sea-shore, streams, and lakes.The hope and great event agreeIn the sword that Grant received from Lee.The warring eagles fold the wing,But not in Cæsar's sway;Not Rome o'ercome by Roman arms we sing,As on Pharsalia's day,But Treason thrown, though a giant grown,And Freedom's larger play.All human tribes glad token seeIn the close of the wars of Grant and Lee.Herman Melville.
As billows upon billows roll,On victory victory breaks;Ere yet seven days from Richmond's fallAnd crowning triumph wakesThe loud joy-gun, whose thunders runBy sea-shore, streams, and lakes.The hope and great event agreeIn the sword that Grant received from Lee.The warring eagles fold the wing,But not in Cæsar's sway;Not Rome o'ercome by Roman arms we sing,As on Pharsalia's day,But Treason thrown, though a giant grown,And Freedom's larger play.All human tribes glad token seeIn the close of the wars of Grant and Lee.Herman Melville.
As billows upon billows roll,On victory victory breaks;Ere yet seven days from Richmond's fallAnd crowning triumph wakesThe loud joy-gun, whose thunders runBy sea-shore, streams, and lakes.The hope and great event agreeIn the sword that Grant received from Lee.
The warring eagles fold the wing,But not in Cæsar's sway;Not Rome o'ercome by Roman arms we sing,As on Pharsalia's day,But Treason thrown, though a giant grown,And Freedom's larger play.All human tribes glad token seeIn the close of the wars of Grant and Lee.
Herman Melville.
Grant was generous with the fallen enemy; too generous, some of the patriot politicians thought, in releasing Lee and his officers on parole; but Grant insisted that the terms he had given be carried out to the letter.
Grant was generous with the fallen enemy; too generous, some of the patriot politicians thought, in releasing Lee and his officers on parole; but Grant insisted that the terms he had given be carried out to the letter.
LEE'S PAROLE
"Well, General Grant, have you heard the news?How the orders are issued and ready to sendFor Lee, and the men in his staff-command,To be under arrest,—now the war's at an end?""How so? Arrested for what?" he cried."Oh, for trial as traitors, to be shot, or hung."The chief's eye flashed with a sudden ire,And his face grew crimson as up he sprung."Orderly, fetch me my horse," he said.Then into the saddle and up the street,As if the battle were raging ahead,Went the crash of the old war-charger's feet."What is this I am told about Lee's arrest,—Is it true?"—and the keen eyes searched his soul."Itistrue, and the order will be enforced!""Myword was given in their paroleAt Richmond, and that paroleHas not been broken,—nor has my word,Norwill beuntil there is better causeFor breaking than this I have lately heard.""Do you know, sir, whom you have thus addressed?I am the War Department's head—""And I—am General Grant!At your peril order arrests!" he said.*****A friend is a friend, as we reckon worth,Who will throw the gauntlet in friendship's fight;But a man is a man in peace or warWho will stake his all for an enemy's right.'Twas a hard-fought battle, but quickly won,—As a fight must be when 'tis soul to soul,—And 'twas years ago; but that honored wordPreserved the North in the South's parole.Marion Manville.
"Well, General Grant, have you heard the news?How the orders are issued and ready to sendFor Lee, and the men in his staff-command,To be under arrest,—now the war's at an end?""How so? Arrested for what?" he cried."Oh, for trial as traitors, to be shot, or hung."The chief's eye flashed with a sudden ire,And his face grew crimson as up he sprung."Orderly, fetch me my horse," he said.Then into the saddle and up the street,As if the battle were raging ahead,Went the crash of the old war-charger's feet."What is this I am told about Lee's arrest,—Is it true?"—and the keen eyes searched his soul."Itistrue, and the order will be enforced!""Myword was given in their paroleAt Richmond, and that paroleHas not been broken,—nor has my word,Norwill beuntil there is better causeFor breaking than this I have lately heard.""Do you know, sir, whom you have thus addressed?I am the War Department's head—""And I—am General Grant!At your peril order arrests!" he said.*****A friend is a friend, as we reckon worth,Who will throw the gauntlet in friendship's fight;But a man is a man in peace or warWho will stake his all for an enemy's right.'Twas a hard-fought battle, but quickly won,—As a fight must be when 'tis soul to soul,—And 'twas years ago; but that honored wordPreserved the North in the South's parole.Marion Manville.
"Well, General Grant, have you heard the news?How the orders are issued and ready to sendFor Lee, and the men in his staff-command,To be under arrest,—now the war's at an end?"
"How so? Arrested for what?" he cried."Oh, for trial as traitors, to be shot, or hung."The chief's eye flashed with a sudden ire,And his face grew crimson as up he sprung."Orderly, fetch me my horse," he said.Then into the saddle and up the street,As if the battle were raging ahead,Went the crash of the old war-charger's feet.
"What is this I am told about Lee's arrest,—Is it true?"—and the keen eyes searched his soul."Itistrue, and the order will be enforced!""Myword was given in their paroleAt Richmond, and that paroleHas not been broken,—nor has my word,Norwill beuntil there is better causeFor breaking than this I have lately heard."
"Do you know, sir, whom you have thus addressed?I am the War Department's head—""And I—am General Grant!At your peril order arrests!" he said.
*****
A friend is a friend, as we reckon worth,Who will throw the gauntlet in friendship's fight;But a man is a man in peace or warWho will stake his all for an enemy's right.'Twas a hard-fought battle, but quickly won,—As a fight must be when 'tis soul to soul,—And 'twas years ago; but that honored wordPreserved the North in the South's parole.
Marion Manville.
In disbanding his army, Lee issued a farewell address, copies of which are still treasured in many a Southern home. Even in the North, he has come to be recognized as the great general and true gentleman he really was.
In disbanding his army, Lee issued a farewell address, copies of which are still treasured in many a Southern home. Even in the North, he has come to be recognized as the great general and true gentleman he really was.
ROBERT E. LEE
A gallant foeman in the fight,A brother when the fight was o'er,The hand that led the host with mightThe blessed torch of learning bore.No shriek of shells nor roll of drums,No challenge fierce, resounding far,When reconciling Wisdom comesTo heal the cruel wounds of war.Thought may the minds of men divide,Love makes the heart of nations one,And so, thy soldier grave beside,We honor thee, Virginia's son.Julia Ward Howe.
A gallant foeman in the fight,A brother when the fight was o'er,The hand that led the host with mightThe blessed torch of learning bore.No shriek of shells nor roll of drums,No challenge fierce, resounding far,When reconciling Wisdom comesTo heal the cruel wounds of war.Thought may the minds of men divide,Love makes the heart of nations one,And so, thy soldier grave beside,We honor thee, Virginia's son.Julia Ward Howe.
A gallant foeman in the fight,A brother when the fight was o'er,The hand that led the host with mightThe blessed torch of learning bore.
No shriek of shells nor roll of drums,No challenge fierce, resounding far,When reconciling Wisdom comesTo heal the cruel wounds of war.
Thought may the minds of men divide,Love makes the heart of nations one,And so, thy soldier grave beside,We honor thee, Virginia's son.
Julia Ward Howe.
WINSLOW AND FARRAGUT
During the Civil War, the Confederates commissioned a large number of privateers to prey upon Northern commerce, the most famous of which was the Alabama, commanded by Raphael Semmes. Semmes had orders to sink, burn, and destroy everything flying the Stars and Stripes, and carried them out in the most thorough-going way. On June 11, 1864, the Alabama entered the harbor of Cherbourg, France. Three days later, the United States sloop-of-war Kearsarge, Captain John A. Winslow, appeared in the offing, and both ships prepared for battle. The Alabama steamed out of the harbor on the morning of Sunday, June 19, and was soon reduced to a wreck by the deadly fire from the Kearsarge. She sank while trying to run inshore.
During the Civil War, the Confederates commissioned a large number of privateers to prey upon Northern commerce, the most famous of which was the Alabama, commanded by Raphael Semmes. Semmes had orders to sink, burn, and destroy everything flying the Stars and Stripes, and carried them out in the most thorough-going way. On June 11, 1864, the Alabama entered the harbor of Cherbourg, France. Three days later, the United States sloop-of-war Kearsarge, Captain John A. Winslow, appeared in the offing, and both ships prepared for battle. The Alabama steamed out of the harbor on the morning of Sunday, June 19, and was soon reduced to a wreck by the deadly fire from the Kearsarge. She sank while trying to run inshore.
THE EAGLE AND VULTURE
[June, 1864]
In Cherbourg Roads the pirate layOne morn in June, like a beast at bay,Feeling secure in the neutral port,Under the guns of the Frenchman's fort;A thieving vulture; a coward thing;Sheltered beneath a despot's wing.But there outside, in the calm blue bay,Our ocean-eagle, the Kearsarge, lay;Lay at her ease on the Sunday morn,Holding the Corsair ship in scorn;With captain and crew in the might of their right,Willing to pray, but more eager to fight.Four bells are struck, and this thing of night,Like a panther, crouching with fierce affright,Mustleap from his cover, and, come what may,Mustfight for his life, or steal away!So, out of the port with his braggart air,With flaunting flags, sailed the proud Corsair.The Cherbourg cliffs were all aliveWith lookers-on, like a swarming hive;While compelled to do what he dared not shirk,The pirate went to his desperate work;And Europe's tyrants looked on in glee,As they thought of our Kearsarge sunk in the sea.But our little bark smiled back at themA smile of contempt, with that Union gem,The American banner, far floating and free,Proclaiming her champions were out on the sea;Were out on the sea, and abroad on the land,Determined to win under God's command.Down came the vulture; our eagle sat still,Waiting to strike with her iron-clad bill;Convinced by the glow of his glorious cause,He could crumple his foe in the grasp of his claws."Clear the decks," then said Winslow, words measured and slow;"Point the guns, and prepare for the terrible blow;And whatever the fate to ourselves may be,We will sink in the ocean this pest of the sea."The decks were all cleared, and the guns were all manned,Awaiting to meet this Atlantic brigand;When, lo! roared a broadside; the ship of the thiefWas torn, and wept blood in that moment of grief.Another! another! another! And stillThe broadsides went in with a hearty good will,Till the pirate reeled wildly, as staggering and drunk,And down to his own native regions he sunk.Down, down, forty fathoms beneath the blue wave,And the hopes of old Europe lie in the same grave;While Freedom, more firm, stands upon her own sod,And for heroes like Winslow is shouting, "Thank God!"Thomas Buchanan Read.
In Cherbourg Roads the pirate layOne morn in June, like a beast at bay,Feeling secure in the neutral port,Under the guns of the Frenchman's fort;A thieving vulture; a coward thing;Sheltered beneath a despot's wing.But there outside, in the calm blue bay,Our ocean-eagle, the Kearsarge, lay;Lay at her ease on the Sunday morn,Holding the Corsair ship in scorn;With captain and crew in the might of their right,Willing to pray, but more eager to fight.Four bells are struck, and this thing of night,Like a panther, crouching with fierce affright,Mustleap from his cover, and, come what may,Mustfight for his life, or steal away!So, out of the port with his braggart air,With flaunting flags, sailed the proud Corsair.The Cherbourg cliffs were all aliveWith lookers-on, like a swarming hive;While compelled to do what he dared not shirk,The pirate went to his desperate work;And Europe's tyrants looked on in glee,As they thought of our Kearsarge sunk in the sea.But our little bark smiled back at themA smile of contempt, with that Union gem,The American banner, far floating and free,Proclaiming her champions were out on the sea;Were out on the sea, and abroad on the land,Determined to win under God's command.Down came the vulture; our eagle sat still,Waiting to strike with her iron-clad bill;Convinced by the glow of his glorious cause,He could crumple his foe in the grasp of his claws."Clear the decks," then said Winslow, words measured and slow;"Point the guns, and prepare for the terrible blow;And whatever the fate to ourselves may be,We will sink in the ocean this pest of the sea."The decks were all cleared, and the guns were all manned,Awaiting to meet this Atlantic brigand;When, lo! roared a broadside; the ship of the thiefWas torn, and wept blood in that moment of grief.Another! another! another! And stillThe broadsides went in with a hearty good will,Till the pirate reeled wildly, as staggering and drunk,And down to his own native regions he sunk.Down, down, forty fathoms beneath the blue wave,And the hopes of old Europe lie in the same grave;While Freedom, more firm, stands upon her own sod,And for heroes like Winslow is shouting, "Thank God!"Thomas Buchanan Read.
In Cherbourg Roads the pirate layOne morn in June, like a beast at bay,Feeling secure in the neutral port,Under the guns of the Frenchman's fort;A thieving vulture; a coward thing;Sheltered beneath a despot's wing.
But there outside, in the calm blue bay,Our ocean-eagle, the Kearsarge, lay;Lay at her ease on the Sunday morn,Holding the Corsair ship in scorn;With captain and crew in the might of their right,Willing to pray, but more eager to fight.
Four bells are struck, and this thing of night,Like a panther, crouching with fierce affright,Mustleap from his cover, and, come what may,Mustfight for his life, or steal away!So, out of the port with his braggart air,With flaunting flags, sailed the proud Corsair.
The Cherbourg cliffs were all aliveWith lookers-on, like a swarming hive;While compelled to do what he dared not shirk,The pirate went to his desperate work;And Europe's tyrants looked on in glee,As they thought of our Kearsarge sunk in the sea.
But our little bark smiled back at themA smile of contempt, with that Union gem,The American banner, far floating and free,Proclaiming her champions were out on the sea;Were out on the sea, and abroad on the land,Determined to win under God's command.
Down came the vulture; our eagle sat still,Waiting to strike with her iron-clad bill;Convinced by the glow of his glorious cause,He could crumple his foe in the grasp of his claws.
"Clear the decks," then said Winslow, words measured and slow;"Point the guns, and prepare for the terrible blow;And whatever the fate to ourselves may be,We will sink in the ocean this pest of the sea."
The decks were all cleared, and the guns were all manned,Awaiting to meet this Atlantic brigand;When, lo! roared a broadside; the ship of the thiefWas torn, and wept blood in that moment of grief.
Another! another! another! And stillThe broadsides went in with a hearty good will,Till the pirate reeled wildly, as staggering and drunk,And down to his own native regions he sunk.
Down, down, forty fathoms beneath the blue wave,And the hopes of old Europe lie in the same grave;While Freedom, more firm, stands upon her own sod,And for heroes like Winslow is shouting, "Thank God!"
Thomas Buchanan Read.
KEARSARGE AND ALABAMA
[June 19, 1864]
It was early Sunday morning, in the year of sixty-four,The Alabama she steam'd out along the Frenchman's shore.Long time she cruised about,Long time she held her sway,But now beneath the Frenchman's shore she lies off Cherbourg Bay.Hoist up the flag, and long may it waveOver the Union, the home of the brave.Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave,God bless America, the home of the brave!The Yankee cruiser hove in view, the Kearsarge was her name,It ought to be engraved in full upon the scroll of fame;Her timbers made of Yankee oak,And her crew of Yankee tars.And o'er her mizzen peak she floats the glorious stripes and stars.A challenge unto Captain Semmes, bold Winslow he did send!"Bring on your Alabama, and to her we will attend,For we think your boasting privateerIs not so hard to whip;And we'll show you that the Kearsarge is not a merchant ship."It was early Sunday morning, in the year of sixty-four,The Alabama she stood out and cannons loud did roar;The Kearsarge stood undaunted, and quickly she repliedAnd let a Yankee 'leven-inch shell go tearing through her side.The Kearsarge then she wore around and broadside on did bear,With shot and shell and right good-will, her timbers she did tear;When they found that they were sinking, down came the stars and bars,For the rebel gunners could not stand the glorious stripes and stars.The Alabama she is gone, she'll cruise the seas no more,She met the fate she well deserved along the Frenchman's shore;Then here is luck to the Kearsarge, we know what she can do,Likewise to Captain Winslow and his brave and gallant crew.Hoist up the flag, and long may it waveOver the Union, the home of the brave!Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave,God bless America, the home of the brave!
It was early Sunday morning, in the year of sixty-four,The Alabama she steam'd out along the Frenchman's shore.Long time she cruised about,Long time she held her sway,But now beneath the Frenchman's shore she lies off Cherbourg Bay.Hoist up the flag, and long may it waveOver the Union, the home of the brave.Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave,God bless America, the home of the brave!The Yankee cruiser hove in view, the Kearsarge was her name,It ought to be engraved in full upon the scroll of fame;Her timbers made of Yankee oak,And her crew of Yankee tars.And o'er her mizzen peak she floats the glorious stripes and stars.A challenge unto Captain Semmes, bold Winslow he did send!"Bring on your Alabama, and to her we will attend,For we think your boasting privateerIs not so hard to whip;And we'll show you that the Kearsarge is not a merchant ship."It was early Sunday morning, in the year of sixty-four,The Alabama she stood out and cannons loud did roar;The Kearsarge stood undaunted, and quickly she repliedAnd let a Yankee 'leven-inch shell go tearing through her side.The Kearsarge then she wore around and broadside on did bear,With shot and shell and right good-will, her timbers she did tear;When they found that they were sinking, down came the stars and bars,For the rebel gunners could not stand the glorious stripes and stars.The Alabama she is gone, she'll cruise the seas no more,She met the fate she well deserved along the Frenchman's shore;Then here is luck to the Kearsarge, we know what she can do,Likewise to Captain Winslow and his brave and gallant crew.Hoist up the flag, and long may it waveOver the Union, the home of the brave!Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave,God bless America, the home of the brave!
It was early Sunday morning, in the year of sixty-four,The Alabama she steam'd out along the Frenchman's shore.Long time she cruised about,Long time she held her sway,But now beneath the Frenchman's shore she lies off Cherbourg Bay.Hoist up the flag, and long may it waveOver the Union, the home of the brave.Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave,God bless America, the home of the brave!
The Yankee cruiser hove in view, the Kearsarge was her name,It ought to be engraved in full upon the scroll of fame;Her timbers made of Yankee oak,And her crew of Yankee tars.And o'er her mizzen peak she floats the glorious stripes and stars.
A challenge unto Captain Semmes, bold Winslow he did send!"Bring on your Alabama, and to her we will attend,For we think your boasting privateerIs not so hard to whip;And we'll show you that the Kearsarge is not a merchant ship."
It was early Sunday morning, in the year of sixty-four,The Alabama she stood out and cannons loud did roar;The Kearsarge stood undaunted, and quickly she repliedAnd let a Yankee 'leven-inch shell go tearing through her side.
The Kearsarge then she wore around and broadside on did bear,With shot and shell and right good-will, her timbers she did tear;When they found that they were sinking, down came the stars and bars,For the rebel gunners could not stand the glorious stripes and stars.
The Alabama she is gone, she'll cruise the seas no more,She met the fate she well deserved along the Frenchman's shore;Then here is luck to the Kearsarge, we know what she can do,Likewise to Captain Winslow and his brave and gallant crew.Hoist up the flag, and long may it waveOver the Union, the home of the brave!Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave,God bless America, the home of the brave!
KEARSARGE
[June 19, 1864]
Sunday in Old England:In gray churches everywhereThe calm of low responses,The sacred hush of prayer.Sunday in Old England:And summer winds that wentO'er the pleasant fields of Sussex,The garden lands of Kent,Stole into dim church windowsAnd passed the oaken door,And fluttered open prayer-booksWith the cannon's awful roar.Sunday in New England:Upon a mountain grayThe wind-bent pines are swayingLike giants at their play;Across the barren lowlands,Where men find scanty food,The north wind brings its vigorTo homesteads plain and rude.Ho, land of pine and granite!Ho, hardy northland breeze!Well have you trained the manhoodThat shook the Channel seas,When o'er those storied watersThe iron war-bolts flew,And through Old England's churchesThe summer breezes blew;While in our other EnglandStirred one gaunt rocky steep,When rode her sons as victors,Lords of the lonely deep.S. Weir Mitchell.London, July 20, 1864.
Sunday in Old England:In gray churches everywhereThe calm of low responses,The sacred hush of prayer.Sunday in Old England:And summer winds that wentO'er the pleasant fields of Sussex,The garden lands of Kent,Stole into dim church windowsAnd passed the oaken door,And fluttered open prayer-booksWith the cannon's awful roar.Sunday in New England:Upon a mountain grayThe wind-bent pines are swayingLike giants at their play;Across the barren lowlands,Where men find scanty food,The north wind brings its vigorTo homesteads plain and rude.Ho, land of pine and granite!Ho, hardy northland breeze!Well have you trained the manhoodThat shook the Channel seas,When o'er those storied watersThe iron war-bolts flew,And through Old England's churchesThe summer breezes blew;While in our other EnglandStirred one gaunt rocky steep,When rode her sons as victors,Lords of the lonely deep.S. Weir Mitchell.London, July 20, 1864.
Sunday in Old England:In gray churches everywhereThe calm of low responses,The sacred hush of prayer.
Sunday in Old England:And summer winds that wentO'er the pleasant fields of Sussex,The garden lands of Kent,
Stole into dim church windowsAnd passed the oaken door,And fluttered open prayer-booksWith the cannon's awful roar.
Sunday in New England:Upon a mountain grayThe wind-bent pines are swayingLike giants at their play;
Across the barren lowlands,Where men find scanty food,The north wind brings its vigorTo homesteads plain and rude.
Ho, land of pine and granite!Ho, hardy northland breeze!Well have you trained the manhoodThat shook the Channel seas,
When o'er those storied watersThe iron war-bolts flew,And through Old England's churchesThe summer breezes blew;
While in our other EnglandStirred one gaunt rocky steep,When rode her sons as victors,Lords of the lonely deep.
S. Weir Mitchell.
London, July 20, 1864.
THE ALABAMA
She has gone to the bottom! the wrath of the tideNow breaks in vain insolence o'er her;No more the rough seas like a queen shall she ride,While the foe flies in terror before her!Now captive or exiled, or silent in death,The forms that so bravely did man her;Her deck is untrod, and the gale's stirring breathFlouts no more the red cross of her banner!She is down 'neath the waters, but still her bright nameIs in death, as in life, ever glorious,And a sceptre all barren the conqueror must claim,Though he boasts the proud title "Victorious."Her country's lone champion, she shunned not the fight,Though unequal in strength, bold and fearless;And proved in her fate, though not matchless in might,In daring at least she was peerless.No trophy hung high in the foe's hated hallShall speak of her final disaster,Nor tell of the danger that could not appall,Nor the spirit that nothing could master!The death-shot has sped—she has grimly gone down,But left her destroyer no token,And the mythical wand of her mystic renown,Though the waters o'erwhelm, is unbroken.For lo! ere she settles beneath the dark waveOn her enemies' cheeks spreads a pallor,As another deck summons the swords of the braveTo gild a new name with their valor.Her phantom will yet haunt the wild roaring breeze,Causing foemen to start and to shudder,While their commerce still steals like a thief o'er the seas,And trembles from bowsprit to rudder.The spirit that shed on the wave's gleaming crestThe light of a legend romanticShall live while a sail flutters over the breastOf thy far-bounding billows, Atlantic!And as long as one swift keel the strong surges stems,Or "poor Jack" loves his song and his story,Shall shine in tradition the valor of SemmesAnd the brave ship that bore him to glory!Maurice Bell.
She has gone to the bottom! the wrath of the tideNow breaks in vain insolence o'er her;No more the rough seas like a queen shall she ride,While the foe flies in terror before her!Now captive or exiled, or silent in death,The forms that so bravely did man her;Her deck is untrod, and the gale's stirring breathFlouts no more the red cross of her banner!She is down 'neath the waters, but still her bright nameIs in death, as in life, ever glorious,And a sceptre all barren the conqueror must claim,Though he boasts the proud title "Victorious."Her country's lone champion, she shunned not the fight,Though unequal in strength, bold and fearless;And proved in her fate, though not matchless in might,In daring at least she was peerless.No trophy hung high in the foe's hated hallShall speak of her final disaster,Nor tell of the danger that could not appall,Nor the spirit that nothing could master!The death-shot has sped—she has grimly gone down,But left her destroyer no token,And the mythical wand of her mystic renown,Though the waters o'erwhelm, is unbroken.For lo! ere she settles beneath the dark waveOn her enemies' cheeks spreads a pallor,As another deck summons the swords of the braveTo gild a new name with their valor.Her phantom will yet haunt the wild roaring breeze,Causing foemen to start and to shudder,While their commerce still steals like a thief o'er the seas,And trembles from bowsprit to rudder.The spirit that shed on the wave's gleaming crestThe light of a legend romanticShall live while a sail flutters over the breastOf thy far-bounding billows, Atlantic!And as long as one swift keel the strong surges stems,Or "poor Jack" loves his song and his story,Shall shine in tradition the valor of SemmesAnd the brave ship that bore him to glory!Maurice Bell.
She has gone to the bottom! the wrath of the tideNow breaks in vain insolence o'er her;No more the rough seas like a queen shall she ride,While the foe flies in terror before her!
Now captive or exiled, or silent in death,The forms that so bravely did man her;Her deck is untrod, and the gale's stirring breathFlouts no more the red cross of her banner!
She is down 'neath the waters, but still her bright nameIs in death, as in life, ever glorious,And a sceptre all barren the conqueror must claim,Though he boasts the proud title "Victorious."
Her country's lone champion, she shunned not the fight,Though unequal in strength, bold and fearless;And proved in her fate, though not matchless in might,In daring at least she was peerless.
No trophy hung high in the foe's hated hallShall speak of her final disaster,Nor tell of the danger that could not appall,Nor the spirit that nothing could master!
The death-shot has sped—she has grimly gone down,But left her destroyer no token,And the mythical wand of her mystic renown,Though the waters o'erwhelm, is unbroken.
For lo! ere she settles beneath the dark waveOn her enemies' cheeks spreads a pallor,As another deck summons the swords of the braveTo gild a new name with their valor.
Her phantom will yet haunt the wild roaring breeze,Causing foemen to start and to shudder,While their commerce still steals like a thief o'er the seas,And trembles from bowsprit to rudder.
The spirit that shed on the wave's gleaming crestThe light of a legend romanticShall live while a sail flutters over the breastOf thy far-bounding billows, Atlantic!
And as long as one swift keel the strong surges stems,Or "poor Jack" loves his song and his story,Shall shine in tradition the valor of SemmesAnd the brave ship that bore him to glory!
Maurice Bell.
Mobile and Wilmington were the only important Confederate ports still open, and early in August, 1864, Admiral Farragut appeared off Mobile with a fleet of eighteen vessels. The entrance to the harbor was strongly defended by forts on both sides, but Farragut determined to run past them. On August 5 the fleet advanced, but the Tecumseh, leading the fleet, struck a torpedo and sank instantly, carrying down nearly all her crew, including T. A. M. Craven, her commander, who drew aside from the ladder that the pilot might pass first.
Mobile and Wilmington were the only important Confederate ports still open, and early in August, 1864, Admiral Farragut appeared off Mobile with a fleet of eighteen vessels. The entrance to the harbor was strongly defended by forts on both sides, but Farragut determined to run past them. On August 5 the fleet advanced, but the Tecumseh, leading the fleet, struck a torpedo and sank instantly, carrying down nearly all her crew, including T. A. M. Craven, her commander, who drew aside from the ladder that the pilot might pass first.
CRAVEN
[August 5, 1864]