Part 4

[Captain Latané, of Stuart’s Confederate cavalry was killed during the Pamunkey expedition in 1862. He was buried by a company of women, one of whom read the service for the dead, while a little girl strewed flowers on the grave.--EDITOR.]

The combat raged not long, but ours the day; And, through the hosts that compassed us around, Our little band rode proudly on its way, Leaving one gallant comrade, glory-crowned, Unburied on the field he died to gain-- Single of all his men, amid the hostile slain.

One moment on the battle’s edge he stood-- Hope’s halo, like a helmet, round his hair; The next beheld him, dabbled in his blood, Prostrate in death--and yet, in death how fair! Even thus he passed through the red gates of strife, From earthly crowns and palms, to an immortal life.

A brother bore his body from the field, And gave it unto strangers’ hands, that closed The calm blue eyes, on earth forever sealed, And tenderly the slender limbs composed: Strangers, yet sisters, who, with Mary’s love, Sat by the open tomb, and, weeping, looked above.

A little child strewed roses on his bier-- Pale roses, not more stainless than his soul, Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere, That blossomed with good actions--brief, but whole; The aged matron and the faithful slave Approached with reverent feet the hero’s lowly grave.

No man of God might say the burial rite Above the “rebel”--thus declared the foe That blanched before him in the deadly fight; But woman’s voice, with accents soft and low, Trembling with pity--touched with pathos--read Over his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead.

“’Tis sown in weakness, it is raised in power!” Softly the promise floated on the air, While the low breathings of the sunset hour Came back responsive to the mourner’s prayer. Gently they laid him underneath the sod, And left him with his fame, his country, and his God!

Let us not weep for him, whose deeds endure! So young, so brave, so beautiful! He died As he had wished to die; the past is sure; Whatever yet of sorrow may betide Those who still linger by the stormy shore, Change cannot harm him now, nor fortune touch him more.

[Southern.]

TARDY GEORGE.

[This poem was written at a time when the impatience of the Northern people with the delay of McClellan to make use of the means so lavishly provided for him, was scarcely to be restrained. For many months McClellan had been in command of a vast army, perfectly equipped and thoroughly disciplined, yet month after month went by with nothing done and nothing attempted. The discontent of the people found much angrier expression than was given to it in these stanzas, but this is one of the best metrical protests that appeared.--EDITOR.]

What are you waiting for, George, I pray? To scour your cross-belts with fresh pipe-clay? To burnish your buttons, to brighten your guns; Or wait you for May-day and warm-spring suns? Are you blowing your fingers because they are cold, Or catching your breath ere you take a hold? Is the mud knee-deep in valley and gorge? What are you waiting for, tardy George?

Want you a thousand more cannon made, To add to the thousand now arrayed? Want you more men, more money to pay? Are not two millions enough per day? Wait you for gold and credit to go, Before we shall see your martial show; Till Treasury Notes will not pay to forge? What are you waiting for, tardy George?

Are you waiting for your hair to turn, Your heart to soften, your bowels to yearn A little more toward “our Southern friends,” As at home and abroad they work their ends? “Our Southern friends!” whom you hold so dear That you do no harm and give no fear, As you tenderly take them by the gorge-- What are you waiting for, tardy George?

Now that you’ve marshalled your whole command, Planned what you would, and changed what you planned, Practised with shot and practised with shell, Know to a hair where every one fell, Made signs by day and signals by night; Was it all done to keep out of a fight? Is the whole matter too heavy a charge? What are you waiting for, tardy George?

Shall we have more speeches, more reviews? Or are you waiting to hear the news; To hold up your hands in mute surprise, When France and England shall “recognize”? Are you too grand to fight traitors small? Must you have a nation to cope withal? Well, hammer the anvil and blow the forge-- You’ll soon have a dozen, tardy George.

Suppose for a moment, George, my friend-- Just for a moment--you condescend To use the means that are in your hands, The eager muskets and guns and brands; Take one bold step on the Southern sod, And leave the issue to watchful God! For now the nation raises its gorge, Waiting and watching you, tardy George.

I should not much wonder, George, my boy, If Stanton get in his head a toy, And some fine morning, ere you are out, He send you all “to the right about”-- You and Jomini, and all the crew Who think that war is nothing to do But to drill and cipher, and hammer and forge-- What are you waiting for, tardy George?

January, 1862.

WANTED--A MAN.

BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

[This virile cry for a fit leader for the Army of the Potomac was inspired by an editorial article of Henry J. Raymond in the _New York Times_. It was written in 1862, when the popular feeling of chagrin and humiliation over McClellan’s failure and Pope’s disaster at Manassas was most intense. Mr. Lincoln was so strongly impressed by the poem that he read it to his Cabinet.--EDITOR.]

Back from the trebly crimsoned field Terrible words are thunder-tost; Full of the wrath that will not yield, Full of revenge for battles lost! Hark to their echo, as it crost The Capital, making faces wan: “End this murderous holocaust; Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!

“Give us a man of God’s own mould, Born to marshal his fellow-men; One whose fame is not bought and sold At the stroke of a politician’s pen; Give us the man of thousands ten, Fit to do as well as to plan; Give us a rallying-cry, and then, Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!

“No leader to shirk the boasting foe, And to march and countermarch our brave, Till they fall like ghosts in the marshes low, And swamp-grass covers each nameless grave; Nor another, whose fatal banners wave Aye in disaster’s shameful van; Nor another, to bluster, and lie, and rave,-- Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!

“Hearts are mourning in the North, While the sister rivers seek the main, Red with our life-blood flowing forth-- Who shall gather it up again? Though we march to the battle-plain Firmly as when the strife began, Shall all our offering be in vain?-- Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!

“Is there never one in all the land, One on whose might the Cause may lean? Are all the common ones so grand, And all the titled ones so mean? What if your failure may have been In trying to make good bread from bran, From worthless metal a weapon keen?-- Abraham Lincoln, find us a MAN!

“Oh, we will follow him to the death, Where the foeman’s fiercest columns are! Oh, we will use our latest breath, Cheering for every sacred star! His to marshal us high and far; Ours to battle, as patriots can When a hero leads the Holy War!-- Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!”

OVERTURES FROM RICHMOND.

A NEW LILLIBULERO.

BY F. J. CHILD.

“Well, Uncle Sam,” says Jefferson D., Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam, “You’ll have to join my Confed’racy,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam. “Lero, lero, that don’t appear O, that don’t appear,” Says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, fillibustero, that don’t appear,” Says old Uncle Sam.

“So, Uncle Sam, just lay down your arms,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam, “Then you shall hear my reas’nable terms,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam. “Lero, lero, I’d like to hear O, I’d like to hear,” Says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, fillibustero, I’d like to hear,” Says old Uncle Sam.

“First, you must own I’ve beat you in fight,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam, “Then, that I always have been in the right,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam. “Lero, lero, rather severe O, rather severe,” Says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, fillibustero, rather severe,” Says old Uncle Sam.

“Then you must pay my national debts,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam, “No questions asked about my assets,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam. “Lero, lero, that’s very dear O, that’s very dear,” Says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, fillibustero, that’s very dear,” Says old Uncle Sam.

“Also, some few I. O. U.’s and bets,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam, “Mine and Bob Toombs’s and Slidell’s and Rhett’s,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam. “Lero, lero, that leaves me zero, that leaves me zero,” Says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, fillibustero, that leaves me zero,” Says old Uncle Sam.

“And, by the way, one little thing more,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam, “You’re to refund the cost of the war,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam. “Lero, lero, just what I fear O, just what I fear,” Says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, fillibustero, just what I fear,” Says old Uncle Sam.

“Next, you must own our cavalier blood!” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam, “And that your Puritans sprang from the mud!” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam. “Lero, lero, that mud is clear O, that mud is clear,” Says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, fillibustero, that mud is clear,” Says old Uncle Sam.

“Slavery’s of course the chief corner-stone,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam, “Of our NEW CIV-IL-I-ZA-TION!” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam. “Lero, lero, that’s quite sincere O, that’s quite sincere,” Says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, fillibustero, that’s quite sincere,” Says old Uncle Sam.

“You’ll understand, my recreant tool,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam, “You’re to submit, and we are to rule,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam. “Lero, lero, aren’t you a hero! aren’t you a hero!” Says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, fillibustero, aren’t you a hero!” Says old Uncle Sam.

“If to these terms you fully consent,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam, “I’ll be perpetual King-President,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam. “Lero, lero, take your sombrero, off to your swamps!” Says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, fillibustero, cut, double-quick!” Says old Uncle Sam.

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn,

The cluster’d spires of Frederick stand Green-wall’d by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep, Apple- and peach-trees fruited deep.

Fair as the garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famish’d rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall, When Lee march’d over the mountain-wall,--

Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapp’d in the morning wind: the sun Of noon look’d down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bow’d with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men haul’d down;

In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouch’d hat left and right He glanced: the old flag met his sight.

“Halt!”--the dust-brown ranks stood fast “Fire!”--out blazed the rifle blast.

It shiver’d the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell from the broken staff, Dame Barbara snatch’d the silken scarf.

She lean’d far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will.

“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame Over the face of the leader came.

The nobler nature within him stirr’d To life at that woman’s deed and word:

“Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.

All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er, And the rebel rides on his raids no more,

Honor to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave, Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town!

MUSIC IN CAMP.

BY JOHN R. THOMPSON.

Two armies covered hill and plain, Where Rappahannock’s waters Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain Of battle’s recent slaughters.

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents In meads of heavenly azure; And each dread gun of the elements Slept in its high embrasure.

The breeze so softly blew, it made No forest leaf to quiver; And the smoke of the random cannonade Rolled slowly from the river.

And now where circling hills looked down With cannon grimly planted, O’er listless camp and silent town The golden sunset slanted.

When on the fervid air there came A strain, now rich, now tender; The music seemed itself aflame With day’s departing splendor.

A Federal band, which eve and morn Played measures brave and nimble, Had just struck up with flute and horn And lively clash of cymbal.

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks; Till, margined by its pebbles, One wooded shore was blue with “Yanks,” And one was gray with “Rebels.”

Then all was still; and then the band, With movement light and tricksy, Made stream and forest, hill and strand, Reverberate with “Dixie.”

The conscious stream, with burnished glow, Went proudly o’er its pebbles, But thrilled throughout its deepest flow With yelling of the Rebels.

Again a pause; and then again The trumpet pealed sonorous, And “Yankee Doodle” was the strain To which the shore gave chorus.

The laughing ripple shoreward flew To kiss the shining pebbles; Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue Defiance to the Rebels.

And yet once more the bugle sang Above the stormy riot; No shout upon the evening rang-- There reigned a holy quiet.

The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood Poured o’er the glistening pebbles; All silent now the Yankees stood, All silent stood the Rebels.

No unresponsive soul had heard That plaintive note’s appealing, So deeply “Home, Sweet Home” had stirred The hidden founts of feeling.

Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees, As by the wand of fairy, The cottage ’neath the live oak trees, The cabin by the prairie.

Or cold, or warm, his native skies Bend in their beauty o’er him; Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, His loved ones stand before him.

As fades the iris after rain In April’s tearful weather, The vision vanished as the strain And daylight died together.

But Memory, waked by Music’s art, Expressed in simple numbers, Subdued the sternest Yankee’s heart, Made light the Rebel’s slumbers.

And fair the form of Music shines-- That bright celestial creature-- Who still ’mid War’s embattled lines Gave this one touch of Nature.

[Southern.]

FREDERICKSBURG.

(December, 1862.)

BY W. F. W.

Eighteen hundred and sixty-two,-- That is the number of wounded men Who, if the telegraph’s tale be true, Reached Washington City but yestere’en.

And it is but a handful, the telegrams add, To those who are coming by boats and by cars, Weary and wounded, dying and sad; Covered--but only in front--with scars.

Some are wounded by Minie shot, Others are torn by the hissing shell, As it burst upon them as fierce and as hot As a demon spawned in a traitor’s hell.

Some are pierced by the sharp bayonet, Others are crushed by the horses’ hoof, Or fell ’neath the shower of iron which met Them as hail beats down on an open roof.

Shall I tell what they did to meet this fate? Why was this living death their doom? Why did they fall to this piteous state Neath the rifle’s crack and the cannon’s boom?

Orders arrived, and the river they crossed; Built the bridge in the enemy’s face; No matter how many were shot and lost, And floated--sad corpses--away from the place.

Orders they heard, and they scaled the height, Climbing right “into the jaws of death”; Each man grasping his rifle-piece tight, Scarcely pausing to draw his breath.

Sudden flashed on them a sheet of flame From hidden fence and from ambuscade; A moment more--(they say this is fame)-- A thousand dead men on the grass were laid.

Fifteen thousand in wounded and killed, At least, is “our loss,” the newspapers say. This loss to our army must surely be filled Against another great battle day.

“Our loss!” Whose loss? Let demagogues say That the Cabinet, President, all are in wrong: What do the orphans and widows pray? What is the burden of their sad song?

’Tis _their_ loss! but the tears in their weeping eyes Hide Cabinet, President, Generals,--all; And they only can see a cold form that lies On the hill-side slope, by that fatal wall.

They cannot discriminate men or means,-- They only demand that this blundering cease. In their frenzied grief they would end such scenes, Though that end be--even with traitors--peace.

Is thy face from thy people turned, O God? Is thy arm for the nation no longer strong? We cry from our homes--the dead cry from the sod-- How long, oh, our righteous God! how long?

TREASON’S LAST DEVICE.

BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

[Certain politicians proposed, as a means of ending the war, that a new confederacy or union should be formed, from which the New England States should be excluded because of their implacable hostility to slavery and their consequent obnoxiousness to the South. There were many spirited replies to this proposal, the best of which is this poem.--EDITOR.]

“Who deserves greatness Deserves your hate ... Yon common cry of curs, whose breath I loathe As reek o’ the rotten fens.” _Coriolanus._

“Hark! hark! the dogs do bark.” _Nursery Rhyme._

Sons of New England in the fray, Do you hear the clamor behind your back? Do you hear the yelping of Blanche and Tray? Sweetheart, and all the mongrel pack? Girded well with her ocean crags, Little our mother heeds their noise; Her eyes are fixed on crimson flags: But you--do you hear it, Yankee boys?

Do you hear them say that the patriot fire Burns on her altars too pure and bright, To the darkened heavens leaping higher, Though drenched with the blood of every fight? That in the light of its searching flame Treason and tyrants stand revealed, And the yielding craven is put to shame On Capitol floor or foughten field?

Do you hear the hissing voice which saith That she--who bore through all the land The lyre of Freedom, the torch of Faith, And young Invention’s mystic wand-- Should gather her skirts and dwell apart, With not one of her sisters to share her fate,-- A Hagar, wandering sick at heart? A pariah bearing the nation’s hate?

Sons, who have peopled the gorgeous West, And planted the Pilgrim arm anew, Where by a richer soil caressed, It grows as ever its parent grew,-- Say, do you hear--while the very bells Of your churches ring with her ancient voice, And the song of your children sweetly tells How true was the land of your fathers’ choice--

Do you hear the traitors who bid you speak The word that shall sever the sacred tie? And ye who dwell by the golden peak, Has the subtle whisper glided by? Has it crossed the immemorial plains To coasts where the gray Pacific roars, And the Pilgrim blood in the people’s veins Is pure as the wealth of their mountain ores?

Spirits of sons who side by side In a hundred battles fought and fell, Whom now no East and West divide, In the isles where the shades of heroes dwell,-- Say, has it reached your glorious rest, And ruffled the calm which crowns you there? The shame that recreants have confest The plot that floats in the troubled air?

Sons of New England, here and there, Wherever men are still holding by The honor our fathers left so fair,-- Say, do you hear the cowards’ cry? Crouching amongst her grand old crags, Lightly our mother heeds their noise, With her fond eyes fixed on distant flags; But you--do you hear it, Yankee boys?

January 19, 1863.

IN LOUISIANA.

BY J. W. DE FOREST.

Without a hillock stretched the plain; For months we had not seen a hill; The endless, flat Savannahs still Wearied our eyes with waving cane.

One tangled cane-field lay before The ambush of the cautious foe; Behind a black bayou, with low Reed-hidden, miry, treacherous shore;

A sullen swamp along the right, Where alligators slept and crawled, And moss-robed cypress giants sprawled Athwart the noontide’s blistering light.

Quick, angry spite of musketry Proclaimed our skirmishers at work; We saw their crouching figures lurk Through thickets firing from the knee.

Our Parrotts felt the distant wood With humming, shrieking, growling shell; When suddenly the mouth of hell Gaped fiercely for its human food.

A long and low blue roll of smoke Curled up a hundred yards ahead, And deadly storms of driving lead From rifle-pits and cane-fields broke.

Then, while the bullets whistled thick, And hidden batteries boomed and shelled, “Charge bayonets!” the colonel yelled; “Battalion forward,--double quick!”

With even slopes of bayonets Advanced--a dazzling, threatening crest-- Right toward the rebels’ hidden nest, The dark blue, living billow sets.

The color-guard was at my side; I heard the color-sergeant groan; I heard the bullet crush the bone; I might have touched him as he died.

The life-blood spouted from his mouth And sanctified the wicked land; Of martyred saviors what a band Has suffered to redeem the South!

I had no malice in my mind; I only cried: “Close up! guide right!” My single purpose in the fight Was steady march with eyes aligned.