Chapter 7
Then cheer upon cheer for bold Sherman Went up from each valley and glen, And the bugles re-echoed the music That came from the lips of the men; For we knew that the stars in our banner More bright in their splendor would be, And that blessings from Northland would greet us, When Sherman marched down to the sea.
Then forward, boys! forward to battle! We marched on our wearisome way, We stormed the wild hills of Resaca-- God bless those who fell on that day! Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory, Frowned down on the flag of the free; But the East and the West bore our standard And Sherman marched down to the sea.
Still onward we pressed, till our banners Swept out from Atlanta's grim walls, And the blood of the patriot dampened The soil where the traitor-flag falls; We paused not to weep for the fallen, Who slept by each river and tree, Yet we twined them a wreath of the laurel, As Sherman marched down to the sea.
Oh, proud was our army that morning, That stood where the pine darkly towers, When Sherman said, "Boys, you are weary, But to-day fair Savannah is ours!" Then sang we the song of our chieftain, That echoed o'er river and lea, And the stars in our banner shone brighter When Sherman marched down to the sea.
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!
WALT WHITMAN
[Sidenote: April 15, 1865] _Abraham Lincoln was killed by John Wilkes Booth, almost exactly four years after the first shot was fired at Fort Sumter._
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead!
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills; For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here, Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head; It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will: The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won: Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
[Sidenote: April 15, 1865] _This is a fragment of the noble Commemoration Ode delivered at Harvard College to the memory of those of its students who fell in the war which kept the country whole._
Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, Whom late the Nation he had led, With ashes on her head, Wept with the passion of an angry grief: Forgive me, if from present things I turn To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn. Nature, they say, doth dote, And cannot make a man Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating us by rote: For him her Old World moulds aside she threw, And, choosing sweet clay from the breast Of the unexhausted West, With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true. How beautiful to see Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed, Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead; One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, Not lured by any cheat of birth, But by his clear-grained human worth, And brave old wisdom of sincerity! They knew that outward grace is dust; They could not choose but trust In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, And supple-tempered will That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust. His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind, Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind, Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars. Nothing of Europe here, Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, Ere any names of Serf and Peer Could Nature's equal scheme deface; Here was a type of the true elder race, And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face. I praise him not; it were too late; And some innative weakness there must be In him who condescends to victory Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, Safe in himself as in a fate. So always firmly he: He knew to bide his time, And can his fame abide, Still patient in his simple faith sublime, Till the wise years decide. Great captains, with their guns and drums, Disturb our judgment for the hour, But at last silence comes; These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, Our children shall behold his fame, The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, New birth of our new soil, the first American.
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY
FRANCIS MILES FINCH
[Sidenote: 1861-1865] _The women of Columbus, Mississippi, had shown themselves impartial in the offerings made to the memory of the dead. They strewed flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and of the National soldiers._
By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep on the ranks of the dead; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the one, the Blue; Under the other, the Gray.
These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat; All with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the laurel, the Blue; Under the willow, the Gray.
From the silence of sorrowful hours, The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers, Alike for the friend and the foe; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the roses, the Blue; Under the lilies, the Gray.
So, with an equal splendor, The morning sun-rays fall, With a touch impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Broidered with gold, the Blue; Mellowed with gold, the Gray.
So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain, With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Wet with the rain, the Blue; Wet with the rain, the Gray.
Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done; In the storm of the years that are fading, No braver battle was won; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the blossoms, the Blue; Under the garlands, the Gray.
No more shall the war-cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever, When they laurel the graves of our dead. Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Love and tears for the Blue; Tears and love for the Gray.
AT THE FARRAGUT STATUE
ROBERT BRIDGES
[Sidenote: 1801, 1870] _Farragut's statue by Saint Gaudens was unveiled in New York in 1881_
To live a hero, then to stand In bronze serene above the city's throng; Hero at sea, and now on land Revered by thousands as they rush along;
If these were all the gifts of fame-- To be a shade amid alert reality, And win a statue and a name-- How cold and cheerless immortality!
But when the sun shines in the Square, And multitudes are swarming in the street, Children are always gathered there, Laughing and playing round the hero's feet.
GRANT
H. C. BUNNER
[Sidenote: 1822, 1885] _This was written on the day of Grant's death, July 23._
Smile on, thou new-come Spring--if on thy breeze The breath of a great man go wavering up And out of this world's knowledge, it is well.
Kindle with thy green flame the stricken trees, And fire the rose's many-petaled cup, Let bough and branch with quickening life-blood swell-- But Death shall touch his spirit with a life That knows not years or seasons. Oh, how small Thy little hour of bloom! Thy leaves shall fall, And be the sport of winter winds at strife; But he has taken on eternity. Yea, of how much this Death doth set him free!-- Now are we one to love him, once again. The tie that bound him to our bitterest pain Draws him more close to Love and Memory.
O Spring, with all thy sweetheart frolics, say, Hast thou remembrance of those earlier springs When we wept answer to the laughing day, And turned aside from green and gracious things?
There was a sound of weeping over all-- Mothers uncomforted, for their sons were not; And there was crueler silence: tears grew hot In the true eyes that would not let them fall.
Up from the South came a great wave of sorrow That drowned our hearthstones, splashed with blood our sills; To-day, that spared, made terrible To-morrow With thick presentiment of coming ills. Only we knew the Right--but oh, how strong, How pitiless, how insatiable the Wrong!
And then the quivering sword-hilt found a hand That knew not how to falter or grow weak; And we looked on, from end to end the land, And felt the heart spring up, and rise afresh The blood of courage to the whitened cheek, And fire of battle thrill the numbing flesh. Ay, there was death, and pain, and dear ones missed, And lips forever to grow pale unkissed; But lo, the man was here, and this was he; And at his hands Faith gave us victory.
Spring, thy poor life, that mocks his body's death, Is but a candle's flame, a flower's breath. He lives in days that suffering made dear Beyond all garnered beauty of the year. He lives in all of us that shall outlive
The sensuous things that paltry time can give. This Spring the spirit of his broken age Across the threshold of its anguish stole-- All of him that was noble, fearless, sage, Lives in his loved nation's strengthened soul.
THE BURIAL OF SHERMAN
RICHARD WATSON GILDER
[Sidenote: 1820, 1891] _Sherman died on January 14. His funeral took place two days later. The statue by Saint Gaudens was unveiled in New York in 1903._
Glory and honor and fame and everlasting laudation For our captains who loved not war, but fought for the life of the nation; Who knew that, in all the land, one slave meant strife, not peace; Who fought for freedom, not glory; made war that war might cease.
Glory and honor and fame; the beating of muffled drums; The wailing funeral dirge, as the flag-wrapt coffin comes. Fame and honor and glory, and joy for a noble soul; For a full and splendid life, and laurelled rest at the goal.
Glory and honor and fame; the pomp that a soldier prizes; The league-long waving line as the marching falls and rises; Rumbling of caissons and guns; the clatter of horses' feet, And a million awe-struck faces far down the waiting street.
But better than martial woe, and the pageant of civic sorrow; Better than praise of to-day, or the statue we build to-morrow; Better than honor and glory, and History's iron pen, Was the thought of duty done and the love of his fellow-men.
THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS
JOHN JEROME ROONEY
[Sidenote: 1898] _The high quality of American marksmanship was never more conclusively shown than in the battle of Santiago._
A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here's to the Captain bold, And never forget the Commodore's debt when the deeds of might are told! They stand to the deck through the battle's wreck when the great shells roar and screech-- And never they fear when the foe is near to practise what they preach: But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia's true-blue sons, The men below who batter the foe--the men behind the guns!
Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into port once more, When, with more than enough of the "greenbacked stuff," they start for their leave-o'-shore; And you'd think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who loll along the street Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce "mustache" to eat-- Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns The modest worth of the sailor boys--the lads who serve the guns.
But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells that the fight is on, Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships of "Yank" and "Don," Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell, And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living hell; Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the midday suns, You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps--the men behind the guns!
Oh, well they know how the cyclones blow that they loose from their cloud of death, And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten-incher saith! The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with the great recoil, And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches for his spoil-- But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and runs, Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind the guns!
THE REGULAR ARMY MAN
JOSEPH C. LINCOLN
[Sidenote: 1898]
He ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere," To sparkle in the sun; He don't parade with gay cockade, And posies in his gun; He ain't no "pretty soldier boy," So lovely, spick and span,-- He wears a crust of tan and dust, The Regular Army man; The marching, parching, Pipe-clay starching, Regular Army man.
He ain't at home in Sunday-school, Nor yet a social tea, And on the day he gets his pay He's apt to spend it free; He ain't no temperance advocate, He likes to fill the can, He's kind of rough, and, maybe, tough, The Regular Army man; The r'aring, tearing, Sometimes swearing, Regular Army man.
No State'll call him "noble son," He ain't no ladies' pet, But, let a row start anyhow, They'll send for him, you bet! He don't cut any ice at all In Fashion's social plan, He gets the job to face a mob, The Regular Army man; The milling, drilling, Made for killing, Regular Army man.
There ain't no tears shed over him When he goes off to war, He gets no speech nor prayerful preach From mayor or governor; He packs his little knapsack up And trots off in the van, To start the fight and start it right, The Regular Army man; The rattling, battling, Colt or Gatling, Regular Army man.
He makes no fuss about the job, He don't talk big or brave, He knows he's in to fight and win, Or help fill up a grave; He ain't no Mama's darling, but He does the best he can, And he's the chap that wins the scrap, The Regular Army man; The dandy, handy, Cool and sandy, Regular Army man.
WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS COME IN
GUY WETMORE CARRYL
[Sidenote: August 20, 1898] _A week after the signing of the treaty of peace with Spain, Sampson's fleet came into New York harbor._
To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er mapless miles of sea, On winds and tides the gospel rides that the furthermost isles are free; And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill, Breaker and beach cry, each to each, "'Tis the Mother who calls! Be still!" Mother! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm, Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign arm, Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her navies roam, Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them this time home!
And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest; The black cloud dies in the August skies, and deep in the golden west Invisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars, And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars! Peace! As the tidings silence the strenuous cannonade, Peace at last! is the bugle-blast the length of the long blockade; And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release, From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is "Peace! Thank God for peace!"
Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall show The sons of these who swept the seas how she bade them rise and go; How, when the stirring summons smote on her children's ear, South and North at the call stood forth, and the whole land answered "Here!" For the soul of the soldier's story and the heart of the sailor's song Are all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong, Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the decks they trod, Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their country's God!
Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free, To carry the hearts of a people to the uttermost ends of sea, To see the day steal up the bay, where the enemy lies in wait, To run your ship to the harbor's lip and sink her across the strait:-- But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for home, And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam, And the people wait at the haven's gate to greet the men who win! Thank God for peace! Thank God for peace, when the great gray ships come in!
AD FINEM FIDELES
GUY WETMORE CARRYL
[Sidenote: 1898] _This was written just after the end of the war with Spain for the freeing of Cuba._
Far out, far out they lie. Like stricken women weeping, Eternal vigil keeping with slow and silent tread-- Soft-shod as are the fairies, the winds patrol the prairies, The sentinels of God about the pale and patient dead! Above them, as they slumber in graves that none may number, Dawns grow to day, days dim to dusk, and dusks in darkness pass; Unheeded springs are born, unheeded summers brighten, And winters wait to whiten the wilderness of grass.
Slow stride appointed years across their bivouac places, With stern, devoted faces they lie, as when they lay, In long battalions dreaming, till dawn, to eastward gleaming, Awoke the clarion greeting of the bugles to the day. The still and stealthy speeding of the pilgrim days unheeding, At rest upon the roadway that their feet unfaltering trod, The faithful unto death abide, with trust unshaken, The morn when they shall waken to the reveille of God.
The faithful unto death! Their sleeping-places over The torn and trampled clover to braver beauty blows; Of all their grim campaigning no sight or sound remaining, The memory of them mutely to greater glory grows. Through waning ages winding, new inspiration finding, Their creed of consecration like a silver ribbon runs, Sole relic of the strife that woke the world to wonder With riot and the thunder of a sundered people's guns.
What matters now the cause? As little children resting, No more the battle breasting to the rumble of the drums, Enlinked by duty's tether, the blue and gray together, They wait the great hereafter when the last assembly comes. Where'er the summons found them, whate'er the tie that bound them, 'Tis this alone the record of the sleeping army saith:--
They knew no creed but this, in duty not to falter, With strength that naught could alter to be faithful unto death.
GROVER CLEVELAND
JOEL BENTON
[Sidenote: 1837-1908] _On June 24, 1908, Grover Cleveland, twice President of the United States, died at his home in Princeton, N. J., at the age of seventy-one._
Bring cypress, rosemary and rue For him who kept his rudder true; Who held to right the people's will, And for whose foes we love him still.
A man of Plutarch's marble mould, Of virtues strong and manifold, Who spurned the incense of the hour, And made the nation's weal his dower.
His sturdy, rugged sense of right Put selfish purpose out of sight; Slowly he thought, but long and well, With temper imperturbable.
Bring cypress, rosemary and rue For him who kept his rudder true; Who went at dawn to that high star Where Washington and Lincoln are.
ATOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND
ROBERT BRIDGES
[Sidenote: Paris, July 4, 1900]
Huge and alert, irascible yet strong, We make our fitful way 'mid right and wrong. One time we pour out millions to be free, Then rashly sweep an empire from the sea! One time we strike the shackles from the slaves, And then, quiescent, we are ruled by knaves. Often we rudely break restraining bars, And confidently reach out toward the stars.
Yet under all there flows a hidden stream Sprung from the Rock of Freedom, the great dream Of Washington and Franklin, men of old Who knew that freedom is not bought with gold. This is the Land we love, our heritage, Strange mixture of the gross and fine, yet sage And full of promise--destined to be great. Drink to Our Native Land! God Bless the State!
FIFTY YEARS
JAMES WELDON JOHNSON
[Sidenote: 1863-1913] _On the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Signing of the Emancipation Proclamation._
O Brothers mine, to-day we stand Where half a century sweeps our ken, Since God, through Lincoln's ready hand, Struck off our bonds and made us men.
Just fifty years--a winter's day-- As runs the history of a race; Yet, as we look back o'er the way, How distant seems our starting place!
Look farther back! Three centuries! To where a naked, shivering score, Snatched from their haunts across the seas, Stood, wild-eyed, on Virginia's shore.
This land is ours by right of birth, This land is ours by right of toil; We helped to turn its virgin earth, Our sweat is in its fruitful soil.
Where once the tangled forest stood,-- Where flourished once rank weed and thorn,-- Behold the path-traced, peaceful wood, The cotton white, the yellow corn.
To gain these fruits that have been earned, To hold these fields that have been won, Our arms have strained, our backs have burned, Bent bare beneath a ruthless sun.
That Banner which is now the type Of victory on field and flood-- Remember, its first crimson stripe Was dyed by Attucks' willing blood.
And never yet has come the cry-- When that fair flag has been assailed-- For men to do, for men to die, That we have faltered or have failed.
We've helped to bear it, rent and torn, Through many a hot-breath'd battle breeze; Held in our hands, it has been borne And planted far across the seas.
And never yet,--O haughty Land, Let us, at least, for this be praised-- Has one black, treason-guided hand Ever against that flag been raised.
Then should we speak but servile words, Or shall we hang our heads in shame? Stand back of new-come foreign hordes, And fear our heritage to claim?
No! stand erect and without fear, And for our foes let this suffice-- We've bought a rightful sonship here, And we have more than paid the price.