Part 6

Now burst our sheeted lightnings forth, now all our wrath has vent! They die, they wither; through and through their wavering lines are rent. But these are gallant, desperate men, of our own race and land, Who charge anew, and welcome death, and fight us hand to hand: Vain, vain! give way, as well ye may--the crimson die is cast! Their bravest leaders bite the dust, their strength is failing fast; They yield, they turn, they fly the field: we smite them as they run; Their arms, their colors, are our spoil; the furious fight is done! Across the plain we follow far and backward push the fray: Cheer! cheer! the grand old Army at last has won the day!

Hurrah! the day has won the cause! No gray-clad host henceforth Shall come with fire and sword to tread the highways of the North! ’Twas such a flood as when ye see, along the Atlantic shore, The great spring-tide roll grandly in with swelling surge and roar: It seems no wall can stay its leap or balk its wild desire Beyond the bound that Heaven hath fixed to higher mount, and higher; But now, when whitest lifts its crest, most loud its billows call, Touched by the Power that led them on, they fall, and fall, and fall. Even thus, unstayed upon his course, to Gettysburg the foe His legions led, and fought, and fled, and might no further go.

Full many a dark-eyed Southern girl shall weep her lover dead; But with a price the fight was ours--we too have tears to shed! The bells that peal our triumph forth anon shall toll the brave, Above whose heads the cross must stand, the hill-side grasses wave! Alas! alas! the trampled grass shall thrive another year, The blossoms on the apple-boughs with each new spring appear, But when our patriot-soldiers fall, Earth gives them up to God; Though their souls rise in clearer skies, their forms are as the sod; Only their names and deeds are ours--but, for a century yet, The dead who fell at Gettysburg the land shall not forget.

God send us peace! and where for aye the loved and lost recline Let fall, O South, your leaves of palm--O North, your sprigs of pine! But when, with every ripened year, we keep the harvest-home, And to the dear Thanksgiving-feast our sons and daughters come-- When children’s children throng the board in the old homestead spread, And the bent soldier of these wars is seated at the head, Long, long the lads shall listen to hear the gray-beard tell Of those who fought at Gettysburg and stood their ground so well: “’Twas for the Union and the Flag,” the veteran shall say, “Our grand old Army held the ridge, and won that glorious day!”

AT GETTYSBURG.

Like a furnace of fire blazed the midsummer sun, When to saddle we leaped at the order, Spurred on by the boom of the deep-throated gun That told of the foe on our border. A mist in our rear lay Antietam’s dark plain, And thoughts of its carnage came o’er us; But smiling beyond surged the fields of ripe grain, And we swore none should reap it before us.

That night, with the ensign who rode by my side, On the camp’s dreary edge I stood picket, Our ears intent lest every wind-rustle hide A foe’s stealthy tread in the thicket; And there, while we watched the first arrows of dawn Through the veil of the rising mists quiver, He told how the foeman had closed in upon His home by the Tennessee River.

He spoke of a sire in his weakness cut down, With his last breath the traitor-flag scorning; And his brow with the memory grew dark with a frown That paled the red light of the morning. For days he had followed the cowardly band; And, when one lagged to forage or trifle, Had seared in his forehead the deep Minié brand, And scored a fresh notch in his rifle.

But one of the rangers had cheated his fate-- For him he would search the world over: Such cool-plotting passion, such keenness of hate, Ne’er saw I in woman-scorned lover. Oh, who would have thought that beneath those dark curls Lurked vengeance as sure as death-rattle; Or fancied those dreamy eyes, soft as a girl’s, Could light with the fury of battle?

To horse! pealed the bugle, while grape-shot and shell Overhead through the forest were crashing; A cheer for the flag--and the summer light fell On the blades from a thousand sheaths flashing. As mad ocean-waves to the storm-revel flock, So on we dashed, heedless of dangers; A moment our long line surged back at the shock, Then swept through the ranks of the Rangers.

I looked for the ensign. Ahead of his troop, Pressing on through the conflict infernal, His torn flag furled round him in festoon and loop, He spurred to the side of his colonel. And his clear voice rang out, as I saw his bright sword Through shako and gaudy plume shiver, With, “This for the last of the murderous horde!” And, “This for the home by the river!”

At evening, returned from pursuit of the foe, By a shell-shattered caisson we found him; And we buried him there in the sunset’s red glow, With the dear old flag knotted around him. Yet how could we mourn, when each drum’s muffled strain Told of foemen hurled back in disorder,-- When we knew the North reaped her rich harvest of grain, Unharmed by a foe on her border!

JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG.

BY BRET HARTE.

[A Union officer who was with the Eleventh Corps in the battle of Gettysburg says: “During the first day’s fight, an old man, in a swallow-tailed coat and battered cylinder hat, came stalking across the fields from the town, and made his appearance at Colonel Stone’s position. With a musket in his hand and ammunition in his pocket, this venerable citizen asked Colonel Wister’s permission to fight. Wister directed him to go over to the Iron Brigade, where he would be sheltered by the woods; but the old man insisted on going forward to the skirmish line. He was allowed to do so, and continued firing until the skirmishers retired, when he was the last man to leave. He afterwards fought with the Iron Brigade, where he was three times wounded. This patriotic and heroic citizen was Constable John Burns of Gettysburg.”--AUTHOR’S NOTE.]

Have you heard the story that gossips tell Of Burns of Gettysburg? No? Ah, well: Brief is the glory that hero earns, Briefer the story of poor John Burns; He was the fellow who won renown-- The only man who didn’t back down When the rebels rode through his native town; But held his own in the fight next day, When all his townsfolk ran away. That was in July, sixty-three,-- The very day that General Lee, Flower of Southern chivalry, Baffled and beaten, backward reeled From a stubborn Meade and a barren field.

I might tell how, but the day before, John Burns stood at his cottage-door, Looking down the village street, Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, He heard the low of his gathered kine, And felt their breath with incense sweet; Or, I might say, when the sunset burned The old farm gable, he thought it turned The milk that fell like a babbling flood Into the milk-pail, red as blood; Or, how he fancied the hum of bees Were bullets buzzing among the trees. But all such fanciful thoughts as these Were strange to a practical man like Burns, Who minded only his own concerns, Troubled no more by fancies fine Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine,-- Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact, Slow to argue, but quick to act. That was the reason, as some folk say, He fought so well on that terrible day.

And it was terrible. On the right Raged for hours the heady fight, Thundered the battery’s double bass-- Difficult music for men to face; While on the left--where now the graves Undulate like the living waves That all the day unceasing swept Up to the pits the rebels kept-- Round-shot ploughed the upland glades, Sown with bullets, reaped with blades; Shattered fences here and there, Tossed their splinters in the air; The very trees were stripped and bare; The barns that once held yellow grain Were heaped with harvests of the slain; The cattle bellowed on the plain, The turkeys screamed with might and main, And brooding barn-fowl left their rest With strange shells bursting in each nest.

Just where the tide of battle turns, Erect and lonely, stood old John Burns. How do you think the man was dressed? He wore an ancient, long buff vest, Yellow as saffron--but his best; And buttoned over his manly breast Was a bright-blue coat with a rolling collar, And large gilt buttons--size of a dollar,-- With tails that the country-folk called “swaller.” He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, White as the locks on which it sat. Never had such a sight been seen For forty years on the village green, Since old John Burns was a country beau, And went to the “quiltings” long ago.

Close at his elbows all that day, Veterans of the Peninsula, Sunburnt and bearded, charged away; And striplings, downy of lip and chin,-- Clerks that the Home-Guard mustered in,-- Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore, Then at the rifle his right hand bore; And hailed him, from out their youthful lore, With scraps of a slangy repertoire: “How are you, White Hat?” “Put her through!” “Your head’s level!” and “Bully for you!” Called him “Daddy,”--begged he’d disclose The name of the tailor who made his clothes, And what was the value he set on those; While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff, Stood there picking the rebels off-- With his long brown rifle, and bell-crowned hat, And the swallow-tails they were laughing at.

’Twas but a moment, for that respect Which clothes all courage their voices checked; And something the wildest could understand Spake in the old man’s strong right hand, And his corded throat, and the lurking frown Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown; Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw, In the antique vestments and long white hair, The Past of the Nation in battle there; And some of the soldiers since declare That the gleam of his old white hat afar, Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, That day was their oriflamme of war.

Thus raged the battle. You know the rest; How the rebels, beaten, and backward pressed, Broke at the final charge and ran. At which John Burns-a practical man-- Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, And then went back to his bees and cows.

That is the story of old John Burns; This is the moral the reader learns: In fighting the battle, the question’s whether You’ll show a hat that’s white, or a feather.

WOMAN’S WAR MISSION.

Fold away all your bright-tinted dresses, Turn the key on your jewels to-day, And the wealth of your tendril-like tresses Braid back, in a serious way: No more delicate gloves, no more laces, No more trifling in boudoir and bower; But come with your souls in your faces-- To meet the stern needs of the hour!

Look around! By the torchlight unsteady, The dead and the dying seem one. What! paling and trembling already, Before your dear mission’s begun? These wounds are more precious than ghastly; Fame presses her lips to each scar, As she chants of a glory which vastly Transcends all the horrors of war.

Pause here by this bedside--how mellow The light showers down on that brow! Such a brave, brawny visage!--Poor fellow! Some homestead is missing him now. Some wife shades her eyes in the clearing, Some mother sits moaning, distressed,-- While the loved one lies faint, but unfearing, With the enemy’s ball in his breast.

Here’s another: a lad--a mere stripling-- Picked up from the field, almost dead; With the blood through his sunny hair rippling From a horrible gash in the head. They say he was first in the action, Gay-hearted, quick-handed, and witty; He fought till he fell with exhaustion, At the gates of our fair Southern city.

Fought and fell ’neath the guns of that city, With a spirit transcending his years; Lift him up in your large-hearted pity, And touch his pale lips with your tears. Touch him gently--most sacred the duty Of dressing that poor shattered hand! God spare him to rise in his beauty, And battle once more for the land!

Who groaned? What a passionate murmur-- “_In thy mercy, O God, let me die!_” Ha! surgeon, your hand must be firmer, That grape-shot has shattered his thigh. Fling the light on those poor furrowed features, Gray-haired and unknown--bless the brother! O God! that one of _thy_ creatures Should e’er work such woe on another!

Wipe the sweat from his brow with your kerchief; Let the stain tattered collar go wide, See! he stretches out blindly to search if The surgeon still stands at his side. “_My son’s over yonder! he’s wounded--_ _Oh! this ball that has broken my thigh!_” And again he burst out, all a-tremble,-- “_In thy mercy, O God! let me die!_”

Pass on! It is useless to linger While others are claiming your care; There is need of your delicate finger, For your womanly sympathy, there! There are sick ones athirst for caressing-- There are dying ones raving for home-- There are wounds to be bound with a blessing-- And shrouds to make ready for some.

They have gathered about you the harvest Of death, in its ghastliest view; The nearest as well as the farthest Is here with the traitor and true! And crowned with your beautiful patience, Made sunny with love at the heart, You must balsam the wounds of a nation, Nor falter, nor shrink from your part!

Up and down through the wards, where the fever Stalks noisome, and gaunt and impure, You must go with your steadfast endeavor To comfort, to counsel, to cure! I grant that the task’s superhuman, But strength will be given to you To do for these dear ones what woman Alone in her pity can do.

And the lips of the mothers will bless you As angels sweet visaged and pale! And the little ones run to caress you, While the wives and the sisters cry “Hail!” But e’en if you drop down unheeded, What matter? God’s ways are the best; You’ve poured out your life where ’twas needed, And He will take care of the rest.

[Southern.]

THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE.

We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more, From Mississippi’s winding stream and from New England’s shore; We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear, With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear; We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

If you look across the hill-tops that meet the northern sky, Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry; And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside, And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride, And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

If you look all up our valleys where the growing harvests shine, You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line; And children from their mother’s knees are pulling at the weeds, And learning how to reap and sow against their country’s needs; And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

You have called us, and we’re coming, by Richmond’s bloody tide To lay us down, for Freedom’s sake, our brothers’ bones beside, Or from foul treason’s savage grasp to wrench the murderous blade, And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade. Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

LEE TO THE REAR.

BY JOHN R. THOMPSON.

[During the battles in the Wilderness at the beginning of the campaign of 1864, General Robert E. Lee, impressed with the desperate necessity of carrying a certain peculiarly difficult position, seized the colors of a Texas regiment and undertook to lead the perilous assault in person. The troops and their colonel remonstrated with vehemence, the colonel, in his men’s behalf, pledging the regiment to carry the position if General Lee would retire. The troops advanced to the charge shouting “Lee to the Rear!” as a sort of battle cry.--EDITOR.]

Dawn of a pleasant morning in May Broke through the Wilderness cool and gray; While perched in the tallest tree-tops, the birds Were carolling Mendelssohn’s “Songs without Words.”

Far from the haunts of men remote, The brook brawled on with a liquid note; And Nature, all tranquil and lovely, wore The smile of the spring, as in Eden of yore.

Little by little, as daylight increased, And deepened the roseate flush in the East-- Little by little did morning reveal Two long glittering lines of steel;

Where two hundred thousand bayonets gleam, Tipped with the light of the earliest beam, And the faces are sullen and grim to see In the hostile armies of Grant and Lee.

All of a sudden, ere rose the sun, Pealed on the silence the opening gun-- A little white puff of smoke there came, And anon the valley was wreathed in flame.

Down on the left of the Rebel lines, Where a breastwork stands in a copse of pines, Before the Rebels their ranks can form, The Yankees have carried the place by storm.

Stars and Stripes on the salient wave, Where many a hero has found a grave, And the gallant Confederates strive in vain The ground they have drenched with their blood, to regain.

Yet louder the thunder of battle roared-- Yet a deadlier fire on the columns poured; Slaughter infernal rode with Despair, Furies twain, through the murky air.

Not far off, in the saddle there sat A gray-bearded man in a black slouched hat; Not much moved by the fire was he, Calm and resolute Robert Lee.

Quick and watchful he kept his eye On the bold Rebel brigades close by,-- Reserves that were standing (and dying) at ease, While the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees.

For still with their loud, deep, bull-dog bay, The Yankee batteries blazed away, And with every murderous second that sped A dozen brave fellows, alas! fell dead.

The grand old gray-beard rode to the space Where Death and his victims stood face to face, And silently waved his old slouched hat-- A world of meaning there was in that!

“Follow me! Steady! We’ll save the day!” This was what he seemed to say; And to the light of his glorious eye The bold brigades thus made reply:

“We’ll go forward, but you must go back”-- And they moved not an inch in the perilous track: “Go to the rear, and we’ll send them to hell!” And the sound of the battle was lost in their yell.

Turning his bridle, Robert Lee Rode to the rear. Like waves of the sea, Bursting the dikes in their overflow, Madly his veterans dashed on the foe.

And backward in terror that foe was driven, Their banners rent and their columns riven, Wherever the tide of battle rolled Over the Wilderness, wood and wold.

Sunset out of a crimson sky Streamed o’er a field of ruddier dye, And the brook ran on with a purple stain, From the blood of ten thousand foemen slain.

Seasons have passed since that day and year-- Again o’er its pebbles the brook runs clear, And the field in a richer green is drest Where the dead of a terrible conflict rest.

Hushed is the roll of the Rebel drum, The sabres are sheathed, and the cannon are dumb; And Fate, with his pitiless hand, has furled The flag that once challenged the gaze of the world;

But the fame of the Wilderness fight abides; And down into history grandly rides, Calm and unmoved as in battle he sat, The gray-bearded man in the black slouched hat.

[Southern.]

Kearsarge and Alabama

(Action of 19 June, 1864.)

It was early Sunday morning, in the year of sixty-four, The _Alabama_ she steam’d out along the Frenchman’s shore. Long time she cruised about, Long time she held her sway, But now beneath the Frenchman’s shore she lies off Cherbourg Bay. Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave Over the Union, the home of the brave. Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave, God bless America, the home of the brave!

The Yankee cruiser hove in view, the _Kearsarge_ was her name, It ought to be engraved in full upon the scroll of fame; Her timbers made of Yankee oak, And her crew of Yankee tars, And o’er her mizzen peak she floats the glorious stripes and stars. Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave Over the Union, the home of the brave. Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave, God bless America, the home of the brave!

A challenge unto Captain Semmes, bold Winslow he did send! “Bring on your _Alabama_, and to her we will attend, For we think your boasting privateer Is not so hard to whip; And we’ll show you that the _Kearsarge_ is not a merchant ship.” Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave Over the Union, the home of the brave. Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave, God bless America, the home of the brave!

It was early Sunday morning, in the year of sixty-four, The _Alabama_ she stood out and cannons loud did roar; The _Kearsarge_ stood undaunted, and quickly she replied And let a Yankee ’leven-inch shell go tearing through her side. Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave Over the Union, the home of the brave. Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave, God bless America, the home of the brave!

The _Kearsarge_ then she wore around and broadside on did bear, With shot and shell and right good-will, her timbers she did tear; When they found that they were sinking, down came the stars and bars, For the rebel gunners could not stand the glorious stripes and stars. Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave Over the Union, the home of the brave! Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave, God bless America, the home of the brave!