So that soldierly legend is still on its journey,—That story of Kearny who knew not to yield!'Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and Birney,Against twenty thousand he rallied the field.Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest,Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine,Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,—No charge like Phil Kearny's along the whole line.When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn,Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground,He rode down the length of the withering column,And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound;He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the powder,—His sword waved us on and we answered the sign;Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder."There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole line!"How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brightenIn the one hand still left,—and the reins in his teeth!He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten,But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath.Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal,Asking where to go in,—through the clearing or pine?"Oh, anywhere! Forward! 'Tis all the same, Colonel:You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line!"Oh, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly,That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried!Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily,The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's pride!Yet we dream that he still,—in that shadowy regionWhere the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer's sign,—Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion,And the word still is "Forward!" along the whole line.Edmund Clarence Stedman.
So that soldierly legend is still on its journey,—That story of Kearny who knew not to yield!'Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and Birney,Against twenty thousand he rallied the field.Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest,Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine,Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,—No charge like Phil Kearny's along the whole line.When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn,Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground,He rode down the length of the withering column,And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound;He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the powder,—His sword waved us on and we answered the sign;Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder."There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole line!"How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brightenIn the one hand still left,—and the reins in his teeth!He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten,But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath.Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal,Asking where to go in,—through the clearing or pine?"Oh, anywhere! Forward! 'Tis all the same, Colonel:You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line!"Oh, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly,That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried!Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily,The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's pride!Yet we dream that he still,—in that shadowy regionWhere the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer's sign,—Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion,And the word still is "Forward!" along the whole line.Edmund Clarence Stedman.
So that soldierly legend is still on its journey,—That story of Kearny who knew not to yield!'Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and Birney,Against twenty thousand he rallied the field.Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest,Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine,Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,—No charge like Phil Kearny's along the whole line.
When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn,Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground,He rode down the length of the withering column,And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound;He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the powder,—His sword waved us on and we answered the sign;Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder."There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole line!"
How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brightenIn the one hand still left,—and the reins in his teeth!He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten,But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath.Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal,Asking where to go in,—through the clearing or pine?"Oh, anywhere! Forward! 'Tis all the same, Colonel:You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line!"
Oh, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly,That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried!Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily,The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's pride!Yet we dream that he still,—in that shadowy regionWhere the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer's sign,—Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion,And the word still is "Forward!" along the whole line.
Edmund Clarence Stedman.
For nearly a month after this battle, the Army of the Potomac lay along the Chickahominy, within a few miles of Richmond, while the Confederates concentrated their forces, under Robert E. Lee, for the defence of the city. On June 14, 1862, General J. E. B. Stuart, with a force of fifteen hundred cavalry, circled the Union position, destroyed stores, seized mules and horses, took nearly two hundred prisoners, and returned leisurely to Richmond. Captain Latané was killed in a skirmish during this expedition.
For nearly a month after this battle, the Army of the Potomac lay along the Chickahominy, within a few miles of Richmond, while the Confederates concentrated their forces, under Robert E. Lee, for the defence of the city. On June 14, 1862, General J. E. B. Stuart, with a force of fifteen hundred cavalry, circled the Union position, destroyed stores, seized mules and horses, took nearly two hundred prisoners, and returned leisurely to Richmond. Captain Latané was killed in a skirmish during this expedition.
THE BURIAL OF LATANÉ
[June 14, 1862]
The combat raged not long, but ours the day;And, through the hosts that compassed us around,Our little band rode proudly on its way,Leaving one gallant comrade, glory-crowned,Unburied on the field he died to gain—Single of all his men, amid the hostile slain.One moment on the battle's edge he stood—Hope's halo, like a helmet, round his hair;The next beheld him, dabbled in his blood,Prostrate in death—and yet, in death how fair!Even thus he passed through the red gates of strife,From earthly crowns and palms, to an immortal life.A brother bore his body from the field,And gave it unto strangers' hands, that closedThe calm blue eyes on earth forever sealed,And tenderly the slender limbs composed:Strangers, yet sisters, who, with Mary's love,Sat by the open tomb, and, weeping, looked above.A little child strewed roses on his bier—Pale roses, not more stainless than his soul,Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere,That blossomed with good actions—brief, but whole;The aged matron and the faithful slaveApproached with reverent feet the hero's lowly grave.No man of God might say the burial riteAbove the "rebel"—thus declared the foeThat blanched before him in the deadly fight;But woman's voice, with accents soft and low,Trembling with pity—touched with pathos—readOver his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead."'Tis sown in weakness, it is raised in power!"Softly the promise floated on the air,While the low breathings of the sunset hourCame back responsive to the mourner's prayer.Gently they laid him underneath the sod,And left him with his fame, his country, and his God!Let us not weep for him, whose deeds endure!So young, so brave, so beautiful! He diedAs he had wished to die; the past is sure;Whatever yet of sorrow may betideThose who still linger by the stormy shore,Change cannot harm him now, nor fortune touch him more.John R. Thompson.
The combat raged not long, but ours the day;And, through the hosts that compassed us around,Our little band rode proudly on its way,Leaving one gallant comrade, glory-crowned,Unburied on the field he died to gain—Single of all his men, amid the hostile slain.One moment on the battle's edge he stood—Hope's halo, like a helmet, round his hair;The next beheld him, dabbled in his blood,Prostrate in death—and yet, in death how fair!Even thus he passed through the red gates of strife,From earthly crowns and palms, to an immortal life.A brother bore his body from the field,And gave it unto strangers' hands, that closedThe calm blue eyes on earth forever sealed,And tenderly the slender limbs composed:Strangers, yet sisters, who, with Mary's love,Sat by the open tomb, and, weeping, looked above.A little child strewed roses on his bier—Pale roses, not more stainless than his soul,Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere,That blossomed with good actions—brief, but whole;The aged matron and the faithful slaveApproached with reverent feet the hero's lowly grave.No man of God might say the burial riteAbove the "rebel"—thus declared the foeThat blanched before him in the deadly fight;But woman's voice, with accents soft and low,Trembling with pity—touched with pathos—readOver his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead."'Tis sown in weakness, it is raised in power!"Softly the promise floated on the air,While the low breathings of the sunset hourCame back responsive to the mourner's prayer.Gently they laid him underneath the sod,And left him with his fame, his country, and his God!Let us not weep for him, whose deeds endure!So young, so brave, so beautiful! He diedAs he had wished to die; the past is sure;Whatever yet of sorrow may betideThose who still linger by the stormy shore,Change cannot harm him now, nor fortune touch him more.John R. Thompson.
The combat raged not long, but ours the day;And, through the hosts that compassed us around,Our little band rode proudly on its way,Leaving one gallant comrade, glory-crowned,Unburied on the field he died to gain—Single of all his men, amid the hostile slain.
One moment on the battle's edge he stood—Hope's halo, like a helmet, round his hair;The next beheld him, dabbled in his blood,Prostrate in death—and yet, in death how fair!Even thus he passed through the red gates of strife,From earthly crowns and palms, to an immortal life.
A brother bore his body from the field,And gave it unto strangers' hands, that closedThe calm blue eyes on earth forever sealed,And tenderly the slender limbs composed:Strangers, yet sisters, who, with Mary's love,Sat by the open tomb, and, weeping, looked above.
A little child strewed roses on his bier—Pale roses, not more stainless than his soul,Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere,That blossomed with good actions—brief, but whole;The aged matron and the faithful slaveApproached with reverent feet the hero's lowly grave.
No man of God might say the burial riteAbove the "rebel"—thus declared the foeThat blanched before him in the deadly fight;But woman's voice, with accents soft and low,Trembling with pity—touched with pathos—readOver his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead.
"'Tis sown in weakness, it is raised in power!"Softly the promise floated on the air,While the low breathings of the sunset hourCame back responsive to the mourner's prayer.Gently they laid him underneath the sod,And left him with his fame, his country, and his God!
Let us not weep for him, whose deeds endure!So young, so brave, so beautiful! He diedAs he had wished to die; the past is sure;Whatever yet of sorrow may betideThose who still linger by the stormy shore,Change cannot harm him now, nor fortune touch him more.
John R. Thompson.
Meanwhile, McDowell's corps had been ordered forward from the Shenandoah valley to coöperate with McClellan, but was harassed by the Confederate cavalry under Turner Ashby and Stonewall Jackson, which was handled with the utmost brilliancy and daring.
Meanwhile, McDowell's corps had been ordered forward from the Shenandoah valley to coöperate with McClellan, but was harassed by the Confederate cavalry under Turner Ashby and Stonewall Jackson, which was handled with the utmost brilliancy and daring.
THE CHARGE BY THE FORD
Eighty and nine with their captainRode on the enemy's track,Rode in the gray of the morning:Nine of the ninety came back.Slow rose the mist from the river,Lighter each moment the way:Careless and tearless and fearlessGalloped they on to the fray.Singing in tune, how the scabbardsLoud on the stirrup-irons rang,Clinked as the men rose in saddle,Fell as they sank with a clang.What is it moves by the river,Jaded and weary and weak,Gray-backs—a cross on their banner—Yonder the foe whom they seek.Silence! They see not, they hear not,Tarrying there by the marge:Forward! Draw sabre! Trot! Gallop!Charge!like a hurricane,charge!Ah! 'twas a man-trap infernal—Fire like the deep pit of hell!Volley on volley to meet them,Mixed with the gray rebel's yell.Ninety had ridden to battle,Tracing the enemy's track,—Ninety had ridden to battle,Nine of the ninety came back.Honor the name of the ninety;Honor the heroes who cameScatheless from five hundred muskets,Safe from the lead-bearing flame.Eighty and one of the troopersLie on the field of the slain—Lie on the red field of honor:Honor the nine who remain!Cold are the dead there, and gory,There where their life-blood was spilt,Back come the living, each sabreRed from the point to the hilt.Give them three cheers and a tiger!Let the flags wave as they come!Give them the blare of the trumpet!Give them the roll of the drum!Thomas Dunn English.
Eighty and nine with their captainRode on the enemy's track,Rode in the gray of the morning:Nine of the ninety came back.Slow rose the mist from the river,Lighter each moment the way:Careless and tearless and fearlessGalloped they on to the fray.Singing in tune, how the scabbardsLoud on the stirrup-irons rang,Clinked as the men rose in saddle,Fell as they sank with a clang.What is it moves by the river,Jaded and weary and weak,Gray-backs—a cross on their banner—Yonder the foe whom they seek.Silence! They see not, they hear not,Tarrying there by the marge:Forward! Draw sabre! Trot! Gallop!Charge!like a hurricane,charge!Ah! 'twas a man-trap infernal—Fire like the deep pit of hell!Volley on volley to meet them,Mixed with the gray rebel's yell.Ninety had ridden to battle,Tracing the enemy's track,—Ninety had ridden to battle,Nine of the ninety came back.Honor the name of the ninety;Honor the heroes who cameScatheless from five hundred muskets,Safe from the lead-bearing flame.Eighty and one of the troopersLie on the field of the slain—Lie on the red field of honor:Honor the nine who remain!Cold are the dead there, and gory,There where their life-blood was spilt,Back come the living, each sabreRed from the point to the hilt.Give them three cheers and a tiger!Let the flags wave as they come!Give them the blare of the trumpet!Give them the roll of the drum!Thomas Dunn English.
Eighty and nine with their captainRode on the enemy's track,Rode in the gray of the morning:Nine of the ninety came back.
Slow rose the mist from the river,Lighter each moment the way:Careless and tearless and fearlessGalloped they on to the fray.
Singing in tune, how the scabbardsLoud on the stirrup-irons rang,Clinked as the men rose in saddle,Fell as they sank with a clang.
What is it moves by the river,Jaded and weary and weak,Gray-backs—a cross on their banner—Yonder the foe whom they seek.
Silence! They see not, they hear not,Tarrying there by the marge:Forward! Draw sabre! Trot! Gallop!Charge!like a hurricane,charge!
Ah! 'twas a man-trap infernal—Fire like the deep pit of hell!Volley on volley to meet them,Mixed with the gray rebel's yell.
Ninety had ridden to battle,Tracing the enemy's track,—Ninety had ridden to battle,Nine of the ninety came back.
Honor the name of the ninety;Honor the heroes who cameScatheless from five hundred muskets,Safe from the lead-bearing flame.
Eighty and one of the troopersLie on the field of the slain—Lie on the red field of honor:Honor the nine who remain!
Cold are the dead there, and gory,There where their life-blood was spilt,Back come the living, each sabreRed from the point to the hilt.
Give them three cheers and a tiger!Let the flags wave as they come!Give them the blare of the trumpet!Give them the roll of the drum!
Thomas Dunn English.
Skirmish after skirmish was fought, in one of which, at Harrisonburg, on June 6, 1862, Ashby was killed. But the Confederates succeeded in their object, for McDowell's junction with McClellan was indefinitely delayed.
Skirmish after skirmish was fought, in one of which, at Harrisonburg, on June 6, 1862, Ashby was killed. But the Confederates succeeded in their object, for McDowell's junction with McClellan was indefinitely delayed.
DIRGE FOR ASHBY
[June 6, 1862]
Heard ye that thrilling word—Accent of dread—Flash like a thunderbolt,Bowing each head,—Crash through the battle dun,Over the booming gun,—"Ashby, our bravest one,—Ashby is dead!"Saw ye the veterans—Hearts that had knownNever a quail of fear,Never a groan,—Sob 'mid the fight they win,—Tears their stern eyes within,—"Ashby, our Paladin,Ashby is gone!"Dash—dash the tear away,—Crush down the pain!"Dulce et decus" beFittest refrain!Why should the dreary pallRound him be flung at all?Did not our hero fallGallantly slain?Catch the last word of cheerDropt from his tongue;Over the volley's din,Loud be it rung,—"Follow me! follow me!"—Soldier, oh! could there bePæan or dirge for theeLoftier sung!Bold as the Lion-heart,Dauntless and brave;Knightly as knightliestBayard could crave;Sweet with all Sidney's grace,Tender as Hampden's face;—Who—who shall fill the spaceVoid by his grave?'Tis notonebroken heart,Wild with dismay;Crazed with her agony,Weeps o'er his clay:Ah! from a thousand eyesFlow the pure tears that rise;Widowed Virginia liesStricken to-day!Yet though that thrilling word—Accent of dread—Falls like a thunderbolt,Bowing each head,—Heroes! be battle doneBravelier every one,Nerved by the thought alone—Ashby is dead!Margaret Junkin Preston.
Heard ye that thrilling word—Accent of dread—Flash like a thunderbolt,Bowing each head,—Crash through the battle dun,Over the booming gun,—"Ashby, our bravest one,—Ashby is dead!"Saw ye the veterans—Hearts that had knownNever a quail of fear,Never a groan,—Sob 'mid the fight they win,—Tears their stern eyes within,—"Ashby, our Paladin,Ashby is gone!"Dash—dash the tear away,—Crush down the pain!"Dulce et decus" beFittest refrain!Why should the dreary pallRound him be flung at all?Did not our hero fallGallantly slain?Catch the last word of cheerDropt from his tongue;Over the volley's din,Loud be it rung,—"Follow me! follow me!"—Soldier, oh! could there bePæan or dirge for theeLoftier sung!Bold as the Lion-heart,Dauntless and brave;Knightly as knightliestBayard could crave;Sweet with all Sidney's grace,Tender as Hampden's face;—Who—who shall fill the spaceVoid by his grave?'Tis notonebroken heart,Wild with dismay;Crazed with her agony,Weeps o'er his clay:Ah! from a thousand eyesFlow the pure tears that rise;Widowed Virginia liesStricken to-day!Yet though that thrilling word—Accent of dread—Falls like a thunderbolt,Bowing each head,—Heroes! be battle doneBravelier every one,Nerved by the thought alone—Ashby is dead!Margaret Junkin Preston.
Heard ye that thrilling word—Accent of dread—Flash like a thunderbolt,Bowing each head,—Crash through the battle dun,Over the booming gun,—"Ashby, our bravest one,—Ashby is dead!"
Saw ye the veterans—Hearts that had knownNever a quail of fear,Never a groan,—Sob 'mid the fight they win,—Tears their stern eyes within,—"Ashby, our Paladin,Ashby is gone!"
Dash—dash the tear away,—Crush down the pain!"Dulce et decus" beFittest refrain!Why should the dreary pallRound him be flung at all?Did not our hero fallGallantly slain?
Catch the last word of cheerDropt from his tongue;Over the volley's din,Loud be it rung,—"Follow me! follow me!"—Soldier, oh! could there bePæan or dirge for theeLoftier sung!
Bold as the Lion-heart,Dauntless and brave;Knightly as knightliestBayard could crave;Sweet with all Sidney's grace,Tender as Hampden's face;—Who—who shall fill the spaceVoid by his grave?
'Tis notonebroken heart,Wild with dismay;Crazed with her agony,Weeps o'er his clay:Ah! from a thousand eyesFlow the pure tears that rise;Widowed Virginia liesStricken to-day!
Yet though that thrilling word—Accent of dread—Falls like a thunderbolt,Bowing each head,—Heroes! be battle doneBravelier every one,Nerved by the thought alone—Ashby is dead!
Margaret Junkin Preston.
McClellan continued to waste his time in complaints and reproaches to the government at Washington, and the Confederates prepared to take the offensive. Their advance began June 26, 1862, and McClellan promptly began to retreat. Finally, on July 1, at Malvern Hill, the Union army turned and repulsed the Confederates, after a severe engagement. McClellan, instead of advancing, issued an order to "fall still farther back."
McClellan continued to waste his time in complaints and reproaches to the government at Washington, and the Confederates prepared to take the offensive. Their advance began June 26, 1862, and McClellan promptly began to retreat. Finally, on July 1, at Malvern Hill, the Union army turned and repulsed the Confederates, after a severe engagement. McClellan, instead of advancing, issued an order to "fall still farther back."
MALVERN HILL
[July 1, 1862]
Ye elms that wave on Malvern HillIn prime of morn and May,Recall ye how McClellan's menHere stood at bay?While deep within yon forest dimOur rigid comrades lay—Some with the cartridge in their mouth,Others with fixed arms lifted South—Invoking soThe cypress glades? Ah wilds of woe!The spires of Richmond, late beheldThrough rifts in musket-haze,Were closed from view in clouds of dustOn leaf-walled ways,Where streamed our wagons in caravan;And the Seven Nights and DaysOf march and fast, retreat and fight,Pinched our grimed faces to ghastly plight—Does the elm woodRecall the haggard beards of blood?The battle-smoked flag, with stars eclipsed,We followed (it never fell!)—In silence husbanded our strength—Received their yell;Till on this slope we patient turnedWith cannon ordered well;Reverse we proved was not defeat;But ah, the sod what thousands meet!—Does Malvern WoodBethink itself, and muse and brood?We elms of Malvern HillRemember everything;But sap the twig will fill:Wag the world how it will,Leaves must be green in Spring.Herman Melville.
Ye elms that wave on Malvern HillIn prime of morn and May,Recall ye how McClellan's menHere stood at bay?While deep within yon forest dimOur rigid comrades lay—Some with the cartridge in their mouth,Others with fixed arms lifted South—Invoking soThe cypress glades? Ah wilds of woe!The spires of Richmond, late beheldThrough rifts in musket-haze,Were closed from view in clouds of dustOn leaf-walled ways,Where streamed our wagons in caravan;And the Seven Nights and DaysOf march and fast, retreat and fight,Pinched our grimed faces to ghastly plight—Does the elm woodRecall the haggard beards of blood?The battle-smoked flag, with stars eclipsed,We followed (it never fell!)—In silence husbanded our strength—Received their yell;Till on this slope we patient turnedWith cannon ordered well;Reverse we proved was not defeat;But ah, the sod what thousands meet!—Does Malvern WoodBethink itself, and muse and brood?We elms of Malvern HillRemember everything;But sap the twig will fill:Wag the world how it will,Leaves must be green in Spring.Herman Melville.
Ye elms that wave on Malvern HillIn prime of morn and May,Recall ye how McClellan's menHere stood at bay?While deep within yon forest dimOur rigid comrades lay—Some with the cartridge in their mouth,Others with fixed arms lifted South—Invoking soThe cypress glades? Ah wilds of woe!
The spires of Richmond, late beheldThrough rifts in musket-haze,Were closed from view in clouds of dustOn leaf-walled ways,Where streamed our wagons in caravan;And the Seven Nights and DaysOf march and fast, retreat and fight,Pinched our grimed faces to ghastly plight—Does the elm woodRecall the haggard beards of blood?
The battle-smoked flag, with stars eclipsed,We followed (it never fell!)—In silence husbanded our strength—Received their yell;Till on this slope we patient turnedWith cannon ordered well;Reverse we proved was not defeat;But ah, the sod what thousands meet!—Does Malvern WoodBethink itself, and muse and brood?
We elms of Malvern HillRemember everything;But sap the twig will fill:Wag the world how it will,Leaves must be green in Spring.
Herman Melville.
A MESSAGE
[July 1, 1882]
Was there ever message sweeterThan that one from Malvern Hill,From a grim old fellow,—you remember?Dying in the dark at Malvern Hill.With his rough face turned a little,On a heap of scarlet sand,They found him, just within the thicket,With a picture in his hand,—With a stained and crumpled pictureOf a woman's aged face;Yet there seemed to leap a wild entreaty,Young and living—tender—from the faceWhen they flashed a lantern on it,Gilding all the purple shade,And stooped to raise him softly,—"That's my mother, sir," he said."Tell her"—but he wandered, slippingInto tangled words and cries,—Something about Mac and Hooker,Something dropping through the criesAbout the kitten by the fire,And mother's cranberry-pies; and thereThe words fell, and an utterSilence brooded in the air.Just as he was drifting from them,Out into the dark, alone(Poor old mother, waiting for your message,Waiting with the kitten, all alone!),Through the hush his voice broke,—"Tell her—Thank you, Doctor—when you can,—Tell her that I kissed her picture,And wished I'd been a better man."Ah, I wonder if the red feetOf departed battle-hoursMay not leave for us their searchingMessage from those distant hours.Sisters, daughters, mothers, think you,Would your heroes now or then,Dying, kiss your pictured faces,Wishing they'd been better men?Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.
Was there ever message sweeterThan that one from Malvern Hill,From a grim old fellow,—you remember?Dying in the dark at Malvern Hill.With his rough face turned a little,On a heap of scarlet sand,They found him, just within the thicket,With a picture in his hand,—With a stained and crumpled pictureOf a woman's aged face;Yet there seemed to leap a wild entreaty,Young and living—tender—from the faceWhen they flashed a lantern on it,Gilding all the purple shade,And stooped to raise him softly,—"That's my mother, sir," he said."Tell her"—but he wandered, slippingInto tangled words and cries,—Something about Mac and Hooker,Something dropping through the criesAbout the kitten by the fire,And mother's cranberry-pies; and thereThe words fell, and an utterSilence brooded in the air.Just as he was drifting from them,Out into the dark, alone(Poor old mother, waiting for your message,Waiting with the kitten, all alone!),Through the hush his voice broke,—"Tell her—Thank you, Doctor—when you can,—Tell her that I kissed her picture,And wished I'd been a better man."Ah, I wonder if the red feetOf departed battle-hoursMay not leave for us their searchingMessage from those distant hours.Sisters, daughters, mothers, think you,Would your heroes now or then,Dying, kiss your pictured faces,Wishing they'd been better men?Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.
Was there ever message sweeterThan that one from Malvern Hill,From a grim old fellow,—you remember?Dying in the dark at Malvern Hill.With his rough face turned a little,On a heap of scarlet sand,They found him, just within the thicket,With a picture in his hand,—
With a stained and crumpled pictureOf a woman's aged face;Yet there seemed to leap a wild entreaty,Young and living—tender—from the faceWhen they flashed a lantern on it,Gilding all the purple shade,And stooped to raise him softly,—"That's my mother, sir," he said.
"Tell her"—but he wandered, slippingInto tangled words and cries,—Something about Mac and Hooker,Something dropping through the criesAbout the kitten by the fire,And mother's cranberry-pies; and thereThe words fell, and an utterSilence brooded in the air.
Just as he was drifting from them,Out into the dark, alone(Poor old mother, waiting for your message,Waiting with the kitten, all alone!),Through the hush his voice broke,—"Tell her—Thank you, Doctor—when you can,—Tell her that I kissed her picture,And wished I'd been a better man."
Ah, I wonder if the red feetOf departed battle-hoursMay not leave for us their searchingMessage from those distant hours.Sisters, daughters, mothers, think you,Would your heroes now or then,Dying, kiss your pictured faces,Wishing they'd been better men?
Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.
So ended McClellan's attempt to capture Richmond. He had lost seventy-five thousand men and had accomplished nothing. President Lincoln made a personal visit to inspect the army, then issued a call for three hundred thousand more troops.
So ended McClellan's attempt to capture Richmond. He had lost seventy-five thousand men and had accomplished nothing. President Lincoln made a personal visit to inspect the army, then issued a call for three hundred thousand more troops.
THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE
[July 2, 1862]
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more,From Mississippi's winding stream and from New England's shore;We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear,With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear;We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before:We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!If you look across the hill-tops that meet the northern sky,Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry;And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside,And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride,And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour:We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!If you look all up our valleys where the growing harvests shine,You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line;And children from their mother's knees are pulling at the weeds,And learning how to reap and sow against their country's needs;And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door:We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!You have called us, and we're coming, by Richmond's bloody tideTo lay us down, for Freedom's sake, our brothers' bones beside,Or from foul treason's savage grasp to wrench the murderous blade,And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade.Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before:We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!James Sloan Gibbons.
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more,From Mississippi's winding stream and from New England's shore;We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear,With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear;We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before:We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!If you look across the hill-tops that meet the northern sky,Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry;And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside,And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride,And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour:We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!If you look all up our valleys where the growing harvests shine,You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line;And children from their mother's knees are pulling at the weeds,And learning how to reap and sow against their country's needs;And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door:We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!You have called us, and we're coming, by Richmond's bloody tideTo lay us down, for Freedom's sake, our brothers' bones beside,Or from foul treason's savage grasp to wrench the murderous blade,And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade.Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before:We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!James Sloan Gibbons.
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more,From Mississippi's winding stream and from New England's shore;We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear,With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear;We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before:We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!
If you look across the hill-tops that meet the northern sky,Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry;And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside,And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride,And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour:We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!
If you look all up our valleys where the growing harvests shine,You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line;And children from their mother's knees are pulling at the weeds,And learning how to reap and sow against their country's needs;And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door:We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!
You have called us, and we're coming, by Richmond's bloody tideTo lay us down, for Freedom's sake, our brothers' bones beside,Or from foul treason's savage grasp to wrench the murderous blade,And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade.Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before:We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!
James Sloan Gibbons.
Meanwhile the Army of Virginia had been formed for the defence of Washington, and placed under the command of General Pope. He at once endeavored to secure the valley of the Shenandoah, and on August 9, 1862, fought a fierce but indecisive battle with Jackson at Cedar Mountain.
Meanwhile the Army of Virginia had been formed for the defence of Washington, and placed under the command of General Pope. He at once endeavored to secure the valley of the Shenandoah, and on August 9, 1862, fought a fierce but indecisive battle with Jackson at Cedar Mountain.
CEDAR MOUNTAIN
[August 9, 1862]
Ring the bells, nor ring them slowly;Toll them not,—the day is holy!Golden-flooded noon is pouredIn grand libation to the Lord.No mourning mothers come to-dayWhose hopeless eyes forget to pray:They each hold high the o'erflowing urn,And bravely to the altar turn.Ye limners of the ancient saint!To-day another virgin paint;Where with the lily once she stoodShow now the new beatitude.To-day a mother crowned with pain,Of silver beauty beyond stain,Clasping a flower for our landA-sheathèd in her hand.Each pointed leaf with sword-like strength,Guarding the flower throughout its length;Each sword has won a sweet releaseTo the flower of beauty and of peace.Ring the bells, nor ring them slowly,To the Lord the day is holy;To the young dead we consecrateThese lives that now we dedicate.Annie Fields.
Ring the bells, nor ring them slowly;Toll them not,—the day is holy!Golden-flooded noon is pouredIn grand libation to the Lord.No mourning mothers come to-dayWhose hopeless eyes forget to pray:They each hold high the o'erflowing urn,And bravely to the altar turn.Ye limners of the ancient saint!To-day another virgin paint;Where with the lily once she stoodShow now the new beatitude.To-day a mother crowned with pain,Of silver beauty beyond stain,Clasping a flower for our landA-sheathèd in her hand.Each pointed leaf with sword-like strength,Guarding the flower throughout its length;Each sword has won a sweet releaseTo the flower of beauty and of peace.Ring the bells, nor ring them slowly,To the Lord the day is holy;To the young dead we consecrateThese lives that now we dedicate.Annie Fields.
Ring the bells, nor ring them slowly;Toll them not,—the day is holy!Golden-flooded noon is pouredIn grand libation to the Lord.
No mourning mothers come to-dayWhose hopeless eyes forget to pray:They each hold high the o'erflowing urn,And bravely to the altar turn.
Ye limners of the ancient saint!To-day another virgin paint;Where with the lily once she stoodShow now the new beatitude.
To-day a mother crowned with pain,Of silver beauty beyond stain,Clasping a flower for our landA-sheathèd in her hand.
Each pointed leaf with sword-like strength,Guarding the flower throughout its length;Each sword has won a sweet releaseTo the flower of beauty and of peace.
Ring the bells, nor ring them slowly,To the Lord the day is holy;To the young dead we consecrateThese lives that now we dedicate.
Annie Fields.
Lee's army, released from Richmond by McClellan's retreat, hastened to face Pope, while Jackson got in Pope's rear, captured Manassas Junction, cut Pope's communications, formed a junction with Longstreet, and on August 30, 1862, defeated the Union forces at the second battle of Bull Run.
Lee's army, released from Richmond by McClellan's retreat, hastened to face Pope, while Jackson got in Pope's rear, captured Manassas Junction, cut Pope's communications, formed a junction with Longstreet, and on August 30, 1862, defeated the Union forces at the second battle of Bull Run.
"OUR LEFT"
[August 30, 1862]
From dawn to dark they stoodThat long midsummer day,While fierce and fastThe battle blastSwept rank on rank away.From dawn to dark they fought,With legions torn and cleft;And still the wideBlack battle tidePoured deadlier on "Our Left."They closed each ghastly gap;They dressed each shattered rank;They knew—how well—That freedom fellWith that exhausted flank."Oh, for a thousand menLike these that melt away!"And down they came,With steel and flame,Four thousand to the fray!Right through the blackest cloudTheir lightning path they cleft;And triumph cameWith deathless fameTo our unconquered "Left."Ye of your sons secure,Ye of your dead bereft—Honor the braveWho died to saveYour all upon "Our Left."Francis Orrery Ticknor.
From dawn to dark they stoodThat long midsummer day,While fierce and fastThe battle blastSwept rank on rank away.From dawn to dark they fought,With legions torn and cleft;And still the wideBlack battle tidePoured deadlier on "Our Left."They closed each ghastly gap;They dressed each shattered rank;They knew—how well—That freedom fellWith that exhausted flank."Oh, for a thousand menLike these that melt away!"And down they came,With steel and flame,Four thousand to the fray!Right through the blackest cloudTheir lightning path they cleft;And triumph cameWith deathless fameTo our unconquered "Left."Ye of your sons secure,Ye of your dead bereft—Honor the braveWho died to saveYour all upon "Our Left."Francis Orrery Ticknor.
From dawn to dark they stoodThat long midsummer day,While fierce and fastThe battle blastSwept rank on rank away.
From dawn to dark they fought,With legions torn and cleft;And still the wideBlack battle tidePoured deadlier on "Our Left."
They closed each ghastly gap;They dressed each shattered rank;They knew—how well—That freedom fellWith that exhausted flank.
"Oh, for a thousand menLike these that melt away!"And down they came,With steel and flame,Four thousand to the fray!
Right through the blackest cloudTheir lightning path they cleft;And triumph cameWith deathless fameTo our unconquered "Left."
Ye of your sons secure,Ye of your dead bereft—Honor the braveWho died to saveYour all upon "Our Left."
Francis Orrery Ticknor.
On the following day, Jackson again attacked at Chantilly, an indecisive action lasting all day. During the battle, General Philip Kearny pushed forward to reconnoitre and came upon a Confederate outpost which summoned him to surrender. Instead, he clapped spurs to his horse and endeavored to escape, but was shot and killed.
On the following day, Jackson again attacked at Chantilly, an indecisive action lasting all day. During the battle, General Philip Kearny pushed forward to reconnoitre and came upon a Confederate outpost which summoned him to surrender. Instead, he clapped spurs to his horse and endeavored to escape, but was shot and killed.
DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER
[September 1, 1862]
Close his eyes; his work is done!What to him is friend or foeman,Rise of moon, or set of sun,Hand of man, or kiss of woman?Lay him low, lay him low,In the clover or the snow!What cares he? he cannot know:Lay him low!As man may, he fought his fight,Proved his truth by his endeavor;Let him sleep in solemn night,Sleep forever and forever.Lay him low, lay him low,In the clover or the snow!What cares he? he cannot know:Lay him low!Fold him in his country's stars,Roll the drum and fire the volley!What to him are all our wars,What but death-bemocking folly?Lay him low, lay him low,In the clover or the snow!What cares he? he cannot know:Lay him low!Leave him to God's watching eye;Trust him to the hand that made him.Mortal love weeps idly by:God alone has power to aid him.Lay him low, lay him low,In the clover or the snow!What cares he? he cannot know:Lay him low!George Henry Boker.
Close his eyes; his work is done!What to him is friend or foeman,Rise of moon, or set of sun,Hand of man, or kiss of woman?Lay him low, lay him low,In the clover or the snow!What cares he? he cannot know:Lay him low!As man may, he fought his fight,Proved his truth by his endeavor;Let him sleep in solemn night,Sleep forever and forever.Lay him low, lay him low,In the clover or the snow!What cares he? he cannot know:Lay him low!Fold him in his country's stars,Roll the drum and fire the volley!What to him are all our wars,What but death-bemocking folly?Lay him low, lay him low,In the clover or the snow!What cares he? he cannot know:Lay him low!Leave him to God's watching eye;Trust him to the hand that made him.Mortal love weeps idly by:God alone has power to aid him.Lay him low, lay him low,In the clover or the snow!What cares he? he cannot know:Lay him low!George Henry Boker.
Close his eyes; his work is done!What to him is friend or foeman,Rise of moon, or set of sun,Hand of man, or kiss of woman?Lay him low, lay him low,In the clover or the snow!What cares he? he cannot know:Lay him low!
As man may, he fought his fight,Proved his truth by his endeavor;Let him sleep in solemn night,Sleep forever and forever.Lay him low, lay him low,In the clover or the snow!What cares he? he cannot know:Lay him low!
Fold him in his country's stars,Roll the drum and fire the volley!What to him are all our wars,What but death-bemocking folly?Lay him low, lay him low,In the clover or the snow!What cares he? he cannot know:Lay him low!
Leave him to God's watching eye;Trust him to the hand that made him.Mortal love weeps idly by:God alone has power to aid him.Lay him low, lay him low,In the clover or the snow!What cares he? he cannot know:Lay him low!
George Henry Boker.
Pope's shattered army was withdrawn within the defences of Washington, where McClellan's forces soon joined it. The latter was given command of the forces at the capital, and recruits were hurried forward to fill the broken ranks.
Pope's shattered army was withdrawn within the defences of Washington, where McClellan's forces soon joined it. The latter was given command of the forces at the capital, and recruits were hurried forward to fill the broken ranks.
THE REVEILLE
Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands,And of armèd men the hum;Lo! a nation's hosts have gatheredRound the quick-alarming drum,—Saying: "Come,Freemen, come!Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quick-alarming drum."Let me of my heart take counsel:War is not of life the sum;Who shall stay and reap the harvestWhen the autumn days shall come?"But the drumEchoed: "Come!Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the solemn-sounding drum."But when won the coming battle,What of profit springs therefrom?What if conquest, subjugation,Even greater ills become?"But the drumAnswered: "Come!You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yankee-answering drum."What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder,Whistling shot and bursting bomb,When my brothers fall around me,Should my heart grow cold and numb?"But the drumAnswered: "Come!Better there in death united than in life a recreant,—Come!"Thus they answered—hoping, fearing,Some in faith and doubting some,Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming,Said: "My chosen people, come!"Then the drum,Lo! was dumb;For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered: "Lord, we come!"Bret Harte.
Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands,And of armèd men the hum;Lo! a nation's hosts have gatheredRound the quick-alarming drum,—Saying: "Come,Freemen, come!Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quick-alarming drum."Let me of my heart take counsel:War is not of life the sum;Who shall stay and reap the harvestWhen the autumn days shall come?"But the drumEchoed: "Come!Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the solemn-sounding drum."But when won the coming battle,What of profit springs therefrom?What if conquest, subjugation,Even greater ills become?"But the drumAnswered: "Come!You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yankee-answering drum."What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder,Whistling shot and bursting bomb,When my brothers fall around me,Should my heart grow cold and numb?"But the drumAnswered: "Come!Better there in death united than in life a recreant,—Come!"Thus they answered—hoping, fearing,Some in faith and doubting some,Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming,Said: "My chosen people, come!"Then the drum,Lo! was dumb;For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered: "Lord, we come!"Bret Harte.
Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands,And of armèd men the hum;Lo! a nation's hosts have gatheredRound the quick-alarming drum,—Saying: "Come,Freemen, come!Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quick-alarming drum.
"Let me of my heart take counsel:War is not of life the sum;Who shall stay and reap the harvestWhen the autumn days shall come?"But the drumEchoed: "Come!Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the solemn-sounding drum.
"But when won the coming battle,What of profit springs therefrom?What if conquest, subjugation,Even greater ills become?"But the drumAnswered: "Come!You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yankee-answering drum.
"What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder,Whistling shot and bursting bomb,When my brothers fall around me,Should my heart grow cold and numb?"But the drumAnswered: "Come!Better there in death united than in life a recreant,—Come!"
Thus they answered—hoping, fearing,Some in faith and doubting some,Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming,Said: "My chosen people, come!"Then the drum,Lo! was dumb;For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered: "Lord, we come!"
Bret Harte.
Never was the Republic in greater danger. A month before, Lee had been desperately defending Richmond against two armies; now he had defeated them both and was ready to invade the North. He pushed forward with decision and celerity, and by September 7, 1862, his whole army had crossed the Potomac into Maryland.
Never was the Republic in greater danger. A month before, Lee had been desperately defending Richmond against two armies; now he had defeated them both and was ready to invade the North. He pushed forward with decision and celerity, and by September 7, 1862, his whole army had crossed the Potomac into Maryland.
BEYOND THE POTOMAC
[September 7, 1862]
They slept on the field which their valor had won,But arose with the first early blush of the sun,For they knew that a great deed remained to be done,When they passed o'er the river.They arose with the sun, and caught life from his light,—Those giants of courage, those Anaks in fight,—And they laughed out aloud in the joy of their might,Marching swift for the river.On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills;On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills;And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and thrills,At the thought of the river.Oh, the sheen of their swords! the fierce gleam of their eyes!It seemed as on earth a new sunlight would rise,And, king-like, flash up to the sun in the skies,O'er their path to the river.But their banners, shot-scarred, and all darkened with gore,On a strong wind of morning streamed wildly before,Like the wings of death-angels swept fast to the shore,The green shore of the river.As they march, from the hillside, the hamlet, the stream,Gaunt throngs whom the foemen had manacled, teem,Like men just aroused from some terrible dream,To cross sternly the river.They behold the broad banners, blood-darkened, yet fair,And a moment dissolves the last spell of despair,While a peal, as of victory, swells on the air,Rolling out to the river.And that cry, with a thousand strange echoings, spread,Till the ashes of heroes were thrilled in their bed,And the deep voice of passion surged up from the dead,"Ay, press on to the river!"On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills,On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills,And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and thrills,As they pause by the river.Then the wan face of Maryland, haggard and worn,At this sight lost the touch of its aspect forlorn,And she turned on the foemen, full-statured in scorn,Pointing stern to the river.And Potomac flowed calmly, scarce heaving her breast,With her low-lying billows all bright in the west,For a charm as from God lulled the waters to restOf the fair rolling river.Passed! passed! the glad thousands march safe through the tide;Hark, foeman, and hear the deep knell of your pride,Ringing weird-like and wild, pealing up from the sideOf the calm-flowing river!'Neath a blow swift and mighty the tyrant may fall;Vain! vain! to his gods swells a desolate call;Hath his grave not been hollowed, and woven his pall,Since they passed o'er the river?Paul Hamilton Hayne.
They slept on the field which their valor had won,But arose with the first early blush of the sun,For they knew that a great deed remained to be done,When they passed o'er the river.They arose with the sun, and caught life from his light,—Those giants of courage, those Anaks in fight,—And they laughed out aloud in the joy of their might,Marching swift for the river.On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills;On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills;And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and thrills,At the thought of the river.Oh, the sheen of their swords! the fierce gleam of their eyes!It seemed as on earth a new sunlight would rise,And, king-like, flash up to the sun in the skies,O'er their path to the river.But their banners, shot-scarred, and all darkened with gore,On a strong wind of morning streamed wildly before,Like the wings of death-angels swept fast to the shore,The green shore of the river.As they march, from the hillside, the hamlet, the stream,Gaunt throngs whom the foemen had manacled, teem,Like men just aroused from some terrible dream,To cross sternly the river.They behold the broad banners, blood-darkened, yet fair,And a moment dissolves the last spell of despair,While a peal, as of victory, swells on the air,Rolling out to the river.And that cry, with a thousand strange echoings, spread,Till the ashes of heroes were thrilled in their bed,And the deep voice of passion surged up from the dead,"Ay, press on to the river!"On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills,On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills,And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and thrills,As they pause by the river.Then the wan face of Maryland, haggard and worn,At this sight lost the touch of its aspect forlorn,And she turned on the foemen, full-statured in scorn,Pointing stern to the river.And Potomac flowed calmly, scarce heaving her breast,With her low-lying billows all bright in the west,For a charm as from God lulled the waters to restOf the fair rolling river.Passed! passed! the glad thousands march safe through the tide;Hark, foeman, and hear the deep knell of your pride,Ringing weird-like and wild, pealing up from the sideOf the calm-flowing river!'Neath a blow swift and mighty the tyrant may fall;Vain! vain! to his gods swells a desolate call;Hath his grave not been hollowed, and woven his pall,Since they passed o'er the river?Paul Hamilton Hayne.
They slept on the field which their valor had won,But arose with the first early blush of the sun,For they knew that a great deed remained to be done,When they passed o'er the river.
They arose with the sun, and caught life from his light,—Those giants of courage, those Anaks in fight,—And they laughed out aloud in the joy of their might,Marching swift for the river.
On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills;On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills;And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and thrills,At the thought of the river.
Oh, the sheen of their swords! the fierce gleam of their eyes!It seemed as on earth a new sunlight would rise,And, king-like, flash up to the sun in the skies,O'er their path to the river.
But their banners, shot-scarred, and all darkened with gore,On a strong wind of morning streamed wildly before,Like the wings of death-angels swept fast to the shore,The green shore of the river.
As they march, from the hillside, the hamlet, the stream,Gaunt throngs whom the foemen had manacled, teem,Like men just aroused from some terrible dream,To cross sternly the river.
They behold the broad banners, blood-darkened, yet fair,And a moment dissolves the last spell of despair,While a peal, as of victory, swells on the air,Rolling out to the river.
And that cry, with a thousand strange echoings, spread,Till the ashes of heroes were thrilled in their bed,And the deep voice of passion surged up from the dead,"Ay, press on to the river!"
On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills,On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills,And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and thrills,As they pause by the river.
Then the wan face of Maryland, haggard and worn,At this sight lost the touch of its aspect forlorn,And she turned on the foemen, full-statured in scorn,Pointing stern to the river.
And Potomac flowed calmly, scarce heaving her breast,With her low-lying billows all bright in the west,For a charm as from God lulled the waters to restOf the fair rolling river.
Passed! passed! the glad thousands march safe through the tide;Hark, foeman, and hear the deep knell of your pride,Ringing weird-like and wild, pealing up from the sideOf the calm-flowing river!
'Neath a blow swift and mighty the tyrant may fall;Vain! vain! to his gods swells a desolate call;Hath his grave not been hollowed, and woven his pall,Since they passed o'er the river?
Paul Hamilton Hayne.
McClellan undertook a timorous and blundering pursuit, calling constantly for more men and even proposing that Washington be abandoned, if that should be necessary to reinforce his army. On September 13, 1862, Lee's army passed through Frederick, and it was then that the incident recorded in "Barbara Frietchie" is said to have occurred.
McClellan undertook a timorous and blundering pursuit, calling constantly for more men and even proposing that Washington be abandoned, if that should be necessary to reinforce his army. On September 13, 1862, Lee's army passed through Frederick, and it was then that the incident recorded in "Barbara Frietchie" is said to have occurred.
BARBARA FRIETCHIE
[September 13, 1862]
Up from the meadows rich with corn,Clear in the cool September morn,The clustered spires of Frederick standGreen-walled by the hills of Maryland.Round about them orchards sweep,Apple and peach tree fruited deep,Fair as the garden of the LordTo the eyes of the famished rebel horde,On that pleasant morn of the early fallWhen Lee marched over the mountain-wall;Over the mountains winding down,Horse and foot, into Frederick town.Forty flags with their silver stars,Forty flags with their crimson bars,Flapped in the morning wind: the sunOf noon looked down, and saw not one.Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;Bravest of all in Frederick town,She took up the flag the men hauled down;In her attic window the staff she set,To show that one heart was loyal yet.Up the street came the rebel tread,Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.Under his slouched hat left and rightHe glanced; the old flag met his sight."Halt!"—the dust-brown ranks stood fast."Fire!"—out blazed the rifle-blast.It shivered the window, pane and sash;It rent the banner with seam and gash.Quick, as it fell, from the broken staffDame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.She leaned far out on the window-sill,And shook it forth with a royal will."Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,But spare your country's flag," she said.A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,Over the face of the leader came;The nobler nature within him stirredTo life at that woman's deed and word;"Who touches a hair of yon gray headDies like a dog! March on!" he said.All day long through Frederick streetSounded the tread of marching feet:All day long that free flag tostOver the heads of the rebel host.Ever its torn folds rose and fellOn the loyal winds that loved it well;And through the hill-gaps sunset lightShone over it with a warm good-night.Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.Honor to her! and let a tearFall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!Peace and order and beauty drawRound thy symbol of light and law;And ever the stars above look downOn thy stars below in Frederick town!John Greenleaf Whittier.
Up from the meadows rich with corn,Clear in the cool September morn,The clustered spires of Frederick standGreen-walled by the hills of Maryland.Round about them orchards sweep,Apple and peach tree fruited deep,Fair as the garden of the LordTo the eyes of the famished rebel horde,On that pleasant morn of the early fallWhen Lee marched over the mountain-wall;Over the mountains winding down,Horse and foot, into Frederick town.Forty flags with their silver stars,Forty flags with their crimson bars,Flapped in the morning wind: the sunOf noon looked down, and saw not one.Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;Bravest of all in Frederick town,She took up the flag the men hauled down;In her attic window the staff she set,To show that one heart was loyal yet.Up the street came the rebel tread,Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.Under his slouched hat left and rightHe glanced; the old flag met his sight."Halt!"—the dust-brown ranks stood fast."Fire!"—out blazed the rifle-blast.It shivered the window, pane and sash;It rent the banner with seam and gash.Quick, as it fell, from the broken staffDame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.She leaned far out on the window-sill,And shook it forth with a royal will."Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,But spare your country's flag," she said.A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,Over the face of the leader came;The nobler nature within him stirredTo life at that woman's deed and word;"Who touches a hair of yon gray headDies like a dog! March on!" he said.All day long through Frederick streetSounded the tread of marching feet:All day long that free flag tostOver the heads of the rebel host.Ever its torn folds rose and fellOn the loyal winds that loved it well;And through the hill-gaps sunset lightShone over it with a warm good-night.Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.Honor to her! and let a tearFall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!Peace and order and beauty drawRound thy symbol of light and law;And ever the stars above look downOn thy stars below in Frederick town!John Greenleaf Whittier.
Up from the meadows rich with corn,Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick standGreen-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,Apple and peach tree fruited deep,
Fair as the garden of the LordTo the eyes of the famished rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fallWhen Lee marched over the mountain-wall;
Over the mountains winding down,Horse and foot, into Frederick town.
Forty flags with their silver stars,Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sunOf noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town,She took up the flag the men hauled down;
In her attic window the staff she set,To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread,Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and rightHe glanced; the old flag met his sight.
"Halt!"—the dust-brown ranks stood fast."Fire!"—out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash;It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staffDame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.
She leaned far out on the window-sill,And shook it forth with a royal will.
"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,But spare your country's flag," she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirredTo life at that woman's deed and word;
"Who touches a hair of yon gray headDies like a dog! March on!" he said.
All day long through Frederick streetSounded the tread of marching feet:
All day long that free flag tostOver the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fellOn the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset lightShone over it with a warm good-night.
Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honor to her! and let a tearFall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace and order and beauty drawRound thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look downOn thy stars below in Frederick town!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
The main body of the Confederates was finally encountered at Antietam, and on September 17, 1862, a savage action was fought, which left Lee badly shattered.
The main body of the Confederates was finally encountered at Antietam, and on September 17, 1862, a savage action was fought, which left Lee badly shattered.
MARTHY VIRGINIA'S HAND
[September 17, 1862]
"There, on the left!" said the colonel; the battle had shuddered and faded away,Wraith of a fiery enchantment that left only ashes and blood-sprinkled clay—"Ride to the left and examine that ridge, where the enemy's sharpshooters stood.Lord, how they picked off our men, from the treacherous vantage-ground of the wood!But for their bullets, I'll bet, my batteries sent them something as good.Go and explore, and report to me then, and tell me how many we killed.Never a wink shall I sleep till I know our vengeance was duly fulfilled."Fiercely the orderly rode down the slope of the cornfield—scarred and forlorn,Rutted by violent wheels, and scathed by the shot that had ploughed it in scorn;Fiercely, and burning with wrath for the sight of his comrades crushed at a blow,Flung in broken shapes on the ground like ruined memorials of woe;These were the men whom at daybreak he knew, but never again could know.Thence to the ridge, where roots out-thrust, and twisted branches of treesClutched the hill like clawing lions, firm their prey to seize."What's your report?" and the grim colonel smiled when the orderly came back at last.Strangely the soldier paused: "Well, they were punished." And strangely his face looked, aghast."Yes, our fire told on them; knocked over fifty—laid out in line of parade.Brave fellows, Colonel, to stay as they did! But one I 'most wished hadn't stayed.Mortally wounded, he'd torn off his knapsack; and then, at the end, he prayed—Easy to see, by his hands that were clasped; and the dull, dead fingers yet heldThis little letter—his wife's—from the knapsack. A pity those woods were shelled!"Silent the orderly, watching with tears in his eyes as his officer scannedFour short pages of writing. "What's this, about 'Marthy Virginia's hand'?"Swift from his honeymoon he, the dead soldier, had gone from his bride to the strife;Never they met again, but she had written him, telling of that new life,Born in the daughter, that bound her still closer and closer to him as his wife.Laying her baby's hand down on the letter, around it she traced a rude line:"If you would kiss the baby," she wrote, "you must kiss this outline of mine."There was the shape of the hand on the page, with the small, chubby fingers outspread."Marthy Virginia's hand, for her pa,"—so the words on the little palm said.Never a wink slept the colonel that night, for the vengeance so blindly fulfilled.Never again woke the old battle-glow when the bullets their death-note shrilled.Long ago ended the struggle, in union of brotherhood happily stilled;Yet from that field of Antietam, in warning and token of love's command,See! there is lifted the hand of a baby—Marthy Virginia's hand!George Parsons Lathrop.
"There, on the left!" said the colonel; the battle had shuddered and faded away,Wraith of a fiery enchantment that left only ashes and blood-sprinkled clay—"Ride to the left and examine that ridge, where the enemy's sharpshooters stood.Lord, how they picked off our men, from the treacherous vantage-ground of the wood!But for their bullets, I'll bet, my batteries sent them something as good.Go and explore, and report to me then, and tell me how many we killed.Never a wink shall I sleep till I know our vengeance was duly fulfilled."Fiercely the orderly rode down the slope of the cornfield—scarred and forlorn,Rutted by violent wheels, and scathed by the shot that had ploughed it in scorn;Fiercely, and burning with wrath for the sight of his comrades crushed at a blow,Flung in broken shapes on the ground like ruined memorials of woe;These were the men whom at daybreak he knew, but never again could know.Thence to the ridge, where roots out-thrust, and twisted branches of treesClutched the hill like clawing lions, firm their prey to seize."What's your report?" and the grim colonel smiled when the orderly came back at last.Strangely the soldier paused: "Well, they were punished." And strangely his face looked, aghast."Yes, our fire told on them; knocked over fifty—laid out in line of parade.Brave fellows, Colonel, to stay as they did! But one I 'most wished hadn't stayed.Mortally wounded, he'd torn off his knapsack; and then, at the end, he prayed—Easy to see, by his hands that were clasped; and the dull, dead fingers yet heldThis little letter—his wife's—from the knapsack. A pity those woods were shelled!"Silent the orderly, watching with tears in his eyes as his officer scannedFour short pages of writing. "What's this, about 'Marthy Virginia's hand'?"Swift from his honeymoon he, the dead soldier, had gone from his bride to the strife;Never they met again, but she had written him, telling of that new life,Born in the daughter, that bound her still closer and closer to him as his wife.Laying her baby's hand down on the letter, around it she traced a rude line:"If you would kiss the baby," she wrote, "you must kiss this outline of mine."There was the shape of the hand on the page, with the small, chubby fingers outspread."Marthy Virginia's hand, for her pa,"—so the words on the little palm said.Never a wink slept the colonel that night, for the vengeance so blindly fulfilled.Never again woke the old battle-glow when the bullets their death-note shrilled.Long ago ended the struggle, in union of brotherhood happily stilled;Yet from that field of Antietam, in warning and token of love's command,See! there is lifted the hand of a baby—Marthy Virginia's hand!George Parsons Lathrop.
"There, on the left!" said the colonel; the battle had shuddered and faded away,Wraith of a fiery enchantment that left only ashes and blood-sprinkled clay—"Ride to the left and examine that ridge, where the enemy's sharpshooters stood.Lord, how they picked off our men, from the treacherous vantage-ground of the wood!But for their bullets, I'll bet, my batteries sent them something as good.Go and explore, and report to me then, and tell me how many we killed.Never a wink shall I sleep till I know our vengeance was duly fulfilled."
Fiercely the orderly rode down the slope of the cornfield—scarred and forlorn,Rutted by violent wheels, and scathed by the shot that had ploughed it in scorn;Fiercely, and burning with wrath for the sight of his comrades crushed at a blow,Flung in broken shapes on the ground like ruined memorials of woe;These were the men whom at daybreak he knew, but never again could know.Thence to the ridge, where roots out-thrust, and twisted branches of treesClutched the hill like clawing lions, firm their prey to seize.
"What's your report?" and the grim colonel smiled when the orderly came back at last.Strangely the soldier paused: "Well, they were punished." And strangely his face looked, aghast."Yes, our fire told on them; knocked over fifty—laid out in line of parade.Brave fellows, Colonel, to stay as they did! But one I 'most wished hadn't stayed.Mortally wounded, he'd torn off his knapsack; and then, at the end, he prayed—Easy to see, by his hands that were clasped; and the dull, dead fingers yet heldThis little letter—his wife's—from the knapsack. A pity those woods were shelled!"
Silent the orderly, watching with tears in his eyes as his officer scannedFour short pages of writing. "What's this, about 'Marthy Virginia's hand'?"Swift from his honeymoon he, the dead soldier, had gone from his bride to the strife;Never they met again, but she had written him, telling of that new life,Born in the daughter, that bound her still closer and closer to him as his wife.Laying her baby's hand down on the letter, around it she traced a rude line:"If you would kiss the baby," she wrote, "you must kiss this outline of mine."
There was the shape of the hand on the page, with the small, chubby fingers outspread."Marthy Virginia's hand, for her pa,"—so the words on the little palm said.Never a wink slept the colonel that night, for the vengeance so blindly fulfilled.Never again woke the old battle-glow when the bullets their death-note shrilled.Long ago ended the struggle, in union of brotherhood happily stilled;Yet from that field of Antietam, in warning and token of love's command,See! there is lifted the hand of a baby—Marthy Virginia's hand!
George Parsons Lathrop.
It was McClellan's first victory, and his partisans hailed him as another Alexander; but he permitted a great opportunity to slip through his fingers. Instead of attacking next day, he remained inactive, and Lee made good his escape across the Potomac.
It was McClellan's first victory, and his partisans hailed him as another Alexander; but he permitted a great opportunity to slip through his fingers. Instead of attacking next day, he remained inactive, and Lee made good his escape across the Potomac.
THE VICTOR OF ANTIETAM
[September 17, 1862]
When tempest winnowed grain from bran,And men were looking for a man,Authority called you to the van,McClellan!Along the line the plaudits ran,As later when Antietam's cheers began.Through storm-cloud and eclipse must moveEach cause and man, dear to the stars and Jove;Nor always can the wisest tellDeferred fulfilment from the hopeless knell—The struggler from the floundering ne'er-do-well.A pall-cloth on the Seven Days fell,McClellan—Unprosperously heroical!Who could Antietam's wreath foretell?Authority called you; then, in mistAnd loom of jeopardy—dismissed.But staring peril soon appalled;You, the Discarded, she recalled—Recalled you, nor endured delay;And forth you rode upon a blasted way,Arrayed Pope's rout, and routed Lee's array,McClellan!Your tent was choked with captured flags that day,McClellan.Antietam was a telling fray.Recalled you; and she heard your drumAdvancing through the ghastly gloom.You manned the wall, you propped the Dome,You stormed the powerful stormer home,McClellan!Antietam's cannon long shall boom.At Alexandria, left alone,McClellan—Your veterans sent from you, and thrownTo fields and fortunes all unknown—What thoughts were yours, revealed to none,While faithful still you labored on—Hearing the far Manassas gun!McClellan,Only Antietam could atone.You fought in the front (an evil day,McClellan)—The forefront of the first assay;The Cause went sounding, groped its way;The leadsmen quarrelled in the bay;Quills thwarted swords; divided sway;The rebel flushed in his lusty May;You did your best, as in you lay,McClellan.Antietam's sun-burst sheds a ray.Your medalled soldiers love you well,McClellan!Name your name, their true hearts swell;With you they shook dread Stonewall's spell,With you they braved the blended yellOf rebel and maligner fell;With you in fame or shame they dwell,McClellan!Antietam-braves a brave can tell.And when your comrades (now so few,McClellan,—Such ravage in deep files they rue)Meet round the board, and sadly viewThe empty places; tribute dueThey render to the dead—and you!Absent and silent o'er the blue;The one-armed lift the wine toyou,McClellan,And great Antietam's cheers renew.Herman Melville.
When tempest winnowed grain from bran,And men were looking for a man,Authority called you to the van,McClellan!Along the line the plaudits ran,As later when Antietam's cheers began.Through storm-cloud and eclipse must moveEach cause and man, dear to the stars and Jove;Nor always can the wisest tellDeferred fulfilment from the hopeless knell—The struggler from the floundering ne'er-do-well.A pall-cloth on the Seven Days fell,McClellan—Unprosperously heroical!Who could Antietam's wreath foretell?Authority called you; then, in mistAnd loom of jeopardy—dismissed.But staring peril soon appalled;You, the Discarded, she recalled—Recalled you, nor endured delay;And forth you rode upon a blasted way,Arrayed Pope's rout, and routed Lee's array,McClellan!Your tent was choked with captured flags that day,McClellan.Antietam was a telling fray.Recalled you; and she heard your drumAdvancing through the ghastly gloom.You manned the wall, you propped the Dome,You stormed the powerful stormer home,McClellan!Antietam's cannon long shall boom.At Alexandria, left alone,McClellan—Your veterans sent from you, and thrownTo fields and fortunes all unknown—What thoughts were yours, revealed to none,While faithful still you labored on—Hearing the far Manassas gun!McClellan,Only Antietam could atone.You fought in the front (an evil day,McClellan)—The forefront of the first assay;The Cause went sounding, groped its way;The leadsmen quarrelled in the bay;Quills thwarted swords; divided sway;The rebel flushed in his lusty May;You did your best, as in you lay,McClellan.Antietam's sun-burst sheds a ray.Your medalled soldiers love you well,McClellan!Name your name, their true hearts swell;With you they shook dread Stonewall's spell,With you they braved the blended yellOf rebel and maligner fell;With you in fame or shame they dwell,McClellan!Antietam-braves a brave can tell.And when your comrades (now so few,McClellan,—Such ravage in deep files they rue)Meet round the board, and sadly viewThe empty places; tribute dueThey render to the dead—and you!Absent and silent o'er the blue;The one-armed lift the wine toyou,McClellan,And great Antietam's cheers renew.Herman Melville.
When tempest winnowed grain from bran,And men were looking for a man,Authority called you to the van,McClellan!Along the line the plaudits ran,As later when Antietam's cheers began.
Through storm-cloud and eclipse must moveEach cause and man, dear to the stars and Jove;Nor always can the wisest tellDeferred fulfilment from the hopeless knell—The struggler from the floundering ne'er-do-well.A pall-cloth on the Seven Days fell,McClellan—Unprosperously heroical!Who could Antietam's wreath foretell?
Authority called you; then, in mistAnd loom of jeopardy—dismissed.But staring peril soon appalled;You, the Discarded, she recalled—Recalled you, nor endured delay;And forth you rode upon a blasted way,Arrayed Pope's rout, and routed Lee's array,McClellan!Your tent was choked with captured flags that day,McClellan.Antietam was a telling fray.
Recalled you; and she heard your drumAdvancing through the ghastly gloom.You manned the wall, you propped the Dome,You stormed the powerful stormer home,McClellan!Antietam's cannon long shall boom.
At Alexandria, left alone,McClellan—Your veterans sent from you, and thrownTo fields and fortunes all unknown—What thoughts were yours, revealed to none,While faithful still you labored on—Hearing the far Manassas gun!McClellan,Only Antietam could atone.
You fought in the front (an evil day,McClellan)—The forefront of the first assay;The Cause went sounding, groped its way;The leadsmen quarrelled in the bay;Quills thwarted swords; divided sway;The rebel flushed in his lusty May;You did your best, as in you lay,McClellan.Antietam's sun-burst sheds a ray.
Your medalled soldiers love you well,McClellan!Name your name, their true hearts swell;With you they shook dread Stonewall's spell,With you they braved the blended yellOf rebel and maligner fell;With you in fame or shame they dwell,McClellan!Antietam-braves a brave can tell.
And when your comrades (now so few,McClellan,—Such ravage in deep files they rue)Meet round the board, and sadly viewThe empty places; tribute dueThey render to the dead—and you!Absent and silent o'er the blue;The one-armed lift the wine toyou,McClellan,And great Antietam's cheers renew.
Herman Melville.
On October 1, 1862, President Lincoln issued to McClellan a peremptory order to pursue Lee. Twenty days were spent in correspondence before that order was obeyed. McClellan had exhausted the patience even of the President. On November 5 he was relieved from command, and General A. E. Burnside appointed to replace him. The latter paused to get the army in hand and then moved down the Rappahannock toward Fredericksburg, where Lee was strongly intrenched. On December 11 the Union army managed to cross the Potomac in the face of a heavy fire.
On October 1, 1862, President Lincoln issued to McClellan a peremptory order to pursue Lee. Twenty days were spent in correspondence before that order was obeyed. McClellan had exhausted the patience even of the President. On November 5 he was relieved from command, and General A. E. Burnside appointed to replace him. The latter paused to get the army in hand and then moved down the Rappahannock toward Fredericksburg, where Lee was strongly intrenched. On December 11 the Union army managed to cross the Potomac in the face of a heavy fire.
THE CROSSING AT FREDERICKSBURG
[December 11, 1862]