Not in the rush upon the vandal foe,
Did kingly death, with his resistless might,
Lay the great leader low!
His warrior soul its earthly shackles bore
In the full sunshine of a peaceful town;
When all the storm, was hushed, the trusty oak
That propped our cause, went down.
Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground,
Recording all his grand heroic deeds,
Freedom herself is writhing with his wound,
And all the country bleeds.
He entered not the nation's "Promised Land,"
At the red belching of the cannon's mouth;
But broke the "House of Bondage" with his hand--
The Moses of the South!
Oh, gracious God! not gainless is our loss:
A glorious sunbeam gilds Thy sternest frown;
And while his country staggers with the cross--
He rises with the crown!
"Stonewall" Jackson.--A Dirge.
Go to thy rest, great chieftain!
In the zenith of thy fame;
With the proud heart stilled and frozen,
No foeman e'er could tame;
With the eye that met the battle
As the eagle's meets the sun,
Rayless-beneath its marble lid,
Repose-thou mighty one!
Yet ill our cause could spare thee;
And harsh the blow of fate
That struck its staunchest pillar
From 'neath our dome of state.
Of thee, as of the Douglas,
We say, with Scotland's king,
"There is not one to take his place
In all the knightly ring."
Thou wert the noblest captain
Of all that martial host
That front the haughty Northman,
And put to shame his boast.
Thou wert the strongest bulwark
To stay the tide of fight;
The name thy soldiers gave thee
Bore witness of thy might!
But we may not weep above thee;
This is no time for tears!
Thou wouldst not brook their shedding,
Oh! saint among thy peers!
Couldst thou speak from yonder heaven,
Above us smiling spread,
Thou wouldst not have us pause, for grief,
On the blood-stained path we tread!
Not--while our homes in ashes
Lie smouldering on the sod!
Not--while our houseless women
Send up wild wails to God!
Not--while the mad fanatic
Strews ruin on his track!
_Dare_ any Southron give the rein
To feeling, and look back!
No! Still the cry is "onward!"
This is no time for tears;
No I Still the word is "vengeance!"
Leave ruth for coming years.
We will snatch thy glorious banner
From thy dead and stiffening hand,
And high, 'mid battle's deadly storm,
We'll bear it through the land.
And all who mark it streaming--
Oh! soldier of the cross!--
Shall gird them with a fresh resolve
Sternly to avenge our loss;
Whilst thou, enrolled a martyr,
Thy sacred mission shown,
Shalt lay the record of our wrongs
Before the Eternal throne!
Beaufort.
By W. J. Grayson, of South Carolina.
Old home! what blessings late were yours;
The gifts of peace, the songs of joy!
Now, hostile squadrons seek your shores,
To ravage and destroy.
The Northman comes no longer there,
With soft address and measured phrase,
With bated breath, and sainted air,
And simulated praise.
He comes a vulture to his prey;
A wolf to raven in your streets:
Around on shining stream and bay
Gather his bandit fleets.
They steal the pittance of the poor;
Pollute the precincts of the dead;
Despoil the widow of her store,--
The orphan of his bread.
Crimes like their crimes--of lust and blood,
No Christian land has known before;
Oh, for some scourge of fire and flood,
To sweep them from the shore!
Exiles from home, your people fly,
In adverse fortune's hardest school;
With swelling breast and flashing eye--
They scorn the tyrant's rule!
Away, from all their joys away,
The sports that active youth engage;
The scenes where childhood loves to play,
The resting-place of age.
Away, from fertile field and farm;
The oak-fringed island-homes that seem
To sit like swans, with matchless charm,
On sea-born sound and stream.
Away, from palm-environed coast,
The beach that ocean beats in vain;
The Royal Port, your pride and boast,
The loud-resounding main.
Away, from orange groves that glow
With golden fruit or snowy flowers,
Roses that never cease to blow,
Myrtle and jasmine bowers.
From these afar, the hoary bead
Of feeble age, the timid maid,
Mothers and nurslings, all have fled,
Of ruthless foes afraid.
But, ready, with avenging hand,
By wood and fen, in ambush lie
Your sons, a stern, determined band,
Intent to do or die.
Whene'er the foe advance to dare
The onset, urged by hate and wrath,
Still have they found, aghast with fear,
A Lion in the path.
Scourged, to their ships they wildly rush,
Their shattered ranks to shield and save,
And learn how hard a task to crush
The spirit of the brave.
Oh, God! Protector of the right,
The widows' stay, the orphans' friend,
Restrain the rage of lawless might,
The wronged and crushed defend!
Be guide and helper, sword and shield!
From hill and vale, where'er they roam,
Bring back the yeoman to his field,
The exile to his home!
Pastors and scattered flocks restore;
Their fanes rebuild, their altars raise;
And let their quivering lips once more
Rejoice in songs of praise!
The Empty Sleeve.
By Dr. J. R. Bagby, Of Virginia.
Tom, old fellow, I grieve to see
The sleeve hanging loose at your side
The arm you lost was worth to me
Every Yankee that ever died.
But you don't mind it at all;
You swear you've a beautiful stump,
And laugh at that damnable ball--
Tom, I knew you were always a trump.
A good right arm, a nervy hand,
A wrist as strong as a sapling oak,
Buried deep in the Malverri sand--
To laugh at that, is a sorry joke.
Never again your iron grip
Shall I feel in my shrinking palm--
Tom, Tom, I see your trembling lip;
All within is not so calm.
Well! the arm is gone, it is true;
But the one that is nearest the heart
Is left--and that's as good as two;
Tom, old fellow, what makes you start?
Why, man, _she_ thinks that empty sleeve
A badge of honor; so do I,
And all of us:--I do believe
The fellow is going to cry!
"She deserves a perfect man," you say;
"You were not worth her in your prime:"
Tom! the arm that has turned to clay,
Your whole body has made sublime;
For you have placed in the Malvern earth
The proof and pledge of a noble life--
And the rest, henceforward of higher worth,
Will be dearer than all to your wife.
I see the people in the street
Look at your sleeve with kindling eyes;
And you know, Torn, there's naught so sweet
As homage shown in mute surmise.
Bravely your arm in battle strove,
Freely for Freedom's sake, you gave it;
It has perished--but a nation's love
In proud remembrance will save it.
Go to your sweetheart, then, forthwith--
You're a fool for staying so long--
Woman's love you'll find no myth,
But a truth; living, tender, strong.
And when around her slender belt
Your left is clasped in fond embrace,
Your right will thrill, as if it felt,
In its grave, the usurper's place.
As I look through the coming years,
I see a one-armed married man;
A little woman, with smiles and tears,
Is helping--as hard as she can
To put on his coat, to pin his sleeve,
Tie his cravat, and cut his food;
And I say, as these fancies I weave,
"That is Tom, and the woman he wooed."
The years roll on, and then I see
A wedding picture, bright and fair;
I look closer, and its plain to me
That is Tom with the silver hair.
He gives away the lovely bride,
And the guests linger, loth to leave
The house of him in whom they pride--
"Brave old Tom with the empty sleeve."
The Cotton-Burners' Hymn.
"On yesterday, all the cotton in Memphis, and throughout the country,
was burned. Probably not less than 300,000 bales have been burned in the
last three days, in West Tennessee and North Mississippi."--_Memphis
Appeal._
I.
Lo! where Mississippi rolls
Oceanward its stream,
Upward mounting, folds on folds,
Flaming fire-tongues gleam;
'Tis the planters' grand oblation
On the altar of the nation;
'Tis a willing sacrifice--
Let the golden incense rise--
Pile the Cotton to the skies!
CHORUS--Lo! the sacrificial flame
Gilds the starry dome of night!
Nations! read the mute acclaim--
'Tis for liberty we fight!
Homes! Religion! Right!
II.
Never such a golden light
Lit the vaulted sky;
Never sacrifice as bright,
Rose to God on high:
Thousands oxen, what were they
To the offering we pay?
And the brilliant holocaust--
When the revolution's past--
In the nation's songs will last!
CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc.
III.
Though the night be dark above,
Broken though the shield--
Those who love us, those we love,
Bid us never yield:
Never! though our bravest bleed,
And the vultures on them feed;
Never! though the Serpents' race--
Hissing hate and vile disgrace--
By the million should menace!
CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc.
IV.
Pile the Cotton to the skies;
Lo! the Northmen gaze;
England! see our sacrifice--
See the Cotton blaze!
God of nations! now to Thee,
Southrons bend th' imploring knee;
'Tis our country's hour of need--
Hear the mothers intercede--
Hear the little children plead!
CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc.
Reading the List.
"Is there any news of the war?" she said--
"Only a list of the wounded and dead,"
Was the man's reply,
Without lifting his eye
To the face of the woman standing by.
"'Tis the very thing--I want," she said;
"Read me a list of the wounded and dead."
He read the list--'twas a sad array
Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray;
In the very midst, was a pause to tell
Of a gallant youth, who fought so well
That his comrades asked: "Who is he, pray?"
"The only son of the Widow Gray,"
Was the proud reply
Of his Captain nigh.
What ails the woman standing near?
Her face has the ashen hue of fear!
"Well, well, read on; is he wounded? quick!
Oh God! but my heart is sorrow-sick!"
"Is he wounded? No! he fell, they say,
Killed outright on that fatal day."
But see, the woman has swooned away!
Sadly she opened her eyes to the light;
Slowly recalled the events of the fight;
Faintly she murmured: "Killed outright!
It has cost me the life of my only son;
But the battle is fought, and the victory won;
The will of the Lord, let it be done!"
God pity the cheerless Widow Gray,
And send from the halls of eternal day,
The light of His peace to illumine her way!
His Last Words.
"A few moments before his death (Stonewall Jackson) he called out in his
delirium: 'Order A.P. Hill to prepare for action. Pass the infantry
rapidly to the front. Tell Major Hawks--.' Here the sentence was left
unfinished. Bat, soon after, a sweet smile overspread his face, and he
murmured quietly, with an air of relief: 'Let us cross the river and rest
under the shade of the trees.' These were his last words; and, without any
expression of pain, or sign of struggle, his spirit passed away."
I.
Come, let us cross the river, and rest beneath the trees,
And list the merry leaflets at sport with every breeze;
Our rest is won by fighting, and Peace awaits us there.
Strange that a cause so blighting produces fruit so fair!
II.
Come, let us cross the river, those that have gone before,
Crush'd in the strife for freedom, await on yonder shore;
So bright the sunshine sparkles, so merry hums the breeze,
Come, let us cross the river, and rest beneath the trees.
III.
Come, let us cross the river, the stream that runs so dark:
'Tis none but cowards quiver, so let us all embark.
Come, men with hearts undaunted, we'll stem the tide with ease,
We'll cross the flowing river, and rest beneath the trees.
IV.
Come, let us cross the river, the dying hero cried,
And God, of life the giver, then bore him o'er the tide.
Life's wars for him are over, the warrior takes his ease,
There, by the flowing river, at rest beneath the trees.
Charge of Hagood's Brigade.
Weldon Railroad, August 21, 1864.
The following lines were written in the summer of 1864, immediately after
the charge referred to in them, which was always considered by the brigade
as their most desperate encounter.
Scarce seven hundred men they stand
In tattered, rude array,
A remnant of that gallant band,
Who erstwhile held the sea-girt strand
Of Morris' isle, with iron hand
'Gainst Yankees' hated sway.
SECESSIONVILLE their banner claims,
And SUMTER, held 'mid smoke and flames,
And the dark battle on the streams
Of POCOTALIGO:
And WALTHALL'S JUNCTION'S hard-earned fight,
And DREWRY'S BLUFF'S embattled height,
Whence, at the gray dawn of the light,
They rushed upon the foe.
Tattered and torn those banners now,
But not less proud each lofty brow,
Untaught as yet to yield:
With mien unblenched, unfaltering eye,
Forward, where bombshells shrieking fly
Flecking with smoke the azure sky
On Weldon's fated field.
Sweeps from the woods the bold array,
Not theirs to falter in the fray,
No men more sternly trained than they
To meet their deadly doom:
While, from a hundred throats agape,
A hundred sulphurous flames escape,
Round shot, and canister, and grape,
The thundering cannon's boom!
Swift, on their flank, with fearful crash
Shrapnel and ball commingling clash,
And bursting shells, with lurid flash,
Their dazzled sight confound:
Trembles the earth beneath their feet,
Along their front a rattling sheet
Of leaden hail concentric meet,
And numbers strew the ground.
On, o'er the dying and the dead,
O'er mangled limb and gory head,
With martial look, with martial tread,
March Hagood's men to bloody bed,
Honor their sole reward;
Himself doth lead their battle line,
Himself those banners guard.
They win the height, those gallant few,
A fiercer struggle to renew,
Resolved as gallant men to do
Or sink in glory's shroud;
But scarcely gain its stubborn crest,
Ere, from the ensign's murdered breast,
An impious foe has dared to wrest
That banner proud.
Upon him, Hagood, in thy might!
Flash on thy soul th' immortal light
Of those brave deeds that blazon bright
Our Southern Cross.
He dies. Unfurl its folds again,
Let it wave proudly o'er the plain;
The dying shall forget their pain,
Count not their loss.
Then, rallying to your chieftain's call,
Ploughed through by cannon-shot and ball
Hemmed in, as by a living wall,
Cleave back your way.
Those bannered deeds their souls inspire,
Borne, amid sheets of forkéd fire,
By the Two Hundred who retire
Of that array.
Ah, Carolina! well the tear
May dew thy cheek; thy clasped hands rear
In passion, o'er their tombless bier,
Thy fallen chivalry!
Malony, mirror of the brave,
And Sellers lie in glorious grave;
No prouder fate than theirs, who gave
Their lives for Liberty.
Carolina.
April 14, 1861.
By John A. Wagener, of S.C.
Carolina! Carolina!
Noble name in State and story,
How I love thy truthful glory,
As I love the blue sky o'er ye,
Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina!
Land of chivalry unfearing,
Daughters fair beyond comparing,
Sons of worth, and noble daring,
Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina!
Soft thy clasp in loving greeting,
Plenteous board and kindly meeting,
All thy pulses nobly beating,
Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina!
Green thy valleys, bright thy heaven,
Bold thy streams through forest riven,
Bright thy laurels, hero-given,
Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina!
Holy name, and dear forever,
Never shall thy childen, never,
Fail to strike with grand endeavor,
Carolina evermore!
Savannah.
By Alethea S. Burroughs.
Thou hast not drooped thy stately head,
Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed!
Not like a lamb to slaughter led,
But with the lion's monarch tread,
Thou eomest to thy battle bed,
Savannah! oh, Savannah!
Thine arm of flesh is girded strong;
The blue veins swell beneath thy wrong;
To thee, the triple cords belong,
Of woe, and death, and shameless wrong,
And spirit vaunted long, _too_ long!
Savannah! oh, Savannah!
No blood-stains spot thy forehead fair;
Only the martyrs' blood is there;
It gleams upon thy bosom bier,
It moves thy deep, deep soul to prayer,
And tunes a dirge for thy sad ear,
Savannah! oh, Savannah!
Thy clean white hand is opened wide
For weal or woe, thou Freedom Bride;
The sword-sheath sparkles at thy side,
Thy plighted troth, whate'er betide,
Thou hast but Freedom for thy guide,
Savannah! oh, Savannah!
What though the heavy storm-cloud lowers--
Still at thy feet the old oak towers;
Still fragrant are thy jessamine bowers,
And things of beauty, love, and flowers
Are smiling o'er this land of ours,
My sunny home, Savannah!
There is no film before thy sight--
Thou seest woe, and death, and night--
And blood upon thy banner bright;
But in thy full wrath's kindled might,
What carest _thou_ for woe, or night?
My rebel home, Savannah!
Come--for the crown is on thy head!
Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed,
Not like a lamb to slaughter led,
But with the lion's monarch tread,
Oh! come unto thy battle bed,
Savannah! oh, Savannah!
"Old Betsy."
By John Killum.
Come, with the rifle so long in your keeping,
Clean the old gun up and hurry it forth;
Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking,
Than live with arms folded, the slave of the North.
Hear ye the yelp of the North-wolf resounding,
Scenting the blood of the warm-hearted South;
Quick! or his villainous feet will be bounding
Where the gore of our maidens may drip from his mouth.
Oft in the wildwood "Old Bess" has relieved you,
When the fierce bear was cut down in his track--
If at that moment she never deceived you,
Trust her to-day with this ravenous pack.
Then come with the rifle so long in your keeping,
Clean the old girl up and hurry her forth;
Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking,
Than live with arms folded, the slave of the North.
Awake--Arise!
By G. W. Archer, M. D.
Sons of the South--awake--arise!
A million foes sweep down amain,
Fierce hatred gleaming in their eyes,
And fire and rapine in their train,
Like savage Hun and merciless Dane!
"We come as brothers!" Trust them not!
By all that's dear in heaven and earth,
By every tie that hath its birth
Within your homes--around your hearth;
Believe me, 'tis a tyrant's plot,
Worse for the fair and sleek disguise--
A traitor in a patriot's cloak!
"Your country's good
Demands your blood!"
Was it a fiend from hell that spoke?
They point us to the Stripes and Stars;
(Our banner erst--the despot's now!)
But let not thoughts of by-gone wars,
When beat we back the common foe,
And felled them fast and shamed them so,
Divide us at this fearful hour;
But think of dungeons and of chains--
Think of your violated fanes--
Of your loved homestead's gory stains--
Eternal thraldom for your dower!
No love of country fires their breasts--
The fell fanatics fain would free
A grovelling race,
And in their place
Would fetter us with fiendish glee!
Sons of the South--awake--awake!
And strike for rights full dear as those
For which our struggling sires did shake
Earth's proudest throne--while freedom rose,
Baptized in blood of braggart foes.
Awake--that hour hath come again!
Strike! as ye look to Heaven's high throne--
Strike! for the Christian patriot's crown--
Strike! in the name of Washington,
Who taught you once to rend the chain,
Smiles now from heaven upon our cause,
So like his own. His spirit moves
Through every fight,
And lends its might
To every heart that freedom loves.
Ye beauteous of the sunny land!
Unmatched your charms in all the earth,
'Neath freedom's banner take your stand;
And, though ye strike not, prove your worth,
As wont in days of joy and mirth:
Lavish your praises on the brave--
Pray when the battle fiercely lowers--
Smile when the victory is ours--
Frown on the wretch who basely cowers--
Mourn o'er each fallen hero's grave!
Lend thus your favors whilst we smite!
Full soon we'll crush this vandal host!--
With woman's charms
To nerve their arms,
Oh! when have men their freedom lost!
General Albert Sidney Johnston.
By Mary Jervy, of Charleston.
In thickest fight triumphantly he fell,
While into victory's arms he led us on;
A death so glorious our grief should quell:
We mourn him, yet his battle-crown is won.
No slanderous tongue can vex his spirit now,
No bitter taunts can stain his blood-bought fame
Immortal honor rests upon his brow,
And noble memories cluster round his name.
For hearts shall thrill and eyes g-row dim with tears,
To read the story of his touching fate;
How in his death the gallant soldier wears
The crown that came for earthly life too late.
Ye people! guard his memory--sacred keep
The garlands green above his hero-grave;
Yet weep, for praise can never wake his sleep,
To tell him he is shrined among the brave!
Eulogy of the Dead.
By B. F. Porter, of Alabama.
_"Weep not for the dead; neither bemoan him"--Jeremiah._
Oh! weep not for the dead,
Whose blood, for freedom shed,
Is hallowed evermore!
Who on the battle-field
Gould die--but never yield!
Oh, bemoan them never more--
They live immortal in their gore!
Oh, what is it to die
Midst shouts of victory,
Our rights and homes defending!
Oh! what were fame and life
Gained in that basest strife
For tyrants' power contending,
Our country's bosom rending!
Oh! dead of red Manassah!
Oh! dead of Shiloh's fray!
Oh! victors of the Richmond field!
Dead on your mother's breast,
You live in glorious rest;
Each on[1] his honored shield,
Immortal in each bloody field!
Oh! sons of noble mothers!
Oh! youth of maiden lovers!
Oh! husbands of chaste wives!
Though asleep in beds of gore,
You return, oh! never more;
Still immortal are your lives!
Immortal mothers! lovers! wives!
How blest is he who draws
His sword in freedom's cause!
Though dead on battle-field,
Forever to his tomb
Shall youthful heroes come,
Their hearts for freedom steeled,
And learn to die on battle-field.
As at Thermopylæ,
Grecian child of liberty;
Swears to despot ne'er to yield--
Here, by our glorious dead,
Let's revenge the blood they've shed,
Or die on bloody field,
By the sons who scorned to yield!
Oh! mothers! lovers! wives!
Oh! weep no more--our lives
Are our country's evermore!
More glorious in your graves,
Than if living Lincoln's slaves,
Ye will perish never more,
Martyred on our fields of gore!
[1] The Grecian mother, on sending her son to battle, pointing to his
shield, said--"With it, or on it."
The Beaufort Exile's Lament.
Now chant me a dirge for the Isles of the Sea,
And sing the sad wanderer's psalm--
Ye women and children in exile that flee
From the land of the orange and palm.
Lament for your homes, for the house of your God,
Now the haunt of the vile and the low;
Lament for the graves of your fathers, now trod
By the foot of the Puritan foe!
No longer for thee, when the sables of night
Are fading like shadows away,
Does the mocking-bird, drinking the first beams of light,
Praise God for the birth of a day.
No longer for thee, when the rays are now full,
Do the oaks form an evergreen glade;
While the drone of the locust overhead, seemed to lull
The cattle that rest in the shade.
No longer for thee does the soft-shining moon
Silver o'er the green waves of the bay;
Nor at evening, the notes of the wandering loon
Bid farewell to the sun's dying ray.
Nor when night drops her pall over river and shore,
And scatters eve's merry-voiced throng,
Does there rise, keeping time to the stroke of the oar,
The wild chant of the sacred boat-song.
Then the revellers would cease ere the red wine they'd quaff,
The traveller would pause on his way;
And maidens would hush their low silvery laugh,
To list to the negro's rude lay.
"Going home! going home!" methinks I now hear
At the close of each solemn refrain;
'Twill be many a day, aye, and many a year,
Ere ye'll sing that dear word "Home" again.
Your noble sons slain, on the battle-field lie,
Your daughters' mid strangers now roam;
Your aged and helpless in poverty sigh
O'er the days when they once had a _home_.
"Going home! going home!" for the exile alone
Can those words sweep the chords of the soul,
And raise from the grave the loved ones who are gone,
As the tide-waves of time backward roll.
"Going home! going home!" Ah! how many who pine,
Dear Beaufort, to press thy green soul,
Ere then will have passed to shores brighter than thine--
Will have gone home at last to their God!
Somebody's Darling.
By Marie La Coste, of Georgia.
Into a ward of the whitewashed halls,
Where the dead and the dying lay--
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody's darling was borne one day--
Somebody's darling, so young and so brave!
Wearing yet on his sweet, pale face--
Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave--
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace!
Matted and damp are the curls of gold
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow,
Pale are the lips of delicate mould--
Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow
Brush his wandering waves of gold;
Cross his hands on his bosom now--
Somebody's darling is still and cold.