Learned, though long unchecked they spoil us,Dealing desolation round,Marking, with the tracks of ruinMany a rood of Southern ground;Yet, whatever course they follow,Somewhere in their pathway flowsDark and deep, a Chickamauga,Stream of death to vandal foes.They have found it darkly flowingBy Manassas’ famous plain,And by rushing ShenandoahMet the tide of woe again;Chickahominy, immortal,By the long ensanguined fight,Rappahannock, glorious river,Twice renowned for matchless fight.Heed the story, dastard spoilers,Mark the tale these waters tell,Ponder well your fearful lesson,And the doom that there befell;Learn to shun the Southern vengeance,Sworn upon the votive sword,Every stream a ChickamaugaTo the vile invading horde!
Learned, though long unchecked they spoil us,Dealing desolation round,Marking, with the tracks of ruinMany a rood of Southern ground;Yet, whatever course they follow,Somewhere in their pathway flowsDark and deep, a Chickamauga,Stream of death to vandal foes.They have found it darkly flowingBy Manassas’ famous plain,And by rushing ShenandoahMet the tide of woe again;Chickahominy, immortal,By the long ensanguined fight,Rappahannock, glorious river,Twice renowned for matchless fight.Heed the story, dastard spoilers,Mark the tale these waters tell,Ponder well your fearful lesson,And the doom that there befell;Learn to shun the Southern vengeance,Sworn upon the votive sword,Every stream a ChickamaugaTo the vile invading horde!
Learned, though long unchecked they spoil us,Dealing desolation round,Marking, with the tracks of ruinMany a rood of Southern ground;Yet, whatever course they follow,Somewhere in their pathway flowsDark and deep, a Chickamauga,Stream of death to vandal foes.
Learned, though long unchecked they spoil us,
Dealing desolation round,
Marking, with the tracks of ruin
Many a rood of Southern ground;
Yet, whatever course they follow,
Somewhere in their pathway flows
Dark and deep, a Chickamauga,
Stream of death to vandal foes.
They have found it darkly flowingBy Manassas’ famous plain,And by rushing ShenandoahMet the tide of woe again;Chickahominy, immortal,By the long ensanguined fight,Rappahannock, glorious river,Twice renowned for matchless fight.
They have found it darkly flowing
By Manassas’ famous plain,
And by rushing Shenandoah
Met the tide of woe again;
Chickahominy, immortal,
By the long ensanguined fight,
Rappahannock, glorious river,
Twice renowned for matchless fight.
Heed the story, dastard spoilers,Mark the tale these waters tell,Ponder well your fearful lesson,And the doom that there befell;Learn to shun the Southern vengeance,Sworn upon the votive sword,Every stream a ChickamaugaTo the vile invading horde!
Heed the story, dastard spoilers,
Mark the tale these waters tell,
Ponder well your fearful lesson,
And the doom that there befell;
Learn to shun the Southern vengeance,
Sworn upon the votive sword,
Every stream a Chickamauga
To the vile invading horde!
None the less, in the battles that followed, the Union forces prevailed. In the three days’ fighting before Chattanooga, culminating in the Battle of Missionary Ridge, on November twenty-fifth, the Confederates were set in full flight. J. Augustine Signaigo described this fight in “The Heights of Mission Ridge.” The final catastrophe had begun.
It had been threatening for a long time. By the end of ’63, nearly every Southern home had suffered some loss or sorrow. “Our Christmas Hymn” by Dr. John Dickson Bruns of Charleston, put the grief of the land into words.
Wild bells! that shake the midnight airWith those dear tones that custom loves,You wake no sounds of laughter hereNor mirth in all our silent groves;On one broad waste, by hill or flood,Of ravaged lands your music falls,And where the happy homestead stoodThe stars look down on roofless halls.
Wild bells! that shake the midnight airWith those dear tones that custom loves,You wake no sounds of laughter hereNor mirth in all our silent groves;On one broad waste, by hill or flood,Of ravaged lands your music falls,And where the happy homestead stoodThe stars look down on roofless halls.
Wild bells! that shake the midnight airWith those dear tones that custom loves,You wake no sounds of laughter hereNor mirth in all our silent groves;On one broad waste, by hill or flood,Of ravaged lands your music falls,And where the happy homestead stoodThe stars look down on roofless halls.
Wild bells! that shake the midnight air
With those dear tones that custom loves,
You wake no sounds of laughter here
Nor mirth in all our silent groves;
On one broad waste, by hill or flood,
Of ravaged lands your music falls,
And where the happy homestead stood
The stars look down on roofless halls.
Timrod’s “Christmas, 1863,” shows a South that is sobered, and weary of battle: who with no idea of yielding, nevertheless, yearns for peace.
How grace this hallowed day?Shall happy bells, from yonder ancient spire,Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fireRound which the children play?How could we bear the mirth,While some loved reveller of a year agoKeeps his mute Christmas now beneath the snow,In cold Virginian earth?How shall we grace the day?Oh! let the thought that on this holy mornThe Prince of Peace—the Prince of Peace was born,Employ us, while we pray!He who till time shall cease,Shall watch that earth, where once, not all in vainHe died to give us peace, will not disdainA prayer whose theme is—peace.Perhaps, ’ere yet the springHath died into the summer, over allThe land, the peace of His vast love shall fallLike some protecting wing.Peace on the whirring marts,Peace where the scholar thinks, the hunter roams,Peace, God of Peace! peace, peace in all our homes,And peace in all our hearts!
How grace this hallowed day?Shall happy bells, from yonder ancient spire,Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fireRound which the children play?How could we bear the mirth,While some loved reveller of a year agoKeeps his mute Christmas now beneath the snow,In cold Virginian earth?How shall we grace the day?Oh! let the thought that on this holy mornThe Prince of Peace—the Prince of Peace was born,Employ us, while we pray!He who till time shall cease,Shall watch that earth, where once, not all in vainHe died to give us peace, will not disdainA prayer whose theme is—peace.Perhaps, ’ere yet the springHath died into the summer, over allThe land, the peace of His vast love shall fallLike some protecting wing.Peace on the whirring marts,Peace where the scholar thinks, the hunter roams,Peace, God of Peace! peace, peace in all our homes,And peace in all our hearts!
How grace this hallowed day?Shall happy bells, from yonder ancient spire,Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fireRound which the children play?
How grace this hallowed day?
Shall happy bells, from yonder ancient spire,
Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fire
Round which the children play?
How could we bear the mirth,While some loved reveller of a year agoKeeps his mute Christmas now beneath the snow,In cold Virginian earth?
How could we bear the mirth,
While some loved reveller of a year ago
Keeps his mute Christmas now beneath the snow,
In cold Virginian earth?
How shall we grace the day?Oh! let the thought that on this holy mornThe Prince of Peace—the Prince of Peace was born,Employ us, while we pray!
How shall we grace the day?
Oh! let the thought that on this holy morn
The Prince of Peace—the Prince of Peace was born,
Employ us, while we pray!
He who till time shall cease,Shall watch that earth, where once, not all in vainHe died to give us peace, will not disdainA prayer whose theme is—peace.
He who till time shall cease,
Shall watch that earth, where once, not all in vain
He died to give us peace, will not disdain
A prayer whose theme is—peace.
Perhaps, ’ere yet the springHath died into the summer, over allThe land, the peace of His vast love shall fallLike some protecting wing.
Perhaps, ’ere yet the spring
Hath died into the summer, over all
The land, the peace of His vast love shall fall
Like some protecting wing.
Peace on the whirring marts,Peace where the scholar thinks, the hunter roams,Peace, God of Peace! peace, peace in all our homes,And peace in all our hearts!
Peace on the whirring marts,
Peace where the scholar thinks, the hunter roams,
Peace, God of Peace! peace, peace in all our homes,
And peace in all our hearts!
1864 was a year to be endured in stricken anguish. After a comparative lull during the first months of the war, on the fourth of May three Union armies moved forward, two destined for Richmond to shatter what part of the original Confederate line there was left, and one for Atlanta against Johnston and Hood, setting out to employ the troops still in the far South, and keep them from the relief of Lee and Richmond. This latter campaign was to end in the fall of Atlanta, and “Sherman’s March to the Sea,” and caused the invention of a new word.
Gaunt and grim like a spectre rose that word before the world,From a land of bloom and beauty into ruin rudely hurled,From a people scourged by exile, from a city ostracisedPallas-like it sprang to being, and that word is—Shermanized.16
Gaunt and grim like a spectre rose that word before the world,From a land of bloom and beauty into ruin rudely hurled,From a people scourged by exile, from a city ostracisedPallas-like it sprang to being, and that word is—Shermanized.16
Gaunt and grim like a spectre rose that word before the world,From a land of bloom and beauty into ruin rudely hurled,From a people scourged by exile, from a city ostracisedPallas-like it sprang to being, and that word is—Shermanized.16
Gaunt and grim like a spectre rose that word before the world,
From a land of bloom and beauty into ruin rudely hurled,
From a people scourged by exile, from a city ostracised
Pallas-like it sprang to being, and that word is—Shermanized.16
Atlanta fell, despite Hood’s frantic efforts, on September third, ’64. Hood’s rashness in engaging in a counter attack against Nashville, cost him several severe defeats, and finally his army. Tennessee was thus brought entirely under Union control, andlate in December, on the twenty-fourth, Sherman occupied Savannah. Two poems, by the same author, Alethea S. Burroughs of Georgia, commemorate this incident most poignantly, “Savannah,” written in encouragement when her ruin seemed impending, and “Savannah Fallen,” written after the occupation of the town.
On the way to Savannah, Sherman’s route had lain through Columbia, which had been pillaged and burned, a circumstance that was the savage inspiration of James Barron Hope’s flaming verses, “A Poem that Needs No Dedication.” The sack of Columbia caused the evacuation of Charleston by the Confederate forces, then directly menaced, and before the oncoming destroyer the city was deserted. The pitiful fate of the city which had witnessed the birth and earliest days of the Confederacy, could not fail to stir the anguish of the Southern poets. “The Foe at the Gates,” by Dr. Bruns, for example, reveals the still prevailing temper of the South.
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.To save her proud soul from that loathed 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 paean sung and anthem rolled,Give her, unspotted, to the God of Fire.Gather around her sacred ashes, then,Sprinkle the cherished dust with crimson rainDie! as becomes a race of freeborn men,Who will not crouch to wear the bondsmen’s chain.
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.To save her proud soul from that loathed 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 paean sung and anthem rolled,Give her, unspotted, to the God of Fire.Gather around her sacred ashes, then,Sprinkle the cherished dust with crimson rainDie! as becomes a race of freeborn men,Who will not crouch to wear the bondsmen’s chain.
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! 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.
To save her proud soul from that loathed 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.
To save her proud soul from that loathed thrall
Which 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 paean sung and anthem rolled,Give her, unspotted, to the God of Fire.
From all her fanes let solemn bells be tolled,
Heap with kind hands her costly funeral pyre,
And thus, with paean sung and anthem rolled,
Give her, unspotted, to the God of Fire.
Gather around her sacred ashes, then,Sprinkle the cherished dust with crimson rainDie! as becomes a race of freeborn men,Who will not crouch to wear the bondsmen’s chain.
Gather around her sacred ashes, then,
Sprinkle the cherished dust with crimson rain
Die! as becomes a race of freeborn men,
Who will not crouch to wear the bondsmen’s chain.
To the poets of the South, the fate of this city was particularly significant, for if any place may be said to have been the literary centre of the Confederacy, it was Charleston. There, for example, lived Simms and Timrod and Hayne, the leaders of her lyrists, who, in the general destruction of the city, suffered the loss of their homes and libraries. Had Charleston been spared to them and to others, the literary history of the South in the daysafter the war might have been a different tale. As it was, the disaster to each of these particular men proved irretrievable.
Lee, during the summer months, though stoutly resisting, and adroitly circumventing the enemy at nearly every turn, was nevertheless being forced back against Richmond. The Battles of the Wilderness, May fifth and sixth, the Spottsylvania fighting, on the eighth to the twentieth, and Cold Harbor, on June third, resulted in advantage first to one side and to the other. Then the conflict swung below Richmond to Petersburg, and for the next month, the Union forces were halted before that strongly fortified town. The “Battle of the Crater” was fought on July thirtieth, over ground destroyed by Federal mines, but it was unsuccessful for the Unionists, and their losses were so terrific that for the next winter, at least, Richmond was safe.
The Petersburg siege is noteworthy since during it were written some of the most attractive lyrics of the war, like “Dreaming in the Trenches,” by Gordon McCabe, and “A Bloody Day is Dawning,” by William Munford. It is remarkable that such freshness of phrase could be given to men wearied by three years of disappointing struggle. One may imagine that this is but another indication of the vitality and spirit that was an integral part of the Southern character.
By the end of ’64, the Confederate battle wall had been crumpled and was beaten in, everywhere except in Virginia, before Richmond. Peace for a stricken land was the immediate concern alike of poets and people. Beyond that they did not trust themselves to think: but peace was the universal prayer.
Peace! Peace! God of our fathers, grant us Peace!Peace in our hearts, and at Thine altars; PeaceOn the red waters and their blighted shores;Peace for the leaguered cities, and the hostsThat watch and bleed, around them and within;Peace for the homeless and the fatherless;Peace for the captive on his weary way,And the mad crowds who jeer his helplessness.For them that suffer, them that do the wrong—Sinning and sinned against—O, God! for all—For a distracted, torn and bleeding land—Speed the glad tidings! Give us, give us Peace.17
Peace! Peace! God of our fathers, grant us Peace!Peace in our hearts, and at Thine altars; PeaceOn the red waters and their blighted shores;Peace for the leaguered cities, and the hostsThat watch and bleed, around them and within;Peace for the homeless and the fatherless;Peace for the captive on his weary way,And the mad crowds who jeer his helplessness.For them that suffer, them that do the wrong—Sinning and sinned against—O, God! for all—For a distracted, torn and bleeding land—Speed the glad tidings! Give us, give us Peace.17
Peace! Peace! God of our fathers, grant us Peace!Peace in our hearts, and at Thine altars; PeaceOn the red waters and their blighted shores;Peace for the leaguered cities, and the hostsThat watch and bleed, around them and within;Peace for the homeless and the fatherless;Peace for the captive on his weary way,And the mad crowds who jeer his helplessness.For them that suffer, them that do the wrong—Sinning and sinned against—O, God! for all—For a distracted, torn and bleeding land—Speed the glad tidings! Give us, give us Peace.17
Peace! Peace! God of our fathers, grant us Peace!
Peace in our hearts, and at Thine altars; Peace
On the red waters and their blighted shores;
Peace for the leaguered cities, and the hosts
That watch and bleed, around them and within;
Peace for the homeless and the fatherless;
Peace for the captive on his weary way,
And the mad crowds who jeer his helplessness.
For them that suffer, them that do the wrong—
Sinning and sinned against—O, God! for all—
For a distracted, torn and bleeding land—
Speed the glad tidings! Give us, give us Peace.17
The end came quickly. After a winter of preparation, determined among the Union forces, despairing among Lee’s men, the attack on Petersburg was resumed and carried on April second, of ’65. The next day, Richmond fell. Lee found escape impossible, and on the twelfth the little white farmhouse at Appomattox Court House, in the meeting of Lee and Grant, witnessed at once the death of a young nation and the rebirth of an older one.
Lyric as had always been the poetic genius of the South, it was but natural that her anguished cry of despair and defeat should be put into the mouths of her poets. For the most part, the poems on this theme are of beautiful quality, and those still extant form the largest single class in the war poetry of the four years.18Correspondingly, they constitute a glass wherein one may see how defeat came to the South, and how she met the challenge of the issue. There were, of course, some spirits which cried out beneath the unendurable prick that death itself had been preferable to defeat. There is not emotion more appalling than despair for which one sees no relieving element of comfort. Such poems as “Stack Arms,” by Joseph Blythe Alston, “Doffing the Gray,” by Lieutenant Falligant, “The Price of Peace” by “Luola” or “Peace” by Alethea Burroughs of Savannah are terrible expressions of this attitude. At the same time, there were those who like Mrs. Preston, in “Acceptation,” met the issue more bravely and gently:
We do accept thee, heavenly Peace!Albeit thou comest in a guiseUnlooked for—undesired, our eyesWelcome, thro’ tears, the kind releaseFrom war and woe and want—surceaseFor which we bless thee, holy Peace!We lift our foreheads from the dust;And as we meet thy brow’s clear calm,There falls a freshening sense of balmUpon our spirits. Fear—distrust—The hopeless present on us thrust—We’ll front them as we can, and must.Then courage, brothers! Tho’ our breastAche with that rankling thorn, despair,That failure plants so sharply there—No pang, no pain shall be confessed;We’ll work and watch the brightening west,And leave to God and Heaven, the rest.
We do accept thee, heavenly Peace!Albeit thou comest in a guiseUnlooked for—undesired, our eyesWelcome, thro’ tears, the kind releaseFrom war and woe and want—surceaseFor which we bless thee, holy Peace!We lift our foreheads from the dust;And as we meet thy brow’s clear calm,There falls a freshening sense of balmUpon our spirits. Fear—distrust—The hopeless present on us thrust—We’ll front them as we can, and must.Then courage, brothers! Tho’ our breastAche with that rankling thorn, despair,That failure plants so sharply there—No pang, no pain shall be confessed;We’ll work and watch the brightening west,And leave to God and Heaven, the rest.
We do accept thee, heavenly Peace!Albeit thou comest in a guiseUnlooked for—undesired, our eyesWelcome, thro’ tears, the kind releaseFrom war and woe and want—surceaseFor which we bless thee, holy Peace!
We do accept thee, heavenly Peace!
Albeit thou comest in a guise
Unlooked for—undesired, our eyes
Welcome, thro’ tears, the kind release
From war and woe and want—surcease
For which we bless thee, holy Peace!
We lift our foreheads from the dust;And as we meet thy brow’s clear calm,There falls a freshening sense of balmUpon our spirits. Fear—distrust—The hopeless present on us thrust—We’ll front them as we can, and must.
We lift our foreheads from the dust;
And as we meet thy brow’s clear calm,
There falls a freshening sense of balm
Upon our spirits. Fear—distrust—
The hopeless present on us thrust—
We’ll front them as we can, and must.
Then courage, brothers! Tho’ our breastAche with that rankling thorn, despair,That failure plants so sharply there—No pang, no pain shall be confessed;We’ll work and watch the brightening west,And leave to God and Heaven, the rest.
Then courage, brothers! Tho’ our breast
Ache with that rankling thorn, despair,
That failure plants so sharply there—
No pang, no pain shall be confessed;
We’ll work and watch the brightening west,
And leave to God and Heaven, the rest.
There were others who accepted the inevitable gracefully, but defiantly.
Weep, if thou wilt, with proud sad mien,Thy blasted hopes—thy peace undone;Yet brave, live on—nor seek to shunThy fate, like Egypt’s conquered queen.Though forced a captive’s place to fill,In the triumphal train—yet there,Superbly, like Zenobia, wearThy chains—Virginia victrixstill.19
Weep, if thou wilt, with proud sad mien,Thy blasted hopes—thy peace undone;Yet brave, live on—nor seek to shunThy fate, like Egypt’s conquered queen.Though forced a captive’s place to fill,In the triumphal train—yet there,Superbly, like Zenobia, wearThy chains—Virginia victrixstill.19
Weep, if thou wilt, with proud sad mien,Thy blasted hopes—thy peace undone;Yet brave, live on—nor seek to shunThy fate, like Egypt’s conquered queen.
Weep, if thou wilt, with proud sad mien,
Thy blasted hopes—thy peace undone;
Yet brave, live on—nor seek to shun
Thy fate, like Egypt’s conquered queen.
Though forced a captive’s place to fill,In the triumphal train—yet there,Superbly, like Zenobia, wearThy chains—Virginia victrixstill.19
Though forced a captive’s place to fill,
In the triumphal train—yet there,
Superbly, like Zenobia, wear
Thy chains—Virginia victrixstill.19
There were yet others to whom the fall of the Confederacy was typified in the furling of its banner. Poems like “The Conquered Banner,” by Father Ryan, and J. C. M.’s “Cruci Dum Spiro, Fido,” and A. J. Requier’s “Ashes of Glory” are typical expressions of such spirits. Then there were those who, like D. B. Lucas, “In the Land Where We Were Dreaming,” began to regard the struggle as the passing of a spirit world with which had passed all chivalry and beauty.
There are many of these verses portraying the end, each slightly differing in spirit from the one before, each repaying careful study with the beauty of its melody, and as a class, forming the noblest group of the war poems, whose only companions may be the earliest of the “Cry to Arms” series. Yet these poems of defeat are infinitely the more appealing in that the fire and dash of the earlier verses has here given way to the dignity of sorrow. “For the people’s hopes are dead.”
Hundreds of poems written during the four years of conflict reflect either individual reactions to war conditions, or incidents of battle. Besides these there are the prison verses, humorous pieces, and the southern songs, which in no way concern the historical passage of the War. There are poems of personal feeling, for example, like the exquisite and tender “The Confederate Soldier’s Wife Parting From Her Husband” or MajorS. Y. Levy’s “Love Letter,” or Fanny Downing’s “Dreaming.” There are poems that picture the life of the civilian population, like “The Homespun Dress” by Miss Sinclair, or the anonymous “Your Mission” which is of more than passing interest since in the South it was attributed equally to John R. Thompson, Mrs. Preston, Paul H. Hayne, and Mrs. Browning.20There are poems reflecting the ravages of the war on the families of the soldiers, like “Heart Victories,” “Somebody’s Darling,” “Reading the List,” “Volunteered,” and “The Unreturning.” One could continue the catalogue indefinitely.
The prison verse, while not extensive, is for the most part, of good quality. There are five men whose work may be considered as representative, S. Teackle Wallis, who was imprisoned at Fort Warren, and four at Johnson’s Island. Wallis’s “To The Exchanged Prisoners” was written in Fort Warren in July ’62, and is one of the first of the prison poems which we can identify as such. The others, Major A. S. Hawkins, Colonel Beuhring H. Jones, Colonel W. W. Fontaine, and Major George McKnight, (“Asa Hartz,”) wrote two years later, in ’64 and ’65. Hawkins was the author of many poems, all of them popular, “The Hero Without a Name,” “To Infidelia,” “True to the Last,” “Give Up,” “A Prisoner’s Fancy.” About the best known of Beuhring Jones’ verses were “To a Dear Comforter,” and the rather humorous “Rat den Linden.” Fontaine was the author of many poems, notably “The Countersign,” “Virginia Desolate,” and “The Cliff Beside the Sea.” It remained for “Asa Hartz” to while away his prison hours in writing lines so delightfully humorous, so free and swift moving, that it is difficult to believe they could have been written within prison walls. “Living or Dying,” “Will No One Write to Me?” “To Exchange-Commissioner Ould,” and “My Love and I” are among the best of his lighter verses: “Exchanged,” and “Farewell to Johnson’s Island” are of more sober temper. “My Love and I” is the best example of his work:
My love reposes on a rosewood frame—A bunk have I;A couch of feathery down fills up the same—Mine’s straw, but dry;She sinks to sleep at night with scarce a sigh—With waking eyes I watch the hours creep by.My love her daily dinner takes in state—And so do I (?);The richest viands flank her silver plate—Course grub have I.Pure wines she sips at ease, her thirst to slake—I pump my drink from Erie’s limpid lake!My love has all the world at will to roam—Three acres I;She goes abroad, or quiet sits at home—So cannot I;Bright angels watch around her couch at night—A Yank, with loaded gun, keeps me in sight.A thousand weary miles do stretch betweenMy love and I;To her, this wintry night, cool, calm, serene,I waft a sigh;And hope with all my earnestness of soul,Tomorrow’s mail may bring me my parole!There’s hope ahead! We’ll one day meet again—My love and I;We’ll wipe away all tears of sorrow then,Her lovelit eyeWill all my many troubles then beguile,And keep this wayward reb. from Johnston’s Isle.
My love reposes on a rosewood frame—A bunk have I;A couch of feathery down fills up the same—Mine’s straw, but dry;She sinks to sleep at night with scarce a sigh—With waking eyes I watch the hours creep by.My love her daily dinner takes in state—And so do I (?);The richest viands flank her silver plate—Course grub have I.Pure wines she sips at ease, her thirst to slake—I pump my drink from Erie’s limpid lake!My love has all the world at will to roam—Three acres I;She goes abroad, or quiet sits at home—So cannot I;Bright angels watch around her couch at night—A Yank, with loaded gun, keeps me in sight.A thousand weary miles do stretch betweenMy love and I;To her, this wintry night, cool, calm, serene,I waft a sigh;And hope with all my earnestness of soul,Tomorrow’s mail may bring me my parole!There’s hope ahead! We’ll one day meet again—My love and I;We’ll wipe away all tears of sorrow then,Her lovelit eyeWill all my many troubles then beguile,And keep this wayward reb. from Johnston’s Isle.
My love reposes on a rosewood frame—A bunk have I;A couch of feathery down fills up the same—Mine’s straw, but dry;She sinks to sleep at night with scarce a sigh—With waking eyes I watch the hours creep by.
My love reposes on a rosewood frame—
A bunk have I;
A couch of feathery down fills up the same—
Mine’s straw, but dry;
She sinks to sleep at night with scarce a sigh—
With waking eyes I watch the hours creep by.
My love her daily dinner takes in state—And so do I (?);The richest viands flank her silver plate—Course grub have I.Pure wines she sips at ease, her thirst to slake—I pump my drink from Erie’s limpid lake!
My love her daily dinner takes in state—
And so do I (?);
The richest viands flank her silver plate—
Course grub have I.
Pure wines she sips at ease, her thirst to slake—
I pump my drink from Erie’s limpid lake!
My love has all the world at will to roam—Three acres I;She goes abroad, or quiet sits at home—So cannot I;Bright angels watch around her couch at night—A Yank, with loaded gun, keeps me in sight.
My love has all the world at will to roam—
Three acres I;
She goes abroad, or quiet sits at home—
So cannot I;
Bright angels watch around her couch at night—
A Yank, with loaded gun, keeps me in sight.
A thousand weary miles do stretch betweenMy love and I;To her, this wintry night, cool, calm, serene,I waft a sigh;And hope with all my earnestness of soul,Tomorrow’s mail may bring me my parole!
A thousand weary miles do stretch between
My love and I;
To her, this wintry night, cool, calm, serene,
I waft a sigh;
And hope with all my earnestness of soul,
Tomorrow’s mail may bring me my parole!
There’s hope ahead! We’ll one day meet again—My love and I;We’ll wipe away all tears of sorrow then,Her lovelit eyeWill all my many troubles then beguile,And keep this wayward reb. from Johnston’s Isle.
There’s hope ahead! We’ll one day meet again—
My love and I;
We’ll wipe away all tears of sorrow then,
Her lovelit eye
Will all my many troubles then beguile,
And keep this wayward reb. from Johnston’s Isle.
The poetry dealing with incidents of the war is varied, and touches many subjects. There were such verses for example, as “The Silent March,” by Walker Meriweather Bell, written on an occasion during the war when General Lee was lying asleep by the wayside and an army of fifteen thousand men “passed by with hushed voices and footsteps, lest they should disturb his slumbers;” “Stonewall Jackson’s Way,” written on the theme of the great general’s ability “always to be where needed and in the thick of things;” “The Lone Sentry,” based on an incident, common to all wars, of the great general relieving a weary sentry; “The Battle Rainbow” by John R. Thompson, inspired by the rainbow that appeared the evening before the beginning of the Seven Days of Battle before Richmond. “The rainbow overspread the eastern sky, and exactly defined the position of the Confederate army, as seen from the Capitol at Richmond.” There were poems like “Music in Camp” also by John R. Thompson, suggested by anincident that occurred just after Chancellorsville: and “The Unknown Hero,” by W. Gordon McCabe, based on the discovery, “after the Battle of Malvern Hill, of a [Confederate] soldier lying dead fifty yards in advance of any man or officer, his musket firmly grasped in the rigid fingers, name unknown, simply ‘2 La’ on his cap.”
Another interesting group of poems, closely connected with the war, although not with the actual progress of events, is found in the national and the army songs which were sung in camp and field and by the fire-side. It was natural that “Dixie” should be the most popular of airs, and while it admitted of endless variations and sentiments, the words that were generally sung to it were those by Albert Pike. The Marseillaise was another widely popular air, to which were sung any number of poems. One of these “The Southern Marseillaise” by A. E. Blackmar, written early in 1861, was sung by the troops as they marched to their assembling points, and may very properly be called the Rallying Song of the South.
“The Bonnie Blue Flag,” by Harry Macarthy was the favorite of the popular national songs. It was first sung by him on the stage of the Academy of Music in New Orleans, in September, 1861, and caused such excitement that the event precipitated a riot. When General Butler was in command of the city, two years later, he threatened to impose a fine of twenty-five dollars on any man, woman or child who sang it. In addition he arrested the publisher, A. E. Blackmar, destroyed the sheet music, and fined him five hundred dollars. After the tune became established as a favorite, Mrs. Annie Chambers Ketchum of Kentucky wrote other words to the air, which were frequently used.21In addition to the national songs, the various states used particular anthems. Maryland had Randall’s song, “Maryland, My Maryland.” For South Carolina there were Timrod’s noble lines in the same strain, “Carolina.” “Georgia, My Georgia” was written by Carrie Bell Sinclair, and the “Song of the Texas Rangers” by Mrs. J. D. Young. These are but a few among a longer list.
It has been said22that while the Confederate Army was not “absolutely destitute of songs, it simply lacked a plentiful supplyof songs written especially for the moment.” This is far from being the case. Indeed, the camp songs and marching ballads written in the Confederate camps during the war, are legion. They vary in excellence from “The Cavaliers’ Glee” by Captain William Blackford of Stuart’s staff, to the extremely popular and delightful “Goober Peas,” by A. Pender. For the camp catches there were certain stock tunes, such as the “Happy Land of Canaan,” “Wait for the Wagon,” “We’ll Be Free in Maryland,” “Gay and Happy,” which were used over and over, and to which words were improvised to fit the occasion. Even the slender Confederate Navy had her stock of ballads. “The Alabama,” by E. King, author of “Naval Songs of the South,” is the best representative of this class.
It is not strange that during the chaotic days of the Confederacy, poems that had been written by Southerners in antebellum days were published in the South as of Confederate origin; and that poems of the war period written in the North or abroad should be attributed to Confederate authors. In the first category are verses such as “My Wife and Child,” by Henry R. Jackson of Georgia, which he wrote during the Mexican War, and in the second class, “The Soldier Boy,” a widely popular poem which was really by the Englishman, Dr. William Maginn (1793-1842), whom Thackeray satirized as “Captain Shalow” inPendennis, but which was assigned to “H. M. L.” of Lynchburg, and even given the circumstantial date of May 18, 1861. Another poem that was widely copied, but which was really written by T. Buchanan Read in Rome in 1861, was “The Brave at Home.”
Two other poems whose origins have attracted much attention are “The Confederate Note,” by Major S. A. Jonas of Mississippi, and “All Quiet Along the Potomac Tonight,” by Mrs. Ethel Lynn Beers. Major Jonas seems to have established unquestionable claim to his poem in a letter to the LouisvilleCourier, under date of December 11, 1889. The poem by Mrs. Beers was a long time claimed for Lomar Fontaine. Mrs. Beers had written the verses in 1861, in which year they had appeared inHarper’s Weekly. Late in ’62 they began to circulate in the South, and for some unknown reason were assigned to Lomar Fontaine. He was at once showered with praise and eulogy, but it is interesting to note that in the Editor’s Table of theSouthern Literary Messengerfor June, 1863 (p. 375) at the end of verses by Henry C. Alexander“To Lomar Fontaine, the author of the verses entitled ‘All Quiet Along the Potomac Tonight,’ and if report be true, one of the unrewarded heroes of the South” the Editor has subscribed the following discriminating comment: “It is questionable whether Fontaine wrote the ‘All Quiet Along the Potomac.’ There was no occasion to incite such a poem. Our pickets along the Potomac were rarely if ever shot: those of the Yankees were shot night after night.23We have heard that the author of the lines attributed to Fontaine is an Ohioan. A brave man—a hero, if you will,—Fontaine has yet to prove that he is a poet.”
One other poem whose origin has been questioned is “The Countersign,” which, reprinted in the PhiladelphiaPressin 1861, was declared to have been written by a private in Company G, Stuart’s Engineer Regiment, at Camp Lesley, near Washington. F. F. Browne, inBugle Echoes, cryptically adds: “But it may now be stated positively that it was written by a Confederate soldier, still living. The third line of the fifth stanza affords internal evidence of Southern origin.” This Confederate soldier was Colonel W. W. Fontaine.
Metrical study of the Southern war poetry leads inevitably to the conclusion that Southern temperament lent itself naturally to rhythmic expression. The poets of the South, many of them untrained in the technique of their art, wrote in every metrical arrangement that can be imagined, from curious irregular unrhymed rhythms to ballad measure, and to the long and intricate stanzaic forms used by Simms and Timrod. In nearly every case, except, of course, with the cruder camp songs, the verses flow felicitously, and the effect is melodious. Even in the sonnet form24although the Southerner did not seem capable of writing a true sonnet, the rhythm moves with ease and harmony. The verses may infringe every rule of the sonnet form, but the result is effective.
Such is the achievement of the Southern war verse. It is a wonderfully effective expression of sentiment, and becomes all the more remarkable when one considers the conditions under which it was created. It was written in a land first rich and prosperous, then through four weary years ravaged andstarved into ruin: by soldiers in the field and in the prisons, and women suffering silently at home. Even the mediums through which this poetry was published, shared the vicissitudes of the land, and have been generally destroyed or scattered. Nevertheless the war poetry of the Confederacy which remains to us today, stands as an enduring memorial to the inherent nobility of the Southern heart and to the fidelity of devotion to principle, which has always given the South the admiration of those who, while they cannot agree with her point of view, must nevertheless respect her courage and spirit. At the same time it forms a notable contribution to the literature of our land. Best of all, this poetry satisfies the function of those “Sentinel Songs” of which Father A. J. Ryan wrote, on May sixth, 1867:
When sinks the soldier braveDead at the feet of Wrong,The poet sings, and guards his graveWith sentinels of song.When marble wears awayAnd monuments are dust,The Songs that guard our soldiers’ clayWill still fulfill their trust.
When sinks the soldier braveDead at the feet of Wrong,The poet sings, and guards his graveWith sentinels of song.When marble wears awayAnd monuments are dust,The Songs that guard our soldiers’ clayWill still fulfill their trust.
When sinks the soldier braveDead at the feet of Wrong,The poet sings, and guards his graveWith sentinels of song.
When sinks the soldier brave
Dead at the feet of Wrong,
The poet sings, and guards his grave
With sentinels of song.
When marble wears awayAnd monuments are dust,The Songs that guard our soldiers’ clayWill still fulfill their trust.
When marble wears away
And monuments are dust,
The Songs that guard our soldiers’ clay
Will still fulfill their trust.