Chapter 4

Then they seized another brave boy,--not amid the heat of battle, But in peace, behind his ploughshare,--and they loaded him with chains, And with pikes, before their horses, even as they goad their cattle, Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew out his brains; Then Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Raised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heaven's vengeance down. And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the Almighty, He would hunt this ravening evil that had scathed and torn him so; He would seize it by the vitals; he would crush it day and night; he Would so pursue its footsteps, so return it blow for blow, That Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in town!

Then his beard became more grizzled, and his wild blue eye grew wilder, And more sharply curved his hawk's-nose, snuffing battle from afar; And he and the two boys left, though the Kansas strife waxed milder, Grew more sullen, till was over the bloody Border War, And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Had gone crazy, as they reckoned by his fearful glare and frown.

So he left the plains of Kansas and their bitter woes behind him, Slipt off into Virginia, where the statesmen all are born, Hired a farm by Harper's Ferry, and no one knew where to find him, Or whether he'd turned parson, or was jacketed and shorn; For Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Mad as he was, knew texts enough to wear a parson's gown.

He bought no ploughs and harrows, spades and shovels, and such trifles; But quietly to his rancho there came, by every train, Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his well-beloved Sharp's rifles; And eighteen other madmen joined their leader there again. Says Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, "Boys, we've got an army large enough to march and take the town!"

"Take the town, and seize the muskets, free the negroes and then arm them; Carry the County and the State, ay, and all the potent South. On their own heads be the slaughter, if their victims rise to harm them-- These Virginians! who believed not, nor would heed the warning mouth." Says Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, "The world shall see a Republic, or my name is not John Brown."

'T was the sixteenth of October, on the evening of a Sunday: "This good work," declared the captain, "shall be on a holy night!" It was on a Sunday evening, and before the noon of Monday, With two sons, and Captain Stephens, fifteen privates--black and white, Captain Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Marched across the bridged Potomac, and knocked the sentry down;

Took the guarded armory-building, and the muskets and the cannon; Captured all the county majors and the colonels, one by one; Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they ran on, And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed was done. Mad Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and took the town.

Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder made he; It was all done in the midnight, like the Emperor's _coup d'etat_. "Cut the wires! Stop the rail-cars! Hold the streets and bridges!" said he, Then declared the new Republic, with himself for guiding star,-- This Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown; And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left the town.

Then was riding and railroading and expressing here and thither; And the Martinsburg Sharpshooters and the Charlestown Volunteers, And the Shepherdstown and Winchester Militia hastened whither Old Brown was said to muster his ten thousand grenadiers. General Brown! Osawatomie Brown!! Behind whose rampant banner all the North was pouring down.

But at last, 't is said, some prisoners escaped from Old Brown's durance, And the effervescent valor of the Chivalry broke out, When they learned that nineteen madmen had the marvelous assurance-- Only nineteen--thus to seize the place and drive them straight about; And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Found an army come to take him, encamped around the town.

But to storm, with all the forces I have mentioned, was too risky; So they hurried off to Richmond for the Government Marines, Tore them from their weeping matrons, fired their souls with Bourbon whiskey, Till they battered down Brown's castle with their ladders and machines; And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut on his brave old crown.

Tallyho! the old Virginia gentry gather to the baying! In they rushed and killed the game, shooting lustily away; And whene'er they slew a rebel, those who came too late for slaying, Not to lose a share of glory, fired their bullets in his clay; And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between them laid him down.

How the conquerors wore their laurels; how they hastened on the trial; How Old Brown was placed, half dying, on the Charlestown court-house floor; How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all denial; What the brave old madman told them,--these are known the country o'er. "Hang Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown." Said the judge, "and all such rebels!" with his most judicial frown.

But, Virginians, don't do it! for I tell you that the flagon, Filled with blood of Old Brown's offspring, was first poured by Southern hands; And each drop from Old Brown's life-veins, like the red gore of the dragon, May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through your slave-worn lands! And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, May trouble you more than ever, when you've nailed his coffin down!

APOCALYPSE

RICHARD REALF

[Sidenote: April 19, 1861] _The first life lost in the battle with rebellion was that of Private Arthur Ladd, of the Sixth Massachusetts, killed in the attack of the Baltimore mob._

Straight to his heart the bullet crushed; Down from his breast the red blood gushed, And o'er his face a glory rushed.

A sudden spasm shook his frame, And in his ears there went and came A sound as of devouring flame.

Which in a moment ceased, and then The great light clasped his brows again, So that they shone like Stephen's when

Saul stood apart a little space And shook with shuddering awe to trace God's splendors settling o'er his face.

Thus, like a king, erect in pride, Raising clean hands toward heaven, he cried: "All hail the Stars and Stripes!" and died.

Died grandly. But before he fell-- (O blessedness ineffable!) Vision apocalyptical

Was granted to him, and his eyes, All radiant with glad surprise, Looked forward through the Centuries,

And saw the seeds which sages cast In the world's soil in cycles past, Spring up and blossom at the last;

Saw how the souls of men had grown, And where the scythes of Truth had mown Clear space for Liberty's white throne;

Saw how, by sorrow tried and proved, The blackening stains had been removed Forever from the land he loved;

Saw Treason crushed and Freedom crowned, And clamorous Faction, gagged and bound, Gasping its life out on the ground.

* * * * *

With far-off vision gazing clear Beyond this gloomy atmosphere Which shuts us out with doubt and fear

He--marking how her high increase Ran greatening in perpetual lease Through balmy years of odorous Peace

Greeted in one transcendent cry Of intense, passionate ecstasy The sight which thrilled him utterly;

Saluting, with most proud disdain Of murder and of mortal pain, The vision which shall be again!

So, lifted with prophetic pride, Raised conquering hands to heaven and cried: "All hail the Stars and Stripes!" and died.

THE PICKET GUARD

ETHEL LYNN BEERS

[Sidenote: Sept., 1861] _The stereotyped announcement, "All Quiet on the Potomac," was followed one day in September, 1861, by the words, "A Picket Shot," and these so moved the authoress that she wrote this poem on the impulse of the moment._

"All quiet along the Potomac," they say, "Except now and then a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 'Tis nothing--a private or two, now and then, Will not count in the news of the battle; Not an officer lost--only one of the men, Moaning out, all alone, the death rattle."

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping; While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard--for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack--his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep-- For their mother--may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night, when the love yet unspoken Leaped up to his lips--when low-murmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken. Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling, And gathers his gun closer up to its place As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree-- The footstep is lagging and weary; Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looked like a rifle--"Ah! Mary, good-bye!" And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead-- The picket's off duty forever.

THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

[Sidenote: Oct., 1861]

Along a riverside, I know not where, I walked one night in mystery of dream; A chill creeps curdling yet beneath my hair, To think what chanced me by the pallid gleam Of a moon-wraith that waned through haunted air.

Pale fireflies pulsed within the meadow-mist Their halos, wavering thistledowns of light; The loon, that seemed to mock some goblin tryst, Laughed; and the echoes, huddling in affright, Like Odin's hounds, fled baying down the night.

Then all was silent, till there smote my ear A movement in the stream that checked my breath: Was it the slow plash of a wading deer? But something said, "This water is of Death! The Sisters wash a shroud,--ill thing to hear!"

I, looking then, beheld the ancient Three Known to the Greek's and to the Northman's creed, That sit in shadow of the mystic Tree, Still crooning, as they weave their endless brede, One song: "Time was, Time is, and Time shall be."

No wrinkled crones were they, as I had deemed, But fair as yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, To mourner, lover, poet, ever seemed; Something too high for joy, too deep for sorrow, Thrilled in their tones, and from their faces gleamed.

"Still men and nations reap as they have strawn," So sang they, working at their task the while; The fatal raiment must be cleansed ere dawn; For Austria? Italy? the Sea-Queen's isle? O'er what quenched grandeur must our shroud be drawn?

Or is it for a younger, fairer corse, That gathered States for children round his knees, That tamed the wave to be his posting-horse, Feller of forests, linker of the seas, Bridge-builder, hammerer, youngest son of Thor's?

"What make we, murmur'st thou? and what are we? When empires must be wound, we bring the shroud, The time-old web of the implacable Three: Is it too coarse for him, the young and proud? Earth's mightiest deigned to wear it,--why not he?"

"Is there no hope?" I moaned, "so strong, so fair! Our Fowler whose proud bird would brook erewhile No rival's swoop in all our western air! Gather the ravens, then, in funeral file For him, life's morn yet golden in his hair?"

"Leave me not hopeless, ye unpitying dames! I see, half seeing. Tell me, ye who scanned The stars, Earth's elders, still must noblest aims Be traced upon oblivious ocean-sands? Must Hesper join the wailing ghosts of names?"

"When grass-blades stiffen with red battle-dew Ye deem we choose the victor and the slain: Say, choose we them that shall be leal and true To the heart's longing, the high faith of brain? Yet there the victory lies, if ye but knew."

"Three roots bear up Dominion: Knowledge, Will,-- These twain are strong, but stronger yet the third,-- Obedience,--'t is the great tap-root that still, Knit round the rock of Duty, is not stirred, Though Heaven-loosed tempests spend their utmost skill."

"Is the doom sealed for Hesper? 'T is not we Denounce it, but the Law before all time: The brave makes danger opportunity; The waverer, paltering with the chance sublime, Dwarfs it to peril: which shall Hesper be?"

"Hath he let vultures climb his eagle's seat To make Jove's bolts purveyors of their maw? Hath he the Many's plaudits found more sweet Than Wisdom? held Opinion's wind for Law? Then let him hearken for the doomster's feet."

"Rough are the steps, slow-hewn in flintiest rock, States climb to power by; slippery those with gold Down which they stumble to eternal mock: No chafferer's hand shall long the sceptre hold, Who, given a Fate to shape, would sell the block."

"We sing old Sagas, songs of weal and woe, Mystic because too cheaply understood; Dark sayings are not ours; men hear and know, See Evil weak, see strength alone in Good, Yet hope to stem God's fire with walls of tow."

"Time Was unlocks the riddle of Time Is, That offers choice of glory or of gloom; The solver makes Time Shall Be surely his. But hasten, Sisters! for even now the tomb Grates its slow hinge and calls from the abyss."

"But not for him," I cried, "not yet for him, Whose large horizon, westering, star by star Wins from the void to where on Ocean's rim The sunset shuts the world with golden bar, Not yet his thews shall fail, his eye grow dim!"

"His shall be larger manhood, saved for those That walk unblenching through the trial-fires; Not suffering, but faint heart, is worst of woes, And he no base-born son of craven sires, Whose eye need blench confronted with his foes."

"Tears may be ours, but proud, for those who win Death's royal purple in the foeman's lines; Peace, too, brings tears; and 'mid the battle-din, The wiser ear some text of God divines, For the sheathed blade may rust with darker sin."

"God, give us peace! not such as lulls to sleep, But sword on thigh, and brow with purpose knit! And let our Ship of State to harbor sweep, Her ports all up, her battle-lanterns lit, And her leashed thunders gathering for their leap!"

So cried I with clenched hands and passionate pain, Thinking of dear ones by Potomac's side; Again the loon laughed mocking, and again The echoes bayed far down the night and died, While waking I recalled my wandering brain.

BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC

JULIA WARD HOWE

[Sidenote: Nov., 1861] _This war-song was written to the tune of "John Brown's Body,"--a tune to which many thousands of Volunteers were marching to the front._

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps. His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: "As ye deal with My contemners, so with you My grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with His heel, Since God is marching on."

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat: Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me: As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free. While God is marching on.

AT PORT ROYAL

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

[Sidenote: 1861]

The tent-lights glimmer on the land, The ship-lights on the sea; The night-wind smooths with drifting sand Our track on lone Tybee.

At last our grating keels outslide, Our good boats forward swing; And while we ride the land-locked tide, Our negroes row and sing.

For dear the bondman holds his gifts Of music and of song: The gold that kindly Nature sifts Among his sands of wrong;

The power to make his toiling days And poor home-comforts please; The quaint relief of mirth that plays With sorrow's minor keys.

Another glow than sunset's fire Has filled the West with light, Where field and garner, barn and byre, Are blazing through the night.

The land is wild with fear and hate, The rout runs mad and fast; From hand to hand, from gate to gate, The flaming brand is passed.

The lurid glow falls strong across Dark faces broad with smiles; Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss That fire yon blazing piles.

With oar-strokes timing to their song, They weave in simple lays The pathos of remembered wrong, The hope of better days,--

The triumph-note that Miriam sung, The joy of uncaged birds: Softening with Afric's mellow tongue Their broken Saxon words.

SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN

O, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come To set de people free; An' massa tink it day ob doom, An' we ob jubilee. De Lord dat heap de Red Sea waves He jus' as 'trong as den; He say de word: we las' night slaves; To-day, de Lord's freemen. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' corn: O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn!

Ole massa on he trabbels gone; He leaf de land behind; De Lord's breff blow him furder on, Like corn-shuck in de wind. We own de hoe, we own de plough, We own de hands dat hold; We sell de pig, we sell de cow, But nebber chile be sold. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' corn: O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn!

We pray de Lord: he gib us signs Dat some day we be free; De norf-wind tell it to de pines, De wild-duck to de sea; We tink it when de church-bell ring, We dream it in de dream; De rice-bird mean it when he sing, De eagle when he scream. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' corn: O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn!

We know de promise nebber fail, An' nebber lie de word; So like de 'postles in de jail, We waited for de Lord: An' now he open ebery door An' trow away de key; He tink we lub him so before, We lub him better free. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, He'll gib de rice an' corn: O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn!

So sing our dusky gondoliers; And with a secret pain, And smiles that seem akin to tears, We hear the wild refrain.

We dare not share the negro's trust, Nor yet his hope deny; We only know that God is just, And every wrong shall die. Rude seems the song; each swarthy face Flame-lighted, ruder still: We start to think that hapless race Must shape our good or ill;

That laws of changeless justice bind Oppressor with oppressed; And, close as sin and suffering joined, We march to Fate abreast.

Sing on, poor hearts! your chant shall be Our sign of blight or bloom,-- The Vala-song of Liberty, Or death-rune of our doom!

READY

PHOEBE CARY

[Sidenote: 1861]

Loaded with gallant soldiers, A boat shot in to the land, And lay at the right of Rodman's Point With her keel upon the sand.

Lightly, gayly, they came to shore, And never a man afraid; When sudden the enemy opened fire From his deadly ambuscade.

Each man fell flat on the bottom Of the boat; and the captain said: "If we lie here, we all are captured, And the first who moves is dead!"

Then out spoke a negro sailor, No slavish soul had he; "Somebody's got to die, boys, And it might as well be me!"

Firmly he rose, and fearlessly Stepped out into the tide; He pushed the vessel safely off, Then fell across her side:

Fell, pierced by a dozen bullets, As the boat swung clear and free;-- But there wasn't a man of them that day Who was fitter to die than he!

"HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY"

BRET HAUTE

[Sidenote: 1861-1865] _Early in the war was organized the U. S. Sanitary Commission, to supply comforts to the soldier in the field from the voluntary contributions of the men and women at home. Out of this grew the Red-Cross Associations of Europe._

Down the picket-guarded lane Rolled the comfort-laden wain, Cheered by shouts that shook the plain, Soldier-like and merry: Phrases such as camps may teach, Sabre-cuts of Saxon speech, Such as "Bully!" "Them's the peach!" "Wade in, Sanitary!"

Right and left the caissons drew As the car went lumbering through, Quick succeeding in review Squadrons military; Sunburnt men with beards like frieze, Smooth-faced boys, and cries like these,-- "U. S. San. Com." "That's the cheese!" "Pass in, Sanitary!"

In such cheer it struggled on Till the battle front was won, Then the car, its journey done, Lo! was stationary; And where bullets whistling fly, Came the sadder, fainter cry, "Help us, brothers, ere we die,-- Save us, Sanitary!"

Such the work. The phantom flies, Wrapped in battle clouds that rise; But the brave--whose dying eyes, Veiled and visionary, See the jasper gates swung wide, See the parted throng outside-- Hears the voice to those who ride: "Pass in, Sanitary!"

SONG OF THE SOLDIERS

CHARLES G. HALPINE

[Sidenote: 1861-1865]

Comrades known in marches many, Comrades, tried in dangers many, Comrades, bound by memories many, Brothers let us be. Wounds or sickness may divide us, Marching orders may divide us, But whatever fate betide us, Brothers of the heart are we.

Comrades, known by faith the clearest, Tried when death was near and nearest, Bound we are by ties the dearest, Brothers evermore to be. And, if spared, and growing older, Shoulder still in line with shoulder, And with hearts no thrill the colder, Brothers ever we shall be.