Part 6
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 press'd Beside the brave who fell that day-- But who of us has not confess'd He'd rather share their warrior rest Than not have been at Monterey?
BUENA VISTA.
[By some strange oversight, this fine ballad appears in none of the popular collections. So far as the editor can discover, indeed, it exists nowhere in print except in a volume privately printed by General Pike some years ago, and to his courtesy the editor is indebted for the copy from which the piece is here reproduced.--EDITOR.]
BUENA VISTA.
BY ALBERT PIKE.
From the Rio Grande's waters to the icy lakes of Maine, Let all exult! for we have met the enemy again; Beneath their stern old mountains we have met them in their pride, And rolled from BUENA VISTA back the battle's bloody tide; Where the enemy came surging swift, like the Mississippi's flood, And the reaper, Death, with strong arms swung his sickle red with blood.
SANTANA boasted loudly that, before two hours were past, His Lancers through Saltillo should pursue us fierce and fast:-- On comes his solid infantry, line marching after line; Lo! their great standards in the sun like sheets of silver shine: With thousands upon thousands,--yea, with more than three to one,-- Their forests of bright bayonets fierce-flashing in the sun.
Lo! Guanajuato's regiment; Morelos' boasted corps, And Guadalajara's chosen troops!--all veterans tried before. Lo! galloping upon the right four thousand lances gleam, Where, floating in the morning-wind, their blood-red pennons stream; And here his stern artillery climbs up the broad plateau: To-day he means to strike at us an overwhelming blow.
Now, WOOL, hold strongly to the heights! for, lo! the mighty tide Comes, thundering like an avalanche, deep, terrible and wide. Now, ILLINOIS, stand steady! Now, KENTUCKY, to their aid! For a portion of our line, alas! is broken and dismayed: Great bands of shameless fugitives are fleeing from the field, And the day is lost, if Illinois and brave Kentucky yield.
One of O'Brien's guns is gone!--On, on their masses drift, Till their cavalry and infantry outflank us on the left; Our light troops, driven from the hills, retreat in wild dismay, And round us gather, thick and dark, the Mexican array. SANTANA thinks the day is gained; for, now approaching near, MIÑON'S dark cloud of Lancers sternly menaces our rear.
Now, LINCOLN, gallant gentleman, lies dead upon the field, Who strove to stay those cravens, when before the storm they reeled. Fire, WASHINGTON, fire fast and true! Fire, SHERMAN, fast and far! Lo! BRAGG comes thundering to the front, to breast the adverse war! SANTANA thinks the day is gained! On, on his masses crowd, And the roar of battle swells again more terrible and loud.
NOT YET! Our brave old General comes to regain the day; KENTUCKY, to the rescue! MISSISSIPPI, to the fray! Again our line advances! Gallant DAVIS fronts the foe, And back before his rifles, in red waves the Lancers flow. Upon them yet once more, ye brave! The avalanche is stayed! Back roll the Aztec multitudes, all broken and dismayed.
Ride! MAY!--To Buena Vista! for the Lancers gain our rear, And we have few troops there to check their vehement career. Charge, ARKANSAS! KENTUCKY, charge! YELL, PORTER, VAUGHAN, are slain, But the shattered troops cling desperately unto that crimsoned plain; Till, with the Lancers intermixed, pursuing and pursued, Westward, in combat hot and close, drifts off the multitude.
And May comes charging from the hills with his ranks of flaming steel, While shattered with a sudden fire, the foe already reel: They flee amain!--Now to the left, to stay the torrent there, Or else the day is surely lost, in horror and despair! For their hosts pour swiftly onward, like a river in the spring, Our flank is turned, and on our left their cannon thundering.
Now, good Artillery! bold Dragoons! Steady, brave hearts, be calm! Through rain, cold hail, and thunder, now nerve each gallant arm! What though their shot fall round us here, yet thicker than the hail? We'll stand against them, as the rock stands firm against the gale. Lo! their battery is silenced! but our iron sleet still showers: They falter, halt, retreat!--Hurrah! the glorious day is ours!
In front, too, has the fight gone well, where upon gallant LANE, And on stout Mississippi, the thick Lancers charged in vain: Ah! brave Third Indiana! you have nobly wiped away The reproach that through another corps befell your State to-day; For back, all broken and dismayed, before your storm of fire, SANTANA'S boasted chivalry, a shattered wreck, retire.
Now charge again, SANTANA! or the day is surely lost-- For back, like broken waves, along our left your hordes are tossed. Still faster roar his batteries,--his whole reserve moves on; More work remains for us to do, ere the good fight is won. Now for your wives and children men! Stand steady yet once more! Fight for your lives and honors! Fight as you never fought before!
Ho! HARDIN breasts it bravely! and heroic BISSELL there Stands firm before the storm of balls that fill the astonished air: The Lancers dash upon them too! The foe swarm ten to one: HARDIN is slain; MCKEE and CLAY the last time see the sun: And many another gallant heart, in that last desperate fray, Grew cold, its last thought turning to its loved ones far away.
Speed, speed, Artillery! to the front!--for the hurricane of fire Crushes those noble regiments, reluctant to retire! Speed swiftly! Gallop! Ah! they come! Again BRAGG climbs the ridge, And his grape sweeps down the swarming foe, as a strong man moweth sedge: Thus baffled in their last attack, compelled perforce to yield, Still menacing in firm array, their columns leave the field.
The guns still roared at intervals; but silence fell at last, And on the dead and dying came the evening shadows fast. And then above the mountains rose the cold moon's silver shield, And patiently and pitying she looked upon the field. While careless of his wounded, and neglectful of his dead, Despairingly and sullenly by night SANTANA fled.
And thus on BUENA VISTA'S heights a long day's work was done, And thus our brave old General another battle won. Still, still our glorious banner waves, unstained by flight or shame, And the Mexicans among their hills still tremble at our name. SO, HONOR UNTO THOSE THAT STOOD! DISGRACE TO THOSE THAT FLED! AND EVERLASTING GLORY UNTO BUENA VISTA'S DEAD!
February 28, 1847.
THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.
BY THEODORE O'HARA.
[Originally written on the occasion of the erection of a monument to the Kentucky volunteers who fell at Buena Vista.--EDITOR.]
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo; No more on Life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few. On Fame's eternal camping-ground Their silent tents are spread, And Glory guards, with solemn round, The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms; No braying horn nor screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms.
Their shivered swords are red with rust; Their plumèd heads are bowed; Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud. And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow, And the proud forms, by battle gashed, Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The bugle's stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout are past; Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that nevermore may feel The rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe. Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was "Victory or Death."
Long had the doubtful conflict raged O'er all that stricken plain, For never fiercer fight had waged The vengeful blood of Spain; And still the storm of battle blew, Still swelled the gory tide; Not long our stout old chieftain knew, Such odds his strength could bide.
'Twas in that hour his stern command Called to a martyr's grave The flower of his belovèd land, The nation's flag to save. By rivers of their fathers' gore His first-born laurels grew And well he deemed the sons would pour There lives for glory too.
Full many a norther's breath has swept, O'er Angostura's plain-- And long the pitying sky has wept Above its mouldered slain. The raven's scream or eagle's flight Or shepherd's pensive lay, Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray.
Sons of the Dark and Bloody ground, Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air. Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave; She claims from war his richest spoil-- The ashes of her brave.
Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield; The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulchre.
Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! Dear as the blood ye gave, No impious footstep here shall tread The herbage of your grave; Nor shall your story be forgot, While Fame her record keeps, Or Honor points the hallowed spot Where Valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell When many a vanished age hath flown, The story how ye fell; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Nor Time's remorseless doom, Shall dim one ray of glory's light That gilds your deathless tomb.
BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE.
BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
(Written in December, 1860, when South Carolina 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's a beauty--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!
THE TWELFTH OF APRIL.
A.D., 1861.
BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
[Peculiar interest attaches to this piece as the first poem written after the actual outbreak of the Civil War and inspired by its events. The poem appeared in the evening edition of the New York _World_, on April 16, 1861.--EDITOR.]
Came the morning of that day, When the God to whom we pray, Gave the soul of Henry Clay To the land; How we loved him--living, dying! But his birthday banners flying, Saw us asking and replying, Hand to hand.
For we knew that far away, Round the fort at Charleston bay, Hung the dark impending fray, Soon to fall; And that Sumter's brave defender Had the summons to surrender: Seventy loyal hearts and tender-- That was all.
And we knew the April sun Lit the length of many a gun-- Hosts of batteries to the one Island crag; Guns and mortars grimly frowning, Johnson, Moultrie, Pinckney, crowning, And ten thousand men disowning The old flag.
O the fury of the fight Even then was at its height! Yet no breath from noon till night Reached us here; We had almost ceased to wonder, And the day had faded under, When--the echo of the thunder Filled each ear!
Then our hearts more fiercely beat, As we crowded on the street, Hot to gather and repeat All the tale; All the doubtful chances turning, Till our souls with shame were burning, As if all our bitter yearning Could avail!
Who had fired the earliest gun? Was the fort by traitors won? Was there succor? What was done, Who could know? And once more our thoughts would wander To the gallant, lone commander, On his battered ramparts grander Than the foe.
Not too long the brave shall wait: On their own heads be their fate, Who against the hallowed State Dare begin; Flag defied and compact riven! In the record of high Heaven, How shall southern men be shriven For the sin!
MEN OF THE NORTH AND WEST.
BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.
[This poem was the second piece that appeared in print after the fall of Fort Sumter. It was published in the _World_ on the day after the appearance of Mr. Stedman's "The Twelfth of April."--EDITOR.]
Men of the North and West, Wake in your might. Prepare, as the rebels have done, For the fight! You cannot shrink from the test; Rise! Men of the North and West!
They have torn down your banner of stars; They have trampled the laws; They have stifled the freedom they hate, For no cause! Do you love it or slavery best? Speak! Men of the North and West!
They strike at the life of the State: Shall the murder be done? They cry: "We are two!" And you? "We are one!" You must meet them, then, breast to breast; On! Men of the North and West!
Not with words; they laugh them to scorn, And tears they despise; But with swords in your hands, and death In your eyes! Strike home! leave to God all the rest; Strike! Men of the North and West!
RHODE ISLAND TO THE SOUTH.
BY GENERAL F. W. LANDER.
Once, on New England's bloody heights, And o'er a southern plain, Our fathers fought for sovereign rights, That working men might reign.
And by that only Lord we serve, The great Jehovah's name; By those sweet lips that ever nerve High hearts to deeds of fame;
By all that makes the man a king, The household hearth a throne,-- Take back the idle scoff ye fling, Where freedom claims its own.
For though our battle hope was vague Upon Manassas' plain, Where Slocum stood with gallant Sprague And gave his life in vain,--
Before we yield the holy trust Our old forefathers gave, Or wrong New England's hallowed dust, Or grant the wrongs ye crave,--
We'll print in kindred gore so deep The shore we love to tread, That woman's eyes shall fail to weep O'er man's unnumbered dead.
OUR COUNTRY'S CALL.
BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Lay down the axe, fling by the spade; Leave in its track the toiling plough; The rifle and the bayonet-blade For arms like yours were fitter now; And let the hands that ply the pen Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman's crooked brand, and rein The charger on the battle-field.
Our country calls; away! away! To where the blood-stream blots the green; Strike to defend the gentlest sway That Time in all his course has seen. See, from a thousand coverts--see Spring the armed foes that haunt her track; They rush to smite her down, and we Must beat the banded traitors back.
Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave, And moved as soon to fear and flight, Men of the glade and forest! leave Your woodcraft for the field of fight. The arms that wield the axe must pour An iron tempest on the foe; His serried ranks shall reel before The arm that lays the panther low.
And ye who breast the mountain storm By grassy steep or highland lake, Come, for the land ye love, to form A bulwark that no foe can break. Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock The whirlwind; stand in her defence: The blast as soon shall move the rock, As rushing squadrons bear ye thence.
And ye whose homes are by her grand Swift rivers, rising far away, Come from the depth of her green land As mighty in your march as they; As terrible as when the rains Have swelled them over bank and bourne, With sudden floods to drown the plains And sweep along the woods uptorn.
And ye who throng beside the deep, Her ports and hamlets of the strand, In number like the waves that leap On his long-murmuring marge of sand, Come, like that deep, when, o'er his brim, He rises, all his floods to pour, And flings the proudest barks that swim, A helpless wreck against his shore.
Few, few were they whose swords of old Won the fair land in which we dwell; But we are many, we who hold The grim resolve to guard it well. Strike for that broad and goodly land, Blow after blow, till men shall see That Might and Right move hand in hand, And Glorious must their triumph be.
A CRY TO ARMS.
BY HENRY TIMROD.
Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side! Ho, dwellers in the vales! Ho, ye who by the chafing tide Have roughened in the gales! Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot, Lay by the bloodless spade; Let desk and case and counter rot, And burn your books of trade!
The despot roves your fairest lands; And till he flies or fears, Your fields must grow but armèd bands, Your sheaves be sheaves of spears! Give up to mildew and to rust The useless tools of gain, And feed your country's sacred dust With floods of crimson rain!
Come with the weapons at your call-- With musket, pike, or knife; He wields the deadliest blade of all Who lightest holds his life. The arm that drives its unbought blows With all a patriot's scorn, Might brain a tyrant with a rose Or stab him with a thorn.
Does any falter? Let him turn To some brave maiden's eyes, And catch the holy fires that burn In those sublunar skies. Oh, could you like your women feel, And in their spirit march, A day might see your lines of steel Beneath the victor's arch!
What hope, O God! would not grow warm When thoughts like these give cheer? The lily calmly braves the storm, And shall the palm-tree fear? No! rather let its branches court The rack that sweeps the plain; And from the lily's regal port Learn how to breast the strain.
Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side Ho, dwellers in the vales! Ho, ye who by the roaring tide Have roughened in the gales! Come, flocking gayly to the fight, From forest, hill, and lake; We battle for our country's right, And for the lily's sake!
[Southern.]
THE BANNER OF THE STARS.
BY R. W. RAYMOND.
Hurrah! boys, hurrah! fling our banner to the breeze! Let the enemies of freedom see its folds again unfurled. And down with the pirates that scorn upon the seas Our victorious Yankee banner, sign of Freedom to the World!
_Chorus._--We'll never have a new flag, for ours is the true flag, The true flag, the true flag, the Red, White, and Blue flag, Hurrah! boys, hurrah! we will carry to the wars, The old flag, the free flag, the Banner of the Stars.
And what tho' its white shall be crimsoned with our blood? And what tho' its stripes shall be shredded in the storms? To the torn flag, the worn flag, we'll keep our promise good, And we'll bear the starry blue field, with gallant hearts and arms.
--_Chorus._
Then, cursed be he who would strike our Starry Flag! May the God of Hosts be with us, as we smite the traitor down! And cursed be he who would hesitate or lag, Till the dear flag, the fair flag, with Victory we crown.
--_Chorus._
THE FLAG OF THE CONSTELLATION.
BY T. BUCHANAN REID.
The stars of our morn on our banner borne, With the iris of heav'n are blended, The hands of our sires first mingled those fires, By us they shall be defended! Then hail the true--the Red, White, and Blue, The flag of the Constellation; It sails as it sailed, by our fore-fathers hailed, O'er battles that made us a nation.
What hand so bold to strike from its fold, One star or stripe of its bright'ning; To him be each star a fiery Mars, Each stripe a terrible lightning. Then hail the true--the Red, White, and Blue, The flag of the Constellation. It sails as it sailed, by our fore-fathers hailed, O'er battles that made us a nation.
Its meteor form shall ride the storm Till the fiercest of foes surrender; The storm gone by, it shall gild the sky, As a rainbow of peace and splendor. Then hail the true--the Red, White, and Blue, The flag of the Constellation, It sails as it sailed, by our fore-fathers hailed, O'er battles that made us a nation.