Chapter 18

So that soldierly legend is still on its journey,-- That story of Kearny who knew not to yield! 'Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and Birney, Against twenty thousand he rallied the field. Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest, Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine, Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,-- No charge like Phil Kearny's along the whole line.

When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn, Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground, He rode down the length of the withering column, And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound; He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the powder,-- His sword waved us on and we answered the sign: Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder, "There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole line!"

How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten In the one hand still left,--and the reins in his teeth! He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten. But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath. Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, Asking where to go in,--through the clearing or pine? "O, anywhere! Forward! 'Tis all the same, Colonel: You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line!"

O, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly, That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried! Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily, The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's pride! Yet we dream that he still,--in that shadowy region Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer's sign,-- Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion, And the word still is Forward! along the whole line.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

* * * * *

THE GENERAL'S DEATH.

The general dashed along the road Amid the pelting rain; How joyously his bold face glowed To hear our cheers' refrain!

His blue blouse flapped in wind and wet, His boots were splashed with mire, But round his lips a smile was set, And in his eyes a fire.

A laughing word, a gesture kind,-- We did not ask for more, With thirty weary miles behind, A weary fight before.

The gun grew light to every man, The crossed belts ceased their stress, As onward to the column's van We watched our leader press.

Within an hour we saw him lie, A bullet in his brain, His manly face turned to the sky, And beaten by the rain.

JOSEPH O'CONNOR.

* * * * *

DIRGE FOB A SOLDIER[A]

[Footnote A: Major-General Philip Kearny.]

Close his eyes; his work is done! What to him is friend or foeman, Rise of moon or set of sun, Hand of man or kiss of woman? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he cannot know; Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight, Proved his truth by his endeavor; Let him sleep in solemn night, Sleep forever and forever. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he cannot know; Lay him low!

Fold him in his country's stars, Roll the drum and fire the volley! What to him are all our wars?-- What but death-bemocking folly? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he cannot know; Lay him low!

Leave him to God's watching eye; Trust him to the hand that made him. Mortal love weeps idly by; God alone has power to aid him. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he cannot know; Lay him low!

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

* * * * *

BAY BILLY.

[December 15, 1862.]

'Twas the last fight at Fredericksburg,-- Perhaps the day you reck, Our boys, the Twenty-Second Maine, Kept Early's men in check. Just where Wade Hampton boomed away The fight went neck and neck.

All day the weaker wing we held, And held it with a will. Five several stubborn times we charged The battery on the hill, And five times beaten back, re-formed, And kept our column still.

At last from out the centre fight Spurred up a general's aide: "That battery must silenced be!" He cried, as past he sped. Our colonel simply touched his cap, And then, with measured tread,

To lead the crouching line once more The grand old fellow came. No wounded man but raised his head And strove to gasp his name, And those who could not speak nor stir, "God blessed him" just the same.

For he was all the world to us, That hero gray and grim. Right well we knew that fearful slope We'd climb with none but him, Though while his white head led the way We'd charge hell's portals in.

This time we were not half-way up. When, midst the storm of shell, Our leader, with his sword upraised, Beneath our bayonets fell. And, as we bore him back, the foe Set up a joyous yell.

Our hearts went with him. Back we swept, And when the bugle said "Up, charge again!" no man was there But hung his dogged head. "We've no one left to lead us now," The sullen soldiers said.

Just then before the laggard line The colonel's horse we spied, Bay Billy with his trappings on, His nostrils swelling wide, As though still on his gallant back The master sat astride.

Right royally he took the place That was of old his wont, And with a neigh that seemed to say, Above the battle's brunt, "How can the Twenty-Second charge If I am not in front?"

Like statues rooted there we stood, And gazed a little space, Above that floating mane we missed The dear familiar face, But we saw Bay Billy's eye of fire, And it gave us heart of grace.

No bugle-call could rouse us all As that brave sight had done, Down all the battered line we felt A lightning impulse run. Up! up the hill we followed Bill,-- And we captured every gun!

And when upon the conquered height Died out the battle's hum, Vainly mid living and the dead We sought our leader dumb. It seemed as if a spectre steed To win that day had come.

And then the dusk and dew of night Fell softly o'er the plain, As though o'er man's dread work of death The angels wept again, And drew night's curtain gently round A thousand beds of pain.

All night the surgeons' torches went, The ghastly rows between,-- All night with solemn step I paced The torn and bloody green. But who that fought in the big war Such dread sights have not seen?

At last the morning broke. The lark Sang in the merry skies, As if to e'en the sleepers there It bade awake, and rise! Though naught but that last trump of all Could ope their heavy eyes.

And then once more with banners gay, Stretched out the long brigade. Trimly upon the furrowed field The troops stood on parade, And bravely mid the ranks were closed The gaps the fight had made.

Not half the Twenty-Second's men Were in their place that morn; And Corporal Dick, who yester-noon Stood six brave fellows on, Now touched my elbow in the ranks, For all between were gone.

Ah I who forgets that dreary hour When, as with misty eyes, To call the old familiar roll The solemn sergeant tries,-- One feels that thumping of the heart As no prompt voice replies.

And as in faltering tone and slow The last few names were said, Across the field some missing horse Toiled up the weary tread. It caught the sergeant's eye, and quick Bay Billy's name he read.

Yes! there the old bay hero stood, All safe from battle's harms, And ere an order could be heard, Or the bugle's quick alarms, Down all the front, from end to end, The troops presented arms!

Not all the shoulder-straps on earth Could still our mighty cheer; And ever from that famous day, When rang the roll call clear, Bay Billy's name was read, and then The whole line answered, "Here!"

FRANK H. GASSAWAY.

* * * * *

WOUNDED TO DEATH.

Steady, boys, steady! Keep your arms ready, God only knows whom we may meet here. Don't let me be taken; I'd rather awaken, To-morrow, in--no matter where, Than lie in that foul prison-hole--over there. Step slowly! Speak lowly! These rocks may have life. Lay me down in this hollow; We are out of the strife. By heavens! the foemen may track me in blood, For this hole in my breast is outpouring a flood. No! no surgeon for me; he can give me no aid; The surgeon I want is pickaxe and spade. What, Morris, a tear? Why, shame on ye, man! I thought you a hero; but since you began To whimper and cry like a girl in her teens, By George! I don't know what the devil it means! Well! well! I _am_, rough; 'tis a very rough school, This life of a trooper,--but yet I'm no fool! I know a brave man, and a friend from a foe; And, boys, that you love me I certainly know; But wasn't it grand When they came down the hill over sloughing and sand! But we stood--did we not?--like immovable rock, Unheeding their balls and repelling their shock. Did you mind the loud cry When, as turning to fly, Our men sprang upon them, determined to die? O, wasn't it grand!

God help the poor wretches that fell in that fight; No time was there given for prayer or for flight; They fell by the score, in the crash, hand to hand, And they mingled their blood with the sloughing and sand. Huzza! Great Heavens! this bullet-hole gapes like a grave; A curse on the aim of the traitorous knave! Is there never a one of ye knows how to pray, Or speak for a man as his life ebbs away? Pray! Pray! Our Father! our Father!... why don't ye proceed? Can't you see I am dying? Great God, how I bleed! Ebbing away! Ebbing away! The light of day Is turning to gray. Pray! Pray! Our Father in Heaven,--boys, tell me the rest, While I stanch the hot blood from this hole in my breast. There's something about the forgiveness of sin-- Put that in! put that in!--and then I'll follow your words and say an amen.

Here, Morris, old fellow, get hold of my hand; And, Wilson, my comrade--O, wasn't it grand When they came down the hill like a thunder-charged cloud! Where's Wilson, my comrade?--Here, stoop down your head; Can't _you_ say a short prayer for the dying and dead! "Christ God, who died for sinners all, Hear thou this suppliant wanderer's cry; Let not e'en this poor sparrow fall Unheeded by thy gracious eye.

"Throw wide thy gates to let him in, And take him, pleading, to thine arms; Forgive, O Lord! his life-long sin. And quiet all his fierce alarms."

God bless you, my comrade, for saying that hymn; It is light to my path when my eye has grown dim. I am dying--bend down till I touch you once more-- Don't forget me, old fellow,--God prosper this war! Confusion to traitors!--keep hold of my hand-- And float the OLD FLAG o'er a prosperous land!

JOHN W. WATSON.

* * * * *

SOMEBODY'S DARLING.

Into a ward of the whitewashed halls Where the dead and the dying lay, Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, Somebody's darling was borne one day-- Somebody's darling, so young and brave; Wearing yet on his sweet pale face-- Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave-- The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold Kissing the snow of that fair young brow; Pale are the lips of delicate mould-- Somebody's darling is dying now. Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow Brush his wandering waves of gold; Cross his hands on his bosom now-- Somebody's darling is still and cold.

Kiss him once for somebody's sake, Murmur a prayer soft and low; One bright curl from its fair mates take-- They were somebody's pride, you know. Somebody's hand hath rested here-- Was it a mother's, soft and white? Or have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in their waves of light?

God knows best. He has somebody's love, Somebody's heart enshrined him there, Somebody wafts his name above, Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, Somebody clung to his parting hand.

Somebody's watching and waiting for him, Yearning to hold him again to her heart; And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, And the smiling, childlike lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead-- Pausing to drop on his grave a tear. Carve on the wooden slab o'er his head: "Somebody's darling slumbers here."

MARIA LA CONTE.

* * * * *

TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP.

In the prison cell I sit, Thinking, mother dear, of you, And our bright and happy home so far away, And the tears they fill my eyes, Spite of all that I can do, Tho' I try to cheer my comrades and be gay.

_Trump, tramp, tramp, the 'boys are marching, Oh, cheer up, comrades, they will come, And beneath the starry flag we shall breathe the air again, Of freedom in our own beloved home._

In the battle front we stood When the fiercest charge they made, And they swept us off a hundred men or more, But before we reached their lines They were beaten back dismayed, And we heard the cry of vict'ry o'er and o'er,--

_Chorus._

So within the prison cell We are waiting for the day That shall come to open wide the iron door, And the hollow eye grows bright, And the poor heart almost gay, As we think of seeing friends and home once more.

_Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching, Oh, cheer up, comrades, they 'will come,_ _And beneath the starry flag we shall breathe the air again, Of freedom in our own beloved home._

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

OUR ORDERS.

Weave no more silks, ye Lyons looms, To deck our girls for gay delights! The crimson flower of battle blooms, And solemn marches fill the night.

Weave but the flag whose bars to-day Drooped heavy o'er our early dead, And homely garments, coarse and gray, For orphans that must earn their bread!

Keep back your tunes, ye viols sweet, That poured delight from other lands! Rouse there the dancer's restless feet: The trumpet leads our warrior bands.

And ye that wage the war of words With mystic fame and subtle power, Go, chatter to the idle birds, Or teach the lesson of the hour!

Ye Sibyl Arts, in one stern knot Be all your offices combined! Stand close, while Courage draws the lot, The destiny of human kind.

And if that destiny could fail, The sun should darken in the sky, The eternal bloom of Nature pale, And God, and Truth, and Freedom die!

JULIA WARD HOWE.

* * * * *

WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER.

Dearest love, do you remember When we last did meet, How you told me that you loved me Kneeling at my feet? Oh, how proud you stood before me In your suit of blue, When you vowed to me and country Ever to be true.

_Chorus.--Weeping, sad and lonely, Hopes and fears, how vain; Yet praying When this cruel war is over. Praying that we meet again._

When the summer breeze is sighing Mournfully along, Or when autumn leaves are falling, Sadly breathes the song. Oft in dreams I see thee lying On the battle plain, Lonely, wounded, even dying, Calling, but in vain. _Chorus.--Weeping, sad,_ etc.

If, amid the din of battle, Nobly you should fall, Far away from those who love you, None to hear you call, Who would whisper words of comfort? Who would soothe your pain? Ah, the many cruel fancies Ever in my brain! _Chorus.--Weeping, sad,_ etc.

But our country called you, darling, Angels cheer your way! While our nation's sons are fighting, We can only pray. Nobly strike for God and country, Let all nations see How we love the starry banner, Emblem of the free.

_Chorus.--Weeping, sad and lonely, Hopes and fears, how vain; Yet praying When this cruel war is over, Praying that we meet again._

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

SHERIDAN'S RIDE.

[September 19, 1864.]

Up from the South at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, The terrible grumble and rumble and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon's bar; And louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, With Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town, A good, broad highway, leading down; And there, through the flash of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night Was seen to pass as with eagle flight. As if he knew the terrible need, He stretched away with the utmost speed; Hills rose and fell,--but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth; Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Were beating, like prisoners assaulting their walls. Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet, the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape sped away behind, Like an ocean flying before the wind; And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, Swept on, with his wild eyes full of fire; But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire, He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the General saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; What was done,--what to do,--a glance told him both, And, striking his spurs with a terrible oath, He dashed down the line mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; By the flash of his eye, and his nostril's play, He seemed to the whole great army to say, "I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down, to save the day!"

Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan! Hurrah, hurrah, for horse and man! And when their statues are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky,-- The American soldier's Temple of Fame,-- There with the glorious General's name Be it said in letters both bold and bright: "Here is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the fight, From Winchester,--twenty miles away!"

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

* * * * *

LEFT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.

What, was it a dream? am I all alone In the dreary night and the drizzling rain? Hist!--ah, it was only the river's moan; They have left me behind with the mangled slain.

Yes, now I remember it all too well! We met, from the battling ranks apart; Together our weapons Hashed and fell, And mine was sheathed in his quivering heart.

In the cypress gloom, where the deed was done, It was all too dark to see his face; But I heard his death-groans, one by one, And he holds me still in a cold embrace.

He spoke but once, and I could not hear The words he said for the cannon's roar; But my heart grew cold with a deadly fear,-- God! I had heard that voice before!

Had heard it before at our mother's knee, When we lisped the words of our evening prayer! My brother! would I had died for thee,-- This burden is more than my soul can bear!

I pressed my lips to his death-cold cheek, And begged him to show me, by word or sign, That he knew and forgave me: he could not speak, But he nestled his poor cold face to mine.

The blood flowed fast from my wounded side, And then for a while I forgot my pain, And over the lakelet we seemed to glide In our little boat, two boys again.

And then, in my dream, we stood alone On a forest path where the shadows fell; And I heard again the tremulous tone, And the tender words of his last farewell.

But that parting was years, long years ago, He wandered away to a foreign land; And our dear old mother will never know That he died to-night by his brother's hand.

The soldiers who buried the dead away Disturbed not the clasp of that last embrace, But laid them to sleep till the judgment-day, Heart folded to heart, and face to face.

SARAH TITTLE BOLTON.

* * * * *

REQUIEM

FOR ONE SLAIN IN BATTLE.

Breathe, trumpets, breathe Slow notes of saddest wailing,-- Sadly responsive peal, ye muffled drums; Comrades, with downcast eyes And banners trailing, Attend him home,-- The youthful warrior comes.

Upon his shield, Upon his shield returning, Borne from the field of honor Where he fell; Glory and grief, together clasped In mourning, His fame, his fate With sobs exulting tell.

Wrap round his breast The flag his breast defended,-- His country's flag, In battle's front unrolled: For it he died; On earth forever ended His brave young life Lives in each sacred fold. With proud fond tears, By tinge of shame untainted, Bear him, and lay him Gently in his grave:

Above the hero write,-- The young, half-sainted,-- His country asked his life, His life he gave!

GEORGE LUNT.

* * * * *

MUSIC IN CAMP.

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 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 movements 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 trumpets 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.