GUY HUMPHREY McMASTER
[Sidenote: 1775—1783]The nucleus of the Continental Army was the New England force gathered before Boston, to the command of which Washington had been appointed two days before the battle of Bunker Hill, although he arrived too late to take part in that fight.
In their ragged regimentalsStood the old continentals,Yielding not,When the grenadiers were lunging,And like hail fell the plungingCannon-shot;When the filesOf the islesFrom the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the rampantUnicorn,And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll of the drummer,Through the morn!Then with eyes to the front all,And with guns horizontal,Stood our sires;
And the balls whistled deadly,And in streams flashing redlyBlazed the fires;As the roarOn the shore,Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acresOf the plain;And louder, louder, louder cracked the black gunpowder,Cracking amain!
Now like smiths at their forgesWorked the red St. George'sCannoneers;And the "villainous saltpetre"Rung a fierce, discordant metreRound their ears;As the swiftStorm-drift,With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangorOn our flanks.Then higher, higher, higher burned the old-fashioned fireThrough the ranks!
Then the old-fashioned colonelGalloped through the white infernalPowder-cloud;And his broad-sword was swinging,And his brazen throat was ringingTrumpet loud.Then the blueBullets flew,And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leadenRifle-breath;And rounder, rounder, rounder roared the iron six pounder,Hurling death!
[Sidenote: Sept. 22, 1776]After the retreat from Long Island, Washington needed information as to the British strength. Captain Nathan Hale, a young man of twenty-one, volunteered to get this. He was taken, inside the enemy's lines, and hanged as a spy, regretting that he had but one life to lose for his country.
To drum-beat and heart-beat,A soldier marches by:There is color in his cheek,There is courage in his eye,Yet to drum-beat and heart-beatIn a moment he must die.
By starlight and moonlight,He seeks the Briton's camp;He hears the rustling flag,And the armed sentry's tramp;And the starlight and moonlightHis silent wanderings lamp.
With slow tread and still tread,He scans the tented line;And he counts the battery gunsBy the gaunt and shadowy pine;And his slow tread and still treadGives no warning sign.
The dark wave, the plumed wave,It meets his eager glance;And it sparkles 'neath the stars,Like the glimmer of a lance—A dark wave, a plumed wave,On an emerald expanse.
A sharp clang, a steel clang,And terror in the sound!For the sentry, falcon-eyed,In the camp a spy hath found;With a sharp clang, a steel clang,The patriot is bound.
With calm brow, steady brow,He listens to his doom;In his look there is no fear,Nor a shadow-trace of gloom;But with calm brow and steady browHe robes him for the tomb.
In the long night, the still night,He kneels upon the sod;And the brutal guards withholdE'en the solemn Word of God!In the long night, the still night,He walks where Christ hath trod.
'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn,He dies upon the tree;And he mourns that he can loseBut one life for Liberty;And in the blue morn, the sunny morn,His spirit-wings are free.
But his last words, his message-words,They burn, lest friendly eyeShould read how proud and calmA patriot could die,With his last words, his dying words,A soldier's battle-cry.
From the Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,From monument and urn,The sad of earth, the glad of heaven,His tragic fate shall learn;And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leafThe name of HALE shall burn.
[Sidenote: Between Sept. 26, 1777, and June 17, 1778]The heroine's name was Mary Redmond, and she lived in Philadelphia. During the occupation of that town by the British, she was ever ready to aid in the secret delivery of the letters written home by the husbands and fathers fighting in the Continental Army.
A boy drove into the city, his wagon loaded downWith food to feed the people of the British-governed town;And the little black-eyed rebel, so innocent and sly,Was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye.
His face looked broad and honest, his hands were brown and tough,The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and rough;But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh,And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye.
He drove up to the market, he waited in the line;His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine;But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy,Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye.
"Now who will buy my apples?" he shouted, long and loud;And "Who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the crowd;But from all the people round him came no word of a reply,Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye.
For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that day,Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away,Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain or die;And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye.
But the treasures—how to get them? crept the question throughher mind,Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find:And she paused a while and pondered, with a pretty little sigh;Then resolve crept through her features, and a shrewdness firedher eye.
So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red;"May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly said:And the brown face flushed to scarlet; for the boy was some what shy,And he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye.
"You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth he."I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she;And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by,With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye.
Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white andsmall,And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! thrust them underneath myshawl!Carry back againthispackage, and be sure that you are spry!"And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye.
Loud the motley crowd were laughing at the strange, ungirlish freak,And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not speak;And, "Miss,Ihave good apples," a bolder lad did cry;But she answered, "No, I thank you," from the corner of her eye.
With the news of loved ones absent to the dear friends they would greet,Searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through thestreet."There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try,"Thought the little black-eyed rebel, with a twinkle in her eye.
[Sidenote: June 28, 1778]The battle of Monmouth was indecisive, but the Americans held the field, and the British retreated and remained inactive for the rest of the summer.
On the bloody field of MonmouthFlashed the guns of Greene and Wayne.Fiercely roared the tide of battle,Thick the sward was heaped with slain.Foremost, facing death and danger,Hessian, horse, and grenadier,In the vanguard, fiercely fighting,Stood an Irish Cannonier.
Loudly roared his iron cannon,Mingling ever in the strife,And beside him, firm and daring,Stood his faithful Irish wife.Of her bold contempt of dangerGreene and Lee's Brigades could tell,Every one knew "Captain Molly,"And the army loved her well.
Surged the roar of battle round them,Swiftly flew the iron hail,Forward dashed a thousand bayonets,That lone battery to assail.From the foeman's foremost columnsSwept a furious fusillade,Mowing down the massed battalionsIn the ranks of Greene's Brigade.
Fast and faster worked the gunner,Soiled with powder, blood, and dust,English bayonets shone before him,Shot and shell around him burst;Still he fought with reckless daring,Stood and manned her long and well,Till at last the gallant fellowDead—beside his cannon fell.
With a bitter cry of sorrow,And a dark and angry frown,Looked that band of gallant patriotsAt their gunner stricken down."Fall back, comrades, it is follyThus to strive against the foe.""No! not so," cried Irish Molly;"We can strike another blow."
* * * * *
Quickly leaped she to the cannon,In her fallen husband's place,Sponged and rammed it fast and steady,Fired it in the foeman's face.Flashed another ringing volley,Roared another from the gun;"Boys, hurrah!" cried gallant Molly,"For the flag of Washington."
Greene's Brigade, though shorn and shattered,Slain and bleeding half their men,When they heard that Irish slogan,Turned and charged the foe again.Knox and Wayne and Morgan rally,To the front they forward wheel,And before their rushing onsetClinton's English columns reel.
Still the cannon's voice in angerRolled and rattled o'er the plain,Till there lay in swarms around itMangled heaps of Hessian slain."Forward! charge them with the bayonet!"'Twas the voice of Washington,And there burst a fiery greetingFrom the Irish woman's gun.
Monckton falls; against his columnsLeap the troops of Wayne and Lee,And before their reeking bayonetsClinton's red battalions flee.Morgan's rifles, fiercely flashing,Thin the foe's retreating ranks,And behind them onward dashingOgden hovers on their flanks.
Fast they fly, these boasting Britons,Who in all their glory came,With their brutal Hessian hirelingsTo wipe out our country's name.Proudly floats the starry banner,Monmouth's glorious field is won,And in triumph Irish MollyStands beside her smoking gun.
[Sidenote: 1780-1781]While the British Army held South Carolina, Marion and Sumter gathered bands of partisans and waged a vigorous guerilla warfare most harassing and destructive to the invader.
Our band is few, but true and tried,Our leader frank and bold;The British soldier tremblesWhen Marion's name is told.Our fortress is the good greenwoodOur tent the cypress-tree;We know the forest round us,As seamen know the sea.We know its walls of thorny vines,Its glades of reedy grass,Its safe and silent islandsWithin the dark morass.
Woe to the English soldiery,That little dread us near!On them shall light at midnightA strange and sudden fear:When, waking to their tents on fire,They grasp their arms in vain,And they who stand to face usAre beat to earth again.And they who fly in terror deemA mighty host behind,And hear the tramp of thousandsUpon the hollow wind.
Then sweet the hour that brings releaseFrom danger and from toil;We talk the battle over,And share the battle's spoil.The woodland rings with laugh and shoutAs if a hunt were up,And woodland flowers are gatheredTo crown the soldier's cup.With merry songs we mock the windThat in the pine-top grieves,And slumber long and sweetlyOn beds of oaken leaves.
Well knows the fair and friendly moonThe band that Marion leads—The glitter of their rifles,The scampering of their steeds.'Tis life to guide the fiery barbAcross the moonlight plain;'Tis life to feel the night-windThat lifts his tossing mane.A moment in the British camp—A moment—and awayBack to the pathless forest,Before the peep of day.
Grave men there are by broad Santee,Grave men with hoary hairs;Their hearts are all with Marion,For Marion are their prayers.And lovely ladies greet our bandWith kindliest welcoming,With smiles like those of summer,And tears like those of spring.For them we wear these trusty arms,And lay them down no moreTill we have driven the Briton,Forever, from our shore.
[Sidenote: Sept. 8, 1781]The fight of Eutaw Springs, although called a drawn battle, resulted in the withdrawal of the British troops from South Carolina.
At Eutaw Springs the valiant died:Their limbs with dust are covered o'er—Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;How many heroes are no more!
If, in this wreck of ruin, theyCan yet be thought to claim the tear,Oh, smite your gentle breast, and say,The friends of freedom slumber here!
Thou, who shalt trace this bloody plain,If goodness rules thy generous breast,Sigh for the wasted rural reign;Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest!
Stranger, their humble graves adorn;You too may fall, and ask a tear;'Tis not the beauty of the mornThat proves the evening shall be clear,—
They saw their injur'd country's woe;The flaming town, the wasted field;Then rush'd to meet the insulting foe;They took the spear—but left the shield.
Led by thy conquering genius, Greene,The Britons they compell'd to fly:None distant view'd the fatal plain,None griev'd, in such a cause, to die,—
But, like the Parthians, fam'd of old,Who, flying, still their arrows threw;These routed Britons, full as boldRetreated, and retreating slew.
Now rest in peace, our patriot band;Though far from Nature's limits thrown,We trust they find a happier land,A brighter sunshine of their own.
[Sidenote: July 8, 1775]This is a fragment from the ode for the centenary of Washington's taking command of the American army at Cambridge.
Soldier and statesman, rarest unison;High-poised example of great duties doneSimply as breathing, a world's honors wornAs life's indifferent gifts to all men born;Dumb for himself, unless it were to God,But for his barefoot soldiers eloquent,Tramping the snow to coral where they trod,Held by his awe in hollow-eyed content;Modest, yet firm as Nature's self; unblamedSave by the men his nobler temper shamed;Never seduced through show of present goodBy other than unsetting lights to steerNew-trimmed in Heaven, nor than his steadfast moodMore steadfast, far from rashness as from fear,Rigid, but with himself first, grasping stillIn swerveless poise the wave-beat helm of will;Not honored then or now because he wooedThe popular voice, but that he still withstood;Broad-minded, higher-souled, there is but oneWho was all this and ours, and all men's—WASHINGTON.
[Sidenote: Sept. 10, 1813]Throughout the war of 1812 with Great Britain, the navy was more successful than the army. In the battle on Lake Erie, Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry captured six British vessels.
Bright was the morn,—the waveless bayShone like a mirror to the sun;'Mid greenwood shades and meadows gay,The matin birds their lays begun:While swelling o'er the gloomy woodWas heard the faintly-echoed roar,—The dashing of the foaming flood,That beat on Erie's distant shore.
The tawny wanderer of the wildPaddled his painted birch canoe,And, where the wave serenely smiled,Swift as the darting falcon, flew;He rowed along that peaceful bay,And glanced its polished surface o'er,Listening the billow far away,That rolled on Erie's lonely shore.
What sounds awake my slumbering ear,What echoes o'er the waters come?It is the morning gun I hear,The rolling of the distant drum.Far o'er the bright illumined waveI mark the flash,—I hear the roar,That calls from sleep the slumbering brave,To fight on Erie's lonely shore.
See how the starry banner floats,And sparkles in the morning ray:While sweetly swell the fife's gay notesIn echoes o'er the gleaming bay:Flash follows flash, as through yon fleetColumbia's cannons loudly roar,And valiant tars the battle greet,That storms on Erie's echoing shore.
O, who can tell what deeds were done,When Britain's cross, on yonder wave,Sunk 'neath Columbia's dazzling sun,And met in Erie's flood its grave?Who tell the triumphs of that day,When, smiling at the cannon's roar,Our hero, 'mid the bloody fray,Conquered on Erie's echoing shore.
Though many a wounded bosom bleedsFor sire, for son, for lover dear,Yet Sorrow smiles amid her weeds,—Affliction dries her tender tear;Oh! she exclaims, with glowing pride,With ardent thoughts that wildly soar,My sire, my son, my lover died,Conquering on Erie's bloody shore.
Long shall my country bless that day,When soared our Eagle to the skies;Long, long in triumph's bright array,That victory shall proudly rise:And when our country's lights are gone,And all its proudest days are o'er,How will her fading courage dawn,To think on Erie's bloody shore!
[Sidenote: Sept. 14, 1813]After the British had burned the Capitol at Washington, in August, 1813, they retired to their ships, and on September 12th and 13th, they made an attack on Baltimore. This poem was written on the morning after the bombardment of Fort McHenry, while the author was a prisoner on the British fleet.
Oh! say can you see, by the dawn's early light,What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming;Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,What is that which the breeze o'er the towering steepAs it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam;Its full glory reflected now shines on the stream;'Tis the star-spangled banner! Oh! long may it waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
And where is the band who so vauntingly swore,'Mid the havoc of war and the battle's confusion,A home and a country they'd leave us no more?Their blood hath washed out their foul footsteps' pollution;No refuge could save the hireling and slaveFrom the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave,And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall standBetween their loved home and the war's desolation;Blessed with victory and peace, may the Heaven-rescued landPraise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just,And this be our motto, "In God is our trust":And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
[Sidenote: Jan. 8 1815]The treaty of peace between Great Britain and the United States was signed at Ghent, December 14, 1814; but before the news crossed the ocean, Pakenham, with twelve thousand British veterans, attacked New Orleans, defended by Andrew Jackson with five thousand Americans, mostly militia. The British were repulsed with a loss of two thousand; the American loss was trifling.
Here, in my rude log cabin,Few poorer men there beAmong the mountain rangesOf Eastern Tennessee.My limbs are weak and shrunken,White hairs upon my brow,My dog—lie still, old fellow!—My sole companion now.Yet I, when young and lusty,Have gone through stirring scenes,For I went down with CarrollTo fight at New Orleans.
You say you'd like to hear meThe stirring story tellOf those who stood the battleAnd those who fighting fell.Short work to count our losses—We stood and dropp'd the foeAs easily as by firelightMen shoot the buck or doe.And while they fell by hundredsUpon the bloody plain,Of us, fourteen were wounded,And only eight were slain.
The eighth of January,Before the break of day,Our raw and hasty leviesWere brought into array.No cotton-bales before us—Some fool that falsehood told;Before us was an earthwork,Built from the swampy mould.And there we stood in silence,And waited with a frown,To greet with bloody welcomeThe bulldogs of the Crown.
The heavy fog of morningStill hid the plain from sight,When came a thread of scarletMarked faintly in the white.We fired a single cannon,And as its thunders roll'dThe mist before us liftedIn many a heavy fold.The mist before us lifted,And in their bravery fineCame rushing to their ruinThe fearless British line.
Then from our waiting cannonsLeap'd forth the deadly flame,To meet the advancing columnsThat swift and steady came.The thirty-twos of CrowleyAnd Bluchi's twenty-four,To Spotts's eighteen-poundersResponded with their roar,Sending the grape-shot deadlyThat marked its pathway plain,And paved the road it travell'dWith corpses of the slain.
Our rifles firmly grasping,And heedless of the din,We stood in silence waitingFor orders to begin.Our fingers on the triggers,Our hearts, with anger stirr'd,Grew still more fierce and eagerAs Jackson's voice was heard:"Stand steady! Waste no powderWait till your shots will tell!To-day the work you finish—See that you do it well!"
Their columns drawing nearer,We felt our patience tire,When came the voice of Carroll,Distinct and measured, "Fire!"Oh! then you should have mark'd usOur volleys on them pourHave heard our joyous riflesRing sharply through the roar,And seen their foremost columnsMelt hastily awayAs snow in mountain gorgesBefore the floods of May.
They soon reform'd their columns,And 'mid the fatal rainWe never ceased to hurtleCame to their work again.The Forty-fourth is with them,That first its laurels wonWith stout old AbercrombieBeneath an eastern sun.It rushes to the battle,And, though within the rearIts leader is a laggard,It shows no signs of fear.
It did not need its colonel,For soon there came insteadAn eagle-eyed commander,And on its march he led.'Twas Pakenham, in person,The leader of the field;I knew it by the cheeringThat loudly round him peal'd;And by his quick, sharp movement,We felt his heart was stirr'd,As when at Salamanca,He led the fighting Third.
I raised my rifle quickly,I sighted at his breast,God save the gallant leaderAnd take him to his rest!I did not draw the trigger,I could not for my life.So calm he sat his chargerAmid the deadly strife,That in my fiercest momentA prayer arose from me,—God save that gallant leader,Our foeman though he be.
Sir Edward's charger staggers:He leaps at once to ground,And ere the beast falls bleedingAnother horse is found.His right arm falls—'tis wounded;He waves on high his left;In vain he leads the movement,The ranks in twain are cleft.The men in scarlet waverBefore the men in brown,And fly in utter panic—The soldiers of the Crown!
I thought the work was over,But nearer shouts were heard,And came, with Gibbs to head it,The gallant Ninety-third.Then Pakenham, exulting,With proud and joyous glance,Cried, "Children of the tartan—Bold Highlanders—advance!Advance to scale the breastworksAnd drive them from their hold,And show the staunchless courageThat mark'd your sires of old!"
His voice as yet was ringing,When, quick as light, there cameThe roaring of a cannon,And earth seemed all aflame.Who causes thus the thunderThe doom of men to speak?It is the Baritarian,The fearless Dominique.Down through the marshall'd ScotsmenThe step of death is heard,And by the fierce tornadoFalls half the Ninety-third.
The smoke passed slowly upward,And, as it soared on high,I saw the brave commanderIn dying anguish lie.They bear him from the battleWho never fled the foe;Unmoved by death around themHis bearers softly go.In vain their care, so gentle,Fades earth and all its scenes;The man of SalamancaLies dead at New Orleans.
But where were his lieutenants?Had they in terror fled?No! Keane was sorely woundedAnd Gibbs as good as dead.Brave Wilkinson commanding,A major of brigade,The shatter'd force to rally,A final effort made.He led it up our ramparts,Small glory did he gain—Our captives some, while others fled,And he himself was slain.
The stormers had retreated,The bloody work was o'er;The feet of the invadersWere seen to leave our shore.We rested on our riflesAnd talk'd about the fight,When came a sudden murmurLike fire from left to right;We turned and saw our chieftain,And then, good friend of mine,You should have heard the cheeringThat rang along the line.
For well our men rememberedHow little when they came,Had they but native courage,And trust in Jackson's name;How through the day he labored,How kept the vigils still,Till discipline controlled us,A stronger power than will;And how he hurled us at themWithin the evening hour,That red night in December,And made us feel our power.
In answer to our shoutingFire lit his eye of gray;Erect, but thin and pallid,He passed upon his bay.Weak from the baffled fever,And shrunken in each limb,The swamps of AlabamaHad done their work on him.But spite of that and lasting,And hours of sleepless care,The soul of Andrew JacksonShone forth in glory there.
[Sidenote: May 29, 1819]The penultimate quatrain [enclosed in brackets] ended the poem as Drake wrote it, but Fits Greene Halleck suggested the final four lines, and Drake accepted his friend's quatrain in place of his own.
When Freedom, from her mountain height,Unfurled her standard to the air,She tore the azure robe of night,And set the stars of glory there!She mingled with its gorgeous dyesThe milky baldric of the skies,And striped its pure celestial whiteWith streakings of the morning light,Then, from his mansion in the sun,She called her eagle-bearer down,And gave into his mighty handThe symbol of her chosen land!
Majestic monarch of the cloud!Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,To hear the tempest-tramping loud,And see the lightning-lances driven,When stride the warriors of the storm,And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven!Child of the sun! to thee 'tis givenTo guard the banner of the free,To hover in the sulphur smoke,To ward away the battle stroke,And bid its blendings shine afar,Like rainbows on the cloud of war,The harbingers of victory!
Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,The sign of hope and triumph high!When speaks the signal-trumpet tone,And the long line comes gleaming on,(Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,Has dimmed the glist'ning bayonet),Each soldier's eye shall brightly turnTo where thy meteor-glories burn,And, as his springing steps advance,Catch war and vengeance from the glance!And when the cannon-mouthings loudHeave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud,And gory sabres rise and fall,Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall!There shall thy victor-glances glow,And cowering foes shall shrink beneath,Each gallant arm that strikes below,The lovely messenger of death.
Flag of the seas! on ocean's waveThy star shall glitter o'er the brave;When Death, careering on the gale,Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,And frighted waves rush wildly backBefore the broadside's reeling rack,The dying wanderer of the seaShall look, at once, to heaven and thee,And smile, to see thy splendors fly,In triumph, o'er his closing eye.
Flag of the free heart's hope and home,By angel hands to valor given!Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,And all thy hues were born in heaven!
[And fixed as yonder orb divine,That saw thy bannered blaze unfurled,Shall thy proud stars resplendent shine,The guard and glory of the world.]
Forever float that standard sheet!Where breathes the foe but falls before us?With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us!
Sept. 16, 1830The frigate Constitution was launched in 1797, and took part in the war with Tripoli in 1804. In 1812 she captured the British Guerriere on August 19th, and the British Java on December 29th. After the war she served as a training ship. In 1830 it was proposed to break her up, which called forth this indignant poem. In 1876 she was refitted, and in 1878 she took over the American exhibits to the Paris Exhibition. She now lies out of commission in Rotten Row, at the Brooklyn Navy Yard.
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!Long has it waved on high,And many an eye has danced to seeThat banner in the sky;Beneath it rung the battle shout,And burst the cannon's roar;—The meteor of the ocean airShall sweep the clouds no more!
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,Where knelt the vanquished foe,When winds were hurrying o'er the floodAnd waves were white below,No more shall feel the victor's tread,Or know the conquered knee;—The harpies of the shore shall pluckThe eagle of the sea!
Oh, better that her shattered hulkShould sink beneath the wave;Her thunders shook the mighty deep,And there should be her grave;Nail to the mast her holy flag,Set every threadbare sail,And give her to the God of storms,—The lightning and the gale!
[Sidenote: Sept. 19-24, 1846]The assaulting American army at the attack on Monterey numbered six thousand six hundred and twenty-five; the defeated Mexicans were about ten thousand.
We were not many—we who stoodBefore the iron sleet that day;Yet many a gallant spirit wouldGive half his years if but he couldHave with us been at Monterey.
Now here, now there, the shot it hailedIn deadly drifts of fiery spray,Yet not a single soldier quailedWhen wounded comrades round them wailedTheir dying shout at Monterey.
And on—still on our column kept,Through walls of flame, its withering wayWhere fell the dead, the living stept,Still charging on the guns which sweptThe slippery streets of Monterey.
The foe himself recoiled aghast,When, striking where he strongest lay,We swooped his flanking batteries past,And, braving full their murderous blast,Stormed home the towers of Monterey.
Our banners on those turrets wave,And there our evening bugles play;Where orange-boughs above their graveKeep green the memory of the braveWho fought and fell at Monterey.
We are not many—we who pressedBeside the brave who fell that day;But who of us has not confessedHe'd rather share their warrior restThan not have been at Monterey?
[Sidenote: Feb. 22, 23, 1847]This poem was written to commemorate the bringing home of the bodies of the Kentucky soldiers who fell at Buena Vista, and their burial at Frankfort at the cost of the State.
The muffled drum's sad roll has beatThe soldier's last tattoo;No more on life's parade shall meetThat brave and fallen few.On fame's eternal camping groundTheir silent tents are spread,And glory guards, with solemn round,The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advanceNow swells upon the wind;No troubled thought at midnight hauntsOf loved ones left behind;No vision of the morrow's strifeThe warrior's dream alarms;No braying horn, nor screaming fife,At dawn shall call to arms.
Their shivered swords are red with rust,Their plumed heads are bowed;Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,Is now their martial shroud.And plenteous funeral tears have washedThe red stains from each brow,And the proud forms, by battle gashed,Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,The bugle's stirring blast,The charge, the dreadful cannonade,The din and shout are past;Nor war's wild note nor glory's pealShall thrill with fierce delightThose breasts that never more may feelThe rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce northern hurricaneThat sweeps his great plateau,Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,Came down the serried foe.Who heard the thunder of the frayBreak o'er the field beneath,Knew well the watchword of that dayWas "Victory or death."
Long had the doubtful conflict ragedO'er all that stricken plain,For never fiercer fight had wagedThe vengeful blood of Spain;And still the storm of battle blew,Still swelled the gory tide;Not long, our stout old chieftain knew,Such odds his strength could bide.
'T was in that hour his stern commandCalled to a martyr's graveThe flower of his beloved land,The nation's flag to save.By rivers of their father's goreHis first-born laurels grew,And well he deemed the sons would pourTheir lives for glory too.
Full many a norther's breath has sweptO'er Angostura's plain—And long the pitying sky has weptAbove the mouldering slain.The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,Or shepherd's pensive lay,Alone awakes each sullen heightThat frowned o'er that dread fray.
Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground,Ye must not slumber there,Where stranger steps and tongues resoundAlong the heedless air;Your own proud land's heroic soilShall be your fitter grave;
She claims from war his richest spoil—The ashes of her brave.So, 'neath their parent turf they rest,Far from the gory field,Borne to a Spartan mother's breast,On many a bloody shield;The sunshine of their native skySmiles sadly on them here,And kindred eyes and hearts watch byThe heroes' sepulchre.
Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead,Dear as the blood ye gave;No impious footstep here shall treadThe herbage of your grave;Nor shall your glory be forgotWhile Fame her record keeps,Or Honor points the hallowed spotWhere Valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone,In deathless song shall tell,When many a vanished age hath flownThe story how ye fell;Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,Nor Time's remorseless doom,Shall dim one ray of glory's lightThat gilds your deathless tomb.