Chapter 42

As hang two mighty thundercloudsEre lightnings link the twain,So lie we and the MexicanOn Palo Alto plain;And silence, solemn, dread, profound,Broods o'er the waiting battle-ground.We see the foeman's musketeersDeployed upon his right,And on his left the cavalryStand, hungry for the fight;But that blank centre—what? Alas,'Tis hidden by the prairie grass!Old Rough and Ready scans the foe;"I would I knew," says he,"Whether or no that lofty grassConceals artillery.Could I but bring that spot in ken,'Twere worth to me five thousand men!"Then forward steps Lieutenant Blake,Touches his hat, and says,"I wait command to ride and seeWhat 'neath that prairie lays."We stand amazed: no cowards, we:But this is more than bravery!"'Command'!" cries Taylor; "nay, I ne'erTo such a deed 'command!'"Then bends he o'er his horse's neckAnd takes as brave a handAs e'er a loyal sabre bore:"God bless you, Blake," he says—no more.The soldier to his saddle springsAnd gayly waves good-by,Determination on his lips,A proud light in his eye:And then, as pity holds our breath,We see him dare that road of death.To utmost pace his steed he spurs.Save that his sword hangs free,It were as though a madman chargedA nation's chivalry!On, on, he flies, his steed unreinedTill yonder hillock's crest is gained.And now he checks his horse, dismounts,And coolly through his glassSurveys the phalanx of the foeThat lies beyond the grass.A musket-flash! They move! Advance!Halt!—'twas the sunlight on a lance!He turns, remounts, and speeds him back.Hark! what is that we hear?Across the rolling prairie rings—A gun? ah, no—a cheer!A noble tribute sweeps the plain:A thousand throats take up the strain.Safe! But the secret to unveilTaylor no longer seeks;For with a roar that shakes the earthThat unmasked centre speaks!'Gainst fearful odds, till set of sun,We battle—and the field is won!Thomas Frost.

As hang two mighty thundercloudsEre lightnings link the twain,So lie we and the MexicanOn Palo Alto plain;And silence, solemn, dread, profound,Broods o'er the waiting battle-ground.

We see the foeman's musketeersDeployed upon his right,And on his left the cavalryStand, hungry for the fight;But that blank centre—what? Alas,'Tis hidden by the prairie grass!

Old Rough and Ready scans the foe;"I would I knew," says he,"Whether or no that lofty grassConceals artillery.Could I but bring that spot in ken,'Twere worth to me five thousand men!"

Then forward steps Lieutenant Blake,Touches his hat, and says,"I wait command to ride and seeWhat 'neath that prairie lays."We stand amazed: no cowards, we:But this is more than bravery!

"'Command'!" cries Taylor; "nay, I ne'erTo such a deed 'command!'"Then bends he o'er his horse's neckAnd takes as brave a handAs e'er a loyal sabre bore:"God bless you, Blake," he says—no more.

The soldier to his saddle springsAnd gayly waves good-by,Determination on his lips,A proud light in his eye:And then, as pity holds our breath,We see him dare that road of death.

To utmost pace his steed he spurs.Save that his sword hangs free,It were as though a madman chargedA nation's chivalry!On, on, he flies, his steed unreinedTill yonder hillock's crest is gained.

And now he checks his horse, dismounts,And coolly through his glassSurveys the phalanx of the foeThat lies beyond the grass.A musket-flash! They move! Advance!Halt!—'twas the sunlight on a lance!

He turns, remounts, and speeds him back.Hark! what is that we hear?Across the rolling prairie rings—A gun? ah, no—a cheer!A noble tribute sweeps the plain:A thousand throats take up the strain.

Safe! But the secret to unveilTaylor no longer seeks;For with a roar that shakes the earthThat unmasked centre speaks!'Gainst fearful odds, till set of sun,We battle—and the field is won!

Thomas Frost.

Blake brought back with him an accurate description of the disposition of the Mexican forces, and Taylor resolved to attack, despite the odds against him. His artillery did great execution, and gradually advanced, as the Mexicans were forced back. Charge after charge was repulsed, and the Mexicans finally withdrew to Resaca de la Palma. There Taylor attacked them next day, routed them, and marched on to relieve Fort Brown.

RIO BRAVO—A MEXICAN LAMENT

[May 8, 1846]

Rio Bravo!Rio Bravo!Saw men ever such a sight?Since the field of RoncesvallesSealed the fate of many a knight.Dark is Palo Alto's story,Sad Reseca Palma's rout,On those fatal fields so gory,Many a gallant life went out.There our best and bravest lancesShivered 'gainst the Northern steel,Left the valiant hearts that couched them'Neath the Northern charger's heel.Rio Bravo! Rio Bravo!Minstrel ne'er knew such a fightSince the field of RoncesvallesSealed the fate of many a knight.Rio Bravo, fatal river,Saw ye not while red with gore,Torrejon all headless quiver,A ghastly trunk upon thy shore!Heard you not the wounded coursersShrieking on your trampled banks,As the Northern winged artilleryThundered on our shattered ranks!There Arista, best and bravest,There Raguena, tried and true,On the fatal field thou lavest,Nobly did all men could do.Vainly there those heroes rally,Castile on Montezuma's shore,"Rio Bravo"—"Roncesvalles,"Ye are names blent evermore.Weepest thou, lorn lady Inez,For thy lover 'mid the slain,Brave La Vega's trenchant falchionCleft his slayer to the brain.Brave La Vega who all lonely,By a host of foes beset,Yielded up his sabre onlyWhen his equal there he met.Other champions not less notedSleep beneath that sullen wave;Rio Bravo, thou hast floatedAn army to an ocean grave.On they came, those Northern horsemen,On like eagles toward the sun,Followed then the Northern bayonet,And the field was lost and won.Oh! for Orlando's horn to rallyHis Paladins on that sad shore,"Rio Bravo"—"Roncesvalles,"Ye are names blent evermore.Translated byCharles Fenno Hoffmanfrom the Spanish ofDon Jose de Saltillo.

Rio Bravo!Rio Bravo!Saw men ever such a sight?Since the field of RoncesvallesSealed the fate of many a knight.

Dark is Palo Alto's story,Sad Reseca Palma's rout,On those fatal fields so gory,Many a gallant life went out.

There our best and bravest lancesShivered 'gainst the Northern steel,Left the valiant hearts that couched them'Neath the Northern charger's heel.

Rio Bravo! Rio Bravo!Minstrel ne'er knew such a fightSince the field of RoncesvallesSealed the fate of many a knight.

Rio Bravo, fatal river,Saw ye not while red with gore,Torrejon all headless quiver,A ghastly trunk upon thy shore!

Heard you not the wounded coursersShrieking on your trampled banks,As the Northern winged artilleryThundered on our shattered ranks!

There Arista, best and bravest,There Raguena, tried and true,On the fatal field thou lavest,Nobly did all men could do.

Vainly there those heroes rally,Castile on Montezuma's shore,"Rio Bravo"—"Roncesvalles,"Ye are names blent evermore.

Weepest thou, lorn lady Inez,For thy lover 'mid the slain,Brave La Vega's trenchant falchionCleft his slayer to the brain.

Brave La Vega who all lonely,By a host of foes beset,Yielded up his sabre onlyWhen his equal there he met.

Other champions not less notedSleep beneath that sullen wave;Rio Bravo, thou hast floatedAn army to an ocean grave.

On they came, those Northern horsemen,On like eagles toward the sun,Followed then the Northern bayonet,And the field was lost and won.

Oh! for Orlando's horn to rallyHis Paladins on that sad shore,"Rio Bravo"—"Roncesvalles,"Ye are names blent evermore.

Translated by

Charles Fenno Hoffman

from the Spanish of

Don Jose de Saltillo.

These brilliant victories served to kindle enthusiasm for the war throughout the whole country. Congress authorized the enlistment of fifty thousand volunteers, and reinforcements were promptly started to General Taylor at Matamoras.

TO ARMS

[1846]

Awake! arise, ye men of might!The glorious hour is nigh,—Your eagle pauses in his flight,And screams his battle-cry.From North to South, from East to West:Send back an answering cheer,And say farewell to peace and rest,And banish doubt and fear.Arm! arm! your country bids you arm!Fling out your banners free—Let drum and trumpet sound alarm,O'er mountains, plain, and sea.March onward from th' Atlantic shore,To Rio Grande's tide—Fight as your fathers fought of yore!Die as your fathers died!Go! vindicate your country's fame,Avenge your country's wrong!The sons should own a deathless name,To whom such sires belong.The kindred of the noble deadAs noble deeds should dare:The fields whereon their blood was shedA deeper stain must bear.To arms! to arms! ye men of might;Away from home, away!The first and foremost in the fightAre sure to win the day!Park Benjamin.

Awake! arise, ye men of might!The glorious hour is nigh,—Your eagle pauses in his flight,And screams his battle-cry.

From North to South, from East to West:Send back an answering cheer,And say farewell to peace and rest,And banish doubt and fear.

Arm! arm! your country bids you arm!Fling out your banners free—Let drum and trumpet sound alarm,O'er mountains, plain, and sea.

March onward from th' Atlantic shore,To Rio Grande's tide—Fight as your fathers fought of yore!Die as your fathers died!

Go! vindicate your country's fame,Avenge your country's wrong!The sons should own a deathless name,To whom such sires belong.

The kindred of the noble deadAs noble deeds should dare:The fields whereon their blood was shedA deeper stain must bear.

To arms! to arms! ye men of might;Away from home, away!The first and foremost in the fightAre sure to win the day!

Park Benjamin.

By the last of August, Taylor had whipped his army into shape, and began to advance on Monterey, a town believed to be impregnable, and where General Arista had collected an army of ten thousand men. The American army reached the town September 19; and after two days' desperate fighting the town surrendered.

MONTEREY

[September 23, 1846]

We were not many, we who stoodBefore the iron sleet that day:Yet many a gallant spirit wouldGive half his years if but he couldHave been with us at Monterey.Now here, now there, the shot is hail'dIn deadly drifts of fiery spray,Yet not a single soldier quail'dWhen wounded comrades round them wail'dTheir dying shout at Monterey.And on—still on our column keptThrough walls of flame its withering way;Where fell the dead, the living stept,Still charging on the guns which sweptThe slippery streets of Monterey.The foe himself recoil'd aghast,When, striking where he strongest lay,We swoop'd his flanking batteries past,And braving full their murderous blast,Storm'd home the towers of Monterey.Our banners on those turrets wave,And there our evening bugles play:Where orange-boughs above their graveKeep green the memory of the braveWho fought and fell at Monterey.We are not many—we who press'dBeside the brave who fell that day—But who of us has not confess'dHe'd rather share their warrior restThan not have been at Monterey?Charles Fenno Hoffman.

We were not many, we who stoodBefore the iron sleet that day:Yet many a gallant spirit wouldGive half his years if but he couldHave been with us at Monterey.

Now here, now there, the shot is hail'dIn deadly drifts of fiery spray,Yet not a single soldier quail'dWhen wounded comrades round them wail'dTheir dying shout at Monterey.

And on—still on our column keptThrough walls of flame its withering way;Where fell the dead, the living stept,Still charging on the guns which sweptThe slippery streets of Monterey.

The foe himself recoil'd aghast,When, striking where he strongest lay,We swoop'd his flanking batteries past,And braving full their murderous blast,Storm'd home the towers of Monterey.

Our banners on those turrets wave,And there our evening bugles play:Where orange-boughs above their graveKeep green the memory of the braveWho fought and fell at Monterey.

We are not many—we who press'dBeside the brave who fell that day—But who of us has not confess'dHe'd rather share their warrior restThan not have been at Monterey?

Charles Fenno Hoffman.

The city had cost the Americans five hundred in killed and wounded; but the Mexican loss was nearly twice as great. Among the American dead was Victor Galbraith, a bugler in a company of volunteer cavalry, who was shot for disobeying orders.

VICTOR GALBRAITH

[September 23, 1846]

Under the walls of MontereyAt daybreak the bugles began to play,Victor Galbraith!In the mist of the morning damp and gray,These were the words they seemed to say:"Come forth to thy death,Victor Galbraith!"Forth he came, with a martial tread;Firm was his step, erect his head;Victor Galbraith,He who so well the bugle played,Could not mistake the words it said:"Come forth to thy death,Victor Galbraith!"He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky,He looked at the files of musketry,Victor Galbraith!And he said, with a steady voice and eye,"Take good aim; I am ready to die!"Thus challenges deathVictor Galbraith.Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red,Six leaden balls on their errand sped;Victor GalbraithFalls to the ground, but he is not dead:His name was not stamped on those balls of lead,And they only scathVictor Galbraith.Three balls are in his breast and brain,But he rises out of the dust again,Victor Galbraith!The water he drinks has a bloody stain;"Oh, kill me, and put me out of my pain!"In his agony prayethVictor Galbraith.Forth dart once more those tongues of flame,And the bugler has died a death of shame,Victor Galbraith!His soul has gone back to whence it came,And no one answers to the nameWhen the Sergeant saith,"Victor Galbraith!"Under the walls of MontereyBy night a bugle is heard to play,Victor Galbraith!Through the mist of the valley damp and grayThe sentinels hear the sound, and say,"That is the wraithOf Victor Galbraith!"Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Forth he came, with a martial tread;Firm was his step, erect his head;Victor Galbraith,He who so well the bugle played,Could not mistake the words it said:"Come forth to thy death,Victor Galbraith!"

He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky,He looked at the files of musketry,Victor Galbraith!And he said, with a steady voice and eye,"Take good aim; I am ready to die!"Thus challenges deathVictor Galbraith.

Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red,Six leaden balls on their errand sped;Victor GalbraithFalls to the ground, but he is not dead:His name was not stamped on those balls of lead,And they only scathVictor Galbraith.

Three balls are in his breast and brain,But he rises out of the dust again,Victor Galbraith!The water he drinks has a bloody stain;"Oh, kill me, and put me out of my pain!"In his agony prayethVictor Galbraith.

Forth dart once more those tongues of flame,And the bugler has died a death of shame,Victor Galbraith!His soul has gone back to whence it came,And no one answers to the nameWhen the Sergeant saith,"Victor Galbraith!"

Under the walls of MontereyBy night a bugle is heard to play,Victor Galbraith!Through the mist of the valley damp and grayThe sentinels hear the sound, and say,"That is the wraithOf Victor Galbraith!"

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Further reinforcements were hurried forward to General Taylor. Santa Anna had collected a great army, and Taylor fell back to Angostura, near the village of Buena Vista. There, on February 22, Santa Anna summoned him to surrender, stating that he was surrounded by twenty thousand men and could not avoid defeat. Taylor tartly refused, and Santa Anna advanced to the attack, only to be routed after a desperate two days' struggle.

BUENA VISTA

[February 22-23, 1847]

From the Rio Grande's waters to the icy lakes of Maine,Let all exult! for we have met the enemy again;Beneath their stern old mountains we have met them in their pride,And rolled fromBuena Vistaback the battle's bloody tide;Where the enemy came surging swift, like the Mississippi's flood,And the reaper, Death, with strong arms swung his sickle red with blood.Santanaboasted loudly that, before two hours were past,His Lancers through Saltillo should pursue us fierce and fast:—On comes his solid infantry, line marching after line;Lo! their great standards in the sun like sheets of silver shine:With thousands upon thousands,—yea, with more than three to one,—Their forests of bright bayonets fierce-flashing in the sun.Lo! Guanajuato's regiment; Morelos' boasted corps,And Guadalajara's chosen troops!—all veterans tried before.Lo! galloping upon the right four thousand lances gleam,Where, floating in the morning wind, their blood-red pennons stream;And here his stern artillery climbs up the broad plateau:To-day he means to strike at us an overwhelming blow.Now,Wool, hold strongly to the heights! for, lo! the mighty tideComes, thundering like an avalanche, deep, terrible, and wide.Now,Illinois, stand steady! Now,Kentucky, to their aid!For a portion of our line, alas! is broken and dismayed:Great bands of shameless fugitives are fleeing from the field,And the day is lost, if Illinois and brave Kentucky yield.One of O'Brien's guns is gone!—On, on their masses drift,Till their cavalry and infantry outflank us on the left;Our light troops, driven from the hills, retreat in wild dismay,And round us gather, thick and dark, the Mexican array.Santanathinks the day is gained; for, now approaching near,Miñon'sdark cloud of Lancers sternly menaces our rear.Now,Lincoln, gallant gentleman, lies dead upon the field,Who strove to stay those cravens, when before the storm they reeled.Fire,Washington, fire fast and true! Fire,Sherman, fast and far!Lo!Braggcomes thundering to the front, to breast the adverse war!Santanathinks the day is gained! On, on his masses crowd,And the roar of battle swells again more terrible and loud.Not yet!Our brave old General comes to regain the day;Kentucky, to the rescue!Mississippi, to the fray!Again our line advances! GallantDavisfronts the foe,And back before his rifles, in red waves the Lancers flow.Upon them yet once more, ye brave! The avalanche is stayed!Back roll the Aztec multitudes, all broken and dismayed.Ride!May!—To Buena Vista! for the Lancers gain our rear,And we have few troops there to check their vehement career.Charge,Arkansas!Kentucky, charge!Yell,Porter,Vaughan, are slain.But the shattered troops cling desperately unto that crimsoned plain;Till, with the Lancers intermixed, pursuing and pursued,Westward, in combat hot and close, drifts off the multitude.AndMaycomes charging from the hills with his ranks of flaming steel,While, shattered with a sudden fire, the foe already reel:They flee amain!—Now to the left, to stay the torrent there,Or else the day is surely lost, in horror and despair!For their hosts pour swiftly onward, like a river in the spring,Our flank is turned, and on our left their cannon thundering.Now, good Artillery! bold Dragoons! Steady, brave hearts, be calm!Through rain, cold hail, and thunder, now nerve each gallant arm!What though their shot fall round us here, yet thicker than the hail?We'll stand against them, as the rock stands firm against the gale.Lo! their battery is silenced! but our iron sleet still showers:They falter, halt, retreat,—Hurrah! the glorious day is ours!In front, too, has the fight gone well, where upon gallantLane,And on stout Mississippi, the thick Lancers charged in vain:Ah! brave Third Indiana! you have nobly wiped awayThe reproach that through another corps befell your State to-day;For back, all broken and dismayed, before your storm of fire,Santana'sboasted chivalry, a shattered wreck, retire.Now charge again,Santana! or the day is surely lost—For back, like broken waves, along our left your hordes are tossed.Still faster roar his batteries,—his whole reserve moves on;More work remains for us to do, ere the good fight is won.Now for your wives and children, men! Stand steady yet once more!Fight for your lives and honors! Fight as you never fought before!Ho!Hardinbreasts it bravely! and heroicBissellthereStands firm before the storm of balls that fill the astonished air:The Lancers dash upon them too! The foe swarm ten to one:Hardinis slain;McKeeandClaythe last time see the sun:And many another gallant heart, in that last desperate fray,Grew cold, its last thought turning to its loved ones far away.Speed, speed, Artillery! to the front!—for the hurricane of fireCrushes those noble regiments, reluctant to retire!Speed swiftly! Gallop! Ah! they come! AgainBraggclimbs the ridge,And his grape sweeps down the swarming foe, as a strong man moweth sedge:Thus baffled in their last attack, compelled perforce to yield,Still menacing in firm array, their columns leave the field.The guns still roared at intervals; but silence fell at last,And on the dead and dying came the evening shadows fast.And then above the mountains rose the cold moon's silver shield,And patiently and pitying she looked upon the field.While careless of his wounded, and neglectful of his dead,Despairingly and sullenly by nightSantanafled.And thus onBuena Vista'sheights a long day's work was done,And thus our brave old General another battle won.Still, still our glorious banner waves, unstained by flight or shame,And the Mexicans among their hills still tremble at our name.So, honor unto those that stood! Disgrace to those that fled!And everlasting glory unto Buena Vista's dead!Albert Pike.February 28, 1847.

Santanaboasted loudly that, before two hours were past,His Lancers through Saltillo should pursue us fierce and fast:—On comes his solid infantry, line marching after line;Lo! their great standards in the sun like sheets of silver shine:With thousands upon thousands,—yea, with more than three to one,—Their forests of bright bayonets fierce-flashing in the sun.

Lo! Guanajuato's regiment; Morelos' boasted corps,And Guadalajara's chosen troops!—all veterans tried before.Lo! galloping upon the right four thousand lances gleam,Where, floating in the morning wind, their blood-red pennons stream;And here his stern artillery climbs up the broad plateau:To-day he means to strike at us an overwhelming blow.

Now,Wool, hold strongly to the heights! for, lo! the mighty tideComes, thundering like an avalanche, deep, terrible, and wide.Now,Illinois, stand steady! Now,Kentucky, to their aid!For a portion of our line, alas! is broken and dismayed:Great bands of shameless fugitives are fleeing from the field,And the day is lost, if Illinois and brave Kentucky yield.

One of O'Brien's guns is gone!—On, on their masses drift,Till their cavalry and infantry outflank us on the left;Our light troops, driven from the hills, retreat in wild dismay,And round us gather, thick and dark, the Mexican array.Santanathinks the day is gained; for, now approaching near,Miñon'sdark cloud of Lancers sternly menaces our rear.

Now,Lincoln, gallant gentleman, lies dead upon the field,Who strove to stay those cravens, when before the storm they reeled.Fire,Washington, fire fast and true! Fire,Sherman, fast and far!Lo!Braggcomes thundering to the front, to breast the adverse war!Santanathinks the day is gained! On, on his masses crowd,And the roar of battle swells again more terrible and loud.

Not yet!Our brave old General comes to regain the day;Kentucky, to the rescue!Mississippi, to the fray!Again our line advances! GallantDavisfronts the foe,And back before his rifles, in red waves the Lancers flow.Upon them yet once more, ye brave! The avalanche is stayed!Back roll the Aztec multitudes, all broken and dismayed.

Ride!May!—To Buena Vista! for the Lancers gain our rear,And we have few troops there to check their vehement career.Charge,Arkansas!Kentucky, charge!Yell,Porter,Vaughan, are slain.But the shattered troops cling desperately unto that crimsoned plain;Till, with the Lancers intermixed, pursuing and pursued,Westward, in combat hot and close, drifts off the multitude.

AndMaycomes charging from the hills with his ranks of flaming steel,While, shattered with a sudden fire, the foe already reel:They flee amain!—Now to the left, to stay the torrent there,Or else the day is surely lost, in horror and despair!For their hosts pour swiftly onward, like a river in the spring,Our flank is turned, and on our left their cannon thundering.

Now, good Artillery! bold Dragoons! Steady, brave hearts, be calm!Through rain, cold hail, and thunder, now nerve each gallant arm!What though their shot fall round us here, yet thicker than the hail?We'll stand against them, as the rock stands firm against the gale.Lo! their battery is silenced! but our iron sleet still showers:They falter, halt, retreat,—Hurrah! the glorious day is ours!

In front, too, has the fight gone well, where upon gallantLane,And on stout Mississippi, the thick Lancers charged in vain:Ah! brave Third Indiana! you have nobly wiped awayThe reproach that through another corps befell your State to-day;For back, all broken and dismayed, before your storm of fire,Santana'sboasted chivalry, a shattered wreck, retire.

Now charge again,Santana! or the day is surely lost—For back, like broken waves, along our left your hordes are tossed.Still faster roar his batteries,—his whole reserve moves on;More work remains for us to do, ere the good fight is won.Now for your wives and children, men! Stand steady yet once more!Fight for your lives and honors! Fight as you never fought before!

Ho!Hardinbreasts it bravely! and heroicBissellthereStands firm before the storm of balls that fill the astonished air:The Lancers dash upon them too! The foe swarm ten to one:Hardinis slain;McKeeandClaythe last time see the sun:And many another gallant heart, in that last desperate fray,Grew cold, its last thought turning to its loved ones far away.

Speed, speed, Artillery! to the front!—for the hurricane of fireCrushes those noble regiments, reluctant to retire!Speed swiftly! Gallop! Ah! they come! AgainBraggclimbs the ridge,And his grape sweeps down the swarming foe, as a strong man moweth sedge:Thus baffled in their last attack, compelled perforce to yield,Still menacing in firm array, their columns leave the field.

The guns still roared at intervals; but silence fell at last,And on the dead and dying came the evening shadows fast.And then above the mountains rose the cold moon's silver shield,And patiently and pitying she looked upon the field.While careless of his wounded, and neglectful of his dead,Despairingly and sullenly by nightSantanafled.

And thus onBuena Vista'sheights a long day's work was done,And thus our brave old General another battle won.Still, still our glorious banner waves, unstained by flight or shame,And the Mexicans among their hills still tremble at our name.So, honor unto those that stood! Disgrace to those that fled!And everlasting glory unto Buena Vista's dead!

Albert Pike.

February 28, 1847.

THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA

[February 22-23, 1847]

Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away,O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array,Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they near?Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear."Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls;Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their souls!"Who is losing? who is winning? "Over hill and over plain,I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain rain."Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, look once more."Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before,Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse,Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain course."Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke has rolled away;And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray.Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of Minon wheels;There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their heels."Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now advance!Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance!Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together fall;Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the Northern ball."Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on!Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost, and who has won?"Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together fall,O'er the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters, for them all!"Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting. Blessed Mother, save my brain!I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain.Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and strive to rise;Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes!"O my heart's love! O my dear one! lay thy poor head on my knee;Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me? canst thou see?O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernal, look once moreOn the blessed cross before thee! Mercy! mercy! all is o'er!"Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest;Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast;Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said;To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid.Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay,Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away;But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt,She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt.With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her head;With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her dead;But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain,And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again.Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand and faintly smiled;Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch beside her child?All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart supplied;With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" murmured he, and died!"A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth,From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, in the North!"Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead,And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled.Look forth once more, Ximena! "Like a cloud before the windRolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind;Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded strive;Hide your faces, holy angels! O thou Christ of God, forgive!"Sink, O Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray shadows fall;Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all!Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled,In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold.But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued,Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and lacking food.Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they hung,And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern tongue.Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours;Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden flowers;From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer,And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air!John Greenleaf Whittier.

"Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls;Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their souls!"Who is losing? who is winning? "Over hill and over plain,I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain rain."

Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, look once more."Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before,Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse,Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain course."

Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke has rolled away;And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray.Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of Minon wheels;There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their heels.

"Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now advance!Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance!Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together fall;Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the Northern ball."

Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on!Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost, and who has won?"Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together fall,O'er the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters, for them all!

"Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting. Blessed Mother, save my brain!I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain.Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and strive to rise;Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes!

"O my heart's love! O my dear one! lay thy poor head on my knee;Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me? canst thou see?O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernal, look once moreOn the blessed cross before thee! Mercy! mercy! all is o'er!"

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest;Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast;Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said;To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid.

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay,Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away;But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt,She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt.

With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her head;With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her dead;But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain,And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again.

Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand and faintly smiled;Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch beside her child?All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart supplied;With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" murmured he, and died!

"A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth,From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, in the North!"Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead,And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled.

Look forth once more, Ximena! "Like a cloud before the windRolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind;Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded strive;Hide your faces, holy angels! O thou Christ of God, forgive!"

Sink, O Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray shadows fall;Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all!Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled,In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold.

But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued,Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and lacking food.Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they hung,And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern tongue.

Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours;Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden flowers;From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer,And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air!

John Greenleaf Whittier.

The American forces in this memorable battle totalled 4691, while the Mexicans mustered over 23,000 men. The Mexican losses exceeded 2500. The Americans lost 264 killed and 450 wounded. Theodore O'Hara's famous poem was written to commemorate them.

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD

The muffled drum's sad roll has beatThe soldier's last tattoo;No more on Life's parade shall meetThat brave and fallen few.On Fame's eternal camping-groundTheir silent tents are spread,And Glory guards, with solemn round,The bivouac of the dead.No rumor of the foe's advanceNow swells upon the wind;No troubled thought at midnight hauntsOf loved ones left behind;No vision of the morrow's strifeThe warrior's dream alarms;No braying horn nor screaming fifeAt dawn shall call to arms.Their shivered swords are red with rust;Their plumèd heads are bowed;Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,Is now their martial shroud.And plenteous funeral tears have washedThe red stains from each brow,And the proud forms, by battle gashed,Are free from anguish now.The neighing troop, the flashing blade,The bugle's stirring blast,The charge, the dreadful cannonade,The din and shout are past;Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,Shall thrill with fierce delightThose breasts that nevermore may feelThe rapture of the fight.Like the fierce northern hurricaneThat sweeps his great plateau,Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,Came down the serried foe.Who heard the thunder of the frayBreak o'er the field beneath,Knew well the watchword of that dayWas "Victory or Death."Long had the doubtful conflict ragedO'er all that stricken plain,For never fiercer fight had wagedThe vengeful blood of Spain;And still the storm of battle blew,Still swelled the gory tide;Not long our stout old chieftain knew,Such odds his strength could bide.'Twas in that hour his stern commandCalled to a martyr's graveThe flower of his belovèd land,The nation's flag to save.By rivers of their fathers' goreHis first-born laurels grew,And well he deemed the sons would pourTheir lives for glory too.Full many a norther's breath has swept,O'er Angostura's plain—And long the pitying sky has weptAbove its mouldered slain.The raven's scream or eagle's flightOr shepherd's pensive lay,Alone awakes each sullen heightThat frowned o'er that dread fray.Sons of the Dark and Bloody ground,Ye must not slumber there,Where stranger steps and tongues resoundAlong the heedless air.Your own proud land's heroic soilShall be your fitter grave;She claims from war his richest spoil—The ashes of her brave.Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,Far from the gory fieldBorne to a Spartan mother's breastOn many a bloody shield;The sunshine of their native skySmiles sadly on them here,And kindred eyes and hearts watch byThe heroes' sepulchre.Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!Dear as the blood ye gave,No impious footstep here shall treadThe herbage of your grave;Nor shall your story be forgot,While Fame her record keeps,Or Honor points the hallowed spotWhere Valor proudly sleeps.Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stoneIn deathless song shall tellWhen many a vanished age hath flown,The story how ye fell;Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,Nor Time's remorseless doom,Shall dim one ray of glory's lightThat gilds your deathless tomb.Theodore O'Hara.

No rumor of the foe's advanceNow swells upon the wind;No troubled thought at midnight hauntsOf loved ones left behind;No vision of the morrow's strifeThe warrior's dream alarms;No braying horn nor screaming fifeAt dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust;Their plumèd heads are bowed;Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,Is now their martial shroud.And plenteous funeral tears have washedThe red stains from each brow,And the proud forms, by battle gashed,Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,The bugle's stirring blast,The charge, the dreadful cannonade,The din and shout are past;Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,Shall thrill with fierce delightThose breasts that nevermore may feelThe rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricaneThat sweeps his great plateau,Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,Came down the serried foe.Who heard the thunder of the frayBreak o'er the field beneath,Knew well the watchword of that dayWas "Victory or Death."

Long had the doubtful conflict ragedO'er all that stricken plain,For never fiercer fight had wagedThe vengeful blood of Spain;And still the storm of battle blew,Still swelled the gory tide;Not long our stout old chieftain knew,Such odds his strength could bide.

'Twas in that hour his stern commandCalled to a martyr's graveThe flower of his belovèd land,The nation's flag to save.By rivers of their fathers' goreHis first-born laurels grew,And well he deemed the sons would pourTheir lives for glory too.

Full many a norther's breath has swept,O'er Angostura's plain—And long the pitying sky has weptAbove its mouldered slain.The raven's scream or eagle's flightOr shepherd's pensive lay,Alone awakes each sullen heightThat frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the Dark and Bloody ground,Ye must not slumber there,Where stranger steps and tongues resoundAlong the heedless air.Your own proud land's heroic soilShall be your fitter grave;She claims from war his richest spoil—The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,Far from the gory fieldBorne to a Spartan mother's breastOn many a bloody shield;The sunshine of their native skySmiles sadly on them here,And kindred eyes and hearts watch byThe heroes' sepulchre.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!Dear as the blood ye gave,No impious footstep here shall treadThe herbage of your grave;Nor shall your story be forgot,While Fame her record keeps,Or Honor points the hallowed spotWhere Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stoneIn deathless song shall tellWhen many a vanished age hath flown,The story how ye fell;Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,Nor Time's remorseless doom,Shall dim one ray of glory's lightThat gilds your deathless tomb.

Theodore O'Hara.

Despite the victories, the war continued unpopular in New England, and particularly in Massachusetts. In the campaign of 1847, Caleb Cushing, who had raised a regiment at his own expense and taken it to Mexico, was nominated by the Democrats for governor, but was defeated by George Nixon Briggs, his Whig opponent, by a majority of fourteen thousand.

WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS

[1847]

Guvener B.is a sensible man;He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks;He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can,An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;ButJohn P.Robinson heSez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du?We can't never choose him o' course,—thet's flat;Guess we shell hev to come round, (don't you?)An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that;Fer John P.Robinson heSez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.Gineral C.is a dreffle smart man:He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf;But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,—He's ben true tooneparty,—an' thet is himself;—So John P.Robinson heSez he shall vote fer Gineral C.Gineral C. he goes in fer the war;He don't vally princerple more 'n an old cud;Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer,But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood?So John P.Robinson heSez he shall vote fer Gineral C.We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village,With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint,We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage,An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint;But John P.Robinson heSez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.The side of our country must ollers be took,An' Presidunt Polk, you know,heis our country.An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a bookPuts thedebitto him, an' to us theper contry;An' John P.Robinson heSez this is his view o' the thing to a T.Parson Wilbur he calls all these argiments lies;Sez they're nothin' on airth but jestfee, faw, fum;An' thet all this big talk of our destiniesIs half on it ign'ance, an' t'other half rum;But John P.Robinson heSez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.Parson Wilbur sezhenever heerd in his lifeThet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats,An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife,To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes;But John P.Robinson heSez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell usThe rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,—God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers,To start the world's team wen it gits in a slough;Fer John P.Robinson heSez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!James Russell Lowell.

My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du?We can't never choose him o' course,—thet's flat;Guess we shell hev to come round, (don't you?)An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that;Fer John P.Robinson heSez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

Gineral C.is a dreffle smart man:He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf;But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,—He's ben true tooneparty,—an' thet is himself;—So John P.Robinson heSez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war;He don't vally princerple more 'n an old cud;Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer,But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood?So John P.Robinson heSez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village,With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint,We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage,An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint;But John P.Robinson heSez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.

The side of our country must ollers be took,An' Presidunt Polk, you know,heis our country.An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a bookPuts thedebitto him, an' to us theper contry;An' John P.Robinson heSez this is his view o' the thing to a T.

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argiments lies;Sez they're nothin' on airth but jestfee, faw, fum;An' thet all this big talk of our destiniesIs half on it ign'ance, an' t'other half rum;But John P.Robinson heSez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.

Parson Wilbur sezhenever heerd in his lifeThet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats,An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife,To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes;But John P.Robinson heSez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.

Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell usThe rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,—God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers,To start the world's team wen it gits in a slough;Fer John P.Robinson heSez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!

James Russell Lowell.

On March 9, 1847, General Winfield Scott arrived off Vera Cruz with twelve thousand men to march against the City of Mexico. On April 18 he met and defeated Santa Anna's army at Cerro Gordo. On August 20 he arrived before the City of Mexico, and, after an ill-advised armistice, advanced to storm the city on September 8. He chose the approach guarded by the formidable works of Malino del Rey and Chapultepec. The former was carried by assault, after a fierce hand-to-hand battle.

BATTLE OF THE KING'S MILL

[September 8, 1847]

Said my landlord, white-headed Gil Gomez,With newspaper held in his hand—"So they've built from El Paso a railwayThat Yankees may visit our land.As guests let them come and be welcome,But not as they came here before;They are rather rough fellows to handleIn the rush of the battle and roar."They took Vera Cruz and its castle;In triumph they marched through the land;We fought them with desperate daring,But lacked the right man to command.They stormed, at a loss, Cerro Gordo—Every mile in their movement it cost;And when they arrived at Puebla,Some thousands of men they had lost."Ere our capital fell, and the cityBy foreign invaders was won,We called out among its defendersEach man who could handle a gun.Chapultepec stood in their pathway;Churubusco they had to attack;The mill of the King—well, I fought there,And they were a hard nut to crack."While their right was assailing the ramparts,Our force struck their left on the field,Where our colonel, in language that stirred us,To love of our country appealed.And we swore that we never would falterBefore either sabre or ball;We would beat back the foeman before us,Or dead on the battle-field fall."Fine words, you may say, but we meant them;And so when they came up the hill,We poured on them volley on volley,And riddled their ranks with a will.Their line in a moment was broken;They closed it, and came with a cheer;But still we fired quickly and deadly,And felt neither pity nor fear."We smote the blue column with grape-shot,But it rushed as the wild torrent runs;At the pieces they slew our best gunners,And took in the struggle our guns.We sprang in a rage to retake them,And lost nearly half of our men;Then, baffled and beaten, retreated,And gained our position again."Ceased their yell, and in spite of our firingThey dressed like an arrow in line,Then, standing there moveless a moment,Their eyes flashed with purpose malign,All still as the twilight in summer,No cloud on the sky to deform,Like the lull in the voices of natureEre wakens the whirlwind and storm."We had fought them with death-daring spirit,And courage unyielding till then;No man could have forced us to falter,But these were more demons than men.Our ranks had been torn by their bullets,We filled all the gaps they had made;But the pall of that terrible silenceThe hearts of our boldest dismayed."Before us no roaring of cannon,Rifle-rattle, or musketry peal;But there on the ocean of battleSurged steady the billow of steel.Fierce we opened our fire on the column,We pierced it with ball here and there;But it swept on in pitiless sternnessTill we faltered and fled in despair."After that all their movements were easy;At their storming Chapultepec fell,And that ended the war—we were beaten:No story is left me to tell.And now they come back to invade us,Though not with the bullet and blade;They are here with their goods on a railway,To conquer the country by trade."Thomas Dunn English.

"They took Vera Cruz and its castle;In triumph they marched through the land;We fought them with desperate daring,But lacked the right man to command.They stormed, at a loss, Cerro Gordo—Every mile in their movement it cost;And when they arrived at Puebla,Some thousands of men they had lost.

"Ere our capital fell, and the cityBy foreign invaders was won,We called out among its defendersEach man who could handle a gun.Chapultepec stood in their pathway;Churubusco they had to attack;The mill of the King—well, I fought there,And they were a hard nut to crack.

"While their right was assailing the ramparts,Our force struck their left on the field,Where our colonel, in language that stirred us,To love of our country appealed.And we swore that we never would falterBefore either sabre or ball;We would beat back the foeman before us,Or dead on the battle-field fall.

"Fine words, you may say, but we meant them;And so when they came up the hill,We poured on them volley on volley,And riddled their ranks with a will.Their line in a moment was broken;They closed it, and came with a cheer;But still we fired quickly and deadly,And felt neither pity nor fear.

"We smote the blue column with grape-shot,But it rushed as the wild torrent runs;At the pieces they slew our best gunners,And took in the struggle our guns.We sprang in a rage to retake them,And lost nearly half of our men;Then, baffled and beaten, retreated,And gained our position again.

"Ceased their yell, and in spite of our firingThey dressed like an arrow in line,Then, standing there moveless a moment,Their eyes flashed with purpose malign,All still as the twilight in summer,No cloud on the sky to deform,Like the lull in the voices of natureEre wakens the whirlwind and storm.

"We had fought them with death-daring spirit,And courage unyielding till then;No man could have forced us to falter,But these were more demons than men.Our ranks had been torn by their bullets,We filled all the gaps they had made;But the pall of that terrible silenceThe hearts of our boldest dismayed.

"Before us no roaring of cannon,Rifle-rattle, or musketry peal;But there on the ocean of battleSurged steady the billow of steel.Fierce we opened our fire on the column,We pierced it with ball here and there;But it swept on in pitiless sternnessTill we faltered and fled in despair.

"After that all their movements were easy;At their storming Chapultepec fell,And that ended the war—we were beaten:No story is left me to tell.And now they come back to invade us,Though not with the bullet and blade;They are here with their goods on a railway,To conquer the country by trade."

Thomas Dunn English.

Chapultepec still remained, and on the morning of September 13 two storming parties rushed it, swarmed over the walls, swept back the garrison, and planted the American flag on the ramparts. The Mexican army hastened to evacuate the city, and on September 14 the Stars and Stripes floated over the capital of Mexico.

THE SIEGE OF CHAPULTEPEC

[September 13, 1847]

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