The following lines were written on General Beauregard's appeal to the people to contribute their bells, that they may be melted into cannon.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,Still the tinkling on the plains,And transmute the evening chimesInto war's resounding rhymes,That the invaders may be slainBy the bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,That for years have called to prayer,And, instead, the cannon's roarShall resound the valleys o'er,That the foe may catch despairFrom the bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,Though it cost a tear to partWith the music they have made,Where the friends we love are laid,With pale cheek and silent heart,'Neath the bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,Into cannon, vast and grim,And the foe shall feel the ireFrom each heaving lungs of fire,And we'll put our trust in HimAnd the bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,And when foes no more attack,And the lightning cloud of warShall roll thunderless and far,We will melt the cannon backInto bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,And they'll peal a sweeter chime,And remind of all the braveWho have sunk to glory's grave,And will sleep thro' coming time'Neath the bells.
Just as the spring came laughing through the strife,With all its gorgeous cheer;In the bright April of historic lifeFell the great cannoneer.
The wondrous lulling of a hero's breathHis bleeding country weeps--Hushed in the alabaster arms of death,Our young Marcellus sleeps.
Nobler and grander than the Child of Rome,Curbing his chariot steeds;The knightly scion of a Southern homeDazzled the land with deeds.
Gentlest and bravest in the battle brunt,The champion of the truth,He bore his banner to the very frontOf our immortal youth.
A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow,The fiery pang of shells--And there's a wail of immemorial woeIn Alabama dells.
The pennon drops that led the sacred bandAlong the crimson field;The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless handOver the spotless shield.
We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous faceWhile 'round the lips and eyes,Couched in the marble slumber, flashed the graceOf a divine surprise.
Oh, mother of a blessed soul on high!Thy tears may soon be shed--Think of thy boy with princes of the sky,Among the Southern dead.
How must he smile on this dull world beneath,Fevered with swift renown--He--with the martyr's amaranthine wreathTwining the victor's crown!
"Ye batteries of Beauregard!"Pour your hail from Moultrie's wall;Bid the shock of your deep thunderOn their fleet in terror fall:Rain your storm of leaden furyOn the black invading host--Teach them that their step shall neverPress on Carolina's coast.
"Ye batteries of Beauregard!"Sound the story of our wrong;Let your tocsin wake the spiritOf a people brave and strong;Her proud names of old remember--Marion, Sumter, Pinckney, Greene;Swell the roll whose deeds of glorySide by side with theirs are seen.
"Ye batteries of Beauregard!"From Savannah on them frown;By the majesty of HeavenStrike their "grand armada" down;By the blood of many a freeman,By each dear-bought battle-field,By the hopes we fondly cherish,Never ye the victory yield.
"Ye batteries of Beauregard!"All along our Southern coast,Let, in after-time, your triumphs,Be a nation's pride and boast;Send each missile with a greetingTo the vile, ungodly crew;Make them feel they ne'er can conquerPeople to themselves so true.
"Ye batteries of Beauregard!"By the glories of the past,By the memory of old Sumter,Whose renown will ever last,Speed upon their vaunted legionsVolleys thick of shot and shell,Bid them welcome, in your glory,To their own appointed hell.
When "war has smoothed his wrinkled front,"And meek-eyed peace returning,Has brightened hearts that long were wontTo sigh in grief and mourning--How blissful then will be the dayWhen, from the wars returning,The weary soldier wends his wayTo dear ones that are yearning,
To clasp in true love's fond embrace,To gaze with looks so tenderUpon the war-worn form and faceOf Liberty's defender;To count with pride each cruel scar,That mars the manly beauty,Of him who proved so brave in war,So beautiful in duty.
When peace returns, throughout our land,Glad shouts of welcome renderThe gallant few of Freedom's bandWhose cry was "no surrender;"Who battled bravely to be freeFrom tyranny's oppressions,And won, for Southern chivalry,The homage of all nations!
And when, again, in Southern bowersThe ray of peace is shining,Her maidens gather fairest flowers,And honor's wreaths are twining,To bind the brows victoriousOn many a field so gory,Whose names, renowned and glorious,Shall live in song and story,
Then will affection's tear be shed,And pity, joy restraining,For those, the lost, lamented dead,Are all beyond our plaining;They fell in manhood's prime and might;And we should not weep the storyThat tells of Fame, a sacred light,Above each grave of glory!
In other days our fathers' love was loyal, full, and free,For those they left behind them in the Island of the Sea;They fought the battles of King George, and toasted him in song,For then the Right kept proudly down the tyranny of Wrong.
But when the King's weak, willing slaves laid tax upon the tea,The Western men rose up and braved the Island of the Sea;And swore a fearful oath to God, those men of iron might,That in the end the Wrong should die, and up should go the Right.
The King sent over hireling hosts--the Briton, Hessian, Scot--And swore in turn those Western men, when captured, should be shot;While Chatham spoke with earnest tongue against the hireling throng,And mournfully saw the Right go down, and place given to the Wrong.
But God was on the righteous side, and Gideon's sword was out,With clash of steel, and rattling drum, and freeman's thunder-shout;And crimson torrents drenched the land through that long, stormy fight,But in the end, hurrah! the Wrong was beaten by the Right!
And when again the foemen came from out the Northern Sea,To desolate our smiling land and subjugate the free,Our fathers rushed to drive them back, with rifles keen and long,And swore a mighty oath, the Right should subjugate the Wrong.
And while the world was looking on, the strife uncertain grew,But soon aloft rose up our stars amid a field of blue;For Jackson fought on red Chalmette, and won the glorious fight,And then the Wrong went down, hurrah! and triumph crowned the Right!
The day has come again, when men who love the beauteous South,To speak, if needs be, for the Right, though by the cannon's mouth;For foes accursed of God and man, with lying speech and song,Would bind, imprison, hang the Right, and deify the Wrong.
But canting knave of pen and sword, nor sanctimonious fool,Shall never win this Southern land, to cripple, bind, and rule;We'll muster on each bloody plain, thick as the stars of night,And, through the help of God, the Wrong shall perish by the Right.
Go forth and bid the land rejoice,Yet not too gladly, oh my song!Breathe softly, as if mirth would wrongThe solemn rapture of thy voice.
Be nothing lightly done or saidThis happy day! Our joy should flowAccordant with the lofty woeThat wails above the noble dead.
Let him whose brow and breast were calmWhile yet the battle lay with God,Look down upon the crimson sodAnd gravely wear his mournful palm;
And him, whose heart still weak from fearBeats all too gayly for the time,Know that intemperate glee is crimeWhile one dead hero claims a tear.
Yet go thou forth, my song! and thrill,With sober joy, the troubled days;A nation's hymn of grateful praiseMay not be hushed for private ill.
Our foes are fallen! Flash, ye wires!The mighty tidings far and nigh!Ye cities! write them on the skyIn purple and in emerald fires!
They came with many a haughty boast;Their threats were heard on every breeze;They darkened half the neighboring seas,And swooped like vultures on the coast.
False recreants in all knightly strife,Their way was wet with woman's tears;Behind them flamed the toil of years,And bloodshed stained the sheaves of life.
They fought as tyrants fight, or slaves;God gave the dastards to our hands;Their bones are bleaching on the sands,Or mouldering slow in shallow graves.
What though we hear about our pathThe heavens with howls of vengeance rent;The venom of their hate is spent;We need not heed their fangless wrath.
Meantime the stream they strove to chainNow drinks a thousand springs, and sweepsWith broadening breast, and mightier deeps,And rushes onward to the main;
While down the swelling current glidesOur ship of state before the blast,With streamers poured from every mast,Her thunders roaring from her sides.
Lord! bid the frenzied tempest cease,Hang out thy rainbow on the sea!Laugh round her, waves! in silver glee,And speed her to the ports of peace!
No more, with glad and happy cheer,And smiling face, doth Christmas come,But usher'd in with sword and spear,And beat of the barbarian drum!No more, with ivy-circled brow,And mossy beard all snowy white,He comes to glad the children now,With sweet and innocent delight.
The merry dance, the lavish feast,The cheery welcome, all are o'er:The music of the viol ceased,The gleesome ring around the floor.No glad communion greets the hour,That welcomes in a Saviour's birth,And Christmas, to a hostile power,Yields all the sway that made its mirth.
The Church, like some deserted bride,In trembling, at the Altar waits,While, raging fierce on every side,The foe is thundering at her gates.No ivy green, nor glittering leaves,Nor crimson berries, deck her walls:But blood, red dripping from her eaves,Along the sacred pavement falls.
Her silver bells no longer chimeIn summons to her sacred home;Nor holy song at matin prime,Proclaims the God within the dome.Nor do the fireside's happy bandsAssemble fond, with greetings dear,While Patriarch Christmas spreads his handsTo glad with gifts and crown with cheer.
In place of that beloved form,Benignant, bland, and blessing all,Comes one begirt with fire and storm,The raging shell, the hissing ball!Type of the Prince of Peace, no more,Evoked by those who bear His name,THE FIEND, in place of SAINT of yore,Now hurls around Satanic flame.
In hate,--evoked by kindred lands,But late beslavering with caress,Lo, Moloch, dripping crimson, stands,And curses where he cannot bless.He wings the bolt and hurls the spear,Ademon loosed, that rends in rage,Sends havoc through the homes most dear,And butchers youth and tramples age!
With face of Fox--with glee that grins,And apish arms, with fingers claw'd,To snatch at all his brother wins,And straight secrete, with stealth and fraud;--Lo! Mammon, kindred Demon, comes,And lurks, as dreading ill, in rear;He blows the trumpet, beats the drums,Inflames the torch, and sharps the spear!
And furious, following in their train,What hosts of lesser Demons rise;Lust, Malice, Hunger, Greed and Gain,Each raging for its special prize.Too base for freedom, mean for toil,And reckless all of just and right,They rage in peaceful homes for spoil,And where they cannot butcher, blight.
A Serpent lie from every mouth,Coils outward ever,--sworn to bless;Yet, through the gardens of the South,Still spreading evils numberless,By locust swarms the fields are swept,By frenzied hands the dwelling flames,And virgin beds, where Beauty slept,Polluted blush, from worst of shames.
The Dragon, chain'd for thousand years,Hath burst his bonds and rages free;--Yet, patience, brethren, stay your fears;--Loosed for "a little season,"[1] heWill soon, beneath th' Ithuriel sword,Of heavenly judgment, crush'd and driven,Yield to the vengeance of the Lord,And crouch beneath the wrath of Heaven!
"A little season," and the Peace,That now is foremost in your prayers,Shall crown your harvest with increase,And bless with smiles the home of tears;Your wounds be healed; your noble sons,Unhurt, unmutilated--free--Shall limber up their conquering guns,In triumph grand of Liberty!
A few more hours of mortal strife,--Of faith and patience, working still,In struggle for the immortal life,With all their soul, and strength, and will;And, in the favor of the Lord,And powerful grown by heavenly aid,Your roof trees all shall be restored,And ye shall triumph in their shade.
[1] "1. And I saw an Angel come down from Heaven, having the key of the bottomless pit and a great chain in his hand.
"2. And he laid hold on the Dragon, that Old Serpent, which is the Devil and Satan, and bound him a thousand years.
"And cast him into the bottomless pit, and shut him up, and set a seal upon him, that he should deceive the nations no more, till the thousand years should be fulfilled; andafter that he must be loosed a little season."--Rev. xx., v. 1-3.
The rain is plashing on my sill,But all the winds of Heaven are still;And so, it falls with that dull soundWhich thrills us in the churchyard ground,When the first spadeful drops like leadUpon the coffin of the dead.Beyond my streaming window-pane,I cannot see the neighboring vane,Yet from its old familiar towerThe bell comes, muffled, through the shower.What strange and unsuspected linkOf feeling touched has made me think--While with a vacant soul and eyeI watch that gray and stony sky--Of nameless graves on battle plains,Washed by a single winter's rains,Where, some beneath Virginian hills,And some by green Atlantic rills,Some by the waters of the West,A myriad unknown heroes rest?Ah! not the chiefs who, dying, seeTheir flags in front of victory,Or, at their life-blood's noblest costPay for a battle nobly lost,Claim from their monumental bedsThe bitterest tears a nation sheds.Beneath yon lonely mound--the spot,By all save some fond few forgot--Lie the true martyrs of the fight,Which strikes for freedom and for right.Of them, their patriot zeal and pride,The lofty faith that with them died,No grateful page shall further tellThan that so many bravely fell;And we can only dimly guessWhat worlds of all this world's distress,What utter woe, despair, and dearth,Their fate has brought to many a hearth.Just such a sky as this should weepAbove them, always, where they sleep;Yet, haply, at this very hour,Their graves are like a lover's bower;And Nature's self, with eyes unwet,Oblivious of the crimson debtTo which she owes her April grace,Laughs gayly o'er their burial place.
Do ye quail but to hear, Carolinians,The first foot-tramp of Tyranny's minions?Have ye buckled on armor, and brandished the spear,But to shrink with the trumpet's first peal on the ear?Why your forts now embattled on headland and height,Your sons all in armor, unless for the fight?Did ye think the mere show of your guns on the wall,And your shouts, would the souls of the heathen appal?That his lusts and his appetites, greedy as Hell,Led by Mammon and Moloch, would sink at a spell;--Nor strive, with the tiger's own thirst, lest the fleshShould be torn from his jaws, while yet bleeding afresh.
For shame! To the breach, Carolinians!--To the death for your sacred dominions!--Homes, shrines, and your cities all reeking in flame,Cry aloud to your souls, in their sorrow and shame;Your greybeards, with necks in the halter--Your virgins, defiled at the altar,--In the loathsome embrace of the felon and slave,Touch loathsomer far than the worm of the grave!Ah! God! if you fail in this moment of gloom!How base were the weakness, how horrid the doom!With the fiends in your streets howling pæans,And the Beast o'er another Orleans!
Do ye quail, as on yon little isletThey have planted the feet that defile it?Make its sands pure of taint, by the stroke of the sword,And by torrents of blood in red sacrifice pour'd!Doubts are Traitors, if once they persuade you to fear,That the foe, in his foothold, is safe from your spear!When the foot of pollution is set on your shores,What sinew and soul should be stronger than yours?By the fame--by the shame--of your sires,Set on, though each freeman expires;Better fall, grappling fast with the foe, to their graves,Than groan in your fetters, the slaves of your slaves.
The voice of your loud exultationHath rung, like a trump, through the nation,How loudly, how proudly, of deeds to be done,The blood of the sire in the veins of the son!Old Moultrie and Sumter still keep at your gates,And the foe in his foothold as patiently waits.He asks, with a taunt, by your patience made bold,If the hot spur of Percy grows suddenly cold--Makes merry with boasts of your city his own,And the Chivalry fled, ere his trumpet is blown;Upon them, O sons of the mighty of yore,And fatten the sands with their Sodomite gore!
Where's the dastard that cowers and faltersIn the sight of his hearthstones and altars?With the faith of the free in the God of the brave,Go forth; ye are mighty to conquer and save!By the blue Heaven shining above ye,By the pure-hearted thousands that love ye,Ye are armed with a might to prevail in the fight,And an ægis to shield and a weapon to smite!Then fail not, and quail not; the foe shall prevail not:With the faith and the will, ye shall conquer him still.To the knife--with the knife, Carolinians,For your homes, and your sacred dominions.
Our city by the sea,As the rebel city known,With a soul and spirit freeAs the waves that make her zone,Stands in wait for the fateFrom the angry arm of hate;But she nothing fears the terror of his blow;She hath garrisoned her walls,And for every son that falls,She will spread a thousand pallsFor-the foe!
Old Moultrie at her gate,Clad in arms and ancient fame.Grimly watching, stands elateTo deliver bolt and flame!Brave the band, at command,To illumine sea and landWith a glory that shall honor days of yore;And, as racers for their goals,A thousand fiery souls,While the drum of battle rolls,Line the shore.
Lo! rising at his side,As if emulous to shareHis old historic pride,The vast form of Sumter there!Girt by waves, which he bravesThough the equinoctial raves,As the mountain braves the lightning on his steep;And, like tigers crouching round,Are the tribute forts that boundAll the consecrated ground,By the deep!
It was calm, the April noon,When, in iron-castled towers,Our haughty foe came on,With his aggregated powers;All his might 'gainst the right,Now embattled for the fight,With Hell's hate and venom working in his heart;A vast and dread array,Glooming black upon the day,Hell's passions all in play,With Hell's art.
But they trouble not the soulsOf our Carolina host,[1]And the drum of battle rolls,While each hero seeks his post;Firm, though few, sworn to do,Their old city full in view,The brave city of their sires and their dead;There each freeman had his brood,All the dear ones of his blood,And he knew they watching stood,In their dread!
To the bare embattled height,Then our gallant colonel sprung--"Bid them welcome to the fight,"Were the accents of his tongue--"Music! band, pour out--grand--The free song of Dixie Land!Let it tell them we are joyful that they come!Bid them welcome, drum and flute,Nor be your cannon mute,Give them chivalrous salute--To their doom!"[2]
Out spoke an eager gun,From the walls of Moultrie then;And through clouds of sulph'rous dun,Rose a shout of thousand men,As the shot, hissing hot,Goes in lightning to the spot--Goes crashing wild through timber and through mail;Then roared the storm from all,Moultrie's ports and Sumter's wall--Bursting bomb and driving ball--Hell in hail!
Full a hundred cannon roaredThe dread welcome to the foe,And his felon spirit cowered,As he crouched beneath the blow!As each side opened wideTo the iron and the tide,He lost his faith in armor and in art;And, with the loss of faith,Came the dread of wounds and scath--And the felon fear of deathWrung his heart!
Quenched then his foul desires;In his mortal pain and fear,How feeble grew his fires,How stayed his fell career!How each keel, made to reel'Neath our thunder, seems to kneel,Their turrets staggering wildly, to and fro, blind and lame;Ironsides and iron roof,Held no longer bullet-proof,Steal away, shrink aloof,In their shame!
But our lightnings follow fast,With a vengeance sharp and hot;Our bolts are on the blast,And they rive with shell and shot!Huge the form which they warmWith the hot breath of the storm;Dread the crash which follows as each Titan mass is struck--They shiver as they fly,While their leader, drifting nigh,Sinks, choking with the cry--"Keokuk!"
To the brave old city, joy!For that the hostile race,Commissioned to destroy,Hath fled in sore disgrace!That our sons, at their guns,Have beat back the modern Huns--Have maintained their household fanes and their fires;And free from taint and scath,Have kept the fame and faith(And will keep, through blood and death)Of their sires!
To the Lord of Hosts the glory,For His the arm and might,That have writ for us the story,And have borne us through the fight!His our shield in that field--Voice that bade us never yield;Oh! had he not been with us through the terrors of that day?His strength hath made us strong,Cheered the right and crushed the wrong,To His temple let us throng--PRAISE AND PRAY!
[1] The battle of Charleston Harbor, April 7, 1863, was fought by South Carolina troops exclusively.
[2] As the iron-clads approached Fort Sumter in line of battle, Col. Alfred Rhett, commandant of the post, mounting the parapet, where he remained, ordered the band to strike up the national air of "Dixie;" and at the same time, in addition to the Confederate flag, the State and regimental flags were flung out at different salients of the fort, and saluted with thirteen guns.
Previous to the first battle of Manassas, when the troops under Stonewall Jackson had made a forced march, on halting at night they fell on the ground exhausted and faint. The hour arrived for setting the watch for the night. The officer of the day went to the general's tent, and said:
"General, the men are all wearied, and there is not one but is asleep. Shall I wake them?"
"No," said the noble Jackson; "let them sleep, and I will watch the camp to-night."
And all night long he rode round that lonely camp, the one lone sentinel for that brave, but weary and silent body of Virginia heroes. And when glorious morning broke, the soldiers awoke fresh and ready for action, all unconscious of the noble vigils kept over their slumbers.
'Twas in the dying of the day,The darkness grew so still;The drowsy pipe of evening birdsWas hushed upon the hill;Athwart the shadows of the valeSlumbered the men of might,And one lone sentry paced his rounds,To watch the camp that night.
A grave and solemn man was he,With deep and sombre brow;The dreamful eyes seemed hoarding upSome unaccomplished vow.The wistful glance peered o'er the plainsBeneath the starry light--And with the murmured name of God,He watched the camp that night.
The Future opened unto himIts grand and awful scroll:Manassas and the Valley marchCame heaving o'er his soul--Richmond and Sharpsburg thundered byWith that tremendous fightWhich gave him to the angel hostsWho watched the camp that night.
We mourn for him who died for us,With one resistless moan;While up the Valley of the LordHe marches to the Throne!He kept the faith of men and saintsSublime, and pure, and bright--He sleeps--and all is well with himWho watched the camp that night.
Brothers! the Midnight of the CauseIs shrouded in our fate;The demon Goths pollute our hallsWith fire, and lust, and hate.Be strong--be valiant--be assured--Strike home for Heaven and Right!The soul of Jackson stalks abroad,And guards the camp to-night!
When softly gathering shades of ev'nCreep o'er the prairies broad and green,And countless stars bespangle heav'n,And fringe the clouds with silv'ry sheen,My fondest sigh to thee is giv'n,My lonely wandering soldier boy;And thoughts of theeSteal over meLike ev'ning shades, my soldier boy.
My brother, though thou'rt far away,And dangers hurtle round thy path,And battle lightnings o'er thee play,And thunders peal in awful wrath,Think, whilst thou'rt in the hot affray,Thy sister prays for thee, my boy.If fondest prayerCan shield thee thereSweet angels guard my soldier boy.
Thy proud young heart is beating highTo clash of arms and cannons' roar;That firm-set lip and flashing eyeTell how thy heart is brimming o'er.Be free and live, be free or die;Be that thy motto now, my boy;And though thy name'sUnknown to fame's,'Tis graven on my heart, my boy.
Friend of the thoughtful mind and gentle heart!Beneath the citron-tree--Deep calling to my soul's profounder deep--I hear the Mexique Sea.
While through the night rides in the spectral surfAlong the spectral sands,And all the air vibrates, as if from harpsTouched by phantasmal hands.
Bright in the moon the red pomegranate flowersLean to the Yucca's bells,While with her chrism of dew, sad Midnight fillsThe milk-white asphodels.
Watching all night--as I have done before--I count the stars that set,Each writing on my soul some memory deepOf Pleasure or Regret;
Till, wild with heart-break, toward the East I turn,Waiting for dawn of day;--And chanting sea, and asphodel and starAre faded, all, away.
Only within my trembling, trembling hands--Brought unto me by thee--I clasp these beautiful and fragile things,Bright sea-weeds from the sea,
Fair bloom the flowers beneath these Northern skies,Pure shine the stars by night,And grandly sing the grand Atlantic wavesIn thunder-throated might;
But, as the sea-shell in her chambers keepsThe murmur of the sea,So the deep-echoing memories of my homeWill not depart from me.
Prone on the page they lie, these gentle things!As I have seen them castLike a drowned woman's hair, along the beach,When storms were over-past;
Prone, like mine own affections, cast ashoreIn Battle's storm and blight;Wouldtheyhad died, like sea-weeds! Pray forgive meBut I must weep to-night.
Tell me again, of Summer fields made fairBy Spring's precursing plough;Of joyful reapers, gathering tear-sown harvests--Talk to me,--will you?--now!
Written when a garrison, at or near Salkehatchie Bridge, were threatening a raid up in the Fork of Big and Little Salkehatchie.
The crystal streams, the pearly streams,The streams in sunbeams flashing,The murm'ring streams, the gentle streams,The streams down mountains dashing,Have been the themeOf poets' dream,And, in wild witching story,Have been renowned for love's fond scenes,Or some great deed of glory.
The Rhine, the Tiber, Ayr, and Tweed,The Arno, silver-flowing,The Hudson, Charles, Potomac, Dan,With poesy are glowing;But I would praiseIn artless lays,A stream which well may match ye,Though dark its waters glide along--The swampy Salkehatchie.
'Tis not the beauty of its stream,Which makes it so deservingOf honor at the Muses' hands,But 'tis the use it's serving,And 'gainst a raid,We hope its aidWill ever prove efficient,Its fords remain still overflowed,In water ne'er deficient.
If Vandal bands are held in check,Their crossing thus prevented,And we are spared the ravage wildTheir malice has invented,Then we may wellIn numbers tellNo other stream can match ye,And grateful we shall ever beTo swampy Salkehatchie.
My mug is broken, my heart is sad!What woes can fate still hold in store!The friend I cherished a thousand daysIs smashed to pieces on the floor!Is shattered and to Limbo gone,I'll see my Mug no more!
Relic it was of joyous hoursWhose golden memories still allure--When coffee made of rye we drank,And gray was all the dress we wore!When we were paid some cents a month,But never asked for more!
In marches long, by day and night,In raids, hot charges, shocks of war,Strapped on the saddle at my backThis faithful comrade still I bore--This old companion, true and tried,I'll never carry more!
From the Rapidan to Gettysburg--"Hard bread" behind, "sour krout" before--This friend went with the cavalryAnd heard the jarring-cannon roarIn front of Cemetery Hill--Good heavens! how they did roar!
Then back again, the foe behind,Back to the "Old Virginia shore"--Some dead and wounded left--some holesIn flags, the sullen graybacks bore;This mug had made the great campaign,And we'd have gone once more!
Alas! we never went again!The red cross banner, slow but sure,"Fell back"--we bade to sour krout(Like the lover of Lenore)A long, sad, lingering farewell--To taste its joys no more.
But still we fought, and ate hard bread,Or starved--good friend, our woes deplore!And still this faithful friend remained--Riding behind me as before--The friend on march, in bivouac,When others were no more.
How oft we drove the horsemen blueIn Summer bright or Winter frore!How oft before the Southern chargeThrough field and wood the blue-birds tore!Im "harmonized," but long to hearThe bugles ring once more.
Oh yes! we're all "fraternal" now,Purged of our sins, we're clean and pure,Congress will "reconstruct" us soon--But no gray people onthatfloor!I'm harmonized--"so-called"--but longTo see those times once more!
Gay days! the sun was brighter then,And we were happy, though so poor!That past comes back as I beholdMy shattered friend upon the floor,My splintered, useless, ruined mug,From which I'll drink no more.
How many lips I'll love for aye,While heart and memory endure,Have touched this broken cup and laughed--How they did laugh!--in days of yore!Those days we'd call "a beauteous dream,If they had been no more!"
Dear comrades, dead this many a day,I saw you weltering in your gore,After those days, amid the pinesOn the Rappahannock shore!When the joy of life was much to meBut your warm hearts were more!
Yours was the grand heroic nerveThat laughs amid the storm of war--Souls that "loved much" your native land,Who fought and died therefor!You gave your youth, your brains, your arms,Your blood--you had no more!
You lived and died true to your flag!And now your wounds are healed--but soreAre many hearts that think of youWhere you have "gone before."Peace, comrade! God bound up those forms,They are "whole" forevermore!
Those lips this broken vessel touched,His, too!--the man's we all adore--That cavalier of cavaliers,Whose voice will ring no more--Whose plume will float amid the stormOf battle never more!
Not on this idle page I writeThat name of names, shrined in the coreOf every heart!--peace! foolish pen,Hush! words so cold and poor!His sword is rust; the blue eyes dust,His bugle sounds no more!
Never was cavalier like ours!Not Rupert in the years before!And when his stern, hard work was done,His griefs, joys, battles o'er--His mighty spirit rode the storm,And led his men once more!
He lies beneath his native sod,Where violets spring, or frost is hoar:He recks not--charging squadrons watchHis raven plume no more!That smile we'll see, that voice we'll hear,That hand we'll touch no more!
My foolish mirth is quenched in tears:Poor fragments strewed upon the floor,Ye are the types of nobler thingsThat find their use no more--Things glorious once, now trodden down--That makes us smile no more!
Of courage, pride, high hopes, stout hearts--Hard, stubborn nerve, devotion pure,Beating his wings against the bars,The prisoned eagle tried to soar!Outmatched, overwhelmed, we struggled still--Bread failed--we fought no more!
Lies in the dust the shattered staffThat bore aloft on sea and shore,That blazing flag, amid the storm!And none are now so poor,So poor to do it reverence,Now when it flames no more!
But it is glorious in the dust,Sacred till Time shall be no more:Spare it, fierce editors! your scorn--The dread "Rebellion's" o'er!Furl the great flag--hide cross and star,Thrust into darkness star and bar,But look! across the ages farIt flames for evermore!
In the hour of thy glory,When thy name was far renowned,When Sumter's glowing storyThy bright escutcheon crowned;Oh, noble Carolina! how proud a claim was mine,That through homage and through duty, and birthright, I was thine.
Exulting as I heard thee,Of every lip the theme,Prophetic visions stirred me,In a hope-illumined dream:A dream of dauntless valor, of battles fought and won,Where each field was but a triumph--a hero every son.
And now, when clouds arise,And shadows round thee fall;I lift to heaven my eyes,Those visions to recall;For I cannot dream that darkness will rest upon thee long,Oh, lordly Carolina! with thine arms and hearts so strong.
Thy serried ranks of pine,Thy live-oaks spreading wide,Beneath the sunbeams shine,In fadeless robes of pride;Thus marshalled on their native soil their gallant sons stand forth,As changeless as thy forests green, defiant of the North.
The deeds of other days,Enacted by their sires,Themes long of love and praise,Have wakened high desiresIn every heart that beats within thy proud domain,To cherish their remembrance, and live those scenes again.
Each heart the home of daring,Each hand the foe of wrong,They'll meet with haughty bearing,The war-ship's thunder song;And though the base invader pollute thy sacred shore,They'll greet him in their prowess as their fathers did of yore.
His feet may press their soil,Or his numbers bear them down,In his vandal raid for spoil,His sordid soul to crown;But his triumph will be fleeting, for the hour is drawing near,When the war-cry of thy cavaliers shall strike his startled ear.A fearful time shall come,When thy gathering bands unite,And the larum-sounding drumCalls to struggle for the Right;"Pro aris et pro focis," from rank to rank shall fly,As they meet the cruel foeman, to conquer or to die.
Oh, then a tale of gloryShall yet again be thine,And the record of thy storyThe Laurel shall entwine;Oh, noble Carolina! oh, proud and lordly State!Heroic deeds shall crown thee, and the Nations own thee great.