Part 2

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!”

THERE’S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET.

BY JAMES R. RANDALL.

[First printed in the _Richmond Examiner_. Written while the author was in prison.]

By the blue Patapsco’s billowy dash The tyrant’s war-shout comes, Along with cymbal’s fitful clash, And the growl of his sullen drums. We hear it, we heed it with vengeful thrills, And we shall not forgive or forget; There’s faith in the streams, there’s hope in the hills, There’s life in the old land yet!

Minions! we sleep but we are not dead; We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred; We crouch--’t is to welcome the triumph tread Of the peerless Beauregard. Then woe to your vile, polluting horde, When the Southern braves are met; There’s faith in the victor’s stainless sword, There’s life in the old land yet!

Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind With the clank of an iron chain; The spirit of freedom sings in the wind, O’er Merriman, Thomas, and Kane; And we, though we smile not, are not thralls,-- Are piling a gory debt; While down by McHenry’s dungeon walls _There’s life in the old land yet_!

Our women have hung their harps away, And they scowl on your brutal bands, While the nimble poniard dares the day, In their dear, defiant hands. They will strip their tresses to string our bows, Ere the Northern sun is set; There’s faith in their unrelenting woes, There’s life in the old land yet!

There’s life, though it throbbeth in silent veins,-- ’T is vocal without noise; It gushed o’er Manassas’ solemn plains, From the blood of the MARYLAND BOYS! That blood shall cry aloud, and rise With an everlasting threat; By the death of the brave, by the GOD in the skies, _There’s life in the old land yet_!

[Southern.]

NEVER OR NOW.

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Listen, young heroes! your country is calling! Time strikes the hour for the brave and the true! Now, while the foremost are fighting and falling, Fill up the ranks that have opened for you!

You whom the fathers made free and defended, Stain not the scroll that emblazons their fame! You whose fair heritage spotless descended, Leave not your children a birthright of shame!

Stay not for questions while Freedom stands gasping! Wait not till Honor lies wrapped in his pall! Brief the lips’ meeting be, swift the hands clasping: “Off for the wars!” is enough for them all.

Break from the arms that would fondly caress you! Hark! ’t is the bugle-blast, sabres are drawn! Mothers shall pray for you, fathers shall bless you, Maidens shall weep for you when you are gone!

Never or now! cries the blood of a nation, Poured on the turf where the red rose should bloom; Now is the day and the hour of salvation,-- Never or now! peals the trumpet of doom!

Never or now! roars the hoarse-throated cannon Through the black canopy blotting the skies; Never or now! flaps the shell-blasted pennon O’er the deep ooze where the _Cumberland_ lies!

From the foul dens where our brothers are dying, Aliens and foes in the land of their birth,-- From the rank swamps where our martyrs are lying, Pleading in vain for a handful of earth,--

From the hot plains where they perish outnumbered, Furrowed and ridged by the battle-field’s plough, Comes the loud summons; too long you have slumbered, Hear the last Angel-trump--Never or Now!

1862.

BOY BRITTAN.

(Battle of Fort Henry, Tenn., Feb. 6, 1862.)

BY FORCEYTHE WILLSON.

I. Boy Brittan--only a lad--a fair-haired boy--sixteen, In his uniform, Into the storm--into the roaring jaws of grim Fort Henry-- Boldly bears the Federal flotilla-- Into the battle storm!

II. Boy Brittan is master’s mate aboard of the _Essex_-- There he stands, buoyant and eager-eyed, By the brave captain’s side; Ready to do and dare. Aye, aye, sir! always ready-- In his country’s uniform. Boom! Boom! and now the flag-boat sweeps, and now the _Essex_, Into the battle storm!

III. Boom! Boom! till river and fort and field are over-clouded By battle’s breath; then from the fort a gleam And a crashing gun, and the _Essex_ is wrapt and shrouded In a scalding cloud of steam?

IV. But victory! victory! Unto God all praise be ever rendered, Unto God all praise and glory be! See, Boy Brittan! see, boy, see! They strike! Hurrah! the fort has just surrendered! Shout! Shout! my boy, my warrior boy! And wave your cap and clap your hands for joy! Cheer answer cheer and bear the cheer about-- Hurrah! Hurrah! for the fiery fort is ours; And “Victory!” “Victory!” “Victory!” Is the shout. Shout--for the fiery fort, and the field, and the day are ours-- The day is ours--thanks to the brave endeavor Of heroes, boy, like thee! The day is ours--the day is ours! Glory and deathless love to all who shared with thee, And bravely endured and dared with thee-- The day is ours--the day is ours-- Forever! Glory and Love for one and all; but--but--for thee-- Home! Home! a happy “Welcome--welcome home” for thee! And kisses of love for thee-- And a mother’s happy, happy tears, and a virgin’s bridal wreath of flowers-- For thee!

V. Victory! Victory!... But suddenly wrecked and wrapt in seething steam, the _Essex_ Slowly drifted out of the battle’s storm; Slowly, slowly down--laden with the dead and dying; And there at the captain’s feet, among the dead and the dying, The shot-marred form of a beautiful boy is lying-- There in his uniform!

VI. Laurels and tears for thee, boy, Laurels and tears for thee! Laurels of light, moist with the precious dew Of the inmost heart of the nation’s loving heart, And blest by the balmy breath of the beautiful and the true; Moist--moist with the luminous breath of the singing spheres And the nation’s starry tears! And tremble-touched by the pulse-like gush and start Of the universal music of the heart, And all deep sympathy. Laurels and tears for thee, boy, Laurels and tears for thee-- Laurels of light and tears of love forevermore-- For thee!

VII. And laurels of light, and tears of truth, And the mantle of immortality; And the flowers of love and immortal youth, And the tender heart-tokens of all true ruth-- And the everlasting victory! And the breath and bliss of Liberty; And the loving kiss of Liberty; And the welcoming light of heavenly eyes, And the over-calm of God’s canopy; And the infinite love-span of the skies That cover the valleys of Paradise-- For all of the brave who rest with thee; And for one and all who died with thee, And now sleep side by side with thee; And for every one who lives and dies, On the solid land or the heaving sea, Dear warrior-boy--like thee.

VIII. O the victory--the victory Belongs to thee! God ever keeps the brightest crown for such as thou-- He gives it now to thee! O young and brave, and early and thrice blest-- Thrice, thrice, thrice blest! Thy country turns once more to kiss thy youthful brow, And takes thee--gently--gently to her breast; And whispers lovingly, “God bless thee--bless thee now-- My darling, thou shalt rest!”

THE “CUMBERLAND.”

BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board the _Cumberland_ sloop of war, And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarm of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on shore.

Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak.

Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort, Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port.

We are not idle but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster’s hide.

“Strike your flag!” the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain. “Never!” our gallant Morris replies; “It is better to sink than to yield!” And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men.

Then like a kraken, huge and black She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! Down went the _Cumberland_ all awrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon’s breath For her dying gasp.

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. Lord, how beautiful was Thy day! Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead.

Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas, Ye are at peace in the troubled stream. Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam!

ON BOARD THE “CUMBERLAND.”

(March 8, 1862.)

BY GEORGE H. BOKER.

“Stand to your guns, men!” Morris cried. Small need to pass the word; Our men at quarters ranged themselves, Before the drum was heard.

And then began the sailors’ jests: “What thing is that, I say?” “A ’long-shore meeting-house adrift Is standing down the bay!”

A frown came over Morris’ face; The strange, dark craft he knew; “That is the iron _Merrimac_, Manned by a rebel crew.

“So shot your guns, and point them straight; Before this day goes by, We’ll try of what her metal ’s made.” A cheer was our reply.

“Remember boys, this flag of ours Has seldom left its place; And where it falls, the deck it strikes Is covered with disgrace.

“I ask but this: or sink or swim, Or live or nobly die, My last sight upon earth may be To see that ensign fly!”

Meanwhile the shapeless iron mass Came moving o’er the wave, As gloomy as a passing hearse, As silent as the grave.

Her ports were closed, from stem to stem No sign of life appeared. We wondered, questioned, strained our eyes, Joked,--every thing but feared.

She reached our range. Our broadside rang, Our heavy pivots roared; And shot and shell, a fire of hell, Against her sides we poured.

God’s mercy! from her sloping roof The iron tempest glanced, As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch, And round her leaped and danced;

Or, when against her dusky hull We struck a fair, full blow, The mighty, solid iron globes Were crumbled up like snow.

On, on, with fast increasing speed, The silent monster came; Though all our starboard battery Was one long line of flame.

She heeded not, nor gun she fired, Straight on our bow she bore; Through riving plank and crashing frame Her furious way she tore.

Alas! our beautiful, keen bow, That in the fiercest blast So gently folded back the seas, They hardly felt we passed!

Alas! Alas! My _Cumberland_, That ne’er knew grief before, To be so gored, to feel so deep The tusk of that sea-boar!

Once more she backward drew a space, Once more our side she rent; Then, in the wantonness of hate, Her broadside through us sent.

The dead and dying round us lay, But our foeman lay abeam; Her open portholes maddened us; We fired with shout and scream.

We felt our vessel settling fast, We knew our time was brief; “The pumps, the pumps!” But they who pumped And fought not, wept with grief.

“Oh, keep us but an hour afloat! Oh, give us only time To be the instruments of heaven Against the traitors’ crime!”

From captain down to powder-boy, No hand was idle then; Two soldiers, but by chance aboard, Fought on like sailor-men.

And when a gun’s crew lost a hand, Some bold marine stepped out, And jerked his braided jacket off, And hauled the gun about.

Our forward magazine was drowned; And up from the sick-bay Crawled out the wounded, red with blood, And round us gasping lay.

Yes, cheering, calling us by name, Struggling with failing breath, To keep their shipmates at the port, While glory strove with death.

With decks afloat, and powder gone, The last broadside we gave From the guns’ heated iron lips Burst out beneath the wave.

So sponges, rammers, and handspikes-- As men-of-war’s men should-- We placed within their proper racks, And at our quarters stood.

“Up to the spar-deck! Save yourselves!” Cried Selfridge. “Up, my men! God grant that some of us may live To fight yon ship again!”

We turned--we did not like to go; Yet staying seemed but vain, Knee-deep in water; so we left; Some swore, some groaned with pain.

We reached the deck. Here Randall stood: “Another turn, men--so!” Calmly he aimed his pivot-gun: “Now, Tenney, let her go!”

It did our sore hearts good to hear The song our pivot sang, As rushing on, from wave to wave, The whirring bomb-shell sprang.

Brave Randall leaped upon the gun, And waved his cap in sport; “Well done! well aimed! I saw that shell Go through an open port.”

It was our last, our deadliest shot; The deck was over-flown: The poor ship staggered, lurched to port, And gave a living groan.

Down, down, as headlong through the waves Our gallant vessel rushed, A thousand gurgling, watery sounds Around my senses gushed.

Then I remember little more; One look to heaven I gave, Where, like an angel’s wing, I saw Our spotless ensign wave.

I tried to cheer, I cannot say Whether I swam or sank; A blue mist closed around my eyes, And every thing was blank.

When I awoke, a soldier-lad, All dripping from the sea, With two great tears upon his cheeks, Was bending over me.

I tried to speak. He understood The wish I could not speak. He turned me. There, thank God! the flag Still fluttered at the peak!

And there, while thread shall hang to thread, O let that ensign fly! The noblest constellation set Against our northern sky.

A sign that we who live may claim The peerage of the brave; A monument, that needs no scroll, For those beneath the wave!

THE SWORD-BEARER.

BY GEORGE H. BOKER.

Brave Morris saw the day was lost; For nothing now remained On the wrecked and sinking _Cumberland_ But to save the flag unstained.

So he swore an oath in the sight of heaven (If he kept it, the world can tell): “Before I strike to a rebel flag, I’ll sink to the gates of hell!

“Here, take my sword; ’tis in my way; I shall trip o’er the useless steel: For I’ll meet the lot that falls to all, With my shoulder at the wheel.”

So the little negro took the sword, And oh! with what reverent care! Following his master step by step, He bore it here and there.

A thought had crept through his sluggish brain, And shone in his dusky face, That somehow--he could not tell just how-- ’Twas the sword of his trampled race.

And as Morris, great with his lion heart, Rushed onward from gun to gun, The little negro slid after him, Like a shadow in the sun.

But something of pomp and of curious pride The sable creature wore, Which at any time but a time like that Would have made the ship’s crew roar.

Over the wounded, dying, and dead, Like an usher of the rod, The black page, full of his mighty trust, With dainty caution trod.

No heed he gave to the flying ball, No heed to the bursting shell; His duty was something more than life, And he strove to do it well.

Down, with our starry flag apeak, In the whirling sea we sank; And captain and crew and the sword-bearer Were washed from the bloody plank.

They picked us up from the hungry waves-- Alas! not all. And where, Where is the faithful negro lad? “Back oars! avast! look there!”

We looked, and as heaven may save my soul, I pledge you a sailor’s word, There, fathoms deep in the sea he lay, Still grasping his master’s sword.

We drew him out; and many an hour We wrought with his rigid form, Ere the almost smothered spark of life By slow degrees grew warm.

The first dull glance that his eyeballs rolled Was down toward his shrunken hand; And he smiled, and closed his eyes again, As they fell on the rescued brand.

And no one touched the sacred sword, Till at length, when Morris came, The little negro stretched it out, With his eager eyes aflame.

And if Morris wrung the poor boy’s hand, And his words seemed hard to speak, And tears ran down his manly cheeks, What tongue shall call him weak?

THE OLD SERGEANT.

BY FORCEYTHE WILLSON.

“Come a little nearer, Doctor,--thank you!--let me take the cup: Draw your chair up,--draw it closer,--just another little sup! Maybe you may think I’m better; but I’m pretty well used up,-- Doctor, you’ve done all you could do, but I’m just a going up!

“Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to, but it ain’t much use to try--” “Never say that,” said the surgeon, as he smothered down a sigh; “It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier to say die!” “What you _say_ will make no difference, Doctor, when you come to die.

“Doctor, what has been the matter?”--“You were very faint, they say; You must try to get to sleep now.”--“Doctor, have I been away?” “Not that anybody knows of!”--“Doctor--Doctor, please to stay! There is something I must tell you, and you won’t have long to stay!

“I have got my marching orders, and I’m ready now to go; Doctor, did you say I fainted!--But it couldn’t ha’ been so,-- For as sure as I’m a Sergeant, and was wounded at Shiloh, I’ve this very night been back there, on the old field of Shiloh!

“This is all that I remember: The last time the lighter came, And the lights had all been lowered, and the noises much the same, He had not been gone five minutes before something called my name: ’ORDERLY SERGEANT--ROBERT BURTON!’--just that way it called my name.

“And I wondered who could call me so distinctly and so slow, Knew it couldn’t be the lighter,--he could not have spoken so; And I tried to answer, ‘Here, sir!’ but I couldn’t make it go! For I couldn’t move a muscle, and I couldn’t make it go!

“Then I thought: It’s all a nightmare, all a humbug and a bore: Just another foolish _grapevine_[1]--and it won’t come any more; But it came, sir, notwithstanding, just the same way as before: ‘ORDERLY SERGEANT--ROBERT BURTON!’ even plainer than before.

“That is all that I remember, till a sudden burst of light, And I stood beside the river, where we stood that Sunday night, Waiting to be ferried over to the dark bluffs opposite, When the river was perdition and all hell was opposite!

“And the same old palpitation came again in all its power, And I heard a bugle sounding, as from some celestial tower; And the same mysterious voice said: ‘IT IS THE ELEVENTH HOUR! ORDERLY SERGEANT--ROBERT BURTON--IT IS THE ELEVENTH HOUR!’

“Doctor Austin!--what _day_ is this?”--“It is Wednesday night, you know.” “Yes,--to-morrow will be New Year’s, and a right good time below! What _time_ is it, Doctor Austin?”--“Nearly twelve.” “Then don’t you go!” Can it be that all this happened--all this--not an hour ago!

“There was where the gun-boats opened on the dark, rebellious host, And where Webster semi-circled his last guns upon the coast; There were still the two log-houses, just the same, or else their ghost,-- And the same old transport came and took me over--or its ghost!

“And the old field lay before me all deserted far and wide; There was where they fell on Prentice,--there McClernand met the tide; There was where stern Sherman rallied, and where Hurlbut’s heroes died,-- Lower down, where Wallace charged them, and kept charging till he died.

“There was where Lew Wallace showed them he was of the canny kin, There was where old Nelson thundered, and where Rousseau waded in; Then McCook sent ’em to breakfast and we all began to win-- There was where the grape-shot took me, just as we began to win.

“Now, a shroud of snow and silence over every thing was spread; And but for this old blue mantle and the old hat on my head, I should not have even doubted, to this moment I was dead,-- For my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon the dead!

“Death and silence!--Death and silence! all around me as I sped! And behold a mighty TOWER, as if builded to the dead,-- To the Heaven of the heavens, lifted up its mighty head, Till the Stars and Stripes of Heaven all seemed waving from its head!

“Round and mighty-based it towered--up into the infinite-- And I knew no mortal mason could have built a shaft so bright; For it shone like solid sunshine; and a winding stair of light, Wound around it and around it till it wound clear out of sight!

“And, behold, as I approached it--with a rapt and dazzled stare,-- Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending the great stair-- Suddenly the solemn challenge broke of,--‘Halt! and who goes there?’ ‘I’m a friend,’ I said, ‘if you are.’--‘Then advance, sir, to the stair!’

“I advanced!--that sentry, Doctor, was Elijah Ballantyne!-- First of all to fall on Monday, after we had formed the line: ‘Welcome, my old Sergeant, welcome! welcome by that countersign!’ And he pointed to the scar there, under this old cloak of mine!