Part 4

I was a young man then, boys, but twenty-nine years old, And all my comrades knew me for a soldier brave and bold; My eye was bright, my step was firm, I measured six feet two, And I knew not what it was to shirk when there was work to do.

We were stationed at Fort Moultrie, in Charleston harbor, then, A brave band, though a small one, of scarcely seventy men; And day and night we waited for the coming of the foe, With noble Major Anderson, just fifty years ago.

Were they French or English, ask you? Oh, neither, neither, child! We were at peace with other lands, and all the nations smiled On the stars and stripes, wherever they floated far and free, And all the foes we had to meet we found this side the sea.

But even between brothers bitter feuds will sometimes rise, And ’twas the cloud of civil war that darkened in the skies; I have not time to tell you how the quarrel first began, Or how it grew, till o’er our land the strife like wildfire ran.

I will not use hard words, my boys, for I am old and gray, And I’ve learned it is an easy thing for the best to go astray; Some wrong there was on either part, I do not doubt at all; There are two sides to a quarrel—be it great or be it small!

You scarce believe me, children. Grief and doubt are in your eyes, Fixed steadily upon me in wonder and surprise; Don’t forget to thank our Father, when to-night you kneel to pray, That an undivided people rule America to-day.

We were stationed at Fort Moultrie—but about a mile away, The battlements of Sumter stood proudly in the bay; ’Twas by far the best position, as he could not help but know, Our gallant Major Anderson, just fifty years ago.

Yes, ’twas just after Christmas, fifty years ago to-night; The sky was calm and cloudless, the moon was large and bright; At six o’clock the drum beat to call us to parade, And not a man suspected the plan that had been laid.

But the first thing a soldier learns is that he must obey, And that when an order’s given he has not a word to say; So when told to man the boats, not a question did we ask, But silently, yet eagerly, began our hurried task.

We did a deal of work that night, though our numbers were but few; We had all our stores to carry, and our ammunition too; And the guard-ship—’twas the Nina—set to watch us in the bay, Never dreamed what we were doing, though ’twas almost light as day.

We spiked the guns we left behind, and cut the flag-staff down,— From its top should float no colors if it might not hold our own,— Then we sailed away for Sumter as fast as we could go, With our good Major Anderson, just fifty years ago.

I never can forget, my boys, how the next day, at noon, The drums beat and the band played a stirring martial tune, And silently we gathered round the flag-staff, strong and high, Forever pointing upward to God’s temple in the sky.

Our noble Major Anderson was good as he was brave, And he knew without His blessing no banner long could wave; So he knelt, with head uncovered, while the chaplain read a prayer, And as the last amen was said, the flag rose high in air.

Then our loud huzzas rang out, far and widely o’er the sea! We shouted for the stars and stripes, the standard of the free! Every eye was fixed upon it, every heart beat warm and fast, As with eager lips we promised to defend it to the last!

’Twas a sight to be remembered, boys—the chaplain with his book, Our leader humbly kneeling, with his calm, undaunted look; And the officers and men, crushing tears they would not shed,— And the blue sea all around us, and the blue sky overhead!

Now, go to bed, my children, the old man’s story’s told,— Stir up the fire before you go, ’tis bitter, bitter cold; And I’ll tell you more to-morrow night, when loud the fierce winds blow, Of gallant Major Anderson and fifty years ago.

FROM BATON ROUGE

From the fierce conflict and the deadly fray A patriot hero comes to us this day.

Greet him with music and with loud acclaim, And let our hills re-echo with his name.

Bring rarest flowers their rich perfume to shed, Like sweetest incense, round the warrior’s head.

Let heart and voice cry “welcome,” and a shout, Upon the summer air, ring gayly out,

To hail the hero, who from fierce affray And deadly conflict comes to us this day.

Alas! alas! for smiles ye give but tears, And wordless sorrow on each face appears.

And for glad music, jubilant and clear, The tolling bell, the muffled drum, we hear.

Woe to _us_, soldier, loyal, tried, and brave, That we have naught to give thee but a grave.

Woe that the wreath that should have decked thy brow, Can but be laid upon thy coffin now.

Woe that thou canst not hear us when we say,— “Hail to thee, brother, welcome home to-day!”

O God, we lift our waiting eyes to Thee, And sadly cry, how long must these things be?

How long must noble blood be poured like rain, Flooding our land from mountain unto main?

How long from desolated hearths must rise The smoke of life’s most costly sacrifice?

Our brothers languish upon beds of pain,— Father, O Father, have they bled in vain?

Is it for naught that they have drunken up The very dregs of this most bitter cup?

How long? how long? O God! our cause is just, And in Thee only do we put our trust.

As Thou didst guide the Israelites of old Through the Red Sea, and through the desert wold,

Lead Thou our leaders, and our land shall be For evermore, the land where all are free!

* * * * *

Hail and farewell,—we whisper in one breath, As thus we meet thee, hand in hand with death!

God give thy ashes undisturbed repose Where drum-beat wakens neither friend nor foes;

God take thy spirit to eternal rest, And, for Christ’s sake, enroll thee with the blest!

IN THE WILDERNESS MAY 6, 1864

How beautiful was earth that day! The far blue sky had not a cloud; The river rippled on its way, Singing sweet songs aloud.

The delicate beauty of the spring Pervaded all the murmuring air; It touched with grace the meanest thing And made it very fair.

The blithe birds darted to and fro, The bees were humming round the hive, So happy in that radiant glow! So glad to be alive!

And I? My heart was calmly blest. I knew afar the war-cloud rolled Lurid and dark, in fierce unrest, Laden with woes untold.

But on that day my fears were stilled; The very air I breathed was joy; The rest and peace my soul that filled Had nothing of alloy.

I took the flower he loved the best, The arbutus,—fairest child of May,— And with its perfume half oppressed, Twined many a lovely spray

About his picture on the wall; His eyes were on me all the while, And when I had arranged them all I thought he seemed to smile.

O Christ, be pitiful! That hour Saw him fall bleeding on the sod; And while I toyed with leaf and flower His soul went up to God!

For him one pang—and then a crown; For him the laurels heroes wear; For him a name whose long renown Ages shall onward bear.

For me the cross without the crown; For me the drear and lonely life; O God! My sun, not his, went down On that red field of strife.

CHARLEY OF MALVERN HILL

A war-worn soldier, bronzed and seamed By weary march and battle stroke; ’Twas thus, while leaning on his crutch, The wounded veteran spoke,—

“The blue-eyed boy of Malvern Hill! A hero every inch was he, Though scarcely larger than the child You hold, sir, on your knee.

Some mother’s darling! On that field He seemed so strangely out of place, With his pure brow, his shining hair, His sweet, unconscious grace.

But not a bearded warrior there Watched with a more undaunted eye The blackness of the battle-cloud, As the fierce storm rose high.

That morn—ah! what a morn was that!— We thought to send him to the rear; We loved the lad—and love, you know, Is near akin to fear.

We knew that many a gallant soul Must pass away in one long sigh, Ere nightfall. On that bloody field, ’Twas not for boys to die.

But he—could you have seen him then, As, with his blue eyes full of fire, He poured forth tears and pleadings, half Of shame and half of ire!

‘Oh! do not bid me go!’ he cried; ‘I love yon flag as well as you! I did not join your ranks to run When there is work to do!

I did not come to beat my drum Only upon some gala day.’ The colonel shook his head, but said, ‘Well, Charley, you may stay.’

Ah! then his tears were quickly dried, A few glad words he strove to say; But there was little time to talk, And hardly time to pray.

For bitter, bitter was the strife That raged that day on Malvern Hill; Blue coats and gray in great heaps lay, Ere that wild storm grew still.

At length we charged. My very heart Sank down within me, cold and dumb, When to the front, and far ahead, Rushed Charley with his drum!

Above the cannon’s thundering boom, The din and shriek of shot and shell, We heard its clear peal rolling out Right gallantly and well.

A moment’s awful waiting! Then There came a sullen, angry roar,— O God! An empty void remained Where Charley stood before.

What did we then? With souls on fire We swept upon the advancing foe, And bade good angels guard the dust O‘er which no tears might flow!”

SUPPLICAMUS 1864

O laggard Sun! make haste to wake From her long trance the slumbering earth; Make haste this icy spell to break, That she may give new glories birth!

O April rain! so soft, so warm, Bounteous in blessing, rich in gifts, Drop tenderly upon her form, And bathe the forehead she uplifts.

O springing grass! make haste to run With swift feet o’er the meadows bare; O’er hill and dale, through forest dun, And where the wandering brooklets are!

O sweet wild flowers! the darksome mould Hasten with subtle strength to rift; Serene in beauty, meek yet bold, Your fair brows to the sunlight lift!

O haste ye all! for far away In lonely beds our heroes sleep, O’er which no wife may ever pray, Nor child nor mother ever weep.

No quaintly carved memorial stone May tell us that their ashes lie Where southern pines make solemn moan, And wailing winds give sad reply.

But deep in dreary, lonesome shades, On many a barren, sandy plain, By rocky pass, in tangled glades, And by the rolling, restless main;

By rushing stream, by silent lake, Uncoffined in their lowly graves, Until the earth’s last morn shall break, Must sleep our unforgotten braves!

O sun! O rain! O gentle dew! O fresh young grass, and opening flowers! With yearning hearts we leave to you The holy task that should be ours!

Light up the darkling forest’s gloom; Cover the bare, unsightly clay With tenderest verdure, with the bloom, The beauty and perfume of May!

O sweet blue violets! softly creep Beside the slumbering warrior’s bed; O roses! let your red hearts leap For joy your rarest sweets to shed;

O humble mosses! such as make New England’s woods and pastures fair, Over each mound, for Love’s sweet sake, Spread your soft folds with tender care.

Dear Nature, to your loving breast Clasp our dead heroes! In your arms Sweet be their sleep, serene their rest, Unmoved by Battle’s loud alarms!

THE LAST OF SIX

Come in; you are welcome, neighbor; all day I’ve been alone, And heard the wailing, wintry wind sweep by with bitter moan; And to-night beside my lonely fire, I mutely wonder why I, who once wept as others weep, sit here with tearless eye.

To-day this letter came to me. At first I could not brook Upon the unfamiliar lines by strangers penned, to look; The dread of evil tidings shook my soul with wild alarm— But Harry’s in the hospital, and has only lost an arm.

He is the last—the last of six brave boys as e’er were seen! How short, to memory’s vision, seem the years that lie between This hour and those most blessed ones, when round this hearth’s bright blaze They charmed their mother’s heart and eye with all their pretty ways!

My William was the eldest son, and he was first to go. It did not at all surprise me, for I knew it would be so, From that fearful April Sunday when the news from Sumter came, And his lips grew white as ashes, while his eyes were all aflame.

He sprang to join the three months’ men. I could not say him nay, Though my heart stood still within me when I saw him march away; At the corner of the street he smiled, and waved the flag he bore; I never saw him smile again—he was slain at Baltimore.

They sent his body back to me, and as we stood around His grave, beside his father’s, in yonder burial-ground, John laid his hand upon my arm and whispered, “Mother dear, I have Willy’s work and mine to do. I cannot loiter here.”

I turned and looked at Paul, for he and John were twins, you know, Born on a happy Christmas, four-and-twenty years ago; I looked upon them both, while my tears fell down like rain, For I knew what one had spoken, had been spoken by the twain.

In a month or more they left me—the merry, handsome boys, Who had kept the old house ringing with their laughter, fun, and noise. Then James came home to mind the farm; my younger sons were still Mere children, at their lessons in the school-house on the hill.

O days of weary waiting! O days of doubt and dread! I feared to read the papers, or to see the lists of dead; But when full many a battle-storm had left them both unharmed, I taught my foolish heart to think the double lives were charmed.

Their colonel since has told me that no braver boys than they Ever rallied round the colors, in the thickest of the fray; Upon the wall behind you their swords are hanging still— For John was killed at Fair Oaks, and Paul at Malvern Hill.

Then came the dark days, darker than any known before; There was another call for men—“three hundred thousand more;” I saw the cloud on Jamie’s brow grow deeper day by day; I shrank before the impending blow, and scarce had strength to pray.

And yet at last I bade him go, while on my cheek and brow His loving tears and kisses fell; I feel them even now, Though the eyes that shed the tears, and the lips so warm on mine Are hidden under southern sands, beneath a blasted pine!

He did not die in battle-smoke, but for a weary year He languished in close prison walls, a prey to hope and fear; I dare not trust myself to think of the fruitless pangs he bore, My brain grows wild when in my dreams I count his sufferings o’er.

Only two left! I thought the worst was surely over then; But lo! at once my school-boy sons sprang up before me—men! They heard their brothers’ martyr blood call from the hallowed ground; A loud, imperious summons that all other voices drowned.

I did not say a single word. My very heart seemed dead. What could I do but take the cup, and bow my weary head To drink the bitter draught again? I dared not hold them back; I would as soon have tried to check the whirlwind on its track.

You know the rest. At Cedar Creek my Frederick bravely fell; They say his young arm did its work right nobly and right well; His comrades breathe the hero’s name with mingled love and pride; I miss the gentle blue-eyed boy, who frolicked at my side.

For me, I ne’er shall weep again. I think my heart is dead; I, who could weep for lighter griefs, have now no tears to shed. But read this letter, neighbor. There is nothing to alarm, For Harry’s in the hospital, and has only lost an arm!

THE DRUMMER BOY’S BURIAL

All day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept; All night long the stars in heaven o’er the slain sad vigils kept.

Oh, the ghastly, upturned faces, gleaming whitely through the night! Oh, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim, sepulchral light!

One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke; But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke.

Slowly passed the golden hours of the long bright summer day, And upon the field of carnage still the dead unburied lay;

Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, unceasing prayer, For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and air.

Once again the night dropped round them—night so holy and so calm That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or psalm.

On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest, Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast.

Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if in sleep; Even his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber, calm and deep.

For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to the face, And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of grace

To the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless repose, Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying foes.

And the broken drum beside him all his life’s short story told; How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o’er him rolled.

Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars, While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars.

Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low— Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet’s murmuring flow?

Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look round As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground,

Came two little maidens—sisters—with a light and hasty tread, And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread.

And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they stood Where the Drummer-Boy was lying in that partial solitude.

They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe’s scanty store, And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore.

Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears, For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears.

And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shame Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lambent flame.

For their saintly hearts yearned o’er it in that hour of sorest need, And they felt that Death was holy and it sanctified the deed.

But they smiled and kissed each other when their new, strange task was o’er, And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments wore.

Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out, And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about.

But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done, And in crimson pomp the morning again heralded the sun.

And then those little maidens—they were children of our foes— Laid the body of our Drummer-Boy to undisturbed repose.

1865

O darkest Year! O brightest Year! O changeful Year of joy and woe, To-day we stand beside thy bier, Still loth to let thee go!

We look upon thy brow, and say, “How old he is,—how old and worn!” Has but a twelvemonth passed away Since thou wert newly born?

So long it seems since on the air The joy-bells rang to hail thy birth— And pale lips strove to call thee fair, And sing the songs of mirth!

For dark the heavens that o’er thee hung; By stormy winds thy couch was rocked; Thy cradle-hymn the Furies sung, While sneering Demons mocked!

We held our very breath for dread; Shadowed by clouds, that, like a pall, Darkened the blue sky overhead, And night hung over all.

But thou wert better than our fears, And bade our land’s long anguish cease; And gave us, O thou Year of years, The costly pearl of Peace!

So dearly bought! By precious blood Of patriot heroes—sire and son— And that of him, the pure and good, Our wearied, martyred One;

Who bore for us the heavy load— The cross our hands upon him laid; Who trod for us the toilsome road Meekly, yet undismayed!

And for that gift—although thy graves Lie thick beneath December’s snow, Though every hamlet mourns its braves, And bears its weight of woe—

We bless thee! Yet, O bounteous year, For more than Peace we thank thee now, As bending o’er thine honored bier, We crown thy pallid brow!

We bless thee, though we scarcely dare Give to our new-born joy a tongue; O mighty Year, upon the air Thy voice triumphant rung,

Even in death! and at the sound, From myriad limbs the fetters fell Into the dim and vast profound, While tolled thy passing bell!

Farewell, farewell, thou storied Year! Thou wondrous Year of joy and gloom! With grateful hearts we crown thee, ere We lay thee in thy tomb!

OUR FLAGS AT THE CAPITOL

Remove them not! Above our fallen braves Nature not yet her perfect work hath wrought; Scarce has the turf grown green upon their graves, The martyr graves for whose embrace they fought.

The wounds of our long conflict are not healed; Our land’s fair face is seamed with many a scar; And woeful sights, on many a battle-field, Show ghastly grim beneath the evening star.

Still does the sad Earth tremble with affright, Lest she the tread of armèd hosts should feel Once more upon her bosom. Still the Night Hears, in wild dreams, the cannon’s thundering peal.

Still do the black-robed mothers come and go; Still do lone wives by dreary hearth-stones weep; Still does a Nation, in her pride and woe, For her dead sons a mournful vigil keep.

Ah, then, awhile delay! Remove ye not These drooping banners from their place on high; They make of each proud hall a hallowed spot, Where Truth must dwell and Freedom cannot die.

Now slowly waving in this tranquil air, What wondrous eloquence is in their speech! No prophet “silver tongued,” no poet rare, Even in dreams may hope such heights to reach.

They tell of Life that calmly looked on Death— Of peerless valor and of trust sublime— Of costly sacrifice, of holiest faith, Of lofty hopes that ended not with Time.

Oh! each worn fold is hallowed! set apart To minister unto us in our needs— To bear henceforth to many a fainting heart, The cordial wine of noble thoughts and deeds.

Then leave them yet awhile where, day by day, The lessons that they teach, your souls may learn; So shall ye work for righteousness alway, And for its faithful service ever yearn.

Now may God bless our land for evermore! And from all strife and turmoil grant surcease; While from the mountains to the farthest shore Accordant voices softly whisper—Peace!

MY MOCKING-BIRD