Arms reversed and banners craped—Muffled drums;Snowy horses sable-draped—McPherson comes.But, tell us, shall we know him more,Lost-Mountain and lone Kenesaw?Brave the sword upon the pall—A gleam in gloom;So a bright name lighteth allMcPherson's doom.Bear him through the chapel-door—Let priest in stolePace before the warriorWho led. Bell—toll!Lay him down within the nave,The Lesson read—Man is noble, man is brave,But man's—a weed.Take him up again and wendGraveward, nor weep:There's a trumpet that shall rendThis Soldier's sleep.Pass the ropes the coffin round,And let descend;Prayer and volley—let it soundMcPherson's end.True fame is his, for life is o'er—Sarpedon of the mighty war.Herman Melville.
Arms reversed and banners craped—Muffled drums;Snowy horses sable-draped—McPherson comes.But, tell us, shall we know him more,Lost-Mountain and lone Kenesaw?Brave the sword upon the pall—A gleam in gloom;So a bright name lighteth allMcPherson's doom.Bear him through the chapel-door—Let priest in stolePace before the warriorWho led. Bell—toll!Lay him down within the nave,The Lesson read—Man is noble, man is brave,But man's—a weed.Take him up again and wendGraveward, nor weep:There's a trumpet that shall rendThis Soldier's sleep.Pass the ropes the coffin round,And let descend;Prayer and volley—let it soundMcPherson's end.True fame is his, for life is o'er—Sarpedon of the mighty war.Herman Melville.
Arms reversed and banners craped—Muffled drums;Snowy horses sable-draped—McPherson comes.But, tell us, shall we know him more,Lost-Mountain and lone Kenesaw?
Brave the sword upon the pall—A gleam in gloom;So a bright name lighteth allMcPherson's doom.
Bear him through the chapel-door—Let priest in stolePace before the warriorWho led. Bell—toll!
Lay him down within the nave,The Lesson read—Man is noble, man is brave,But man's—a weed.
Take him up again and wendGraveward, nor weep:There's a trumpet that shall rendThis Soldier's sleep.
Pass the ropes the coffin round,And let descend;Prayer and volley—let it soundMcPherson's end.True fame is his, for life is o'er—Sarpedon of the mighty war.
Herman Melville.
Hostilities continued about Atlanta for nearly a month, and finally, on September 2, 1864, the Confederates evacuated the city. A few days later, they suddenly attacked Allatoona, where General Corse was stationed with a small garrison. Sherman heard the thunder of the guns from the top of Kenesaw Mountain, and signalled Corse the famous message, "Hold out; relief is coming!" Corse did hold out and the Confederates finally withdrew.
Hostilities continued about Atlanta for nearly a month, and finally, on September 2, 1864, the Confederates evacuated the city. A few days later, they suddenly attacked Allatoona, where General Corse was stationed with a small garrison. Sherman heard the thunder of the guns from the top of Kenesaw Mountain, and signalled Corse the famous message, "Hold out; relief is coming!" Corse did hold out and the Confederates finally withdrew.
WITH CORSE AT ALLATOONA
[October 5, 1864]
It was less than two thousand we numbered,In the fort sitting up on the hill;That night not a soldier that slumbered;We watched by the starlight untilDaybreak showed us all of their forces;About us their gray columns ran,To left and to right they were round us,Five thousand if there was a man."Surrender your fort," bawled the rebel;"Five minutes I give, or you're dead.""Not a man," answered Corse, in his treble,"Perhaps you cantakeus instead!"Then pealed forth their cannon infernal;We fought them outside of the pass,Two hours, the time seemed eternal;The dead lay in lines on the grass.But who cared for dead or for dying?The fort we were there to defend,And across from yon far mountain flying,Came a message, "Hold on to the end;Hold on to the fort." It was Sherman,Who signalled from Kenesaw's height,Far over the heads of our foemen,"Hold on—I am coming to-night."Quick fluttered our flag to the signal,We answered him back with a will,And fired on the gray-coated rebelsThat charged up the slope of the hill."Load double," cried Corse, "every cannon;Who cares for their ten to our one?"We looked at the swift-coming rebels,And answered their yell with a gun.With the grape from our fort in their faces,They rush to the ramparts, but stop;Ah! few of the gray-columned armyThat day left alive at the top.On the parapets, too, lie our wounded,Each porthole a grave for the dead;No room for our cannon, the corpsesFill up the embrasures instead.Again through the cannon's red weatherThey charge up the hill and the pass,Their dead and our dead lie togetherOut there on the slope in the grass.A crash from our rifles—they falter;A gleam from our steel—it is by."Recall and retreat," sound their bugles;We cheer from the fort as they fly.Once more and the signal is flying—"How many the wounded and dead?""Six hundred," says Corse, "with the dying,"The blood streaming down from his head."But what of that? Look! the old bannerShines out there as peaceful and stillAs if there had not been a battleThis morning up there on the hill."Samuel H. M. Byers.
It was less than two thousand we numbered,In the fort sitting up on the hill;That night not a soldier that slumbered;We watched by the starlight untilDaybreak showed us all of their forces;About us their gray columns ran,To left and to right they were round us,Five thousand if there was a man."Surrender your fort," bawled the rebel;"Five minutes I give, or you're dead.""Not a man," answered Corse, in his treble,"Perhaps you cantakeus instead!"Then pealed forth their cannon infernal;We fought them outside of the pass,Two hours, the time seemed eternal;The dead lay in lines on the grass.But who cared for dead or for dying?The fort we were there to defend,And across from yon far mountain flying,Came a message, "Hold on to the end;Hold on to the fort." It was Sherman,Who signalled from Kenesaw's height,Far over the heads of our foemen,"Hold on—I am coming to-night."Quick fluttered our flag to the signal,We answered him back with a will,And fired on the gray-coated rebelsThat charged up the slope of the hill."Load double," cried Corse, "every cannon;Who cares for their ten to our one?"We looked at the swift-coming rebels,And answered their yell with a gun.With the grape from our fort in their faces,They rush to the ramparts, but stop;Ah! few of the gray-columned armyThat day left alive at the top.On the parapets, too, lie our wounded,Each porthole a grave for the dead;No room for our cannon, the corpsesFill up the embrasures instead.Again through the cannon's red weatherThey charge up the hill and the pass,Their dead and our dead lie togetherOut there on the slope in the grass.A crash from our rifles—they falter;A gleam from our steel—it is by."Recall and retreat," sound their bugles;We cheer from the fort as they fly.Once more and the signal is flying—"How many the wounded and dead?""Six hundred," says Corse, "with the dying,"The blood streaming down from his head."But what of that? Look! the old bannerShines out there as peaceful and stillAs if there had not been a battleThis morning up there on the hill."Samuel H. M. Byers.
It was less than two thousand we numbered,In the fort sitting up on the hill;That night not a soldier that slumbered;We watched by the starlight untilDaybreak showed us all of their forces;About us their gray columns ran,To left and to right they were round us,Five thousand if there was a man.
"Surrender your fort," bawled the rebel;"Five minutes I give, or you're dead.""Not a man," answered Corse, in his treble,"Perhaps you cantakeus instead!"Then pealed forth their cannon infernal;We fought them outside of the pass,Two hours, the time seemed eternal;The dead lay in lines on the grass.
But who cared for dead or for dying?The fort we were there to defend,And across from yon far mountain flying,Came a message, "Hold on to the end;Hold on to the fort." It was Sherman,Who signalled from Kenesaw's height,Far over the heads of our foemen,"Hold on—I am coming to-night."
Quick fluttered our flag to the signal,We answered him back with a will,And fired on the gray-coated rebelsThat charged up the slope of the hill."Load double," cried Corse, "every cannon;Who cares for their ten to our one?"We looked at the swift-coming rebels,And answered their yell with a gun.
With the grape from our fort in their faces,They rush to the ramparts, but stop;Ah! few of the gray-columned armyThat day left alive at the top.On the parapets, too, lie our wounded,Each porthole a grave for the dead;No room for our cannon, the corpsesFill up the embrasures instead.
Again through the cannon's red weatherThey charge up the hill and the pass,Their dead and our dead lie togetherOut there on the slope in the grass.A crash from our rifles—they falter;A gleam from our steel—it is by."Recall and retreat," sound their bugles;We cheer from the fort as they fly.
Once more and the signal is flying—"How many the wounded and dead?""Six hundred," says Corse, "with the dying,"The blood streaming down from his head."But what of that? Look! the old bannerShines out there as peaceful and stillAs if there had not been a battleThis morning up there on the hill."
Samuel H. M. Byers.
ALLATOONA
[October 5, 1864]
Winds that sweep the southern mountains,And the leafy river shore,Bear ye now a prouder burdenThan ye ever learned before!And the heart blood fillsThe heart, till it thrillsAt the storyOf the terror and the gloryOf this battle of the Allatoona hills!Echo it from the purple mountainTo the gray resounding shore!'Tis as sad and proud a burdenAs ye ever learned before.How they fell like grassWhen the mowers pass!And the dying,When the foe were flying,Swelled the cheering of the heroes of the pass.Sweep it o'er the hills of Georgia,To the mountains of the north!Teach the coward and the doubterWhat the blood of man is worth!Toss the flags as ye pass!Let their stained and tattered massTell the storyOf the terror and the gloryOf the battle of the Allatoona Pass!
Winds that sweep the southern mountains,And the leafy river shore,Bear ye now a prouder burdenThan ye ever learned before!And the heart blood fillsThe heart, till it thrillsAt the storyOf the terror and the gloryOf this battle of the Allatoona hills!Echo it from the purple mountainTo the gray resounding shore!'Tis as sad and proud a burdenAs ye ever learned before.How they fell like grassWhen the mowers pass!And the dying,When the foe were flying,Swelled the cheering of the heroes of the pass.Sweep it o'er the hills of Georgia,To the mountains of the north!Teach the coward and the doubterWhat the blood of man is worth!Toss the flags as ye pass!Let their stained and tattered massTell the storyOf the terror and the gloryOf the battle of the Allatoona Pass!
Winds that sweep the southern mountains,And the leafy river shore,Bear ye now a prouder burdenThan ye ever learned before!And the heart blood fillsThe heart, till it thrillsAt the storyOf the terror and the gloryOf this battle of the Allatoona hills!
Echo it from the purple mountainTo the gray resounding shore!'Tis as sad and proud a burdenAs ye ever learned before.How they fell like grassWhen the mowers pass!And the dying,When the foe were flying,Swelled the cheering of the heroes of the pass.
Sweep it o'er the hills of Georgia,To the mountains of the north!Teach the coward and the doubterWhat the blood of man is worth!Toss the flags as ye pass!Let their stained and tattered massTell the storyOf the terror and the gloryOf the battle of the Allatoona Pass!
Sherman now prepared for a manœuvre which was destined to be the most famous of the war. He determined to destroy Atlanta, and, marching through the heart of Georgia, to capture one or more of the important seaport towns. On November 16, 1864, the famous "march to the sea" began.
Sherman now prepared for a manœuvre which was destined to be the most famous of the war. He determined to destroy Atlanta, and, marching through the heart of Georgia, to capture one or more of the important seaport towns. On November 16, 1864, the famous "march to the sea" began.
SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA
Our camp-fires shone bright on the mountainThat frowned on the river below,As we stood by our guns in the morning,And eagerly watched for the foe;When a rider came out of the darknessThat hung over mountain and tree,And shouted: "Boys, up and be ready!For Sherman will march to the sea."Then cheer upon cheer for bold ShermanWent up from each valley and glen,And the bugles reëchoed the musicThat came from the lips of the men;For we knew that the stars in our bannerMore bright in their splendor would be,And that blessings from Northland would greet usWhen Sherman marched down to the sea.Then forward, boys! forward to battle!We marched on our wearisome way,We stormed the wild hills of Resaca,God bless those who fell on that day!Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory,Frowned down on the flag of the free,And the East and the West bore our standardAnd Sherman marched on to the sea.Still onward we pressed till our bannersSwept out from Atlanta's grim walls,And the blood of the patriot dampenedThe soil where the traitor flag falls.We paused not to weep for the fallen,Who slept by each river and tree,Yet we twined them a wreath of the laurelAs Sherman marched down to the sea.Oh, proud was our army that morning,That stood where the pine darkly towers,When Sherman said: "Boys, you are weary,But to-day fair Savannah is ours!"Then sang we the song of our chieftain,That echoed o'er river and lea,And the stars in our banner shone brighterWhen Sherman marched down to the sea.Samuel H. M. Byers.
Our camp-fires shone bright on the mountainThat frowned on the river below,As we stood by our guns in the morning,And eagerly watched for the foe;When a rider came out of the darknessThat hung over mountain and tree,And shouted: "Boys, up and be ready!For Sherman will march to the sea."Then cheer upon cheer for bold ShermanWent up from each valley and glen,And the bugles reëchoed the musicThat came from the lips of the men;For we knew that the stars in our bannerMore bright in their splendor would be,And that blessings from Northland would greet usWhen Sherman marched down to the sea.Then forward, boys! forward to battle!We marched on our wearisome way,We stormed the wild hills of Resaca,God bless those who fell on that day!Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory,Frowned down on the flag of the free,And the East and the West bore our standardAnd Sherman marched on to the sea.Still onward we pressed till our bannersSwept out from Atlanta's grim walls,And the blood of the patriot dampenedThe soil where the traitor flag falls.We paused not to weep for the fallen,Who slept by each river and tree,Yet we twined them a wreath of the laurelAs Sherman marched down to the sea.Oh, proud was our army that morning,That stood where the pine darkly towers,When Sherman said: "Boys, you are weary,But to-day fair Savannah is ours!"Then sang we the song of our chieftain,That echoed o'er river and lea,And the stars in our banner shone brighterWhen Sherman marched down to the sea.Samuel H. M. Byers.
Our camp-fires shone bright on the mountainThat frowned on the river below,As we stood by our guns in the morning,And eagerly watched for the foe;When a rider came out of the darknessThat hung over mountain and tree,And shouted: "Boys, up and be ready!For Sherman will march to the sea."
Then cheer upon cheer for bold ShermanWent up from each valley and glen,And the bugles reëchoed the musicThat came from the lips of the men;For we knew that the stars in our bannerMore bright in their splendor would be,And that blessings from Northland would greet usWhen Sherman marched down to the sea.
Then forward, boys! forward to battle!We marched on our wearisome way,We stormed the wild hills of Resaca,God bless those who fell on that day!Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory,Frowned down on the flag of the free,And the East and the West bore our standardAnd Sherman marched on to the sea.
Still onward we pressed till our bannersSwept out from Atlanta's grim walls,And the blood of the patriot dampenedThe soil where the traitor flag falls.We paused not to weep for the fallen,Who slept by each river and tree,Yet we twined them a wreath of the laurelAs Sherman marched down to the sea.
Oh, proud was our army that morning,That stood where the pine darkly towers,When Sherman said: "Boys, you are weary,But to-day fair Savannah is ours!"Then sang we the song of our chieftain,That echoed o'er river and lea,And the stars in our banner shone brighterWhen Sherman marched down to the sea.
Samuel H. M. Byers.
Through the heart of Georgia the army moved, leaving behind a path of ruin forty miles in width. Some of this destruction was no doubt necessary, but much of it seems to have been wanton and without reason.
Through the heart of Georgia the army moved, leaving behind a path of ruin forty miles in width. Some of this destruction was no doubt necessary, but much of it seems to have been wanton and without reason.
THE SONG OF SHERMAN'S ARMY
A pillar of fire by night,A pillar of smoke by day,Some hours of march—then a halt to fight,And so we hold our way;Some hours of march—then a halt to fight,As on we hold our way.Over mountain and plain and stream,To some bright Atlantic bay,With our arms aflash in the morning beam,We hold our festal way;With our arms aflash in the morning beam,We hold our checkless way!There is terror wherever we come,There is terror and wild dismayWhen they see the Old Flag and hear the drumAnnounce us on our way;When they see the Old Flag and hear the drumBeating time to our onward way.Never unlimber a gunFor those villainous lines in gray;Draw sabres! and at 'em upon the run!'Tis thus we clear our way;Draw sabres, and soon you will see them run,As we hold our conquering way.The loyal, who long have been dumb,Are loud in their cheers to-day;And the old men out on their crutches come,To see us hold our way;And the old men out on their crutches come,To bless us on our way.Around us in rear and flanks,Their futile squadrons play,With a sixty-mile front of steady ranks,We hold our checkless way;With a sixty-mile front of serried ranks,Our banner clears the way.Hear the spattering fire that startsFrom the woods and the copses gray,There is just enough fighting to quicken our hearts,As we frolic along the way!There is just enough fighting to warm our hearts,As we rattle along the way.Upon different roads, abreast,The heads of our columns gay,With fluttering flags, all forward pressed,Hold on their conquering way;With fluttering flags to victory pressed,We hold our glorious way.Ah, traitors! who bragged so boldIn the sad war's early day,Did nothing predict you should ever beholdThe Old Flag come this way?Did nothing predict you should yet beholdOur banner come back this way?By heaven! 'tis a gala march,'Tis a picnic or a play;Of all our long war 'tis the crowning arch,Hip, hip! for Sherman's way!Of all our long war this crowns the arch—For Sherman and Grant, hurrah!Charles Graham Halpine.
A pillar of fire by night,A pillar of smoke by day,Some hours of march—then a halt to fight,And so we hold our way;Some hours of march—then a halt to fight,As on we hold our way.Over mountain and plain and stream,To some bright Atlantic bay,With our arms aflash in the morning beam,We hold our festal way;With our arms aflash in the morning beam,We hold our checkless way!There is terror wherever we come,There is terror and wild dismayWhen they see the Old Flag and hear the drumAnnounce us on our way;When they see the Old Flag and hear the drumBeating time to our onward way.Never unlimber a gunFor those villainous lines in gray;Draw sabres! and at 'em upon the run!'Tis thus we clear our way;Draw sabres, and soon you will see them run,As we hold our conquering way.The loyal, who long have been dumb,Are loud in their cheers to-day;And the old men out on their crutches come,To see us hold our way;And the old men out on their crutches come,To bless us on our way.Around us in rear and flanks,Their futile squadrons play,With a sixty-mile front of steady ranks,We hold our checkless way;With a sixty-mile front of serried ranks,Our banner clears the way.Hear the spattering fire that startsFrom the woods and the copses gray,There is just enough fighting to quicken our hearts,As we frolic along the way!There is just enough fighting to warm our hearts,As we rattle along the way.Upon different roads, abreast,The heads of our columns gay,With fluttering flags, all forward pressed,Hold on their conquering way;With fluttering flags to victory pressed,We hold our glorious way.Ah, traitors! who bragged so boldIn the sad war's early day,Did nothing predict you should ever beholdThe Old Flag come this way?Did nothing predict you should yet beholdOur banner come back this way?By heaven! 'tis a gala march,'Tis a picnic or a play;Of all our long war 'tis the crowning arch,Hip, hip! for Sherman's way!Of all our long war this crowns the arch—For Sherman and Grant, hurrah!Charles Graham Halpine.
A pillar of fire by night,A pillar of smoke by day,Some hours of march—then a halt to fight,And so we hold our way;Some hours of march—then a halt to fight,As on we hold our way.
Over mountain and plain and stream,To some bright Atlantic bay,With our arms aflash in the morning beam,We hold our festal way;With our arms aflash in the morning beam,We hold our checkless way!
There is terror wherever we come,There is terror and wild dismayWhen they see the Old Flag and hear the drumAnnounce us on our way;When they see the Old Flag and hear the drumBeating time to our onward way.
Never unlimber a gunFor those villainous lines in gray;Draw sabres! and at 'em upon the run!'Tis thus we clear our way;Draw sabres, and soon you will see them run,As we hold our conquering way.
The loyal, who long have been dumb,Are loud in their cheers to-day;And the old men out on their crutches come,To see us hold our way;And the old men out on their crutches come,To bless us on our way.
Around us in rear and flanks,Their futile squadrons play,With a sixty-mile front of steady ranks,We hold our checkless way;With a sixty-mile front of serried ranks,Our banner clears the way.
Hear the spattering fire that startsFrom the woods and the copses gray,There is just enough fighting to quicken our hearts,As we frolic along the way!There is just enough fighting to warm our hearts,As we rattle along the way.
Upon different roads, abreast,The heads of our columns gay,With fluttering flags, all forward pressed,Hold on their conquering way;With fluttering flags to victory pressed,We hold our glorious way.
Ah, traitors! who bragged so boldIn the sad war's early day,Did nothing predict you should ever beholdThe Old Flag come this way?Did nothing predict you should yet beholdOur banner come back this way?
By heaven! 'tis a gala march,'Tis a picnic or a play;Of all our long war 'tis the crowning arch,Hip, hip! for Sherman's way!Of all our long war this crowns the arch—For Sherman and Grant, hurrah!
Charles Graham Halpine.
MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA
Bring the good old bugle, boys, we'll sing another song—Sing it with a spirit that will start the world along—Sing it as we used to sing it fifty thousand strong,While we were marching through Georgia.Chorus—"Hurrah! Hurrah! we bring the jubilee!Hurrah! Hurrah! the flag that makes you free!"So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea,While we were marching through Georgia.How the darkeys shouted when they heard the joyful sound!How the turkeys gobbled which our commissary found!How the sweet potatoes even started from the ground,While we were marching through Georgia.Yes, and there were Union men who wept with joyful tears,When they saw the honored flag they had not seen for years;Hardly could they be restrained from breaking forth in cheers,While we were marching through Georgia."Sherman's dashing Yankee boys will never reach the coast!"So the saucy rebels said—and 'twas a handsome boast,Had they not forgot, alas! to reckon on a host,While we were marching through Georgia.So we made a thoroughfare for Freedom and her train,Sixty miles in latitude—three hundred to the main;Treason fled before us, for resistance was in vain,While we were marching through Georgia.Henry Clay Work.
Bring the good old bugle, boys, we'll sing another song—Sing it with a spirit that will start the world along—Sing it as we used to sing it fifty thousand strong,While we were marching through Georgia.Chorus—"Hurrah! Hurrah! we bring the jubilee!Hurrah! Hurrah! the flag that makes you free!"So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea,While we were marching through Georgia.How the darkeys shouted when they heard the joyful sound!How the turkeys gobbled which our commissary found!How the sweet potatoes even started from the ground,While we were marching through Georgia.Yes, and there were Union men who wept with joyful tears,When they saw the honored flag they had not seen for years;Hardly could they be restrained from breaking forth in cheers,While we were marching through Georgia."Sherman's dashing Yankee boys will never reach the coast!"So the saucy rebels said—and 'twas a handsome boast,Had they not forgot, alas! to reckon on a host,While we were marching through Georgia.So we made a thoroughfare for Freedom and her train,Sixty miles in latitude—three hundred to the main;Treason fled before us, for resistance was in vain,While we were marching through Georgia.Henry Clay Work.
Bring the good old bugle, boys, we'll sing another song—Sing it with a spirit that will start the world along—Sing it as we used to sing it fifty thousand strong,While we were marching through Georgia.Chorus—"Hurrah! Hurrah! we bring the jubilee!Hurrah! Hurrah! the flag that makes you free!"So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea,While we were marching through Georgia.
How the darkeys shouted when they heard the joyful sound!How the turkeys gobbled which our commissary found!How the sweet potatoes even started from the ground,While we were marching through Georgia.
Yes, and there were Union men who wept with joyful tears,When they saw the honored flag they had not seen for years;Hardly could they be restrained from breaking forth in cheers,While we were marching through Georgia.
"Sherman's dashing Yankee boys will never reach the coast!"So the saucy rebels said—and 'twas a handsome boast,Had they not forgot, alas! to reckon on a host,While we were marching through Georgia.
So we made a thoroughfare for Freedom and her train,Sixty miles in latitude—three hundred to the main;Treason fled before us, for resistance was in vain,While we were marching through Georgia.
Henry Clay Work.
ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLORS
Who are you dusky woman, so ancient hardly human,With your woolly-white and turban'd head, and bare bony feet?Why rising by the roadside here, do you the colors greet?('Tis while our army lines Carolina's sands and pines,Forth from thy hovel door thou Ethiopia com'st to me,As under doughty Sherman I march toward the sea.)Me master years a hundred since from my parents sunder'd,A little child, they caught me as the savage beast is caught,Then hither me across the sea the cruel slaver brought.No further does she say, but lingering all the day,Her high-borne turban'd head she wags, and rolls her darkling eye,And courtesies to the regiments, the guidons moving by.What is it fateful woman, so blear, hardly human?Why wag your head with turban bound, yellow, red and green?Are the things so strange and marvellous you see or have seen?Walt Whitman.
Who are you dusky woman, so ancient hardly human,With your woolly-white and turban'd head, and bare bony feet?Why rising by the roadside here, do you the colors greet?('Tis while our army lines Carolina's sands and pines,Forth from thy hovel door thou Ethiopia com'st to me,As under doughty Sherman I march toward the sea.)Me master years a hundred since from my parents sunder'd,A little child, they caught me as the savage beast is caught,Then hither me across the sea the cruel slaver brought.No further does she say, but lingering all the day,Her high-borne turban'd head she wags, and rolls her darkling eye,And courtesies to the regiments, the guidons moving by.What is it fateful woman, so blear, hardly human?Why wag your head with turban bound, yellow, red and green?Are the things so strange and marvellous you see or have seen?Walt Whitman.
Who are you dusky woman, so ancient hardly human,With your woolly-white and turban'd head, and bare bony feet?Why rising by the roadside here, do you the colors greet?
('Tis while our army lines Carolina's sands and pines,Forth from thy hovel door thou Ethiopia com'st to me,As under doughty Sherman I march toward the sea.)
Me master years a hundred since from my parents sunder'd,A little child, they caught me as the savage beast is caught,Then hither me across the sea the cruel slaver brought.
No further does she say, but lingering all the day,Her high-borne turban'd head she wags, and rolls her darkling eye,And courtesies to the regiments, the guidons moving by.
What is it fateful woman, so blear, hardly human?Why wag your head with turban bound, yellow, red and green?Are the things so strange and marvellous you see or have seen?
Walt Whitman.
The invasion brought panic to the South, and Beauregard hastened to oppose it. But Sherman pressed on irresistibly, beating down all opposition, reached Savannah, and on December 22, 1864, marched into the city, which had been abandoned by the Confederates. On Christmas day, he telegraphed President Lincoln, "I beg to present to you, as a Christmas gift, the city of Savannah."
The invasion brought panic to the South, and Beauregard hastened to oppose it. But Sherman pressed on irresistibly, beating down all opposition, reached Savannah, and on December 22, 1864, marched into the city, which had been abandoned by the Confederates. On Christmas day, he telegraphed President Lincoln, "I beg to present to you, as a Christmas gift, the city of Savannah."
SHERMAN'S IN SAVANNAH
[December 22, 1864]
Like the tribes of Israel,Fed on quails and manna,Sherman and his glorious bandJourneyed through the rebel land,Fed from Heaven's all-bounteous hand,Marching on Savannah!As the moving pillar shone,Streamed the starry bannerAll day long in rosy light,Flaming splendor all the night,Till it swooped in eagle flightDown on doomed Savannah!Glory be to God on high!Shout the loud Hosanna!Treason's wilderness is past,Canaan's shore is won at last,Peal a nation's trumpet-blast,—Sherman's in Savannah!Soon shall Richmond's tough old hideFind a tough old tanner!Soon from every rebel wallShall the rag of treason fall,Till our banner flaps o'er allAs it crowns Savannah!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Like the tribes of Israel,Fed on quails and manna,Sherman and his glorious bandJourneyed through the rebel land,Fed from Heaven's all-bounteous hand,Marching on Savannah!As the moving pillar shone,Streamed the starry bannerAll day long in rosy light,Flaming splendor all the night,Till it swooped in eagle flightDown on doomed Savannah!Glory be to God on high!Shout the loud Hosanna!Treason's wilderness is past,Canaan's shore is won at last,Peal a nation's trumpet-blast,—Sherman's in Savannah!Soon shall Richmond's tough old hideFind a tough old tanner!Soon from every rebel wallShall the rag of treason fall,Till our banner flaps o'er allAs it crowns Savannah!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Like the tribes of Israel,Fed on quails and manna,Sherman and his glorious bandJourneyed through the rebel land,Fed from Heaven's all-bounteous hand,Marching on Savannah!
As the moving pillar shone,Streamed the starry bannerAll day long in rosy light,Flaming splendor all the night,Till it swooped in eagle flightDown on doomed Savannah!
Glory be to God on high!Shout the loud Hosanna!Treason's wilderness is past,Canaan's shore is won at last,Peal a nation's trumpet-blast,—Sherman's in Savannah!
Soon shall Richmond's tough old hideFind a tough old tanner!Soon from every rebel wallShall the rag of treason fall,Till our banner flaps o'er allAs it crowns Savannah!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
SAVANNAH
[December 23, 1864]
Thou hast not drooped thy stately head,Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed!Not like a lamb to slaughter led,But with the lion's monarch tread,Thou comest to thy battle bed,Savannah! O Savannah!Thine arm of flesh is girded strong;The blue veins swell beneath thy wrong;To thee the triple cords belongOf woe and death and shameless wrong,And spirit vaunted long, too long!Savannah! O Savannah!No blood-stains spot thy forehead fair;Only the martyrs' blood is there;It gleams upon thy bosom bare,It moves thy deep, deep soul to prayer,And tunes a dirge for thy sad ear,Savannah! O Savannah!Thy clean white hand is opened wideFor weal or woe, thou Freedom Bride;The sword-sheath sparkles at thy side,Thy plighted troth, whate'er betide,Thou hast but Freedom for thy guide,Savannah! O Savannah!What though the heavy storm-cloud lowers,Still at thy feet the old oak towers;Still fragrant are thy jessamine bowers,And things of beauty, love, and flowersAre smiling o'er this land of ours,My sunny home, Savannah!There is no film before thy sight,—Thou seest woe and death and night,And blood upon thy banner bright;But in thy full wrath's kindled mightWhat carest thou for woe or night?My rebel home, Savannah!Come—for the crown is on thy head!Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed;Not like a lamb to slaughter led,But with the lion's monarch tread,Oh! come unto thy battle bed,Savannah! O Savannah!Alethea S. Burroughs.
Thou hast not drooped thy stately head,Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed!Not like a lamb to slaughter led,But with the lion's monarch tread,Thou comest to thy battle bed,Savannah! O Savannah!Thine arm of flesh is girded strong;The blue veins swell beneath thy wrong;To thee the triple cords belongOf woe and death and shameless wrong,And spirit vaunted long, too long!Savannah! O Savannah!No blood-stains spot thy forehead fair;Only the martyrs' blood is there;It gleams upon thy bosom bare,It moves thy deep, deep soul to prayer,And tunes a dirge for thy sad ear,Savannah! O Savannah!Thy clean white hand is opened wideFor weal or woe, thou Freedom Bride;The sword-sheath sparkles at thy side,Thy plighted troth, whate'er betide,Thou hast but Freedom for thy guide,Savannah! O Savannah!What though the heavy storm-cloud lowers,Still at thy feet the old oak towers;Still fragrant are thy jessamine bowers,And things of beauty, love, and flowersAre smiling o'er this land of ours,My sunny home, Savannah!There is no film before thy sight,—Thou seest woe and death and night,And blood upon thy banner bright;But in thy full wrath's kindled mightWhat carest thou for woe or night?My rebel home, Savannah!Come—for the crown is on thy head!Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed;Not like a lamb to slaughter led,But with the lion's monarch tread,Oh! come unto thy battle bed,Savannah! O Savannah!Alethea S. Burroughs.
Thou hast not drooped thy stately head,Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed!Not like a lamb to slaughter led,But with the lion's monarch tread,Thou comest to thy battle bed,Savannah! O Savannah!
Thine arm of flesh is girded strong;The blue veins swell beneath thy wrong;To thee the triple cords belongOf woe and death and shameless wrong,And spirit vaunted long, too long!Savannah! O Savannah!
No blood-stains spot thy forehead fair;Only the martyrs' blood is there;It gleams upon thy bosom bare,It moves thy deep, deep soul to prayer,And tunes a dirge for thy sad ear,Savannah! O Savannah!
Thy clean white hand is opened wideFor weal or woe, thou Freedom Bride;The sword-sheath sparkles at thy side,Thy plighted troth, whate'er betide,Thou hast but Freedom for thy guide,Savannah! O Savannah!
What though the heavy storm-cloud lowers,Still at thy feet the old oak towers;Still fragrant are thy jessamine bowers,And things of beauty, love, and flowersAre smiling o'er this land of ours,My sunny home, Savannah!
There is no film before thy sight,—Thou seest woe and death and night,And blood upon thy banner bright;But in thy full wrath's kindled mightWhat carest thou for woe or night?My rebel home, Savannah!
Come—for the crown is on thy head!Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed;Not like a lamb to slaughter led,But with the lion's monarch tread,Oh! come unto thy battle bed,Savannah! O Savannah!
Alethea S. Burroughs.
Sherman paused at Savannah to fortify the place and get his army into shape, after its march of two hundred and fifty miles; then, on January 15, 1865, he started northward into South Carolina.
Sherman paused at Savannah to fortify the place and get his army into shape, after its march of two hundred and fifty miles; then, on January 15, 1865, he started northward into South Carolina.
CAROLINA
[January, 1865]
The despot treads thy sacred sands,Thy pines give shelter to his bands,Thy sons stand by with idle hands,Carolina!He breathes at ease thy airs of balm,He scorns the lances of thy palm;Oh! who shall break thy craven calm,Carolina!Thy ancient fame is growing dim,A spot is on thy garment's rim;Give to the winds thy battle-hymn,Carolina!Call on thy children of the hill,Wake swamp and river, coast and rill,Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill,Carolina!Cite wealth and science, trade and art,Touch with thy fire the cautious mart,And pour thee through the people's heart,Carolina!Till even the coward spurns his fears,And all thy fields, and fens, and meresShall bristle like thy palm with spears,Carolina!I hear a murmur as of wavesThat grope their way through sunless caves,Like bodies struggling in their graves,Carolina!And now it deepens; slow and grandIt swells, as, rolling to the land,An ocean broke upon thy strand,Carolina!Shout! Let it reach the startled Huns!And roar with all thy festal guns!It is the answer of thy sons,Carolina!Henry Timrod.
The despot treads thy sacred sands,Thy pines give shelter to his bands,Thy sons stand by with idle hands,Carolina!He breathes at ease thy airs of balm,He scorns the lances of thy palm;Oh! who shall break thy craven calm,Carolina!Thy ancient fame is growing dim,A spot is on thy garment's rim;Give to the winds thy battle-hymn,Carolina!Call on thy children of the hill,Wake swamp and river, coast and rill,Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill,Carolina!Cite wealth and science, trade and art,Touch with thy fire the cautious mart,And pour thee through the people's heart,Carolina!Till even the coward spurns his fears,And all thy fields, and fens, and meresShall bristle like thy palm with spears,Carolina!I hear a murmur as of wavesThat grope their way through sunless caves,Like bodies struggling in their graves,Carolina!And now it deepens; slow and grandIt swells, as, rolling to the land,An ocean broke upon thy strand,Carolina!Shout! Let it reach the startled Huns!And roar with all thy festal guns!It is the answer of thy sons,Carolina!Henry Timrod.
The despot treads thy sacred sands,Thy pines give shelter to his bands,Thy sons stand by with idle hands,Carolina!He breathes at ease thy airs of balm,He scorns the lances of thy palm;Oh! who shall break thy craven calm,Carolina!Thy ancient fame is growing dim,A spot is on thy garment's rim;Give to the winds thy battle-hymn,Carolina!
Call on thy children of the hill,Wake swamp and river, coast and rill,Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill,Carolina!Cite wealth and science, trade and art,Touch with thy fire the cautious mart,And pour thee through the people's heart,Carolina!Till even the coward spurns his fears,And all thy fields, and fens, and meresShall bristle like thy palm with spears,Carolina!
I hear a murmur as of wavesThat grope their way through sunless caves,Like bodies struggling in their graves,Carolina!And now it deepens; slow and grandIt swells, as, rolling to the land,An ocean broke upon thy strand,Carolina!Shout! Let it reach the startled Huns!And roar with all thy festal guns!It is the answer of thy sons,Carolina!
Henry Timrod.
Every man in the state was called to arms, but the Union forces met with only a weak and ineffective resistance. On February 16, 1865, Columbia was occupied; and catching fire accidentally next day, was totally destroyed. The fall of Columbia left Charleston exposed and the Confederate troops hastened to get away while they could.
Every man in the state was called to arms, but the Union forces met with only a weak and ineffective resistance. On February 16, 1865, Columbia was occupied; and catching fire accidentally next day, was totally destroyed. The fall of Columbia left Charleston exposed and the Confederate troops hastened to get away while they could.
CHARLESTON
[February, 1865]
Calmly beside her tropic strand,An empress, brave and loyal,I see the watchful city stand,With aspect sternly royal;She knows her mortal foe draws near,Armored by subtlest science,Yet deep, majestical, and clear,Rings out her grand defiance.Oh, glorious is thy noble face,Lit up by proud emotion,And unsurpassed thy stately grace,Our warrior Queen of Ocean!First from thy lips the summons came,Which roused our South to action,And, with the quenchless force of flameConsumed the demon, Faction;First, like a rush of sovereign wind,That rends dull waves asunder,Thy prescient warning struck the blind,And woke the deaf with thunder;They saw, with swiftly kindling eyes,The shameful doom before them,And heard, borne wild from northern skies,The death-gale hurtling o'er them:Wilt thou, whose virgin banner rose,A morning star of splendor,Quail when the war-tornado blows,And crouch in base surrender?Wilt thou, upon whose loving breastOur noblest chiefs are sleeping,Yield thy dead patriots' place of restTo scornful alien keeping?No! while a life-pulse throbs for fame,Thy sons will gather round thee,Welcome the shot, the steel, the flame,If honor's hand hath crowned thee.Then fold about thy beauteous formThe imperial robe thou wearest,And front with regal port the stormThy foe would dream thou fearest;If strength, and will, and courage failTo cope with ruthless numbers,And thou must bend, despairing, pale,Where thy last hero slumbers,Lift the red torch, and light the fireAmid those corpses gory,And on thy self-made funeral pyre,Pass from the world to glory.Paul Hamilton Hayne.
Calmly beside her tropic strand,An empress, brave and loyal,I see the watchful city stand,With aspect sternly royal;She knows her mortal foe draws near,Armored by subtlest science,Yet deep, majestical, and clear,Rings out her grand defiance.Oh, glorious is thy noble face,Lit up by proud emotion,And unsurpassed thy stately grace,Our warrior Queen of Ocean!First from thy lips the summons came,Which roused our South to action,And, with the quenchless force of flameConsumed the demon, Faction;First, like a rush of sovereign wind,That rends dull waves asunder,Thy prescient warning struck the blind,And woke the deaf with thunder;They saw, with swiftly kindling eyes,The shameful doom before them,And heard, borne wild from northern skies,The death-gale hurtling o'er them:Wilt thou, whose virgin banner rose,A morning star of splendor,Quail when the war-tornado blows,And crouch in base surrender?Wilt thou, upon whose loving breastOur noblest chiefs are sleeping,Yield thy dead patriots' place of restTo scornful alien keeping?No! while a life-pulse throbs for fame,Thy sons will gather round thee,Welcome the shot, the steel, the flame,If honor's hand hath crowned thee.Then fold about thy beauteous formThe imperial robe thou wearest,And front with regal port the stormThy foe would dream thou fearest;If strength, and will, and courage failTo cope with ruthless numbers,And thou must bend, despairing, pale,Where thy last hero slumbers,Lift the red torch, and light the fireAmid those corpses gory,And on thy self-made funeral pyre,Pass from the world to glory.Paul Hamilton Hayne.
Calmly beside her tropic strand,An empress, brave and loyal,I see the watchful city stand,With aspect sternly royal;She knows her mortal foe draws near,Armored by subtlest science,Yet deep, majestical, and clear,Rings out her grand defiance.Oh, glorious is thy noble face,Lit up by proud emotion,And unsurpassed thy stately grace,Our warrior Queen of Ocean!
First from thy lips the summons came,Which roused our South to action,And, with the quenchless force of flameConsumed the demon, Faction;First, like a rush of sovereign wind,That rends dull waves asunder,Thy prescient warning struck the blind,And woke the deaf with thunder;They saw, with swiftly kindling eyes,The shameful doom before them,And heard, borne wild from northern skies,The death-gale hurtling o'er them:
Wilt thou, whose virgin banner rose,A morning star of splendor,Quail when the war-tornado blows,And crouch in base surrender?Wilt thou, upon whose loving breastOur noblest chiefs are sleeping,Yield thy dead patriots' place of restTo scornful alien keeping?No! while a life-pulse throbs for fame,Thy sons will gather round thee,Welcome the shot, the steel, the flame,If honor's hand hath crowned thee.
Then fold about thy beauteous formThe imperial robe thou wearest,And front with regal port the stormThy foe would dream thou fearest;If strength, and will, and courage failTo cope with ruthless numbers,And thou must bend, despairing, pale,Where thy last hero slumbers,Lift the red torch, and light the fireAmid those corpses gory,And on thy self-made funeral pyre,Pass from the world to glory.
Paul Hamilton Hayne.
The cotton in the town was burned, many houses caught fire, and a magazine exploded, killing two hundred people. The city was virtually a ruin when the last of the Confederate troops—"poor old Dixie's bottom dollar"—left the city.
The cotton in the town was burned, many houses caught fire, and a magazine exploded, killing two hundred people. The city was virtually a ruin when the last of the Confederate troops—"poor old Dixie's bottom dollar"—left the city.
ROMANCE
"Talk of pluck!" pursued the Sailor,Set at euchre on his elbow,"I was on the wharf at Charleston,Just ashore from off the runner."It was gray and dirty weather,And I heard a drum go rolling,Rub-a-dubbing in the distance,Awful dour-like and defiant."In and out among the cotton,Mud, and chains, and stores, and anchors,Tramped a squad of battered scarecrows—Poor old Dixie's bottom dollar!"Some had shoes, but all had rifles,Them that wasn't bald was beardless,And the drum was rolling 'Dixie,'And they stepped to it like men, sir!"Rags and tatters, belts and bayonets,On they swung, the drum a-rolling,Mum and sour. It looked like fighting,And they meant it too, by thunder!"William Ernest Henley.
"Talk of pluck!" pursued the Sailor,Set at euchre on his elbow,"I was on the wharf at Charleston,Just ashore from off the runner."It was gray and dirty weather,And I heard a drum go rolling,Rub-a-dubbing in the distance,Awful dour-like and defiant."In and out among the cotton,Mud, and chains, and stores, and anchors,Tramped a squad of battered scarecrows—Poor old Dixie's bottom dollar!"Some had shoes, but all had rifles,Them that wasn't bald was beardless,And the drum was rolling 'Dixie,'And they stepped to it like men, sir!"Rags and tatters, belts and bayonets,On they swung, the drum a-rolling,Mum and sour. It looked like fighting,And they meant it too, by thunder!"William Ernest Henley.
"Talk of pluck!" pursued the Sailor,Set at euchre on his elbow,"I was on the wharf at Charleston,Just ashore from off the runner.
"It was gray and dirty weather,And I heard a drum go rolling,Rub-a-dubbing in the distance,Awful dour-like and defiant.
"In and out among the cotton,Mud, and chains, and stores, and anchors,Tramped a squad of battered scarecrows—Poor old Dixie's bottom dollar!
"Some had shoes, but all had rifles,Them that wasn't bald was beardless,And the drum was rolling 'Dixie,'And they stepped to it like men, sir!
"Rags and tatters, belts and bayonets,On they swung, the drum a-rolling,Mum and sour. It looked like fighting,And they meant it too, by thunder!"
William Ernest Henley.
The excitement of the people mounted to hysteria; there were those who advised that the city be destroyed and that its inhabitants die fighting on its ashes. But calmer counsel prevailed and Charleston, on February 18, 1865, was surrendered without resistance.
The excitement of the people mounted to hysteria; there were those who advised that the city be destroyed and that its inhabitants die fighting on its ashes. But calmer counsel prevailed and Charleston, on February 18, 1865, was surrendered without resistance.
THE FOE AT THE GATES
[Charleston, 1865]
Ring round her! children of her glorious skies,Whom she hath nursed to stature proud and great;Catch one last glance from her imploring eyes,Then close your ranks and face the threatening fate.Ring round her! with a wall of horrent steelConfront the foe, nor mercy ask nor give;And in her hour of anguish let her feelThat ye can die whom she has taught to live.Ring round her! swear, by every lifted blade,To shield from wrong the mother who gave you birth;That never violent hand on her be laid,Nor base foot desecrate her hallowed hearth.Curst be the dastard who shall halt or doubt!And doubly damned who casts one look behind!Ye who are men! with unsheathed sword, and shout,Up with her banner! give it to the wind!Peal your wild slogan, echoing far and wide,Till every ringing avenue repeatThe gathering cry, and Ashley's angry tideCalls to the sea-waves beating round her feet.Sons, to the rescue! spurred and belted, come!Kneeling, with clasp'd hands, she invokes you nowBy the sweet memories of your childhood's home,By every manly hope and filial vow,To save her proud soul from that loathèd thrallWhich yet her spirit cannot brook to name;Or, if her fate be near, and she must fall,Spare her—she sues—the agony and shame.From all her fanes let solemn bells be tolled;Heap with kind hands her costly funeral pyre,And thus, with pæan sung and anthem rolled,Give her unspotted to the God of Fire.Gather around her sacred ashes then,Sprinkle the cherished dust with crimson rain,Die! as becomes a race of free-born men,Who will not crouch to wear the bondman's chain.So, dying, ye shall win a high renown,If not in life, at least by death, set free;And send her fame through endless ages down—The last grand holocaust of Liberty.John Dickson Bruns.
Ring round her! children of her glorious skies,Whom she hath nursed to stature proud and great;Catch one last glance from her imploring eyes,Then close your ranks and face the threatening fate.Ring round her! with a wall of horrent steelConfront the foe, nor mercy ask nor give;And in her hour of anguish let her feelThat ye can die whom she has taught to live.Ring round her! swear, by every lifted blade,To shield from wrong the mother who gave you birth;That never violent hand on her be laid,Nor base foot desecrate her hallowed hearth.Curst be the dastard who shall halt or doubt!And doubly damned who casts one look behind!Ye who are men! with unsheathed sword, and shout,Up with her banner! give it to the wind!Peal your wild slogan, echoing far and wide,Till every ringing avenue repeatThe gathering cry, and Ashley's angry tideCalls to the sea-waves beating round her feet.Sons, to the rescue! spurred and belted, come!Kneeling, with clasp'd hands, she invokes you nowBy the sweet memories of your childhood's home,By every manly hope and filial vow,To save her proud soul from that loathèd thrallWhich yet her spirit cannot brook to name;Or, if her fate be near, and she must fall,Spare her—she sues—the agony and shame.From all her fanes let solemn bells be tolled;Heap with kind hands her costly funeral pyre,And thus, with pæan sung and anthem rolled,Give her unspotted to the God of Fire.Gather around her sacred ashes then,Sprinkle the cherished dust with crimson rain,Die! as becomes a race of free-born men,Who will not crouch to wear the bondman's chain.So, dying, ye shall win a high renown,If not in life, at least by death, set free;And send her fame through endless ages down—The last grand holocaust of Liberty.John Dickson Bruns.
Ring round her! children of her glorious skies,Whom she hath nursed to stature proud and great;Catch one last glance from her imploring eyes,Then close your ranks and face the threatening fate.
Ring round her! with a wall of horrent steelConfront the foe, nor mercy ask nor give;And in her hour of anguish let her feelThat ye can die whom she has taught to live.
Ring round her! swear, by every lifted blade,To shield from wrong the mother who gave you birth;That never violent hand on her be laid,Nor base foot desecrate her hallowed hearth.
Curst be the dastard who shall halt or doubt!And doubly damned who casts one look behind!Ye who are men! with unsheathed sword, and shout,Up with her banner! give it to the wind!
Peal your wild slogan, echoing far and wide,Till every ringing avenue repeatThe gathering cry, and Ashley's angry tideCalls to the sea-waves beating round her feet.
Sons, to the rescue! spurred and belted, come!Kneeling, with clasp'd hands, she invokes you nowBy the sweet memories of your childhood's home,By every manly hope and filial vow,
To save her proud soul from that loathèd thrallWhich yet her spirit cannot brook to name;Or, if her fate be near, and she must fall,Spare her—she sues—the agony and shame.
From all her fanes let solemn bells be tolled;Heap with kind hands her costly funeral pyre,And thus, with pæan sung and anthem rolled,Give her unspotted to the God of Fire.
Gather around her sacred ashes then,Sprinkle the cherished dust with crimson rain,Die! as becomes a race of free-born men,Who will not crouch to wear the bondman's chain.
So, dying, ye shall win a high renown,If not in life, at least by death, set free;And send her fame through endless ages down—The last grand holocaust of Liberty.
John Dickson Bruns.
While Sherman was accomplishing his task in this triumphant manner, Grant was hammering away at Richmond. Late in February, 1864, a strong force under Kilpatrick was detached to raid around Richmond and if possible release the Union prisoners at Belle Isle and in Libby prison. They reached the outer fortifications, but were repulsed, Major Ulric Dahlgren being among the killed.
While Sherman was accomplishing his task in this triumphant manner, Grant was hammering away at Richmond. Late in February, 1864, a strong force under Kilpatrick was detached to raid around Richmond and if possible release the Union prisoners at Belle Isle and in Libby prison. They reached the outer fortifications, but were repulsed, Major Ulric Dahlgren being among the killed.
ULRIC DAHLGREN
[March 2, 1864]
A flash of light across the night,An eager face, an eye afire!O lad so true, you yet may rueThe courage of your deep desire!"Nay, tempt me not; the way is plain—'Tis but the coward checks his rein;For there they lie,And there they cry,For whose dear sake 'twere joy to die!"He bends unto his saddlebow,The steeds they follow two and two;Their flanks are wet with foam and sweat,Their riders' locks are damp with dew."O comrades, haste! the way is long,The dirge it drowns the battle-song;The hunger preys,The famine slays,An awful horror veils our ways!"Beneath the pall of prison wallThe rush of hoofs they seem to hear;From loathsome guise they lift their eyes,And beat their bars and bend their ear."Ah, God be thanked! our friends are nigh;He wills it not that thus we die;O fiends accurstOf Want and Thirst,Our comrades gather,—do your worst!"A sharp affright runs through the night,An ambush stirred, a column reined;The hurrying steed has checked his speed,His smoking flanks are crimson stained.O noble son of noble sire,Thine ears are deaf to our desire!O knightly graceOf valiant race,The grave is honor's trysting-place!O life so pure! O faith so sure!O heart so brave, and true, and strong!With tips of flame is writ your name,In annaled deed and storied song!It flares across the solemn night,It glitters in the radiant light;A jewel set,Unnumbered yet,In our Republic's coronet!Kate Brownlee Sherwood.
A flash of light across the night,An eager face, an eye afire!O lad so true, you yet may rueThe courage of your deep desire!"Nay, tempt me not; the way is plain—'Tis but the coward checks his rein;For there they lie,And there they cry,For whose dear sake 'twere joy to die!"He bends unto his saddlebow,The steeds they follow two and two;Their flanks are wet with foam and sweat,Their riders' locks are damp with dew."O comrades, haste! the way is long,The dirge it drowns the battle-song;The hunger preys,The famine slays,An awful horror veils our ways!"Beneath the pall of prison wallThe rush of hoofs they seem to hear;From loathsome guise they lift their eyes,And beat their bars and bend their ear."Ah, God be thanked! our friends are nigh;He wills it not that thus we die;O fiends accurstOf Want and Thirst,Our comrades gather,—do your worst!"A sharp affright runs through the night,An ambush stirred, a column reined;The hurrying steed has checked his speed,His smoking flanks are crimson stained.O noble son of noble sire,Thine ears are deaf to our desire!O knightly graceOf valiant race,The grave is honor's trysting-place!O life so pure! O faith so sure!O heart so brave, and true, and strong!With tips of flame is writ your name,In annaled deed and storied song!It flares across the solemn night,It glitters in the radiant light;A jewel set,Unnumbered yet,In our Republic's coronet!Kate Brownlee Sherwood.
A flash of light across the night,An eager face, an eye afire!O lad so true, you yet may rueThe courage of your deep desire!
"Nay, tempt me not; the way is plain—'Tis but the coward checks his rein;For there they lie,And there they cry,For whose dear sake 'twere joy to die!"
He bends unto his saddlebow,The steeds they follow two and two;Their flanks are wet with foam and sweat,Their riders' locks are damp with dew.
"O comrades, haste! the way is long,The dirge it drowns the battle-song;The hunger preys,The famine slays,An awful horror veils our ways!"
Beneath the pall of prison wallThe rush of hoofs they seem to hear;From loathsome guise they lift their eyes,And beat their bars and bend their ear.
"Ah, God be thanked! our friends are nigh;He wills it not that thus we die;O fiends accurstOf Want and Thirst,Our comrades gather,—do your worst!"
A sharp affright runs through the night,An ambush stirred, a column reined;The hurrying steed has checked his speed,His smoking flanks are crimson stained.
O noble son of noble sire,Thine ears are deaf to our desire!O knightly graceOf valiant race,The grave is honor's trysting-place!
O life so pure! O faith so sure!O heart so brave, and true, and strong!With tips of flame is writ your name,In annaled deed and storied song!
It flares across the solemn night,It glitters in the radiant light;A jewel set,Unnumbered yet,In our Republic's coronet!
Kate Brownlee Sherwood.
On May 1, 1864, a general advance was ordered, and two days later the Army of the Potomac, one hundred and thirty thousand strong, advanced into the Wilderness, south of the Rapidan. There, on May 5, Lee hurled his forces upon them. On the second day, Lee seized the colors of a Texas regiment and started to lead an assault in person. The men remonstrated and promised to carry the position if Lee would retire. The troops advanced shouting, "Lee to the rear!" and kept their word.
On May 1, 1864, a general advance was ordered, and two days later the Army of the Potomac, one hundred and thirty thousand strong, advanced into the Wilderness, south of the Rapidan. There, on May 5, Lee hurled his forces upon them. On the second day, Lee seized the colors of a Texas regiment and started to lead an assault in person. The men remonstrated and promised to carry the position if Lee would retire. The troops advanced shouting, "Lee to the rear!" and kept their word.
LEE TO THE REAR
[May 6, 1864]
Dawn of a pleasant morning in MayBroke through the Wilderness cool and gray;While perched in the tallest tree-tops, the birdsWere carolling Mendelssohn's "Songs without Words."Far from the haunts of men remote,The brook brawled on with a liquid note;And Nature, all tranquil and lovely, woreThe smile of the spring, as in Eden of yore.Little by little, as daylight increased,And deepened the roseate flush in the East—Little by little did morning revealTwo long glittering lines of steel;Where two hundred thousand bayonets gleam,Tipped with the light of the earliest beam,And the faces are sullen and grim to seeIn the hostile armies of Grant and Lee.All of a sudden, ere rose the sun,Pealed on the silence the opening gun—A little white puff of smoke there came,And anon the valley was wreathed in flame.Down on the left of the Rebel lines,Where a breastwork stands in a copse of pines,Before the Rebels their ranks can form,The Yankees have carried the place by storm.Stars and Stripes on the salient wave,Where many a hero has found a grave,And the gallant Confederates strive in vainThe ground they have drenched with their blood, to regain.Yet louder the thunder of battle roared—Yet a deadlier fire on the columns poured;Slaughter infernal rode with Despair,Furies twain, through the murky air.Not far off, in the saddle there satA gray-bearded man in a black slouched hat;Not much moved by the fire was he,Calm and resolute Robert Lee.Quick and watchful he kept his eyeOn the bold Rebel brigades close by,—Reserves that were standing (and dying) at ease,While the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees.For still with their loud, deep, bull-dog bay,The Yankee batteries blazed away,And with every murderous second that spedA dozen brave fellows, alas! fell dead.The grand old graybeard rode to the spaceWhere Death and his victims stood face to face,And silently waved his old slouched hat—A world of meaning there was in that!"Follow me! Steady! We'll save the day!"This was what he seemed to say;And to the light of his glorious eyeThe bold brigades thus made reply:"We'll go forward, but you must go back"—And they moved not an inch in the perilous track:"Go to the rear, and we'll send them to hell!"And the sound of the battle was lost in their yell.Turning his bridle, Robert LeeRode to the rear. Like waves of the sea,Bursting the dikes in their overflow,Madly his veterans dashed on the foe.And backward in terror that foe was driven,Their banners rent and their columns riven,Wherever the tide of battle rolledOver the Wilderness, wood and wold.Sunset out of a crimson skyStreamed o'er a field of ruddier dye,And the brook ran on with a purple stain,From the blood of ten thousand foemen slain.Seasons have passed since that day and year—Again o'er its pebbles the brook runs clear,And the field in a richer green is drestWhere the dead of a terrible conflict rest.Hushed is the roll of the Rebel drum,The sabres are sheathed, and the cannon are dumb;And Fate, with his pitiless hand, has furledThe flag that once challenged the gaze of the world;But the fame of the Wilderness fight abides;And down into history grandly rides,Calm and unmoved as in battle he sat,The gray-bearded man in the black slouched hat.John Randolph Thompson.
Dawn of a pleasant morning in MayBroke through the Wilderness cool and gray;While perched in the tallest tree-tops, the birdsWere carolling Mendelssohn's "Songs without Words."Far from the haunts of men remote,The brook brawled on with a liquid note;And Nature, all tranquil and lovely, woreThe smile of the spring, as in Eden of yore.Little by little, as daylight increased,And deepened the roseate flush in the East—Little by little did morning revealTwo long glittering lines of steel;Where two hundred thousand bayonets gleam,Tipped with the light of the earliest beam,And the faces are sullen and grim to seeIn the hostile armies of Grant and Lee.All of a sudden, ere rose the sun,Pealed on the silence the opening gun—A little white puff of smoke there came,And anon the valley was wreathed in flame.Down on the left of the Rebel lines,Where a breastwork stands in a copse of pines,Before the Rebels their ranks can form,The Yankees have carried the place by storm.Stars and Stripes on the salient wave,Where many a hero has found a grave,And the gallant Confederates strive in vainThe ground they have drenched with their blood, to regain.Yet louder the thunder of battle roared—Yet a deadlier fire on the columns poured;Slaughter infernal rode with Despair,Furies twain, through the murky air.Not far off, in the saddle there satA gray-bearded man in a black slouched hat;Not much moved by the fire was he,Calm and resolute Robert Lee.Quick and watchful he kept his eyeOn the bold Rebel brigades close by,—Reserves that were standing (and dying) at ease,While the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees.For still with their loud, deep, bull-dog bay,The Yankee batteries blazed away,And with every murderous second that spedA dozen brave fellows, alas! fell dead.The grand old graybeard rode to the spaceWhere Death and his victims stood face to face,And silently waved his old slouched hat—A world of meaning there was in that!"Follow me! Steady! We'll save the day!"This was what he seemed to say;And to the light of his glorious eyeThe bold brigades thus made reply:"We'll go forward, but you must go back"—And they moved not an inch in the perilous track:"Go to the rear, and we'll send them to hell!"And the sound of the battle was lost in their yell.Turning his bridle, Robert LeeRode to the rear. Like waves of the sea,Bursting the dikes in their overflow,Madly his veterans dashed on the foe.And backward in terror that foe was driven,Their banners rent and their columns riven,Wherever the tide of battle rolledOver the Wilderness, wood and wold.Sunset out of a crimson skyStreamed o'er a field of ruddier dye,And the brook ran on with a purple stain,From the blood of ten thousand foemen slain.Seasons have passed since that day and year—Again o'er its pebbles the brook runs clear,And the field in a richer green is drestWhere the dead of a terrible conflict rest.Hushed is the roll of the Rebel drum,The sabres are sheathed, and the cannon are dumb;And Fate, with his pitiless hand, has furledThe flag that once challenged the gaze of the world;But the fame of the Wilderness fight abides;And down into history grandly rides,Calm and unmoved as in battle he sat,The gray-bearded man in the black slouched hat.John Randolph Thompson.
Dawn of a pleasant morning in MayBroke through the Wilderness cool and gray;While perched in the tallest tree-tops, the birdsWere carolling Mendelssohn's "Songs without Words."
Far from the haunts of men remote,The brook brawled on with a liquid note;And Nature, all tranquil and lovely, woreThe smile of the spring, as in Eden of yore.
Little by little, as daylight increased,And deepened the roseate flush in the East—Little by little did morning revealTwo long glittering lines of steel;
Where two hundred thousand bayonets gleam,Tipped with the light of the earliest beam,And the faces are sullen and grim to seeIn the hostile armies of Grant and Lee.
All of a sudden, ere rose the sun,Pealed on the silence the opening gun—A little white puff of smoke there came,And anon the valley was wreathed in flame.
Down on the left of the Rebel lines,Where a breastwork stands in a copse of pines,Before the Rebels their ranks can form,The Yankees have carried the place by storm.
Stars and Stripes on the salient wave,Where many a hero has found a grave,And the gallant Confederates strive in vainThe ground they have drenched with their blood, to regain.
Yet louder the thunder of battle roared—Yet a deadlier fire on the columns poured;Slaughter infernal rode with Despair,Furies twain, through the murky air.
Not far off, in the saddle there satA gray-bearded man in a black slouched hat;Not much moved by the fire was he,Calm and resolute Robert Lee.
Quick and watchful he kept his eyeOn the bold Rebel brigades close by,—Reserves that were standing (and dying) at ease,While the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees.
For still with their loud, deep, bull-dog bay,The Yankee batteries blazed away,And with every murderous second that spedA dozen brave fellows, alas! fell dead.
The grand old graybeard rode to the spaceWhere Death and his victims stood face to face,And silently waved his old slouched hat—A world of meaning there was in that!
"Follow me! Steady! We'll save the day!"This was what he seemed to say;And to the light of his glorious eyeThe bold brigades thus made reply:
"We'll go forward, but you must go back"—And they moved not an inch in the perilous track:"Go to the rear, and we'll send them to hell!"And the sound of the battle was lost in their yell.
Turning his bridle, Robert LeeRode to the rear. Like waves of the sea,Bursting the dikes in their overflow,Madly his veterans dashed on the foe.
And backward in terror that foe was driven,Their banners rent and their columns riven,Wherever the tide of battle rolledOver the Wilderness, wood and wold.
Sunset out of a crimson skyStreamed o'er a field of ruddier dye,And the brook ran on with a purple stain,From the blood of ten thousand foemen slain.
Seasons have passed since that day and year—Again o'er its pebbles the brook runs clear,And the field in a richer green is drestWhere the dead of a terrible conflict rest.
Hushed is the roll of the Rebel drum,The sabres are sheathed, and the cannon are dumb;And Fate, with his pitiless hand, has furledThe flag that once challenged the gaze of the world;
But the fame of the Wilderness fight abides;And down into history grandly rides,Calm and unmoved as in battle he sat,The gray-bearded man in the black slouched hat.
John Randolph Thompson.
For two weeks a frightful struggle raged. The Union losses were fearful, but on May 11, 1864, Grant wired to the Secretary of War, "I propose to fight it out on this line, if it takes all summer."
For two weeks a frightful struggle raged. The Union losses were fearful, but on May 11, 1864, Grant wired to the Secretary of War, "I propose to fight it out on this line, if it takes all summer."
CAN'T