Part 10
“Corporal Green!” the Orderly cried; “Here!” was the answer, loud and clear, From the lips of the soldier who stood near,-- And “Here!” was the word the next replied.
“Cyrus Drew!”--then a silence fell: This time no answer followed the call; Only his rear-man had seen him fall: Killed or wounded--he could not tell.
There they stood in the failing light, These men of battle, with grave, dark looks, As plain to be read as open books, While slowly gathered the shades of night.
The fern on the hill-sides was splashed with blood, And down in the corn where the poppies grew Were redder stains than the poppies knew; And crimson-dyed was the river’s flood.
For the foe had crossed from the other side That day, in the face of a murderous fire That swept them down in its terrible ire, And their life-blood went to color the tide.
“Herbert Kline!” At the call there came Two stalwart soldiers into the line, Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.
“Ezra Kerr!”--and a voice answered, “Here!” “Hiram Kerr!”--but no man replied. They were brothers, these two; the sad winds sighed, And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.
“Ephraim Deane!”--then a soldier spoke: “Deane carried our regiment’s colors,” he said; “Where our ensign was shot I left him dead, Just after the enemy wavered and broke.
“Close to the road-side his body lies; I paused a moment and gave him a drink; He murmured his mother’s name, I think, And Death came with it, and closed his eyes.”
’Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear,-- For that company’s roll, when called at night, Of a hundred men who went into the fight, Numbered but twenty that answered “Here!”
[Southern.]
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! O 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.
[Southern.]
A WOMAN OF THE WAR.
BY ROSSITER JOHNSON.
[The tenderly pathetic story told in this poem is true. Its heroine was Margaret Augusta Peterson, a volunteer nurse in St. Mary’s Hospital at Rochester, New York. She died in the manner related, on the first of September, 1864, and lies buried in Mount Hope Cemetery, Rochester, as does also the young surgeon, her lover.--EDITOR.]
Through the sombre arch of that gateway tower Where my humblest townsman rides at last, You may spy the bells of a nodding flower, On a double mound that is thickly grassed.
And between the spring and the summer time, Or ever the lilac’s bloom is shed, When they come with banners and wreaths and rhyme, To deck the tombs of the nation’s dead,
They find there a little flag in the grass, And fling a handful of roses down, And pause a moment before they pass To the captain’s grave with the gilded crown.
But if perchance they seek to recall What name, what deeds, these honors declare, They cannot tell, they are silent all As the noiseless harebell nodding there.
She was tall, with an almost manly grace, And young, with strange wisdom for one so young, And fair with more than a woman’s face; With dark, deep eyes, and a mirthful tongue.
The poor and the fatherless knew her smile; The friend in sorrow had seen her tears; She had studied the ways of the rough world’s guile, And read the romance of historic years.
What she might have been in these times of ours, At once it is easy and hard to guess; For always a riddle are half-used powers, And always a power is lovingness.
But her fortunes fell upon evil days-- If days are evil when evil dies,-- And she was not one who could stand at gaze Where the hopes of humanity fall and rise.
Nor could she dance to the viol’s tune, When the drum was throbbing throughout the land, Or dream in the light of the summer moon When Treason was clenching his mailèd hand.
Through the long gray hospital’s corridor She journeyed many a mournful league, And her light foot fell on the oaken floor As if it never could know fatigue.
She stood by the good old surgeon’s side, And the sufferers smiled as they saw her stand; She wrote, and the mothers marvelled and cried At their darling soldiers’ feminine hand.
She was last in the ward when the lights burned low, And sleep called a truce to his foeman Pain; At the midnight cry she was first to go, To bind up the bleeding wound again.
For sometimes the wreck of a man would rise, Weird and gaunt in the watch-lamp’s gleam, And tear away bandage and splints and ties, Fighting the battle all o’er in his dream.
No wonder the youngest surgeon felt A charm in the presence of that brave soul, Through weary weeks, as she nightly knelt With the letter from home or the doctor’s dole.
He heard her called, and he heard her blessed, With many a patriot’s parting breath; And ere his soul to itself confessed, Love leaped to life in those vigils of death.
“Oh, fly to your home!” came a whisper dread, “For now the pestilence walks by night.” “The greater the need of me here,” she said, And bared her arm for the lancet’s bite.
Was there death, green death, in the atmosphere? Was the bright steel poisoned? Who can tell! Her weeping friends gathered beside her bier, And the clergyman told them all was well.
Well--alas that it should be so! When a nation’s debt reaches reckoning-day-- Well for it to be able, but woe To the generation that’s called to pay!
Down from the long gray hospital came Every boy in blue who could walk the floor; The sick and the wounded, the blind and the lame, Formed two long files from her father’s door.
There was grief in many a manly breast, While men’s tears fell as the coffin passed; And thus she went to the world of rest, Martial and maidenly up to the last.
And that youngest surgeon, was he to blame?-- He held the lancet--Heaven only knows. No matter; his heart broke all the same, And he laid him down, and never arose.
So Death received, in his greedy hand, Two precious coins of the awful price That purchased freedom for this dear land-- For master and bondman--yea, bought it twice.
Such fates too often such women are for! God grant the Republic a large increase, To match the heroes in time of war, And mother the children in time of peace.
GLORY HALLELUJAH! OR, JOHN BROWN’S BODY.
[The strong hold which this song and the three which follow it (“Marching thro’ Georgia,” “The Battle-Cry of Freedom” and “Tramp, Tramp, Tramp”) had upon the favor of the Union soldiers during the war entitles them to insertion here in spite of their lack of poetic merit. The critics, from the time of Mr. Richard Grant White’s collection until now, have condemned them as doggerel, but songs that were sung with enthusiasm by all the soldiers of the republic during the dark years of the Civil War cannot be denied the possession of merit, whether criticism is able to recognize it or not.--EDITOR.]
GLORY HALLELUJAH! OR JOHN BROWN’S BODY.
John Brown’s body lies a-mould’ring in the grave, John Brown’s body lies a-mould’ring in the grave, John Brown’s body lies a-mould’ring in the grave, His soul is marching on!
_Chorus_.--Glory! Glory Hallelujah! Glory! Glory Hallelujah! Glory! Glory Hallelujah! His soul is marching on.
He’s gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord! He’s gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord! He’s gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord! His soul is marching on.--_Chorus._
John Brown’s knapsack is strapped upon his back. His soul is marching on.--_Chorus._
His pet lambs will meet him on the way, And they’ll go marching on.--_Chorus._
They’ll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree, As they go marching on.--_Chorus._
Now for the Union let’s give three rousing cheers, As we go marching on. Hip, hip, hip, hip, Hurrah!
MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA.
Bring the good old bugle, boys! we’ll sing another song-- Sing it with a spirit that will start the world along-- Sing it as we used to sing it fifty thousand strong, While we were marching through Georgia.
_Chorus._--“Hurrah! Hurrah! we bring the jubilee! Hurrah! Hurrah! the flag that makes you free!” So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea,
How the darkeys shouted when they heard the joyful sound! How the turkeys gobbled which our commissary found! How the sweet potatoes even started from the ground, While we were marching through Georgia.--_Chorus_.
Yes, and there were Union men who wept with joyful tears, When they saw the honor’d flag they had not seen for years; Hardly could they be restrained from breaking forth in cheers, While we were marching through Georgia.--_Chorus._
“Sherman’s dashing Yankee boys will never reach the coast!” So the saucy rebels said--and ’twas a handsome boast, Had they not forgot, alas! to reckon on a host, While we were marching through Georgia.--_Chorus._
So we made a thoroughfare for Freedom and her train, Sixty miles in latitude--three hundred to the main; Treason fled before us, for resistance was in vain, While we were marching through Georgia.--_Chorus._
THE BATTLE-CRY OF FREEDOM.
Yes, we’ll rally round the flag, boys, we’ll rally once again, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom, We will rally from the hill-side, we’ll gather from the plain, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.
_Chorus._--The Union forever, hurrah! boys, hurrah, Down with the traitor, up with the star, While we rally round the flag, boys, rally once again, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.
We are springing to the call of our brothers gone before, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom, And we’ll fill the vacant ranks with a million freemen more, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.--_Chorus._
We will welcome to our numbers the loyal, true, and brave, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom, And altho’ they may be poor, not a man shall be a slave, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.--_Chorus._
So we’re springing to the call from the East and from the West, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom, And we’ll hurl the rebel crew from the land we love the best, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.--_Chorus._
TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP.
In the prison cell I sit, Thinking, mother dear, of you, And our bright and happy home so far away, And the tears they fill my eyes, Spite of all that I can do, Tho’ I try to cheer my comrades and be gay.
_Chorus._--Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching, Oh, cheer up, comrades, they will come, And beneath the starry flag we shall breathe the air again, Of freedom in our own beloved home.
In the battle front we stood When the fiercest charge they made, And they swept us off a hundred men or more, But before we reached their lines They were beaten back dismayed, And we heard the cry of vict’ry o’er and o’er.--_Chorus._
So within the prison cell We are waiting for the day That shall come to open wide the iron door, And the hollow eye grows bright, And the poor heart almost gay. As we think of seeing friends and home once more.--_Chorus._
END OF VOL. II.
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