Hooker's across! Hooker's across!Standards and guidons and lance-pennons tossOver the land where he points with his blade,Bristle the hill-top, and fill up the glade.Who would not follow a leader whose bloodHas swelled, like our own, the battle's red flood?Who bore what we suffered, our wound and our pain,—Bore them with patience, and dares them again?Hooker's across!Hooker's across! Hooker's across!River of death, you shall make up our loss!Out of your channel we summon each soul,Over whose body your dark billows roll;Up from your borders we summon the dead,From valleys and hills where they struggled and bled,To joy in the vengeance the traitors shall feelAt the roar of our guns and the rush of our steel!Hooker's across!Hooker's across! Hooker's across!Fears to the wind, with our standards, we toss,Moving together, straight on, with one breath,Down to the outburst of passion and death.Oh, in the depths of our spirits we knowIf we fail now in the face of the foe,Flee from the field with our flag soiled and dim,We may return, but 'twill not be with him!Hooker's across!George Henry Boker.
Hooker's across! Hooker's across!Standards and guidons and lance-pennons tossOver the land where he points with his blade,Bristle the hill-top, and fill up the glade.Who would not follow a leader whose bloodHas swelled, like our own, the battle's red flood?Who bore what we suffered, our wound and our pain,—Bore them with patience, and dares them again?Hooker's across!Hooker's across! Hooker's across!River of death, you shall make up our loss!Out of your channel we summon each soul,Over whose body your dark billows roll;Up from your borders we summon the dead,From valleys and hills where they struggled and bled,To joy in the vengeance the traitors shall feelAt the roar of our guns and the rush of our steel!Hooker's across!Hooker's across! Hooker's across!Fears to the wind, with our standards, we toss,Moving together, straight on, with one breath,Down to the outburst of passion and death.Oh, in the depths of our spirits we knowIf we fail now in the face of the foe,Flee from the field with our flag soiled and dim,We may return, but 'twill not be with him!Hooker's across!George Henry Boker.
Hooker's across! Hooker's across!Standards and guidons and lance-pennons tossOver the land where he points with his blade,Bristle the hill-top, and fill up the glade.Who would not follow a leader whose bloodHas swelled, like our own, the battle's red flood?Who bore what we suffered, our wound and our pain,—Bore them with patience, and dares them again?Hooker's across!
Hooker's across! Hooker's across!River of death, you shall make up our loss!Out of your channel we summon each soul,Over whose body your dark billows roll;Up from your borders we summon the dead,From valleys and hills where they struggled and bled,To joy in the vengeance the traitors shall feelAt the roar of our guns and the rush of our steel!Hooker's across!
Hooker's across! Hooker's across!Fears to the wind, with our standards, we toss,Moving together, straight on, with one breath,Down to the outburst of passion and death.Oh, in the depths of our spirits we knowIf we fail now in the face of the foe,Flee from the field with our flag soiled and dim,We may return, but 'twill not be with him!Hooker's across!
George Henry Boker.
Lee at once prepared to fight, and a little past midnight on May 1, 1863, he put Stonewall Jackson's column in motion toward Chancellorsville. Jackson had long since proved himself one of the South's most able generals, and his command had been increased to thirty-three thousand men, every one of whom fairly idolized him.
Lee at once prepared to fight, and a little past midnight on May 1, 1863, he put Stonewall Jackson's column in motion toward Chancellorsville. Jackson had long since proved himself one of the South's most able generals, and his command had been increased to thirty-three thousand men, every one of whom fairly idolized him.
STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY
Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails,Stir up the camp-fire bright;No growling if the canteen fails,We'll make a roaring night.Here Shenandoah brawls along,There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,To swell the Brigade's rousing songOf "Stonewall Jackson's way."We see him now—the queer slouched hatCocked o'er his eye askew;The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat,So calm, so blunt, so true.The "Blue-Light Elder" knows 'em well;Says he, "That's Banks—he's fond of shell;Lord save his soul! we'll give him—" well!That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off!Old Massa's goin' to pray.Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!Attention! it's his way.Appealing from his native sod,In forma pauperisto God:"Lay bare Thine arm; stretch forth Thy rod!Amen!" That's "Stonewall's way."He's in the saddle now. Fall in!Steady! the whole brigade!Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll winHis way out, ball and blade!What matter if our shoes are worn?What matter if our feet are torn?"Quick step! we're with him before morn!"That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."The sun's bright lances rout the mistsOf morning, and, by George!Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists,Hemmed in an ugly gorge.Pope and his Dutchmen, whipped before;"Bay'nets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar;"Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score!"In "Stonewall Jackson's way."Ah! Maiden, wait and watch and yearnFor news of Stonewall's band!Ah! Widow, read, with eyes that burn,That ring upon thy hand.Ah! Wife, sew on, pray on, hope on;Thy life shall not be all forlorn;The foe had better ne'er been bornThat gets in "Stonewall's way."John Williamson Palmer.
Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails,Stir up the camp-fire bright;No growling if the canteen fails,We'll make a roaring night.Here Shenandoah brawls along,There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,To swell the Brigade's rousing songOf "Stonewall Jackson's way."We see him now—the queer slouched hatCocked o'er his eye askew;The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat,So calm, so blunt, so true.The "Blue-Light Elder" knows 'em well;Says he, "That's Banks—he's fond of shell;Lord save his soul! we'll give him—" well!That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off!Old Massa's goin' to pray.Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!Attention! it's his way.Appealing from his native sod,In forma pauperisto God:"Lay bare Thine arm; stretch forth Thy rod!Amen!" That's "Stonewall's way."He's in the saddle now. Fall in!Steady! the whole brigade!Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll winHis way out, ball and blade!What matter if our shoes are worn?What matter if our feet are torn?"Quick step! we're with him before morn!"That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."The sun's bright lances rout the mistsOf morning, and, by George!Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists,Hemmed in an ugly gorge.Pope and his Dutchmen, whipped before;"Bay'nets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar;"Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score!"In "Stonewall Jackson's way."Ah! Maiden, wait and watch and yearnFor news of Stonewall's band!Ah! Widow, read, with eyes that burn,That ring upon thy hand.Ah! Wife, sew on, pray on, hope on;Thy life shall not be all forlorn;The foe had better ne'er been bornThat gets in "Stonewall's way."John Williamson Palmer.
Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails,Stir up the camp-fire bright;No growling if the canteen fails,We'll make a roaring night.Here Shenandoah brawls along,There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,To swell the Brigade's rousing songOf "Stonewall Jackson's way."
We see him now—the queer slouched hatCocked o'er his eye askew;The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat,So calm, so blunt, so true.The "Blue-Light Elder" knows 'em well;Says he, "That's Banks—he's fond of shell;Lord save his soul! we'll give him—" well!That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."
Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off!Old Massa's goin' to pray.Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!Attention! it's his way.Appealing from his native sod,In forma pauperisto God:"Lay bare Thine arm; stretch forth Thy rod!Amen!" That's "Stonewall's way."
He's in the saddle now. Fall in!Steady! the whole brigade!Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll winHis way out, ball and blade!What matter if our shoes are worn?What matter if our feet are torn?"Quick step! we're with him before morn!"That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."
The sun's bright lances rout the mistsOf morning, and, by George!Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists,Hemmed in an ugly gorge.Pope and his Dutchmen, whipped before;"Bay'nets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar;"Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score!"In "Stonewall Jackson's way."
Ah! Maiden, wait and watch and yearnFor news of Stonewall's band!Ah! Widow, read, with eyes that burn,That ring upon thy hand.Ah! Wife, sew on, pray on, hope on;Thy life shall not be all forlorn;The foe had better ne'er been bornThat gets in "Stonewall's way."
John Williamson Palmer.
The battle began early in the morning and the Union army was soon forced to take refuge behind its works and assume the defensive. The Confederates also paused, waiting for reinforcements. The men slept on their arms that night, and arose at dawn, ready to renew the conflict.But the Confederates did not attack until late in the afternoon. Jackson had made a long flanking movement, and just as twilight fell, he burst from the woods in overwhelming force and routed the Federal right wing. For an instant it seemed that all was lost, but at this critical moment the Eighth Pennsylvania cavalry got in touch with the Confederate flank and charged.
The battle began early in the morning and the Union army was soon forced to take refuge behind its works and assume the defensive. The Confederates also paused, waiting for reinforcements. The men slept on their arms that night, and arose at dawn, ready to renew the conflict.
But the Confederates did not attack until late in the afternoon. Jackson had made a long flanking movement, and just as twilight fell, he burst from the woods in overwhelming force and routed the Federal right wing. For an instant it seemed that all was lost, but at this critical moment the Eighth Pennsylvania cavalry got in touch with the Confederate flank and charged.
KEENAN'S CHARGE
[May 2, 1863]
The sun had set;The leaves with dew were wet—Down fell a bloody duskOn the woods, that second of May,Where "Stonewall's" corps, like a beast of prey,Tore through with angry tusk."They've trapped us, boys!"Rose from our flank a voice.With rush of steel and smokeOn came the rebels straight,Eager as love and wild as hate;And our line reeled and broke;Broke and fled.Not one stayed,—but the dead!With curses, shrieks, and cries,Horses and wagons and menTumbled back through the shuddering glen,And above us the fading skies.There's one hope, still,—Those batteries parked on the hill!"Battery, wheel!" ('mid the roar),"Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fireRetiring. Trot!" In the panic direA bugle rings "Trot!"—and no more.The horses plunged,The cannon lurched and lunged,To join the hopeless rout.But suddenly rose a formCalmly in front of the human storm,With a stern commanding shout:"Align those guns!"(We knew it was Pleasanton's.)The cannoneers bent to obey,And worked with a will at his word,And the black guns moved as iftheyhad heard.But, ah, the dread delay!"To wait is crime;O God, for ten minutes' time!"The general looked around.There Keenan sat, like a stone,With his three hundred horse alone,Less shaken than the ground."Major, your men?""Are soldiers, general." "Then,Charge, major! Do your best;Hold the enemy back at all cost,Till my guns are placed;—else the army is lost.You die to save the rest!"By the shrouded gleam of the western skies,Brave Keenan looked into Pleasanton's eyesFor an instant—clear, and cool, and still;Then, with a smile, he said: "I will.""Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank.Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank,Rose joyously, with a willing breath,—Rose like a greeting hail to death.Then forward they sprang, and spurred, and clashed;Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed;Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow,In their faded coats of the blue and yellow;And above in the air, with an instinct true,Like a bird of war their pennon flew.With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds,And blades that shine like sunlit reeds,And strong brown faces bravely pale,For fear their proud attempt shall fail,Three hundred Pennsylvanians closeOn twice ten thousand gallant foes.Line after line the troopers cameTo the edge of the wood that was ringed with flame;Rode in, and sabred, and shot,—and fell:Nor came one back his wounds to tell.And full in the midst rose Keenan, tallIn the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall,While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung'Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung.Line after line, aye, whole platoons,Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons,By the maddened horses were onward borneAnd into the vortex flung, trampled and torn;As Keenan fought with his men, side by side.So they rode, till there were no more to ride.But over them, lying there shattered and mute,What deep echo rolls? 'Tis a death-saluteFrom the cannon in place; for, heroes, you bravedYour fate not in vain; the army was saved!Over them now,—year following year,—Over their graves the pine-cones fall,And the whippoorwill chants his spectre-call;But they stir not again; they raise no cheer:They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease,Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace.The rush of their charge is resounding still,That saved the army at Chancellorsville.George Parsons Lathrop.
The sun had set;The leaves with dew were wet—Down fell a bloody duskOn the woods, that second of May,Where "Stonewall's" corps, like a beast of prey,Tore through with angry tusk."They've trapped us, boys!"Rose from our flank a voice.With rush of steel and smokeOn came the rebels straight,Eager as love and wild as hate;And our line reeled and broke;Broke and fled.Not one stayed,—but the dead!With curses, shrieks, and cries,Horses and wagons and menTumbled back through the shuddering glen,And above us the fading skies.There's one hope, still,—Those batteries parked on the hill!"Battery, wheel!" ('mid the roar),"Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fireRetiring. Trot!" In the panic direA bugle rings "Trot!"—and no more.The horses plunged,The cannon lurched and lunged,To join the hopeless rout.But suddenly rose a formCalmly in front of the human storm,With a stern commanding shout:"Align those guns!"(We knew it was Pleasanton's.)The cannoneers bent to obey,And worked with a will at his word,And the black guns moved as iftheyhad heard.But, ah, the dread delay!"To wait is crime;O God, for ten minutes' time!"The general looked around.There Keenan sat, like a stone,With his three hundred horse alone,Less shaken than the ground."Major, your men?""Are soldiers, general." "Then,Charge, major! Do your best;Hold the enemy back at all cost,Till my guns are placed;—else the army is lost.You die to save the rest!"By the shrouded gleam of the western skies,Brave Keenan looked into Pleasanton's eyesFor an instant—clear, and cool, and still;Then, with a smile, he said: "I will.""Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank.Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank,Rose joyously, with a willing breath,—Rose like a greeting hail to death.Then forward they sprang, and spurred, and clashed;Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed;Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow,In their faded coats of the blue and yellow;And above in the air, with an instinct true,Like a bird of war their pennon flew.With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds,And blades that shine like sunlit reeds,And strong brown faces bravely pale,For fear their proud attempt shall fail,Three hundred Pennsylvanians closeOn twice ten thousand gallant foes.Line after line the troopers cameTo the edge of the wood that was ringed with flame;Rode in, and sabred, and shot,—and fell:Nor came one back his wounds to tell.And full in the midst rose Keenan, tallIn the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall,While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung'Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung.Line after line, aye, whole platoons,Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons,By the maddened horses were onward borneAnd into the vortex flung, trampled and torn;As Keenan fought with his men, side by side.So they rode, till there were no more to ride.But over them, lying there shattered and mute,What deep echo rolls? 'Tis a death-saluteFrom the cannon in place; for, heroes, you bravedYour fate not in vain; the army was saved!Over them now,—year following year,—Over their graves the pine-cones fall,And the whippoorwill chants his spectre-call;But they stir not again; they raise no cheer:They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease,Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace.The rush of their charge is resounding still,That saved the army at Chancellorsville.George Parsons Lathrop.
The sun had set;The leaves with dew were wet—Down fell a bloody duskOn the woods, that second of May,Where "Stonewall's" corps, like a beast of prey,Tore through with angry tusk.
"They've trapped us, boys!"Rose from our flank a voice.With rush of steel and smokeOn came the rebels straight,Eager as love and wild as hate;And our line reeled and broke;
Broke and fled.Not one stayed,—but the dead!With curses, shrieks, and cries,Horses and wagons and menTumbled back through the shuddering glen,And above us the fading skies.
There's one hope, still,—Those batteries parked on the hill!"Battery, wheel!" ('mid the roar),"Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fireRetiring. Trot!" In the panic direA bugle rings "Trot!"—and no more.
The horses plunged,The cannon lurched and lunged,To join the hopeless rout.But suddenly rose a formCalmly in front of the human storm,With a stern commanding shout:
"Align those guns!"(We knew it was Pleasanton's.)The cannoneers bent to obey,And worked with a will at his word,And the black guns moved as iftheyhad heard.But, ah, the dread delay!
"To wait is crime;O God, for ten minutes' time!"The general looked around.There Keenan sat, like a stone,With his three hundred horse alone,Less shaken than the ground.
"Major, your men?""Are soldiers, general." "Then,Charge, major! Do your best;Hold the enemy back at all cost,Till my guns are placed;—else the army is lost.You die to save the rest!"
By the shrouded gleam of the western skies,Brave Keenan looked into Pleasanton's eyesFor an instant—clear, and cool, and still;Then, with a smile, he said: "I will."
"Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank.Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank,Rose joyously, with a willing breath,—Rose like a greeting hail to death.
Then forward they sprang, and spurred, and clashed;Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed;Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow,In their faded coats of the blue and yellow;And above in the air, with an instinct true,Like a bird of war their pennon flew.
With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds,And blades that shine like sunlit reeds,And strong brown faces bravely pale,For fear their proud attempt shall fail,Three hundred Pennsylvanians closeOn twice ten thousand gallant foes.
Line after line the troopers cameTo the edge of the wood that was ringed with flame;Rode in, and sabred, and shot,—and fell:Nor came one back his wounds to tell.And full in the midst rose Keenan, tallIn the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall,While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung'Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung.
Line after line, aye, whole platoons,Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons,By the maddened horses were onward borneAnd into the vortex flung, trampled and torn;As Keenan fought with his men, side by side.So they rode, till there were no more to ride.
But over them, lying there shattered and mute,What deep echo rolls? 'Tis a death-saluteFrom the cannon in place; for, heroes, you bravedYour fate not in vain; the army was saved!
Over them now,—year following year,—Over their graves the pine-cones fall,And the whippoorwill chants his spectre-call;But they stir not again; they raise no cheer:They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease,Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace.The rush of their charge is resounding still,That saved the army at Chancellorsville.
George Parsons Lathrop.
The regiment was greatly outnumbered, and was hurled back terribly shattered, Major Peter Keenan being among the killed. But the Confederate advance had been checked long enough for Pleasanton to get his artillery into position, and he opened with deadly effect.The Confederates paused in the face of the terrible fire, and Jackson and his staff pushed forward on a personal reconnoissance. As he was returning to his lines, he and his companions were mistaken for Union troops by his own men and were fired upon. Jackson fell, pierced by three bullets.
The regiment was greatly outnumbered, and was hurled back terribly shattered, Major Peter Keenan being among the killed. But the Confederate advance had been checked long enough for Pleasanton to get his artillery into position, and he opened with deadly effect.
The Confederates paused in the face of the terrible fire, and Jackson and his staff pushed forward on a personal reconnoissance. As he was returning to his lines, he and his companions were mistaken for Union troops by his own men and were fired upon. Jackson fell, pierced by three bullets.
"THE BRIGADE MUST NOT KNOW, SIR!"
[May 2, 1863]
"Who've ye got there?"—"Only a dying brother,Hurt in the front just now.""Good boy! he'll do. Somebody tell his motherWhere he was killed, and how.""Whom have you there?"—"A crippled courier, Major,Shot by mistake, we hear.He was with Stonewall." "Cruel work they've made here;Quick with him to the rear!""Well, who comes next?"—"Doctor, speak low, speak low, sir;Don't let the men find out!It's Stonewall!"—"God!"—"The brigade must not know, sir,While there's a foe about!"Whom have we here—shrouded in martial manner,Crowned with a martyr's charm?A grand dead hero, in a living banner,Born of his heart and arm:The heart whereon his cause hung—see how clingethThat banner to his bier!The arm wherewith his cause struck—hark! how ringethHis trumpet in their rear!What have we left? His glorious inspiration,His prayers in council met.Living, he laid the first stones of a nation;And dead, he builds it yet.
"Who've ye got there?"—"Only a dying brother,Hurt in the front just now.""Good boy! he'll do. Somebody tell his motherWhere he was killed, and how.""Whom have you there?"—"A crippled courier, Major,Shot by mistake, we hear.He was with Stonewall." "Cruel work they've made here;Quick with him to the rear!""Well, who comes next?"—"Doctor, speak low, speak low, sir;Don't let the men find out!It's Stonewall!"—"God!"—"The brigade must not know, sir,While there's a foe about!"Whom have we here—shrouded in martial manner,Crowned with a martyr's charm?A grand dead hero, in a living banner,Born of his heart and arm:The heart whereon his cause hung—see how clingethThat banner to his bier!The arm wherewith his cause struck—hark! how ringethHis trumpet in their rear!What have we left? His glorious inspiration,His prayers in council met.Living, he laid the first stones of a nation;And dead, he builds it yet.
"Who've ye got there?"—"Only a dying brother,Hurt in the front just now.""Good boy! he'll do. Somebody tell his motherWhere he was killed, and how."
"Whom have you there?"—"A crippled courier, Major,Shot by mistake, we hear.He was with Stonewall." "Cruel work they've made here;Quick with him to the rear!"
"Well, who comes next?"—"Doctor, speak low, speak low, sir;Don't let the men find out!It's Stonewall!"—"God!"—"The brigade must not know, sir,While there's a foe about!"
Whom have we here—shrouded in martial manner,Crowned with a martyr's charm?A grand dead hero, in a living banner,Born of his heart and arm:
The heart whereon his cause hung—see how clingethThat banner to his bier!The arm wherewith his cause struck—hark! how ringethHis trumpet in their rear!
What have we left? His glorious inspiration,His prayers in council met.Living, he laid the first stones of a nation;And dead, he builds it yet.
Early on the morning of Sunday, May 3, 1863, the Confederates again attacked, and after two days' heavy fighting, drove the Union army back across the river, with a loss of seventeen thousand men. But the Confederate victory was almost outweighed by the loss of Stonewall Jackson, who died May 10.
Early on the morning of Sunday, May 3, 1863, the Confederates again attacked, and after two days' heavy fighting, drove the Union army back across the river, with a loss of seventeen thousand men. But the Confederate victory was almost outweighed by the loss of Stonewall Jackson, who died May 10.
STONEWALL JACKSON
[May 10, 1863]
Not midst the lightning of the stormy fight,Nor in the rush upon the vandal foe,Did kingly Death, with his resistless might,Lay the great leader low.His warrior soul its earthly shackles brokeIn the full sunshine of a peaceful town;When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oakThat propped our cause went down.Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground,Recalling all his grand, heroic deeds,Freedom herself is writhing in the wound,And all the country bleeds.He entered not the nation's Promised LandAt the red belching of the cannon's mouth,But broke the House of Bondage with his hand—The Moses of the South!O gracious God! not gainless is the loss:A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest frown;And while his country staggers 'neath the Cross,He rises with the Crown!Henry Lynden Flash.
Not midst the lightning of the stormy fight,Nor in the rush upon the vandal foe,Did kingly Death, with his resistless might,Lay the great leader low.His warrior soul its earthly shackles brokeIn the full sunshine of a peaceful town;When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oakThat propped our cause went down.Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground,Recalling all his grand, heroic deeds,Freedom herself is writhing in the wound,And all the country bleeds.He entered not the nation's Promised LandAt the red belching of the cannon's mouth,But broke the House of Bondage with his hand—The Moses of the South!O gracious God! not gainless is the loss:A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest frown;And while his country staggers 'neath the Cross,He rises with the Crown!Henry Lynden Flash.
Not midst the lightning of the stormy fight,Nor in the rush upon the vandal foe,Did kingly Death, with his resistless might,Lay the great leader low.
His warrior soul its earthly shackles brokeIn the full sunshine of a peaceful town;When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oakThat propped our cause went down.
Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground,Recalling all his grand, heroic deeds,Freedom herself is writhing in the wound,And all the country bleeds.
He entered not the nation's Promised LandAt the red belching of the cannon's mouth,But broke the House of Bondage with his hand—The Moses of the South!
O gracious God! not gainless is the loss:A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest frown;And while his country staggers 'neath the Cross,He rises with the Crown!
Henry Lynden Flash.
THE DYING WORDS OF STONEWALL JACKSON[10]
"Order A. P. Hill to prepare for battle.""Tell Major Hawks to advance the commissary train.""Let us cross the river and rest in the shade."
"Order A. P. Hill to prepare for battle.""Tell Major Hawks to advance the commissary train.""Let us cross the river and rest in the shade."
"Order A. P. Hill to prepare for battle.""Tell Major Hawks to advance the commissary train.""Let us cross the river and rest in the shade."
The stars of Night contain the glittering DayAnd rain his glory down with sweeter graceUpon the dark World's grand, enchanted face—All loth to turn away.And so the Day, about to yield his breath,Utters the stars unto the listening Night,To stand for burning fare-thee-wells of lightSaid on the verge of death.O hero-life that lit us like the sun!O hero-words that glittered like the starsAnd stood and shone above the gloomy warsWhen the hero-life was done!The phantoms of a battle came to dwellI' the fitful vision of his dying eyes—Yet even in battle-dreams, he sends suppliesTo those he loved so well.His army stands in battle-line arrayed:His couriers fly: all's done: now God decide!—And not till then saw he the Other SideOr would accept the shade.Thou Land whose sun is gone, thy stars remain!Still shine the words that miniature his deeds.O thrice-beloved, where'er thy great heart bleeds,Solace hast thou for pain!Sidney Lanier.
The stars of Night contain the glittering DayAnd rain his glory down with sweeter graceUpon the dark World's grand, enchanted face—All loth to turn away.And so the Day, about to yield his breath,Utters the stars unto the listening Night,To stand for burning fare-thee-wells of lightSaid on the verge of death.O hero-life that lit us like the sun!O hero-words that glittered like the starsAnd stood and shone above the gloomy warsWhen the hero-life was done!The phantoms of a battle came to dwellI' the fitful vision of his dying eyes—Yet even in battle-dreams, he sends suppliesTo those he loved so well.His army stands in battle-line arrayed:His couriers fly: all's done: now God decide!—And not till then saw he the Other SideOr would accept the shade.Thou Land whose sun is gone, thy stars remain!Still shine the words that miniature his deeds.O thrice-beloved, where'er thy great heart bleeds,Solace hast thou for pain!Sidney Lanier.
The stars of Night contain the glittering DayAnd rain his glory down with sweeter graceUpon the dark World's grand, enchanted face—All loth to turn away.
And so the Day, about to yield his breath,Utters the stars unto the listening Night,To stand for burning fare-thee-wells of lightSaid on the verge of death.
O hero-life that lit us like the sun!O hero-words that glittered like the starsAnd stood and shone above the gloomy warsWhen the hero-life was done!
The phantoms of a battle came to dwellI' the fitful vision of his dying eyes—Yet even in battle-dreams, he sends suppliesTo those he loved so well.
His army stands in battle-line arrayed:His couriers fly: all's done: now God decide!—And not till then saw he the Other SideOr would accept the shade.
Thou Land whose sun is gone, thy stars remain!Still shine the words that miniature his deeds.O thrice-beloved, where'er thy great heart bleeds,Solace hast thou for pain!
Sidney Lanier.
UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES
What are the thoughts that are stirring his breast?What is the mystical vision he sees?—"Let us pass over the river, and restUnder the shade of the trees."Has he grown sick of his toils and his tasks?Sighs the worn spirit for respite or ease?Is it a moment's cool halt that he asksUnder the shade of the trees?Is it the gurgle of waters whose flowOfttime has come to him, borne on the breeze,Memory listens to, lapsing so low,Under the shade of the trees?Nay—though the rasp of the flesh was so sore,Faith, that had yearnings far keener than these,Saw the soft sheen of the Thitherward ShoreUnder the shade of the trees;—Caught the high psalms of ecstatic delight—Heard the harps harping, like soundings of seas—Watched earth's assoilèd ones walking in whiteUnder the shade of the trees.Oh, was it strange he should pine for release,Touched to the soul with such transports as these,—He who so needed the balsam of peace,Under the shade of the trees?Yea, it was noblest for him—it was best(Questioning naught of our Father's decrees),There to pass over the river and restUnder the shade of the trees!Margaret Junkin Preston.
What are the thoughts that are stirring his breast?What is the mystical vision he sees?—"Let us pass over the river, and restUnder the shade of the trees."Has he grown sick of his toils and his tasks?Sighs the worn spirit for respite or ease?Is it a moment's cool halt that he asksUnder the shade of the trees?Is it the gurgle of waters whose flowOfttime has come to him, borne on the breeze,Memory listens to, lapsing so low,Under the shade of the trees?Nay—though the rasp of the flesh was so sore,Faith, that had yearnings far keener than these,Saw the soft sheen of the Thitherward ShoreUnder the shade of the trees;—Caught the high psalms of ecstatic delight—Heard the harps harping, like soundings of seas—Watched earth's assoilèd ones walking in whiteUnder the shade of the trees.Oh, was it strange he should pine for release,Touched to the soul with such transports as these,—He who so needed the balsam of peace,Under the shade of the trees?Yea, it was noblest for him—it was best(Questioning naught of our Father's decrees),There to pass over the river and restUnder the shade of the trees!Margaret Junkin Preston.
What are the thoughts that are stirring his breast?What is the mystical vision he sees?—"Let us pass over the river, and restUnder the shade of the trees."
Has he grown sick of his toils and his tasks?Sighs the worn spirit for respite or ease?Is it a moment's cool halt that he asksUnder the shade of the trees?
Is it the gurgle of waters whose flowOfttime has come to him, borne on the breeze,Memory listens to, lapsing so low,Under the shade of the trees?
Nay—though the rasp of the flesh was so sore,Faith, that had yearnings far keener than these,Saw the soft sheen of the Thitherward ShoreUnder the shade of the trees;—
Caught the high psalms of ecstatic delight—Heard the harps harping, like soundings of seas—Watched earth's assoilèd ones walking in whiteUnder the shade of the trees.
Oh, was it strange he should pine for release,Touched to the soul with such transports as these,—He who so needed the balsam of peace,Under the shade of the trees?
Yea, it was noblest for him—it was best(Questioning naught of our Father's decrees),There to pass over the river and restUnder the shade of the trees!
Margaret Junkin Preston.
Lee waited only to rest his forces and then, for the second time, invaded Maryland, crossing the Shenandoah at Front Royal. On June 13, 1863, the army appeared before Winchester, scattered the Union force stationed there, and swept resistlessly down the Shenandoah Valley, raiding into Pennsylvania as far as Chambersburg.
Lee waited only to rest his forces and then, for the second time, invaded Maryland, crossing the Shenandoah at Front Royal. On June 13, 1863, the army appeared before Winchester, scattered the Union force stationed there, and swept resistlessly down the Shenandoah Valley, raiding into Pennsylvania as far as Chambersburg.
THE BALLAD OF ISHMAEL DAY
[June, 1863]
One summer morning a daring bandOf Rebels rode into Maryland,Over the prosperous, peaceful farms,Sending terror and strange alarms,The clatter of hoofs and the clang of arms.Fresh from the South, where the hungry pineThey ate like Pharaoh's starving kine;They swept the land like devouring surge,And left their path, to the farthest verge,Bare as the track of the locust scourge."The Rebels are coming!" far and nearRang the tidings of dread and fear;Some paled and cowered and sought to hide;Some stood erect in their fearless pride;And women shuddered and children cried.But others—vipers in human formStinging the bosom that kept them warm—Welcomed with triumph the thievish band,Hurried to offer the friendly hand,As the Rebels rode into Maryland.Made them merry with food and wine,Clad them in garments, rich and fine,For rags and hunger to make amends,Flattered them, praised them with selfish ends;"Leave us scathless, for we are friends."Could traitors trust a traitor? No!Little they favor friend or foe,But gathered the cattle the farms across,Flinging back, with a scornful toss,"If ye are friends ye can bear the loss!"Flushed with triumph, and wine, and prey,They neared the dwelling of Ishmael Day,A sturdy veteran, gray and old,With heart of a patriot, firm and bold,Strong and steadfast—unbribed, unsold.And Ishmael Day, his brave head bare,His white locks tossed by the morning air,Fearless of danger, or death, or scars,Went out to raise by the farm-yard barsThe dear old flag of the stripes and stars.Proudly, steadily, up it flew,Gorgeous with crimson, white and blue,His withered hand as he shook it freer,May have trembled, but not with fear,While shouting the rebels drew more near."Halt!" They had seen the hated signFloating free from old Ishmael's line—"Lower that rag!" was their wrathful cry;"Never!" rung Ishmael Day's reply,"Fire if it please you—I can but die."One, with a loud, defiant laugh,Left his comrades and neared the staff."Down!" came the fearless patriot's cry,"Dare to lower that flag and die!One must bleed for it—you or I."But caring not for the stern command,He drew the halliards with daring hand;Ping! went the rifle ball—down he came,Under the flag he had tried to shame—Old Ishmael Day took careful aim!Seventy winters and three had shedTheir snowy glories on Ishmael's head.Though cheeks may wither and locks grow gray,His fame shall be fresh and young alway—Honor be to old Ishmael Day!
One summer morning a daring bandOf Rebels rode into Maryland,Over the prosperous, peaceful farms,Sending terror and strange alarms,The clatter of hoofs and the clang of arms.Fresh from the South, where the hungry pineThey ate like Pharaoh's starving kine;They swept the land like devouring surge,And left their path, to the farthest verge,Bare as the track of the locust scourge."The Rebels are coming!" far and nearRang the tidings of dread and fear;Some paled and cowered and sought to hide;Some stood erect in their fearless pride;And women shuddered and children cried.But others—vipers in human formStinging the bosom that kept them warm—Welcomed with triumph the thievish band,Hurried to offer the friendly hand,As the Rebels rode into Maryland.Made them merry with food and wine,Clad them in garments, rich and fine,For rags and hunger to make amends,Flattered them, praised them with selfish ends;"Leave us scathless, for we are friends."Could traitors trust a traitor? No!Little they favor friend or foe,But gathered the cattle the farms across,Flinging back, with a scornful toss,"If ye are friends ye can bear the loss!"Flushed with triumph, and wine, and prey,They neared the dwelling of Ishmael Day,A sturdy veteran, gray and old,With heart of a patriot, firm and bold,Strong and steadfast—unbribed, unsold.And Ishmael Day, his brave head bare,His white locks tossed by the morning air,Fearless of danger, or death, or scars,Went out to raise by the farm-yard barsThe dear old flag of the stripes and stars.Proudly, steadily, up it flew,Gorgeous with crimson, white and blue,His withered hand as he shook it freer,May have trembled, but not with fear,While shouting the rebels drew more near."Halt!" They had seen the hated signFloating free from old Ishmael's line—"Lower that rag!" was their wrathful cry;"Never!" rung Ishmael Day's reply,"Fire if it please you—I can but die."One, with a loud, defiant laugh,Left his comrades and neared the staff."Down!" came the fearless patriot's cry,"Dare to lower that flag and die!One must bleed for it—you or I."But caring not for the stern command,He drew the halliards with daring hand;Ping! went the rifle ball—down he came,Under the flag he had tried to shame—Old Ishmael Day took careful aim!Seventy winters and three had shedTheir snowy glories on Ishmael's head.Though cheeks may wither and locks grow gray,His fame shall be fresh and young alway—Honor be to old Ishmael Day!
One summer morning a daring bandOf Rebels rode into Maryland,Over the prosperous, peaceful farms,Sending terror and strange alarms,The clatter of hoofs and the clang of arms.
Fresh from the South, where the hungry pineThey ate like Pharaoh's starving kine;They swept the land like devouring surge,And left their path, to the farthest verge,Bare as the track of the locust scourge.
"The Rebels are coming!" far and nearRang the tidings of dread and fear;Some paled and cowered and sought to hide;Some stood erect in their fearless pride;And women shuddered and children cried.
But others—vipers in human formStinging the bosom that kept them warm—Welcomed with triumph the thievish band,Hurried to offer the friendly hand,As the Rebels rode into Maryland.
Made them merry with food and wine,Clad them in garments, rich and fine,For rags and hunger to make amends,Flattered them, praised them with selfish ends;"Leave us scathless, for we are friends."
Could traitors trust a traitor? No!Little they favor friend or foe,But gathered the cattle the farms across,Flinging back, with a scornful toss,"If ye are friends ye can bear the loss!"
Flushed with triumph, and wine, and prey,They neared the dwelling of Ishmael Day,A sturdy veteran, gray and old,With heart of a patriot, firm and bold,Strong and steadfast—unbribed, unsold.
And Ishmael Day, his brave head bare,His white locks tossed by the morning air,Fearless of danger, or death, or scars,Went out to raise by the farm-yard barsThe dear old flag of the stripes and stars.
Proudly, steadily, up it flew,Gorgeous with crimson, white and blue,His withered hand as he shook it freer,May have trembled, but not with fear,While shouting the rebels drew more near.
"Halt!" They had seen the hated signFloating free from old Ishmael's line—"Lower that rag!" was their wrathful cry;"Never!" rung Ishmael Day's reply,"Fire if it please you—I can but die."
One, with a loud, defiant laugh,Left his comrades and neared the staff."Down!" came the fearless patriot's cry,"Dare to lower that flag and die!One must bleed for it—you or I."
But caring not for the stern command,He drew the halliards with daring hand;Ping! went the rifle ball—down he came,Under the flag he had tried to shame—Old Ishmael Day took careful aim!
Seventy winters and three had shedTheir snowy glories on Ishmael's head.Though cheeks may wither and locks grow gray,His fame shall be fresh and young alway—Honor be to old Ishmael Day!
Hooker, meanwhile, was almost wholly in the dark concerning the position of Lee's army, until it was partially revealed to him on June 17, 1863, when Kilpatrick's cavalry charged and drove back the Confederate cavalry as it emerged from Ashby's Gap. Still he hesitated, and the whole of western Pennsylvania appeared to be at the mercy of the invaders.
Hooker, meanwhile, was almost wholly in the dark concerning the position of Lee's army, until it was partially revealed to him on June 17, 1863, when Kilpatrick's cavalry charged and drove back the Confederate cavalry as it emerged from Ashby's Gap. Still he hesitated, and the whole of western Pennsylvania appeared to be at the mercy of the invaders.
RIDING WITH KILPATRICK
[June 17, 1863]
Dawn peered through the pines as we dashed at the ford;Afar the grim guns of the infantry roared;There were miles yet of dangerous pathway to pass,And Mosby might menace, and Stuart might mass;But we mocked every doubt, laughing danger to scorn,As we quaffed with a shout from the wine of the morn.Those who rode with Kilpatrick to valor were born!How we chafed at delay! How we itched to be on!How we yearned for the fray where the battle-reek shone!It wasforward, nothalt, stirred the fire in our veins,When our horses' feet beat to the click of the reins;It wascharge, notretreat, we were wonted to hear;It wascharge, notretreat, that was sweet to the ear;Those who rode with Kilpatrick had never felt fear!At last the word came, and troop tossed it to troop;Two squadrons deployed with a falcon-like swoop;While swiftly the others in echelons formed,For there, just ahead, was the line to be stormed.The trumpets rang out; there were guidons a-blow;The white summer sun set our sabres a-glow;Those who rode with Kilpatrick charged straight at the foe!We swept like a whirlwind; we closed; at the shockThe sky seemed to reel and the earth seemed to rock;Steel clashed upon steel with a deafening sound,While a redder than rose-stain encrimsoned the ground;If we gave back a space from the fierce pit of hell,We were rallied again by a voice like a bell.Those who rode with Kilpatrick rode valiantly well!Rang sternly his orders from out of the wrack:Re-form there, New Yorkers! You, "Harris Light," back!Come on, men of Maine! We will conquer or fall!Now, forward, boys, forward! and follow me all!A Bayard in boldness, a Sidney in grace,A lion to lead and a stag-hound to chase—Those who rode with Kilpatrick looked Death in the face!Though brave were our foemen, they faltered and fled;Yet that was no marvel when such as he led!Long ago, long ago, was that desperate day!Long ago, long ago, strove the Blue and the Gray!Praise God that the red sun of battle is set!That our hand-clasp is loyal and loving—and yet,Those who rode with Kilpatrick can never forget!Clinton Scollard.
Dawn peered through the pines as we dashed at the ford;Afar the grim guns of the infantry roared;There were miles yet of dangerous pathway to pass,And Mosby might menace, and Stuart might mass;But we mocked every doubt, laughing danger to scorn,As we quaffed with a shout from the wine of the morn.Those who rode with Kilpatrick to valor were born!How we chafed at delay! How we itched to be on!How we yearned for the fray where the battle-reek shone!It wasforward, nothalt, stirred the fire in our veins,When our horses' feet beat to the click of the reins;It wascharge, notretreat, we were wonted to hear;It wascharge, notretreat, that was sweet to the ear;Those who rode with Kilpatrick had never felt fear!At last the word came, and troop tossed it to troop;Two squadrons deployed with a falcon-like swoop;While swiftly the others in echelons formed,For there, just ahead, was the line to be stormed.The trumpets rang out; there were guidons a-blow;The white summer sun set our sabres a-glow;Those who rode with Kilpatrick charged straight at the foe!We swept like a whirlwind; we closed; at the shockThe sky seemed to reel and the earth seemed to rock;Steel clashed upon steel with a deafening sound,While a redder than rose-stain encrimsoned the ground;If we gave back a space from the fierce pit of hell,We were rallied again by a voice like a bell.Those who rode with Kilpatrick rode valiantly well!Rang sternly his orders from out of the wrack:Re-form there, New Yorkers! You, "Harris Light," back!Come on, men of Maine! We will conquer or fall!Now, forward, boys, forward! and follow me all!A Bayard in boldness, a Sidney in grace,A lion to lead and a stag-hound to chase—Those who rode with Kilpatrick looked Death in the face!Though brave were our foemen, they faltered and fled;Yet that was no marvel when such as he led!Long ago, long ago, was that desperate day!Long ago, long ago, strove the Blue and the Gray!Praise God that the red sun of battle is set!That our hand-clasp is loyal and loving—and yet,Those who rode with Kilpatrick can never forget!Clinton Scollard.
Dawn peered through the pines as we dashed at the ford;Afar the grim guns of the infantry roared;There were miles yet of dangerous pathway to pass,And Mosby might menace, and Stuart might mass;But we mocked every doubt, laughing danger to scorn,As we quaffed with a shout from the wine of the morn.Those who rode with Kilpatrick to valor were born!
How we chafed at delay! How we itched to be on!How we yearned for the fray where the battle-reek shone!It wasforward, nothalt, stirred the fire in our veins,When our horses' feet beat to the click of the reins;It wascharge, notretreat, we were wonted to hear;It wascharge, notretreat, that was sweet to the ear;Those who rode with Kilpatrick had never felt fear!
At last the word came, and troop tossed it to troop;Two squadrons deployed with a falcon-like swoop;While swiftly the others in echelons formed,For there, just ahead, was the line to be stormed.The trumpets rang out; there were guidons a-blow;The white summer sun set our sabres a-glow;Those who rode with Kilpatrick charged straight at the foe!
We swept like a whirlwind; we closed; at the shockThe sky seemed to reel and the earth seemed to rock;Steel clashed upon steel with a deafening sound,While a redder than rose-stain encrimsoned the ground;If we gave back a space from the fierce pit of hell,We were rallied again by a voice like a bell.Those who rode with Kilpatrick rode valiantly well!
Rang sternly his orders from out of the wrack:Re-form there, New Yorkers! You, "Harris Light," back!Come on, men of Maine! We will conquer or fall!Now, forward, boys, forward! and follow me all!A Bayard in boldness, a Sidney in grace,A lion to lead and a stag-hound to chase—Those who rode with Kilpatrick looked Death in the face!
Though brave were our foemen, they faltered and fled;Yet that was no marvel when such as he led!Long ago, long ago, was that desperate day!Long ago, long ago, strove the Blue and the Gray!Praise God that the red sun of battle is set!That our hand-clasp is loyal and loving—and yet,Those who rode with Kilpatrick can never forget!
Clinton Scollard.
This sudden and seemingly irresistible invasion created panic throughout the North. Troops were hurried forward, and Hooker at last started in pursuit with a hundred thousand men, but was relieved of command on June 27, 1863, and General George G. Meade appointed in his place. Lee was concentrating his army at Gettysburg, and his advance guard got into touch with the Union forces on the morning of July 1. The first day's fighting ended in the Federals being swept backward to their position on Cemetery Hill. The battle continued with undiminished fury throughout the second day; and on the third, Lee determined to renew the assault and Meade decided to stay and receive it. The entire morning was consumed in preparation. Then the Confederates charged in a line three miles long, with General George Pickettand his Virginians in the van. A terrific struggle followed, ending in the repulse of the Confederates, who withdrew in good order from the field.
This sudden and seemingly irresistible invasion created panic throughout the North. Troops were hurried forward, and Hooker at last started in pursuit with a hundred thousand men, but was relieved of command on June 27, 1863, and General George G. Meade appointed in his place. Lee was concentrating his army at Gettysburg, and his advance guard got into touch with the Union forces on the morning of July 1. The first day's fighting ended in the Federals being swept backward to their position on Cemetery Hill. The battle continued with undiminished fury throughout the second day; and on the third, Lee determined to renew the assault and Meade decided to stay and receive it. The entire morning was consumed in preparation. Then the Confederates charged in a line three miles long, with General George Pickettand his Virginians in the van. A terrific struggle followed, ending in the repulse of the Confederates, who withdrew in good order from the field.
GETTYSBURG
[July 3, 1863]
Wave, wave your glorious battle-flags, brave soldiers of the North,And from the field your arms have won to-day go proudly forth!For none, O comrades dear and leal,—from whom no ills could part,Through the long years of hopes and fears, the nation's constant heart,—Men who have driven so oft the foe, so oft have striven in vain,Yet ever in the perilous hour have crossed his path again,—At last we have our hearts' desire, from them we met have wrungA victory that round the world shall long be told and sung!It was the memory of the past that bore us through the fray,That gave the grand old Army strength to conquer on this day!O now forget how dark and red Virginia's rivers flow,The Rappahannock's tangled wilds, the glory and the woe;The fever-hung encampments, where our dying knew full soreHow sweet the north-wind to the cheek it soon shall cool no more;The fields we fought, and gained, and lost; the lowland sun and rainThat wasted us, that bleached the bones of our unburied slain!There was no lack of foes to meet, of deaths to die no lack,And all the hawks of heaven learned to follow on our track;But henceforth, hovering southward, their flight shall mark afarThe paths of yon retreating hosts that shun the northern star.At night, before the closing fray, when all the front was still,We lay in bivouac along the cannon-crested hill.Ours was the dauntless Second Corps; and many a soldier knewHow sped the fight, and sternly thought of what was yet to do.Guarding the centre there, we lay, and talked with bated breathOf Buford's stand beyond the town, of gallant Reynold's death,Of cruel retreats through pent-up streets by murderous volleys swept,—How well the Stone, the Iron, Brigades their bloody outposts kept:'Twas for the Union, for the Flag, they perished, heroes all,And we swore to conquer in the end, or even like them to fall.And passed from mouth to mouth the tale of that grim day just done,The fight by Round Top's craggy spur,—of all the deadliest one;It saved the left: but on the right they pressed us back too well,And like a field in Spring the ground was ploughed with shot and shell.There was the ancient graveyard, its hummocks crushed and red,And there, between them, side by side, the wounded and the dead:The mangled corpses fallen above,—the peaceful dead below,Laid in their graves, to slumber here, a score of years ago;It seemed their waking, wandering shades were asking of our slain,What brought such hideous tumult now where they so still had lain!Bright rose the sun of Gettysburg that morrow morning-tide,And call of trump and roll of drum from height to height replied.Hark! from the east already goes up the rattling din;The Twelfth Corps, winning back their ground, right well the day begin!They whirl fierce Ewell from their front! Now we of the Second pray,As right and left the brunt have borne, the centre might to-day.But all was still from hill to hill for many a breathless hour,While for the coming battle-shock Lee gathered in his power;And back and forth our leaders rode, who knew not rest or fear,And along the lines, where'er they came, went up the ringing cheer.'Twas past the hour of nooning; the Summer skies were blue;Behind the covering timber the foe was hid from view;So fair and sweet with waving wheat the pleasant valley lay,It brought to mind our Northern homes and meadows far away;When the whole western ridge at once was fringed with fire and smoke;Against our lines from sevenscore guns the dreadful tempest broke!Then loud our batteries answer, and far along the crest,And to and fro the roaring bolts are driven east and west;Heavy and dark around us glooms the stifling sulphur-cloud,And the cries of mangled men and horse go up beneath its shroud.The guns are still: the end is nigh: we grasp our arms anew;O now let every heart be stanch and every aim be true!For look! from yonder wood that skirts the valley's further marge,The flower of all the Southern host move to the final charge.By Heaven! it is a fearful sight to see their double rankCome with a hundred battle-flags,—a mile from flank to flank!Tramping the grain to earth, they come, ten thousand men abreast;Their standards wave,—their hearts are brave,—they hasten not, nor rest,But close the gaps our cannon make, and onward press, and nigher,And, yelling at our very front, again pour in their fire!Now burst our sheeted lightnings forth, now all our wrath has vent!They die, they wither; through and through their wavering lines are rent.But these are gallant, desperate men, of our own race and land.Who charge anew, and welcome death, and fight us hand to hand:Vain, vain! give way, as well ye may—the crimson die is cast!Their bravest leaders bite the dust, their strength is failing fast;They yield, they turn, they fly the field: we smite them as they run;Their arms, their colors are our spoil; the furious fight is done!Across the plain we follow far and backward push the fray;Cheer! cheer! the grand old Army at last has won the day!Hurrah! the day has won the cause! No gray-clad host henceforthShall come with fire and sword to tread the highways of the North!'Twas such a flood as when ye see along the Atlantic shore,The great Spring-tide roll grandly in with swelling surge and roar:It seems no wall can stay its leap or balk its wild desireBeyond the bound that Heaven hath fixed to higher mount, and higher;But now, when whitest lifts its crest, most loud its billows call,Touched by the Power that led them on, they fall, and fall, and fall.Even thus, unstayed upon his course, to Gettysburg the foeHis legions led, and fought, and fled, and might no further go.Full many a dark-eyed Southern girl shall weep her lover dead;But with a price the fight was ours,—we too have tears to shed!The bells that peal our triumph forth anon shall toll the brave,Above whose heads the cross must stand, the hillside grasses wave!Alas! alas! the trampled grass shall thrive another year,The blossoms on the apple-boughs with each new Spring appear,But when our patriot-soldiers fall, Earth gives them up to God;Though their souls rise in clearer skies, their forms are as the sod;Only their names and deeds are ours,—but, for a century yet,The dead who fell at Gettysburg the land shall not forget.God send us peace! and where for aye the loved and lost reclineLet fall, O South, your leaves of palm,—O North, your sprigs of pine!But when, with every ripened year, we keep the harvest-home,And to the dear Thanksgiving-feast our sons and daughters come,—When children's children throng the board in the old homestead spread,And the bent soldier of these wars is seated at the head,Long, long the lads shall listen to hear the gray-beard tellOf those who fought at Gettysburg and stood their ground so well:"'Twas for the Union and the Flag," the veteran shall say,"Our grand old Army held the ridge, and won that glorious day!"Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Wave, wave your glorious battle-flags, brave soldiers of the North,And from the field your arms have won to-day go proudly forth!For none, O comrades dear and leal,—from whom no ills could part,Through the long years of hopes and fears, the nation's constant heart,—Men who have driven so oft the foe, so oft have striven in vain,Yet ever in the perilous hour have crossed his path again,—At last we have our hearts' desire, from them we met have wrungA victory that round the world shall long be told and sung!It was the memory of the past that bore us through the fray,That gave the grand old Army strength to conquer on this day!O now forget how dark and red Virginia's rivers flow,The Rappahannock's tangled wilds, the glory and the woe;The fever-hung encampments, where our dying knew full soreHow sweet the north-wind to the cheek it soon shall cool no more;The fields we fought, and gained, and lost; the lowland sun and rainThat wasted us, that bleached the bones of our unburied slain!There was no lack of foes to meet, of deaths to die no lack,And all the hawks of heaven learned to follow on our track;But henceforth, hovering southward, their flight shall mark afarThe paths of yon retreating hosts that shun the northern star.At night, before the closing fray, when all the front was still,We lay in bivouac along the cannon-crested hill.Ours was the dauntless Second Corps; and many a soldier knewHow sped the fight, and sternly thought of what was yet to do.Guarding the centre there, we lay, and talked with bated breathOf Buford's stand beyond the town, of gallant Reynold's death,Of cruel retreats through pent-up streets by murderous volleys swept,—How well the Stone, the Iron, Brigades their bloody outposts kept:'Twas for the Union, for the Flag, they perished, heroes all,And we swore to conquer in the end, or even like them to fall.And passed from mouth to mouth the tale of that grim day just done,The fight by Round Top's craggy spur,—of all the deadliest one;It saved the left: but on the right they pressed us back too well,And like a field in Spring the ground was ploughed with shot and shell.There was the ancient graveyard, its hummocks crushed and red,And there, between them, side by side, the wounded and the dead:The mangled corpses fallen above,—the peaceful dead below,Laid in their graves, to slumber here, a score of years ago;It seemed their waking, wandering shades were asking of our slain,What brought such hideous tumult now where they so still had lain!Bright rose the sun of Gettysburg that morrow morning-tide,And call of trump and roll of drum from height to height replied.Hark! from the east already goes up the rattling din;The Twelfth Corps, winning back their ground, right well the day begin!They whirl fierce Ewell from their front! Now we of the Second pray,As right and left the brunt have borne, the centre might to-day.But all was still from hill to hill for many a breathless hour,While for the coming battle-shock Lee gathered in his power;And back and forth our leaders rode, who knew not rest or fear,And along the lines, where'er they came, went up the ringing cheer.'Twas past the hour of nooning; the Summer skies were blue;Behind the covering timber the foe was hid from view;So fair and sweet with waving wheat the pleasant valley lay,It brought to mind our Northern homes and meadows far away;When the whole western ridge at once was fringed with fire and smoke;Against our lines from sevenscore guns the dreadful tempest broke!Then loud our batteries answer, and far along the crest,And to and fro the roaring bolts are driven east and west;Heavy and dark around us glooms the stifling sulphur-cloud,And the cries of mangled men and horse go up beneath its shroud.The guns are still: the end is nigh: we grasp our arms anew;O now let every heart be stanch and every aim be true!For look! from yonder wood that skirts the valley's further marge,The flower of all the Southern host move to the final charge.By Heaven! it is a fearful sight to see their double rankCome with a hundred battle-flags,—a mile from flank to flank!Tramping the grain to earth, they come, ten thousand men abreast;Their standards wave,—their hearts are brave,—they hasten not, nor rest,But close the gaps our cannon make, and onward press, and nigher,And, yelling at our very front, again pour in their fire!Now burst our sheeted lightnings forth, now all our wrath has vent!They die, they wither; through and through their wavering lines are rent.But these are gallant, desperate men, of our own race and land.Who charge anew, and welcome death, and fight us hand to hand:Vain, vain! give way, as well ye may—the crimson die is cast!Their bravest leaders bite the dust, their strength is failing fast;They yield, they turn, they fly the field: we smite them as they run;Their arms, their colors are our spoil; the furious fight is done!Across the plain we follow far and backward push the fray;Cheer! cheer! the grand old Army at last has won the day!Hurrah! the day has won the cause! No gray-clad host henceforthShall come with fire and sword to tread the highways of the North!'Twas such a flood as when ye see along the Atlantic shore,The great Spring-tide roll grandly in with swelling surge and roar:It seems no wall can stay its leap or balk its wild desireBeyond the bound that Heaven hath fixed to higher mount, and higher;But now, when whitest lifts its crest, most loud its billows call,Touched by the Power that led them on, they fall, and fall, and fall.Even thus, unstayed upon his course, to Gettysburg the foeHis legions led, and fought, and fled, and might no further go.Full many a dark-eyed Southern girl shall weep her lover dead;But with a price the fight was ours,—we too have tears to shed!The bells that peal our triumph forth anon shall toll the brave,Above whose heads the cross must stand, the hillside grasses wave!Alas! alas! the trampled grass shall thrive another year,The blossoms on the apple-boughs with each new Spring appear,But when our patriot-soldiers fall, Earth gives them up to God;Though their souls rise in clearer skies, their forms are as the sod;Only their names and deeds are ours,—but, for a century yet,The dead who fell at Gettysburg the land shall not forget.God send us peace! and where for aye the loved and lost reclineLet fall, O South, your leaves of palm,—O North, your sprigs of pine!But when, with every ripened year, we keep the harvest-home,And to the dear Thanksgiving-feast our sons and daughters come,—When children's children throng the board in the old homestead spread,And the bent soldier of these wars is seated at the head,Long, long the lads shall listen to hear the gray-beard tellOf those who fought at Gettysburg and stood their ground so well:"'Twas for the Union and the Flag," the veteran shall say,"Our grand old Army held the ridge, and won that glorious day!"Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Wave, wave your glorious battle-flags, brave soldiers of the North,And from the field your arms have won to-day go proudly forth!For none, O comrades dear and leal,—from whom no ills could part,Through the long years of hopes and fears, the nation's constant heart,—Men who have driven so oft the foe, so oft have striven in vain,Yet ever in the perilous hour have crossed his path again,—At last we have our hearts' desire, from them we met have wrungA victory that round the world shall long be told and sung!It was the memory of the past that bore us through the fray,That gave the grand old Army strength to conquer on this day!
O now forget how dark and red Virginia's rivers flow,The Rappahannock's tangled wilds, the glory and the woe;The fever-hung encampments, where our dying knew full soreHow sweet the north-wind to the cheek it soon shall cool no more;The fields we fought, and gained, and lost; the lowland sun and rainThat wasted us, that bleached the bones of our unburied slain!There was no lack of foes to meet, of deaths to die no lack,And all the hawks of heaven learned to follow on our track;But henceforth, hovering southward, their flight shall mark afarThe paths of yon retreating hosts that shun the northern star.
At night, before the closing fray, when all the front was still,We lay in bivouac along the cannon-crested hill.Ours was the dauntless Second Corps; and many a soldier knewHow sped the fight, and sternly thought of what was yet to do.Guarding the centre there, we lay, and talked with bated breathOf Buford's stand beyond the town, of gallant Reynold's death,Of cruel retreats through pent-up streets by murderous volleys swept,—How well the Stone, the Iron, Brigades their bloody outposts kept:'Twas for the Union, for the Flag, they perished, heroes all,And we swore to conquer in the end, or even like them to fall.
And passed from mouth to mouth the tale of that grim day just done,The fight by Round Top's craggy spur,—of all the deadliest one;It saved the left: but on the right they pressed us back too well,And like a field in Spring the ground was ploughed with shot and shell.There was the ancient graveyard, its hummocks crushed and red,And there, between them, side by side, the wounded and the dead:The mangled corpses fallen above,—the peaceful dead below,Laid in their graves, to slumber here, a score of years ago;It seemed their waking, wandering shades were asking of our slain,What brought such hideous tumult now where they so still had lain!
Bright rose the sun of Gettysburg that morrow morning-tide,And call of trump and roll of drum from height to height replied.Hark! from the east already goes up the rattling din;The Twelfth Corps, winning back their ground, right well the day begin!They whirl fierce Ewell from their front! Now we of the Second pray,As right and left the brunt have borne, the centre might to-day.But all was still from hill to hill for many a breathless hour,While for the coming battle-shock Lee gathered in his power;And back and forth our leaders rode, who knew not rest or fear,And along the lines, where'er they came, went up the ringing cheer.
'Twas past the hour of nooning; the Summer skies were blue;Behind the covering timber the foe was hid from view;So fair and sweet with waving wheat the pleasant valley lay,It brought to mind our Northern homes and meadows far away;When the whole western ridge at once was fringed with fire and smoke;Against our lines from sevenscore guns the dreadful tempest broke!Then loud our batteries answer, and far along the crest,And to and fro the roaring bolts are driven east and west;Heavy and dark around us glooms the stifling sulphur-cloud,And the cries of mangled men and horse go up beneath its shroud.
The guns are still: the end is nigh: we grasp our arms anew;O now let every heart be stanch and every aim be true!For look! from yonder wood that skirts the valley's further marge,The flower of all the Southern host move to the final charge.By Heaven! it is a fearful sight to see their double rankCome with a hundred battle-flags,—a mile from flank to flank!Tramping the grain to earth, they come, ten thousand men abreast;Their standards wave,—their hearts are brave,—they hasten not, nor rest,But close the gaps our cannon make, and onward press, and nigher,And, yelling at our very front, again pour in their fire!
Now burst our sheeted lightnings forth, now all our wrath has vent!They die, they wither; through and through their wavering lines are rent.But these are gallant, desperate men, of our own race and land.Who charge anew, and welcome death, and fight us hand to hand:Vain, vain! give way, as well ye may—the crimson die is cast!Their bravest leaders bite the dust, their strength is failing fast;They yield, they turn, they fly the field: we smite them as they run;Their arms, their colors are our spoil; the furious fight is done!Across the plain we follow far and backward push the fray;Cheer! cheer! the grand old Army at last has won the day!
Hurrah! the day has won the cause! No gray-clad host henceforthShall come with fire and sword to tread the highways of the North!'Twas such a flood as when ye see along the Atlantic shore,The great Spring-tide roll grandly in with swelling surge and roar:It seems no wall can stay its leap or balk its wild desireBeyond the bound that Heaven hath fixed to higher mount, and higher;But now, when whitest lifts its crest, most loud its billows call,Touched by the Power that led them on, they fall, and fall, and fall.Even thus, unstayed upon his course, to Gettysburg the foeHis legions led, and fought, and fled, and might no further go.
Full many a dark-eyed Southern girl shall weep her lover dead;But with a price the fight was ours,—we too have tears to shed!The bells that peal our triumph forth anon shall toll the brave,Above whose heads the cross must stand, the hillside grasses wave!Alas! alas! the trampled grass shall thrive another year,The blossoms on the apple-boughs with each new Spring appear,But when our patriot-soldiers fall, Earth gives them up to God;Though their souls rise in clearer skies, their forms are as the sod;Only their names and deeds are ours,—but, for a century yet,The dead who fell at Gettysburg the land shall not forget.
God send us peace! and where for aye the loved and lost reclineLet fall, O South, your leaves of palm,—O North, your sprigs of pine!But when, with every ripened year, we keep the harvest-home,And to the dear Thanksgiving-feast our sons and daughters come,—When children's children throng the board in the old homestead spread,And the bent soldier of these wars is seated at the head,Long, long the lads shall listen to hear the gray-beard tellOf those who fought at Gettysburg and stood their ground so well:"'Twas for the Union and the Flag," the veteran shall say,"Our grand old Army held the ridge, and won that glorious day!"
Edmund Clarence Stedman.
THE HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG
[July 3, 1863]
A cloud possessed the hollow field,The gathering battle's smoky shield:Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed,And through the cloud some horsemen dashed,And from the heights the thunder pealed.Then, at the brief command of Lee,Moved out that matchless infantry,With Pickett leading grandly down,To rush against the roaring crownOf those dread heights of destiny.Far heard above the angry guns,A cry of tumult runs:The voice that rang through Shiloh's woods,And Chickamauga's solitudes:The fierce South cheering on her sons!Ah, how the withering tempest blewAgainst the front of Pettigrew!A Khamsin wind that scorched and singed,Like that infernal flame that fringedThe British squares at Waterloo!A thousand fell where Kemper led;A thousand died where Garnett bled;In blinding flame and strangling smoke,The remnant through the batteries broke,And crossed the works with Armistead."Once more in Glory's van with me!"Virginia cried to Tennessee:"We two together, come what may,Shall stand upon those works to-day!"The reddest day in history.Brave Tennessee! In reckless wayVirginia heard her comrade say:"Close round this rent and riddled rag!"What time she set her battle flagAmid the guns of Doubleday.But who shall break the guards that waitBefore the awful face of Fate?The tattered standards of the SouthWere shrivelled at the cannon's mouth,And all her hopes were desolate.In vain the Tennesseean setHis breast against the bayonet;In vain Virginia charged and raged,A tigress in her wrath uncaged,Till all the hill was red and wet!Above the bayonets, mixed and crossed,Men saw a gray, gigantic ghostReceding through the battle-cloud,And heard across the tempest loudThe death-cry of a nation lost!The brave went down! Without disgraceThey leaped to Ruin's red embrace;They only heard Fame's thunders wake,And saw the dazzling sunburst breakIn smiles on Glory's bloody face!They fell, who lifted up a handAnd bade the sun in heaven to stand;They smote and fell, who set the barsAgainst the progress of the stars,And stayed the march of Motherland.They stood, who saw the future comeOn through the fight's delirium;They smote and stood, who held the hopeOf nations on that slippery slope,Amid the cheers of Christendom!God lives! He forged the iron will,That clutched and held that trembling hill!God lives and reigns! He built and lentThe heights for Freedom's battlement,Where floats her flag in triumph still!Fold up the banners! Smelt the guns!Love rules. Her gentler purpose runs.A mighty mother turns in tears,The pages of her battle years,Lamenting all her fallen sons!Will Henry Thompson.
A cloud possessed the hollow field,The gathering battle's smoky shield:Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed,And through the cloud some horsemen dashed,And from the heights the thunder pealed.Then, at the brief command of Lee,Moved out that matchless infantry,With Pickett leading grandly down,To rush against the roaring crownOf those dread heights of destiny.Far heard above the angry guns,A cry of tumult runs:The voice that rang through Shiloh's woods,And Chickamauga's solitudes:The fierce South cheering on her sons!Ah, how the withering tempest blewAgainst the front of Pettigrew!A Khamsin wind that scorched and singed,Like that infernal flame that fringedThe British squares at Waterloo!A thousand fell where Kemper led;A thousand died where Garnett bled;In blinding flame and strangling smoke,The remnant through the batteries broke,And crossed the works with Armistead."Once more in Glory's van with me!"Virginia cried to Tennessee:"We two together, come what may,Shall stand upon those works to-day!"The reddest day in history.Brave Tennessee! In reckless wayVirginia heard her comrade say:"Close round this rent and riddled rag!"What time she set her battle flagAmid the guns of Doubleday.But who shall break the guards that waitBefore the awful face of Fate?The tattered standards of the SouthWere shrivelled at the cannon's mouth,And all her hopes were desolate.In vain the Tennesseean setHis breast against the bayonet;In vain Virginia charged and raged,A tigress in her wrath uncaged,Till all the hill was red and wet!Above the bayonets, mixed and crossed,Men saw a gray, gigantic ghostReceding through the battle-cloud,And heard across the tempest loudThe death-cry of a nation lost!The brave went down! Without disgraceThey leaped to Ruin's red embrace;They only heard Fame's thunders wake,And saw the dazzling sunburst breakIn smiles on Glory's bloody face!They fell, who lifted up a handAnd bade the sun in heaven to stand;They smote and fell, who set the barsAgainst the progress of the stars,And stayed the march of Motherland.They stood, who saw the future comeOn through the fight's delirium;They smote and stood, who held the hopeOf nations on that slippery slope,Amid the cheers of Christendom!God lives! He forged the iron will,That clutched and held that trembling hill!God lives and reigns! He built and lentThe heights for Freedom's battlement,Where floats her flag in triumph still!Fold up the banners! Smelt the guns!Love rules. Her gentler purpose runs.A mighty mother turns in tears,The pages of her battle years,Lamenting all her fallen sons!Will Henry Thompson.
A cloud possessed the hollow field,The gathering battle's smoky shield:Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed,And through the cloud some horsemen dashed,And from the heights the thunder pealed.
Then, at the brief command of Lee,Moved out that matchless infantry,With Pickett leading grandly down,To rush against the roaring crownOf those dread heights of destiny.
Far heard above the angry guns,A cry of tumult runs:The voice that rang through Shiloh's woods,And Chickamauga's solitudes:The fierce South cheering on her sons!
Ah, how the withering tempest blewAgainst the front of Pettigrew!A Khamsin wind that scorched and singed,Like that infernal flame that fringedThe British squares at Waterloo!
A thousand fell where Kemper led;A thousand died where Garnett bled;In blinding flame and strangling smoke,The remnant through the batteries broke,And crossed the works with Armistead.
"Once more in Glory's van with me!"Virginia cried to Tennessee:"We two together, come what may,Shall stand upon those works to-day!"The reddest day in history.
Brave Tennessee! In reckless wayVirginia heard her comrade say:"Close round this rent and riddled rag!"What time she set her battle flagAmid the guns of Doubleday.
But who shall break the guards that waitBefore the awful face of Fate?The tattered standards of the SouthWere shrivelled at the cannon's mouth,And all her hopes were desolate.
In vain the Tennesseean setHis breast against the bayonet;In vain Virginia charged and raged,A tigress in her wrath uncaged,Till all the hill was red and wet!
Above the bayonets, mixed and crossed,Men saw a gray, gigantic ghostReceding through the battle-cloud,And heard across the tempest loudThe death-cry of a nation lost!
The brave went down! Without disgraceThey leaped to Ruin's red embrace;They only heard Fame's thunders wake,And saw the dazzling sunburst breakIn smiles on Glory's bloody face!
They fell, who lifted up a handAnd bade the sun in heaven to stand;They smote and fell, who set the barsAgainst the progress of the stars,And stayed the march of Motherland.
They stood, who saw the future comeOn through the fight's delirium;They smote and stood, who held the hopeOf nations on that slippery slope,Amid the cheers of Christendom!
God lives! He forged the iron will,That clutched and held that trembling hill!God lives and reigns! He built and lentThe heights for Freedom's battlement,Where floats her flag in triumph still!
Fold up the banners! Smelt the guns!Love rules. Her gentler purpose runs.A mighty mother turns in tears,The pages of her battle years,Lamenting all her fallen sons!
Will Henry Thompson.
GETTYSBURG
[July 1, 2, 3, 1863]