That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear;
When, waking to their tents on fire,
They grasp their arms in vain,
And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again;
And they who fly in terror deem
A mighty host behind,
And hear the tramp of thousands
Upon the hollow wind.
Then sweet the hour that brings release
From danger and from toil;
We talk the battle over,
And share the battle's spoil.
The woodland rings with laugh and shout,
As if a hunt were up,
And woodland flowers are gathered
To crown the soldier's cup.
With merry songs we mock the wind
That in the pine-top grieves,
And slumber long and sweetly
On beds of oaken leaves.
Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads,--
The glitter of their rifles,
The scampering of their steeds.
'Tis life to guide the fiery barb
Across the moonlight plain;
'Tis life to feel the night-wind
That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp--
A moment--and away
Back to the pathless forest,
Before the peep of day.
Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs;
Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band
With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,
And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton
Forever from our shore.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
* * * * *
CARMEN BELLICOSUM.
In their ragged regimentals
Stood the old Continentals,
Yielding not.
When the grenadiers were lunging,
And like hail fell the plunging
Cannon-shot;
When the files
Of the isles,
From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the rampant
Unicorn,
And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll of the drummer,
Through the morn!
Then with eyes to the front all,
And with guns horizontal,
Stood our sires;
And the balls whistled deadly,
And in streams flashing redly
Blazed the fires;
As the roar
On the shore,
Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres
Of the plain;
And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gun-powder,
Cracking amain!
Now like smiths at their forges
Worked the red St. George's
Cannoneers;
And the "villanous saltpetre"
Rung a fierce, discordant metre
Round their ears;
As the swift
Storm-drift,
With hot sweeping anger, came the horseguards' clangor
On our flanks;
Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old fashioned fire
Through the ranks!
Then the bare-headed colonel
Galloped through the white infernal
Powder-cloud;
And his broad sword was swinging
And his brazen throat was ringing
Trumpet-loud.
Then the blue
Bullets flew,
And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden
Rifle-breath;
And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder,
Hurling death!
GUY HUMPHREY M'MASTER.
* * * * *
THE DANCE.
[Published soon after the surrender of Cornwallis.]
Cornwallis led a country dance,
The like was never seen, sir,
Much retrogade and much advance,
And all with General Greene, sir.
They rambled up and rambled down,
Joined hands, then off they run, sir.
Our General Greene to Charlestown,
The earl to Wilmington, sir.
Greene in the South then danced a set.
And got a mighty name, sir,
Cornwallis jigged with young Fayette,
But suffered in his fame, sir.
Then down he figured to the shore,
Most like a lordly dancer,
And on his courtly honor swore
He would no more advance, sir.
Quoth he, my guards are weary grown
With footing country dances,
They never at St. James's shone,
At capers, kicks, or prances.
Though men so gallant ne'er were seen,
While sauntering on parade, sir,
Or wiggling o'er the park's smooth green,
Or at a masquerade, sir.
Yet are red heels and long-laced skirts,
For stumps and briars meet, sir?
Or stand they chance with hunting-shirts,
Or hardy veteran feet, sir?
Now housed in York, he challenged all,
At minuet or all 'amande,
And lessons for a courtly ball
His guards by day and night conned.
This challenge known, full soon there came
A set who had the bon ton,
De Grasse and Rochambeau, whose fame
Fut brillant pour un long tems.
And Washington, Columbia's son,
Whom every nature taught, sir,
That grace which can't by pains be won,
Or Plutus's gold be bought, sir.
Now hand in hand they circle round
This ever-dancing peer, sir;
Their gentle movements soon confound
The earl as they draw near, sir.
His music soon forgets to play--
His feet can move no more, sir,
And all his bands now curse the day
They jiggèd to our shore, sir.
Now Tories all, what can ye say?
Come--is not this a griper,
That while your hopes are danced away,
'Tis you must pay the piper?
ANONYMOUS.
* * * * *
MONTEREY.
[Mexico, September 19, 1846.]
We were not many,--we who stood
Before the iron sleet that day;
Yet many a gallant spirit would
Give half his years if but he could
Have been with us at Monterey.
Now here, now there, the shot it hailed
In deadly drifts of fiery spray,
Yet not a single soldier quailed
When wounded comrades round them wailed
Their dying shouts at Monterey.
And on, still on our column kept,
Through walls of flame its withering way;
Where fell the dead, the living stept,
Still charging on the guns which swept
The slippery streets of Monterey.
The foe himself recoiled aghast,
When striking where he strongest lay,
We swooped his flanking batteries past,
And, braving full their murderous blast,
Stormed home the towers of Monterey.
Our banners on those turrets wave,
And there our evening bugles play;
Where orange boughs above their grave,
Keep green the memory of the brave
Who fought and fell at Monterey.
We are not many,--we who pressed
Beside the brave who fell that day;
But who of us has not confessed
He'd rather share their warrior rest
Than not have been at Monterey?
CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.
* * * * *
COMING.
[April, 1861.]
World, art thou 'ware of a storm?
Hark to the ominous sound;
How the far-off gales their battle form,
And the great sea-swells feel ground!
It comes, the Typhoon of Death--
Nearer and nearer it comes!
The horizon thunder of cannon-breath
And the roar of angry drums!
Hurtle, Terror sublime!
Swoop o'er the Land to-day--
So the mist of wrong and crime,
The breath of our Evil Time
Be swept, as by fire, away!
HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.
* * * * *
IN STATE.
I.
O keeper of the Sacred Key,
And the Great Seal of Destiny.
Whose eye is the blue canopy.
Look down upon the warring world, and tell us what the end will be.
"Lo, through the wintry atmosphere.
On the white bosom of the sphere,
A cluster of five lakes appear;
And all the land looks like a couch, or warrior's shield, or sheeted
bier.
"And on that vast and hollow field,
With both lips closed and both eyes sealed,
A mighty Figure is revealed,--
Stretched at full length, and stiff and stark, as in the hollow of a
shield.
"The winds have tied the drifted snow
Around the face and chin; and lo,
The sceptred Giants come and go,
And shake their shadowy crowns and say: 'We always feared it would
be so!'
"She came of an heroic race:
A giant's strength, a maiden's grace,
Like two in one seem to embrace,
And match, and bend, and thorough-blend, in her colossal form and face.
"Where can her dazzling falchion be?
One hand is fallen in the sea;
The Gulf Stream drifts it far and free;
And in that hand her shining brand gleams from the depths resplendently.
"And by the other, in its rest,
The starry banner of the West
Is clasped forever to her breast;
And of her silver helmet, lo, a soaring eagle is the crest.
"And on her brow, a softened light,
As of a star concealed from sight
By some thin veil of fleecy white,
Or of the rising moon behind the raining vapors of the night.
"The Sisterhood that was so sweet,
The Starry System sphered complete,
Which the mazed Orient used to greet,
The Four-and-Thirty fallen Stars glimmer and glitter at her feet.
"And over her,--and over all.
For panoply and coronal,--
The mighty Immemorial,
And everlasting Canopy and Starry Arch and Shield of All.
II.
"Three cold, bright moons have marched and wheeled;
And the white cerement that revealed
A Figure stretched upon a Shield,
Is turned to verdure; and the Land is now one mighty battle-field.
"And lo, the children which she bred,
And more than all else cherished,
To make them true in heart and head,
Stand face to face, as mortal foes, with their swords crossed above
the dead.
"Each hath a mighty stroke and stride:
One true,--the more that he is tried;
The other dark and evil-eyed;--
And by the hand of one of them, his own dear mother surely died!
"A stealthy step, a gleam of hell,--
It is the simple truth to tell,--
The Son stabbed and the Mother fell:
And so she lies, all mute and pale, and pure and irreproachable!
"And then the battle-trumpet blew;
And the true brother sprang and drew
His blade to smite the traitor through;
And so they clashed above the bier, and the Night sweated bloody dew.
"And all their children, far and wide,
That are so greatly multiplied,
Rise up in frenzy and divide;
And choosing, each whom he will serve, unsheathe the sword and take
their side.
"And in the low sun's bloodshot rays,
Portentous of the coming days,
The Two great Oceans blush and blaze,
With the emergent continent between them, wrapt in crimson haze.
"Now whichsoever stand or fall,
As God is great, and man is small,
The Truth shall triumph over all:
Forever and forevermore, the Truth shall triumph over all!
III.
"I see the champion sword-strokes flash;
I see them fall and hear them clash;
I hear the murderous engines crash;
I see a brother stoop to loose a foeman-brother's bloody sash.
"I see the torn and mangled corse,
The dead and dying heaped in scores,
The headless rider by his horse,
The wounded captive bayoneted through and through without remorse.
"I hear the dying sufferer cry,
With his crushed face turned to the sky,
I see him crawl in agony
To the foul pool, and bow his head into bloody slime, and die.
"I see the assassin crouch and fire,
I see his victim fall,--expire;
I see the murderer creeping nigher
To strip the dead. He turns the head,--the face! The son beholds his
sire!
"I hear the curses and the thanks;
I see the mad charge on the flanks,
The rents, the gaps, the broken ranks,
The vanquished squadrons driven headlong down the river's bridgeless
banks.
"I see the death-gripe on the plain,
The grappling monsters on the main,
The tens of thousands that are slain,
And all the speechless suffering and agony of heart and brain.
"I see the dark and bloody spots,
The crowded rooms and crowded cots,
The bleaching bones, the battle blots,--
And writ on many a nameless grave, a legend of forget-me-nots.
"I see the gorgèd prison-den,
The dead line and the pent-up pen,
The thousands quartered in the fen,
The living-deaths of skin and bone that were the goodly shapes of men.
"And still the bloody Dew must fall!
And His great Darkness with the Pall
Of His dread Judgment cover all,
Till the Dead Nation rise Transformed by Truth to triumph over all!"
"And Last--and Last I see--The Dead."
Thus saith the Keeper of the Key,
And the Great Seal of Destiny,
Whose eye is the blue canopy,
And leaves the Pall of His great Darkness over all the Land and Sea.
FORCEYTHE WILLSON.
* * * * *
BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR
SISTER CAROLINE.
[March 25, 1861, South Carolina having adopted the Ordinance of
Secession.]
She has gone,--she has left us in passion and pride--
Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side!
She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow,
And turned on her brother the face of a foe!
O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,
We can never forget that our hearts have been one,--
Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's name,
From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame!
You were always too ready to fire at a touch;
But we said: "She is hasty--she does not mean much."
We have scowled when you uttered some turbulent threat;
But friendship still whispered: "Forgive and forget."
Has our love all died out? Have its altars grown cold?
Has the curse come at last which the fathers foretold?
Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chain
That her petulant children would sever in vain.
They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with their spoil,--
Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil,
Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their caves,
And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves:
In vain is the strife! When its fury is past,
Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last,
As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snow
Roll mingled in peace in the valleys below.
Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky;
Man breaks not the medal when God cuts the die!
Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with steel,
The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal!
O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,
There are battles with fate that can never be won!
The star-flowering banner must never be furled,
For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world!
Go, then, our rash sister, afar and aloof,--
Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof;
But when your heart aches and your feet have grown sore,
Remember the pathway that leads to our door!
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
* * * * *
JONATHAN TO JOHN.
It don't seem hardly right, John,
When both my hands was full,
To stump me to a fight, John,--
Your cousin, tu, John Bull!
Old Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
We know it now," sez he,
"The Lion's paw is all the law,
Accordin' to J.B.,
Thet's fit for you and me!"
You wonder why we're hot, John?
Your mark wuz on the guns,
The neutral guns, thet shot, John,
Our brothers an' our sons:
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
There's human blood," sez he,
"By fits an' starts, in Yankee hearts,
Though 't may surprise J.B.
More 'n it would you an' me."
Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John,
On _your_ front parlor stairs,
Would it just meet your views, John,
To wait an' sue their heirs?
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess,
I on'y guess," sez he,
"Thet ef Vattel on _his_ toes fell,
'T would kind o' rile J.B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!"
Who made the law thet hurts, John,
_Heads I win--ditto tails_?
"J.B." was on his shirts, John,
Onless my memory fails.
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
(I'm good at thet)," sez he,
"Thet sauce for goose ain't _jest_ the juice
For ganders with J.B.,
No more 'n with you or me!"
When your rights was our wrongs, John,
You didn't stop for fuss,--
Britanny's trident prongs, John,
Was good 'nough law for us.
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
Though physic's good," sez he,
"It doesn't foller thet he can swaller
Prescriptions signed 'J.B.'
Put up by you an' me."
We own the ocean, tu, John,
You mus'n' take it hard,
Ef we can't think with you, John,
It's jest your own back yard.
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
Ef _thet's_ his claim," sez he,
"The fencin' stuff'll cost enough
To bust up friend J.B.
Ez wal ez you an' me!"
Why talk so dreffle big, John,
Of honor when it meant
You didn't care a fig, John,
But jest for _ten per cent_?
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
He's like the rest," sez he,
"When all is done, it's number one
Thet's nearest to J.B.,
Ez wal ez t' you an' me!"
We give the critters back, John,
Cos Abram thought 'twas right;
It warn't your bullyin' clack, John,
Provokin' us to fight.
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
We've a hard row," sez he,
"To hoe just now; but thet, somehow,
May happen to J.B.,
Ez well ez you an' me!"
We ain't so weak an' poor, John,
With twenty million people,
An' close to every door, John,
A school house an' a steeple.
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
It is a fact," sez he,
"The surest plan to make a Man
Is, think him so, J.B.,
Ez much ez you an' me!"
Our folks believe in Law, John;
An' it's fer her sake, now,
They've left the axe an' saw, John,
The anvil an' the plow.
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
Ef 't warn't fer law," sez he,
"There'd be one shindy from here to Indy;
An' _thet_ don't suit J.B.
(When 'tain't 'twixt you an' me!)"
We know we've got a cause, John,
Thet's honest, just, an' true;
We thought 't would win applause, John,
Ef nowhere else, from you.
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
His love of right," sez he,
"Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton;
There's natur' in J.B.,
Ez well ez you an' me!"
The South says, "_Poor folks down_!" John,
An' "_All men up_!" say we,--
White, yaller, black, an' brown, John;
Now which is your idee?
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
John preaches wal," sez he;
"But, sermon thru, an' come to _du_,
Why there's the old J.B.
A-crowdin' you an' me!"
Shall it be love or hate, John?
It's you thet's to decide;
Ain't _your_ bonds held by Fate, John,
Like all the world's beside?
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
Wise men fergive," sez he,
"But not ferget; an' some time yet
Thet truth may strike J.B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!"
God means to make this land, John,
Clear thru, from sea to sea,
Believe an' understand, John,
The _wuth_ o' bein' free.
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
God's price is high," sez he;
"But nothin' else than wut he sells
Wears long, an' thet J.B.
May larn, like you an' me!"
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
* * * * *
ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC.
"All quiet along the Potomac," they say,
"Except now and then a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.
'Tis nothing: a private or two, now and then,
Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost,--only one of the men,
Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle."
All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind
Through the forest leaves softly is creeping;
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard,--for the army is sleeping.
There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And he thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed,
Far away in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,
For their mother,--may Heaven defend her!
The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,
That night when the love yet unspoken
Leaped up to his lips,--when low, murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken;
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to its place,
As if to keep down the heart-swelling.
He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,--
The footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary, good-bye!"
And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.
All quiet along the Potomac to-night,--
No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,--
The picket's off duty forever.
ETHELINDA ELLIOTT BEERS.
* * * * *
THE COUNTERSIGN.
Alas the weary hours pass slow,
The night is very dark and still,
And in the marshes far below
I hear the bearded whippoorwill.
I scarce can see a yard ahead;
My ears are strained to catch each sound;
I hear the leaves about me shed,
And the spring's bubbling through the ground.
Along the beaten path I pace,
Where white rags mark my sentry's track;
In formless shrubs I seem to trace
The foeman's form, with bending back;
I think I see him crouching low--
I stop and list--I stoop and peer,
Until the neighboring hillocks grow
To groups of soldiers far and near.
With ready piece I wait and watch,
Until my eyes, familiar grown,
Detect each harmless earthen notch,
And turn guerrillas into stone;
And then amid the lonely gloom,
Beneath the tall old chestnut trees,
My silent marches I resume,
And think of other times than these.
"Halt! who goes there?" my challenge cry,
It rings along the watchful line;
"Relief!" I hear a voice reply--
"Advance, and give the countersign!"
With bayonet at the charge I wait--
The corporal gives the mystic spell;
With arms aport I charge my mate,
Then onward pass, and all is well.
But in the tent that night awake,
I ask, if in the fray I fall,
Can I the mystic answer make,
When the angelic sentries call?
And pray that Heaven may so ordain,
Where'er I go, what fate be mine,
Whether in pleasure or in pain,
I still may have the countersign.
ANONYMOUS.
* * * * *
CIVIL WAR.
"Rifleman shoot me a fancy shot
Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette;
Ring me a ball in the glittering spot
That shines on his breast like an amulet!"
"Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead,
There's music around when my barrel's in tune!"
Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped,
And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.
"Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch
From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood;
A button, a loop, or that luminous patch
That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud!"
"O captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track,
When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette,
For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back,
That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.
"But I snatched off the trinket,--this locket of gold;
An inch from the centre my lead broke its way,
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,
Of a beautiful lady in bridal array."
"Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket!--'tis she,
My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoon
Was her husband--Hush! soldier, 'twas Heaven's decree,
We must bury him there, by the light of the moon!
"But hark! the far bugles their warnings unite;
War is a virtue,--weakness a sin;
There's a lurking and loping around us to-night,
Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!"
CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY.
* * * * *
THE TWO WIVES.
The colonel rode by his picket-line
In the pleasant morning sun,
That glanced from him far off to shine
On the crouching rebel picket's gun.
From his command the captain strode
Out with a grave salute,
And talked with the colonel as he rode:--
The picket levelled his piece to shoot.
The colonel rode and the captain walked,--
The arm of the picket tired;
Their faces almost touched as they talked,
And, swerved from his aim, the picket fired.
The captain fell at the horse's feet,
Wounded and hurt to death,
Calling upon a name that was sweet
As God is good, with his dying breath.
And the colonel that leaped from his horse and knelt
To close the eyes so dim,
A high remorse for God's mercy felt,
Knowing the shot was meant for him.
And he whispered, prayer-like, under his breath,
The name of his own young wife:
For Love, that had made his friend's peace with Death,
Alone could make his with life.
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.
* * * * *
THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE.
[September, 1861;]
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!
From Mississippi's winding stream and from New England's shore;
We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear,
With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear;
We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before:
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!
If you look across the hill-tops that meet the northern sky,
Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry;
And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside,
And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride,
And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour:
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!
If you look all up our valleys where the growing harvests shine,
You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line;
And children from their mother's knees are pulling at the weeds,
And learning how to reap and sow against their country's needs;
And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door:
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!
You have called us, and we're coming, by Richmond's bloody tide
To lay us down, for Freedom's sake, our brothers' bones beside,
Or from foul treason's savage grasp to wrench the murderous blade,
And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade.
Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before:
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!
ANONYMOUS.
* * * * *
THE OLD MAN AND JIM.
Old man never had much to say--
'Ceptin' to Jim,--
And Jim was the wildest boy he had,
And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!
Never heerd him speak but once
Er twice in my life,--and first time was
When the army broke out, and Jim he went,
The old man backin' him, fer three months;
And all 'at I heerd the old man say
Was jes' as we turned to start away,--
"Well, good-bye, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"