And the leading ships worked in,
Losing their hope to win,
The enemy turned and fled--
And one seeks a shallow reach,
And another, winged in her flight,
Our mate, brave Jouett, brings in--
And one, all torn in the fight,
Runs for a wreck on the beach,
Where her flames soon fire the night.
And the Ram, when well up the Bay,
And we looked that our stems should meet,
(He had us fair for a prey,)
Shifting his helm midway,
Sheered off and ran for the fleet;
There, without skulking or sham,
He fought them, gun for gun,
And ever he sought to ram,
But could finish never a one.
From the first of the iron shower
Till we sent our parting shell,
'Twas just one savage hour
Of the roar and the rage of hell.
With the lessening smoke and thunder,
Our glasses around we aim--
What is that burning yonder?
Our Philippi,--aground and in flame!
Below, 'twas still all a-roar,
As the ships went by the shore,
But the fire of the fort had slacked,
(So fierce their volleys had been)--
And now, with a mighty din,
The whole fleet came grandly in,
Though sorely battered and wracked.
So, up the Bay we ran,
The Flag to port and ahead,
And a pitying rain began
To wash the lips of our dead.
A league from the Fort we lay,
And deemed that the end must lag;
When lo! looking down the Bay,
There flaunted the Rebel Rag--
The Ram is again under way,
And heading dead for the Flag!
Steering up with the stream,
Boldly his course, he lay,
Though the fleet all answered his fire,
And, as he still drew nigher,
Ever on bow and beam
Our Monitors pounded away--
How the Chickasaw hammered away!
Quickly breasting the wave,
Eager the prize to win,
First of us all the brave
Monongahela went in
Under full head of steam--
Twice she struck him abeam,
Till her stem was a sorry work,
(She might have run on a crag!)
The Lackawanna hit fair,
He flung her aside like cork,
And still he held for the Flag.
High in the mizzen shroud
(Lest the smoke his sight o'erwhelm),
Our Admiral's voice rang loud,
"Hard-a-starboard your helm!
Starboard! and run him down!"
Starboard it was--and so,
Like a black squall's lifting frown,
Our mighty bow bore down
On the iron beak of the Foe.
We stood on the deck together,
Men that had looked on death
In battle and stormy weather--
Yet a little we held our breath,
When, with the hush of death,
The great ships drew together.
Our Captain strode to the bow,
Drayton, courtly and wise,
Kindly cynic, and wise,
(You hardly had known him now,--
The flame of fight in his eyes!)
His brave heart eager to feel
How the oak would tell on the steel!
But, as the space grew short,
A little he seemed to shun us,
Out peered a form grim and lanky,
And a voice yelled: "Hard-a-port!
Hard-a-port!--here's the damned Yankee
Coming right down on us!"
He sheered, but the ships ran foul;
With a gnarring shudder and growl--
He gave us a deadly gun;
But as he passed in his pride,
(Rasping right alongside!)
The Old Flag, in thunder tones,
Poured in her port broadside,
Rattling his iron hide,
And cracking his timber bones!
Just then, at speed on the Foe,
With her bow all weathered and brown,
The great Lackawanna came down,
Full tilt, for another blow;
We were forging ahead,
She reversed--but, for all our pains,
Rammed the old Hartford instead,
Just for'ard the mizzen-chains!
Ah! how the masts did buckle and bend,
And the stout hull ring and reel,
As she took us right on end!
(Vain were engine and wheel,
She was under full steam)--
With the roar of a thunder-stroke
Her two thousand tons of oak
Brought up on us, right abeam!
A wreck, as it looked, we lay--
(Rib and plankshear gave way
To the stroke of that giant wedge!)
Here, after all, we go--
The old ship is gone!--ah, no,
But cut to the water's edge.
Never mind then--at him again!
His flurry now can't last long;
He'll never again see land--
Try that on _him_, Marchand!
On him again, brave Strong!
Heading square at the hulk,
Full on his beam we bore;
But the spine of the huge Sea-Hog
Lay on the tide like a log,
He vomited flame no more.
By this he had found it hot--
Half the fleet, in an angry ring,
Closed round the hideous Thing,
Hammering with solid shot,
And bearing down, bow on bow--
He had but a minute to choose;
Life or renown?--which now
Will the Rebel Admiral lose?
Cruel, haughty, and cold,
He ever was strong and bold--
Shall he shrink from a wooden stem?
He will think of that brave band
He sank in the Cumberland--
Ay, he will sink like them.
Nothing left but to fight
Boldly his last sea-fight!
Can he strike? By heaven, 'tis true!
Down comes the traitor Blue,
And up goes the captive White!
Up went the White! Ah then
The hurrahs that, once and agen,
Rang from three thousand men
All flushed and savage with fight!
Our dead lay cold and stark,
But our dying, down in the dark,
Answered as best they might--
Lifting their poor lost arms,
And cheering for God and Right!
SHERIDAN'S RIDE
THOMAS BUCHANAN READ
[Sidenote: Oct. 19, 1864]
_General Early surprised and routed the Union troops during
General Sheridan's absence in Washington. Sheridan hastened to the
front, rallied his men, and won a complete victory._
Up from the South at break of day,
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door,
The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.
And wider still those billows of war
Thundered along the horizon's bar;
And louder yet into Winchester rolled
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,
Making the blood of the listener cold,
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.
But there is a road from Winchester town,
A good, broad highway leading down;
And there, through the flush of the morning light,
A steed as black as the steeds of night,
Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight,
As if he knew the terrible need;
He stretched away with his utmost speed;
Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.
Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South,
The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth;
Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.
The heart of the steed and the heart of the master
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;
Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,
With Sheridan only ten miles away.
Under his spurning feet the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed,
And the landscape sped away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind,
And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace fire,
Swept on, with his wild eye full of ire.
But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire;
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles away.
The first that the general saw were the groups
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops,
What was done? what to do? a glance told him both,
Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath,
He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas,
And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because
The sight of the master compelled it to pause.
With foam and with dust, the black charger was gray
By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play,
He seemed to the whole great army to say,
"I have brought you Sheridan all the way
From Winchester, down to save the day!"
Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan!
Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man!
And when their statues are placed on high,
Under the dome of the Union sky,
The American soldiers' Temple of Fame,
There with the glorious general's name
Be it said, in letters both bold and bright,
"Here is the steed that saved the day,
By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
From Winchester, twenty miles away!"
CRAVEN
HENRY NEWBOLT
[Sidenote: August 5, 1864]
_In the attack on Mobile Bay the monitor Tecumseh was sunk by a
torpedo._
Over the turret, shut in his iron-clad tower,
Craven was conning his ship through smoke and
flame;
Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour,
Now was the time for a charge to end the game.
There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and grim,
A hundred deaths beneath it, and never a sign;
There lay the enemy's ships, and sink or swim
The flag was flying, and he was head of the line.
The fleet behind was jamming; the monitor hung
Beating the stream; the roar for a moment hushed,
Craven spoke to the pilot; slow she swung;
Again he spoke, and right for the foe she rushed.
Into the narrowing channel, between the shore
And the sunk torpedoes lying in treacherous rank;
She turned but a yard too short; a muffled roar,
A mountainous wave, and she rolled, righted, and sank.
Over the manhole, up in the iron-clad tower,
Pilot and Captain met as they turned to fly:
The hundredth part of a moment seemed an hour,
For one could pass to be saved, and one must die.
They stood like men in a dream: Craven spoke,
Spoke as he lived and fought, with a Captain's pride,
"After you, Pilot." The pilot woke,
Down the ladder he went, and Craven died.
All men praise the deed and the manner, but we--
We set it apart from the pride that stoops to the proud,
The strength that is supple to serve the strong and free,
The grace of the empty hands and promises loud:
Sidney thirsting, a humbler need to slake,
Nelson waiting his turn for the surgeon's hand,
Lucas crushed with chains for a comrade's sake,
Outram coveting right before command:
These were paladins, these were Craven's peers,
These with him shall be crowned in story and song,
Crowned with the glitter of steel and the glimmer of tears,
Princes of courtesy, merciful, proud, and strong.
SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA
SAMUEL H. M. BYERS
[Sidenote: May 4, 1864, Dec. 21, 1864]
_After Sherman left Tennessee in May, to the taking of Atlanta
September 2, there was hardly a day without its battle; after he
left Atlanta he marched to the sea and took Savannah; then he went
to Columbia and the backbone of the Rebellion was broken. The poet
wrote this while a prisoner at Columbia; and when Sherman arrived
there and read it, he attached Adjt. Byers to his staff._
Our camp-fires shone bright on the mountain
That frowned on the river below,
As we stood by our guns in the morning,
And eagerly watched for the foe;
When a rider came out of the darkness
That hung over mountain and tree,
And shouted, "Boys, up and be ready!
For Sherman will march to the sea!"
Then cheer upon cheer for bold Sherman
Went up from each valley and glen,
And the bugles re-echoed the music
That came from the lips of the men;
For we knew that the stars in our banner
More bright in their splendor would be,
And that blessings from Northland would greet us,
When Sherman marched down to the sea.
Then forward, boys! forward to battle!
We marched on our wearisome way,
We stormed the wild hills of Resaca--
God bless those who fell on that day!
Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory,
Frowned down on the flag of the free;
But the East and the West bore our standard
And Sherman marched down to the sea.
Still onward we pressed, till our banners
Swept out from Atlanta's grim walls,
And the blood of the patriot dampened
The soil where the traitor-flag falls;
We paused not to weep for the fallen,
Who slept by each river and tree,
Yet we twined them a wreath of the laurel,
As Sherman marched down to the sea.
Oh, proud was our army that morning,
That stood where the pine darkly towers,
When Sherman said, "Boys, you are weary,
But to-day fair Savannah is ours!"
Then sang we the song of our chieftain,
That echoed o'er river and lea,
And the stars in our banner shone brighter
When Sherman marched down to the sea.
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!
WALT WHITMAN
[Sidenote: April 15, 1865]
_Abraham Lincoln was killed by John Wilkes Booth, almost exactly
four years after the first shot was fired at Fort Sumter._
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead!
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here, Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will:
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and
done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won:
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
[Sidenote: April 15, 1865]
_This is a fragment of the noble Commemoration Ode delivered at
Harvard College to the memory of those of its students who fell in
the war which kept the country whole._
Such was he, our Martyr-Chief,
Whom late the Nation he had led,
With ashes on her head,
Wept with the passion of an angry grief:
Forgive me, if from present things I turn
To speak what in my heart will beat and burn,
And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn.
Nature, they say, doth dote,
And cannot make a man
Save on some worn-out plan,
Repeating us by rote:
For him her Old World moulds aside she threw,
And, choosing sweet clay from the breast
Of the unexhausted West,
With stuff untainted shaped a hero new,
Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true.
How beautiful to see
Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed,
Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead;
One whose meek flock the people joyed to be,
Not lured by any cheat of birth,
But by his clear-grained human worth,
And brave old wisdom of sincerity!
They knew that outward grace is dust;
They could not choose but trust
In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill,
And supple-tempered will
That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust.
His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind,
Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars,
A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind,
Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined,
Fruitful and friendly for all human kind,
Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars.
Nothing of Europe here,
Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still,
Ere any names of Serf and Peer
Could Nature's equal scheme deface;
Here was a type of the true elder race,
And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face.
I praise him not; it were too late;
And some innative weakness there must be
In him who condescends to victory
Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait,
Safe in himself as in a fate.
So always firmly he:
He knew to bide his time,
And can his fame abide,
Still patient in his simple faith sublime,
Till the wise years decide.
Great captains, with their guns and drums,
Disturb our judgment for the hour,
But at last silence comes;
These all are gone, and, standing like a tower,
Our children shall behold his fame,
The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man,
Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame,
New birth of our new soil, the first American.
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY
FRANCIS MILES FINCH
[Sidenote: 1861-1865]
_The women of Columbus, Mississippi, had shown themselves
impartial in the offerings made to the memory of the dead. They
strewed flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and of the
National soldiers._
By the flow of the inland river,
Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
Asleep on the ranks of the dead;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the one, the Blue;
Under the other, the Gray.
These in the robings of glory,
Those in the gloom of defeat;
All with the battle-blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the laurel, the Blue;
Under the willow, the Gray.
From the silence of sorrowful hours,
The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers,
Alike for the friend and the foe;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the roses, the Blue;
Under the lilies, the Gray.
So, with an equal splendor,
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Broidered with gold, the Blue;
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.
So, when the summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Wet with the rain, the Blue;
Wet with the rain, the Gray.
Sadly, but not with upbraiding,
The generous deed was done;
In the storm of the years that are fading,
No braver battle was won;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the blossoms, the Blue;
Under the garlands, the Gray.
No more shall the war-cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever,
When they laurel the graves of our dead.
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Love and tears for the Blue;
Tears and love for the Gray.
AT THE FARRAGUT STATUE
ROBERT BRIDGES
[Sidenote: 1801, 1870]
_Farragut's statue by Saint Gaudens was unveiled in New York in
1881_
To live a hero, then to stand
In bronze serene above the city's throng;
Hero at sea, and now on land
Revered by thousands as they rush along;
If these were all the gifts of fame--
To be a shade amid alert reality,
And win a statue and a name--
How cold and cheerless immortality!
But when the sun shines in the Square,
And multitudes are swarming in the street,
Children are always gathered there,
Laughing and playing round the hero's feet.
GRANT
H. C. BUNNER
[Sidenote: 1822, 1885]
_This was written on the day of Grant's death, July 23._
Smile on, thou new-come Spring--if on thy breeze
The breath of a great man go wavering up
And out of this world's knowledge, it is well.
Kindle with thy green flame the stricken trees,
And fire the rose's many-petaled cup,
Let bough and branch with quickening life-blood swell--
But Death shall touch his spirit with a life
That knows not years or seasons. Oh, how small
Thy little hour of bloom! Thy leaves shall fall,
And be the sport of winter winds at strife;
But he has taken on eternity.
Yea, of how much this Death doth set him free!--
Now are we one to love him, once again.
The tie that bound him to our bitterest pain
Draws him more close to Love and Memory.
O Spring, with all thy sweetheart frolics, say,
Hast thou remembrance of those earlier springs
When we wept answer to the laughing day,
And turned aside from green and gracious things?
There was a sound of weeping over all--
Mothers uncomforted, for their sons were not;
And there was crueler silence: tears grew hot
In the true eyes that would not let them fall.
Up from the South came a great wave of sorrow
That drowned our hearthstones, splashed with blood our
sills;
To-day, that spared, made terrible To-morrow
With thick presentiment of coming ills.
Only we knew the Right--but oh, how strong,
How pitiless, how insatiable the Wrong!
And then the quivering sword-hilt found a hand
That knew not how to falter or grow weak;
And we looked on, from end to end the land,
And felt the heart spring up, and rise afresh
The blood of courage to the whitened cheek,
And fire of battle thrill the numbing flesh.
Ay, there was death, and pain, and dear ones missed,
And lips forever to grow pale unkissed;
But lo, the man was here, and this was he;
And at his hands Faith gave us victory.
Spring, thy poor life, that mocks his body's death,
Is but a candle's flame, a flower's breath.
He lives in days that suffering made dear
Beyond all garnered beauty of the year.
He lives in all of us that shall outlive
The sensuous things that paltry time can give.
This Spring the spirit of his broken age
Across the threshold of its anguish stole--
All of him that was noble, fearless, sage,
Lives in his loved nation's strengthened soul.
THE BURIAL OF SHERMAN
RICHARD WATSON GILDER
[Sidenote: 1820, 1891]
_Sherman died on January 14. His funeral took place two days
later. The statue by Saint Gaudens was unveiled in New York in
1903._
Glory and honor and fame and everlasting laudation
For our captains who loved not war, but fought for
the life of the nation;
Who knew that, in all the land, one slave meant strife, not
peace;
Who fought for freedom, not glory; made war that war might
cease.
Glory and honor and fame; the beating of muffled drums;
The wailing funeral dirge, as the flag-wrapt coffin comes.
Fame and honor and glory, and joy for a noble soul;
For a full and splendid life, and laurelled rest at the goal.
Glory and honor and fame; the pomp that a soldier prizes;
The league-long waving line as the marching falls and rises;
Rumbling of caissons and guns; the clatter of horses' feet,
And a million awe-struck faces far down the waiting street.
But better than martial woe, and the pageant of civic sorrow;
Better than praise of to-day, or the statue we build to-morrow;
Better than honor and glory, and History's iron pen,
Was the thought of duty done and the love of his fellow-men.
THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS
JOHN JEROME ROONEY
[Sidenote: 1898]
_The high quality of American marksmanship was never more
conclusively shown than in the battle of Santiago._
A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here's to the
Captain bold,
And never forget the Commodore's debt when the
deeds of might are told!
They stand to the deck through the battle's wreck when the
great shells roar and screech--
And never they fear when the foe is near to practise what they
preach:
But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia's
true-blue sons,
The men below who batter the foe--the men behind the guns!
Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into
port once more,
When, with more than enough of the "greenbacked stuff,"
they start for their leave-o'-shore;
And you'd think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who
loll along the street
Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce "mustache"
to eat--
Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly
stuns
The modest worth of the sailor boys--the lads who serve the
guns.
But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells that the
fight is on,
Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships
of "Yank" and "Don,"
Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell,
And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living hell;
Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the
midday suns,
You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps--the men behind
the guns!
Oh, well they know how the cyclones blow that they loose
from their cloud of death,
And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten-incher
saith!
The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with
the great recoil,
And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches
for his spoil--
But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and runs,
Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind
the guns!
THE REGULAR ARMY MAN
JOSEPH C. LINCOLN
[Sidenote: 1898]
He ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere,"
To sparkle in the sun;
He don't parade with gay cockade,
And posies in his gun;
He ain't no "pretty soldier boy,"
So lovely, spick and span,--
He wears a crust of tan and dust,
The Regular Army man;
The marching, parching,
Pipe-clay starching,
Regular Army man.
He ain't at home in Sunday-school,
Nor yet a social tea,
And on the day he gets his pay
He's apt to spend it free;
He ain't no temperance advocate,
He likes to fill the can,
He's kind of rough, and, maybe, tough,
The Regular Army man;
The r'aring, tearing,
Sometimes swearing,
Regular Army man.
No State'll call him "noble son,"
He ain't no ladies' pet,
But, let a row start anyhow,
They'll send for him, you bet!
He don't cut any ice at all
In Fashion's social plan,
He gets the job to face a mob,
The Regular Army man;
The milling, drilling,
Made for killing,
Regular Army man.
There ain't no tears shed over him
When he goes off to war,
He gets no speech nor prayerful preach
From mayor or governor;
He packs his little knapsack up
And trots off in the van,
To start the fight and start it right,
The Regular Army man;
The rattling, battling,
Colt or Gatling,
Regular Army man.