Chapter 14
"Is there any news of the war?" she said-- "Only a list of the wounded and dead," Was the man's reply, Without lifting his eye To the face of the woman standing by. "'Tis the very thing--I want," she said; "Read me a list of the wounded and dead."
He read the list--'twas a sad array Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray; In the very midst, was a pause to tell Of a gallant youth, who fought so well That his comrades asked: "Who is he, pray?" "The only son of the Widow Gray," Was the proud reply Of his Captain nigh. What ails the woman standing near? Her face has the ashen hue of fear!
"Well, well, read on; is he wounded? quick! Oh God! but my heart is sorrow-sick!" "Is he wounded? No! he fell, they say, Killed outright on that fatal day." But see, the woman has swooned away!
Sadly she opened her eyes to the light; Slowly recalled the events of the fight; Faintly she murmured: "Killed outright! It has cost me the life of my only son; But the battle is fought, and the victory won; The will of the Lord, let it be done!"
God pity the cheerless Widow Gray, And send from the halls of eternal day, The light of His peace to illumine her way!
His Last Words.
"A few moments before his death (Stonewall Jackson) he called out in his delirium: 'Order A.P. Hill to prepare for action. Pass the infantry rapidly to the front. Tell Major Hawks--.' Here the sentence was left unfinished. Bat, soon after, a sweet smile overspread his face, and he murmured quietly, with an air of relief: 'Let us cross the river and rest under the shade of the trees.' These were his last words; and, without any expression of pain, or sign of struggle, his spirit passed away."
I.
Come, let us cross the river, and rest beneath the trees, And list the merry leaflets at sport with every breeze; Our rest is won by fighting, and Peace awaits us there. Strange that a cause so blighting produces fruit so fair!
II.
Come, let us cross the river, those that have gone before, Crush'd in the strife for freedom, await on yonder shore; So bright the sunshine sparkles, so merry hums the breeze, Come, let us cross the river, and rest beneath the trees.
III.
Come, let us cross the river, the stream that runs so dark: 'Tis none but cowards quiver, so let us all embark. Come, men with hearts undaunted, we'll stem the tide with ease, We'll cross the flowing river, and rest beneath the trees.
IV.
Come, let us cross the river, the dying hero cried, And God, of life the giver, then bore him o'er the tide. Life's wars for him are over, the warrior takes his ease, There, by the flowing river, at rest beneath the trees.
Charge of Hagood's Brigade.
Weldon Railroad, August 21, 1864.
The following lines were written in the summer of 1864, immediately after the charge referred to in them, which was always considered by the brigade as their most desperate encounter.
Scarce seven hundred men they stand In tattered, rude array, A remnant of that gallant band, Who erstwhile held the sea-girt strand Of Morris' isle, with iron hand 'Gainst Yankees' hated sway.
SECESSIONVILLE their banner claims, And SUMTER, held 'mid smoke and flames, And the dark battle on the streams Of POCOTALIGO: And WALTHALL'S JUNCTION'S hard-earned fight, And DREWRY'S BLUFF'S embattled height, Whence, at the gray dawn of the light, They rushed upon the foe.
Tattered and torn those banners now, But not less proud each lofty brow, Untaught as yet to yield: With mien unblenched, unfaltering eye, Forward, where bombshells shrieking fly Flecking with smoke the azure sky On Weldon's fated field.
Sweeps from the woods the bold array, Not theirs to falter in the fray, No men more sternly trained than they To meet their deadly doom: While, from a hundred throats agape, A hundred sulphurous flames escape, Round shot, and canister, and grape, The thundering cannon's boom!
Swift, on their flank, with fearful crash Shrapnel and ball commingling clash, And bursting shells, with lurid flash, Their dazzled sight confound: Trembles the earth beneath their feet, Along their front a rattling sheet Of leaden hail concentric meet, And numbers strew the ground.
On, o'er the dying and the dead, O'er mangled limb and gory head, With martial look, with martial tread, March Hagood's men to bloody bed, Honor their sole reward; Himself doth lead their battle line, Himself those banners guard.
They win the height, those gallant few, A fiercer struggle to renew, Resolved as gallant men to do Or sink in glory's shroud; But scarcely gain its stubborn crest, Ere, from the ensign's murdered breast, An impious foe has dared to wrest That banner proud.
Upon him, Hagood, in thy might! Flash on thy soul th' immortal light Of those brave deeds that blazon bright Our Southern Cross. He dies. Unfurl its folds again, Let it wave proudly o'er the plain; The dying shall forget their pain, Count not their loss.
Then, rallying to your chieftain's call, Ploughed through by cannon-shot and ball Hemmed in, as by a living wall, Cleave back your way. Those bannered deeds their souls inspire, Borne, amid sheets of forkéd fire, By the Two Hundred who retire Of that array.
Ah, Carolina! well the tear May dew thy cheek; thy clasped hands rear In passion, o'er their tombless bier, Thy fallen chivalry! Malony, mirror of the brave, And Sellers lie in glorious grave; No prouder fate than theirs, who gave Their lives for Liberty.
Carolina.
April 14, 1861.
By John A. Wagener, of S.C.
Carolina! Carolina! Noble name in State and story, How I love thy truthful glory, As I love the blue sky o'er ye, Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina! Land of chivalry unfearing, Daughters fair beyond comparing, Sons of worth, and noble daring, Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina! Soft thy clasp in loving greeting, Plenteous board and kindly meeting, All thy pulses nobly beating, Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina! Green thy valleys, bright thy heaven, Bold thy streams through forest riven, Bright thy laurels, hero-given, Carolina evermore!
Carolina! Carolina! Holy name, and dear forever, Never shall thy childen, never, Fail to strike with grand endeavor, Carolina evermore!
Savannah.
By Alethea S. Burroughs.
Thou hast not drooped thy stately head, Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed! Not like a lamb to slaughter led, But with the lion's monarch tread, Thou eomest to thy battle bed, Savannah! oh, Savannah!
Thine arm of flesh is girded strong; The blue veins swell beneath thy wrong; To thee, the triple cords belong, Of woe, and death, and shameless wrong, And spirit vaunted long, _too_ long! Savannah! oh, Savannah!
No blood-stains spot thy forehead fair; Only the martyrs' blood is there; It gleams upon thy bosom bier, It moves thy deep, deep soul to prayer, And tunes a dirge for thy sad ear, Savannah! oh, Savannah!
Thy clean white hand is opened wide For weal or woe, thou Freedom Bride; The sword-sheath sparkles at thy side, Thy plighted troth, whate'er betide, Thou hast but Freedom for thy guide, Savannah! oh, Savannah!
What though the heavy storm-cloud lowers-- Still at thy feet the old oak towers; Still fragrant are thy jessamine bowers, And things of beauty, love, and flowers Are smiling o'er this land of ours, My sunny home, Savannah!
There is no film before thy sight-- Thou seest woe, and death, and night-- And blood upon thy banner bright; But in thy full wrath's kindled might, What carest _thou_ for woe, or night? My rebel home, Savannah!
Come--for the crown is on thy head! Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed, Not like a lamb to slaughter led, But with the lion's monarch tread, Oh! come unto thy battle bed, Savannah! oh, Savannah!
"Old Betsy."
By John Killum.
Come, with the rifle so long in your keeping, Clean the old gun up and hurry it forth; Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking, Than live with arms folded, the slave of the North.
Hear ye the yelp of the North-wolf resounding, Scenting the blood of the warm-hearted South; Quick! or his villainous feet will be bounding Where the gore of our maidens may drip from his mouth.
Oft in the wildwood "Old Bess" has relieved you, When the fierce bear was cut down in his track-- If at that moment she never deceived you, Trust her to-day with this ravenous pack.
Then come with the rifle so long in your keeping, Clean the old girl up and hurry her forth; Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking, Than live with arms folded, the slave of the North.
Awake--Arise!
By G. W. Archer, M. D.
Sons of the South--awake--arise! A million foes sweep down amain, Fierce hatred gleaming in their eyes, And fire and rapine in their train, Like savage Hun and merciless Dane! "We come as brothers!" Trust them not! By all that's dear in heaven and earth, By every tie that hath its birth Within your homes--around your hearth; Believe me, 'tis a tyrant's plot, Worse for the fair and sleek disguise-- A traitor in a patriot's cloak! "Your country's good Demands your blood!" Was it a fiend from hell that spoke?
They point us to the Stripes and Stars; (Our banner erst--the despot's now!) But let not thoughts of by-gone wars, When beat we back the common foe, And felled them fast and shamed them so, Divide us at this fearful hour; But think of dungeons and of chains-- Think of your violated fanes-- Of your loved homestead's gory stains-- Eternal thraldom for your dower! No love of country fires their breasts-- The fell fanatics fain would free A grovelling race, And in their place Would fetter us with fiendish glee!
Sons of the South--awake--awake! And strike for rights full dear as those For which our struggling sires did shake Earth's proudest throne--while freedom rose, Baptized in blood of braggart foes. Awake--that hour hath come again! Strike! as ye look to Heaven's high throne-- Strike! for the Christian patriot's crown-- Strike! in the name of Washington, Who taught you once to rend the chain, Smiles now from heaven upon our cause, So like his own. His spirit moves Through every fight, And lends its might To every heart that freedom loves.
Ye beauteous of the sunny land! Unmatched your charms in all the earth, 'Neath freedom's banner take your stand; And, though ye strike not, prove your worth, As wont in days of joy and mirth: Lavish your praises on the brave-- Pray when the battle fiercely lowers-- Smile when the victory is ours-- Frown on the wretch who basely cowers-- Mourn o'er each fallen hero's grave! Lend thus your favors whilst we smite! Full soon we'll crush this vandal host!-- With woman's charms To nerve their arms, Oh! when have men their freedom lost!
General Albert Sidney Johnston.
By Mary Jervy, of Charleston.
In thickest fight triumphantly he fell, While into victory's arms he led us on; A death so glorious our grief should quell: We mourn him, yet his battle-crown is won.
No slanderous tongue can vex his spirit now, No bitter taunts can stain his blood-bought fame Immortal honor rests upon his brow, And noble memories cluster round his name.
For hearts shall thrill and eyes g-row dim with tears, To read the story of his touching fate; How in his death the gallant soldier wears The crown that came for earthly life too late.
Ye people! guard his memory--sacred keep The garlands green above his hero-grave; Yet weep, for praise can never wake his sleep, To tell him he is shrined among the brave!
Eulogy of the Dead.
By B. F. Porter, of Alabama.
_"Weep not for the dead; neither bemoan him"--Jeremiah._
Oh! weep not for the dead, Whose blood, for freedom shed, Is hallowed evermore! Who on the battle-field Gould die--but never yield! Oh, bemoan them never more-- They live immortal in their gore!
Oh, what is it to die Midst shouts of victory, Our rights and homes defending! Oh! what were fame and life Gained in that basest strife For tyrants' power contending, Our country's bosom rending!
Oh! dead of red Manassah! Oh! dead of Shiloh's fray! Oh! victors of the Richmond field! Dead on your mother's breast, You live in glorious rest; Each on[1] his honored shield, Immortal in each bloody field!
Oh! sons of noble mothers! Oh! youth of maiden lovers! Oh! husbands of chaste wives! Though asleep in beds of gore, You return, oh! never more; Still immortal are your lives! Immortal mothers! lovers! wives!
How blest is he who draws His sword in freedom's cause! Though dead on battle-field, Forever to his tomb Shall youthful heroes come, Their hearts for freedom steeled, And learn to die on battle-field.
As at Thermopylæ, Grecian child of liberty; Swears to despot ne'er to yield-- Here, by our glorious dead, Let's revenge the blood they've shed, Or die on bloody field, By the sons who scorned to yield!
Oh! mothers! lovers! wives! Oh! weep no more--our lives Are our country's evermore! More glorious in your graves, Than if living Lincoln's slaves, Ye will perish never more, Martyred on our fields of gore!
[1] The Grecian mother, on sending her son to battle, pointing to his shield, said--"With it, or on it."
The Beaufort Exile's Lament.
Now chant me a dirge for the Isles of the Sea, And sing the sad wanderer's psalm-- Ye women and children in exile that flee From the land of the orange and palm.
Lament for your homes, for the house of your God, Now the haunt of the vile and the low; Lament for the graves of your fathers, now trod By the foot of the Puritan foe!
No longer for thee, when the sables of night Are fading like shadows away, Does the mocking-bird, drinking the first beams of light, Praise God for the birth of a day.
No longer for thee, when the rays are now full, Do the oaks form an evergreen glade; While the drone of the locust overhead, seemed to lull The cattle that rest in the shade.
No longer for thee does the soft-shining moon Silver o'er the green waves of the bay; Nor at evening, the notes of the wandering loon Bid farewell to the sun's dying ray.
Nor when night drops her pall over river and shore, And scatters eve's merry-voiced throng, Does there rise, keeping time to the stroke of the oar, The wild chant of the sacred boat-song.
Then the revellers would cease ere the red wine they'd quaff, The traveller would pause on his way; And maidens would hush their low silvery laugh, To list to the negro's rude lay.
"Going home! going home!" methinks I now hear At the close of each solemn refrain; 'Twill be many a day, aye, and many a year, Ere ye'll sing that dear word "Home" again.
Your noble sons slain, on the battle-field lie, Your daughters' mid strangers now roam; Your aged and helpless in poverty sigh O'er the days when they once had a _home_.
"Going home! going home!" for the exile alone Can those words sweep the chords of the soul, And raise from the grave the loved ones who are gone, As the tide-waves of time backward roll.
"Going home! going home!" Ah! how many who pine, Dear Beaufort, to press thy green soul, Ere then will have passed to shores brighter than thine-- Will have gone home at last to their God!
Somebody's Darling.
By Marie La Coste, of Georgia.
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 so 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 there; 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 wafted 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 child-like 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."
John Pegram,
Fell at the Head of His Division, Feb. 6th, 1865, Ætat XXXIII.
By W. Gordon McCabe.
What shall we say, now, of our gentle knight, Or how express the measure of our woe, For him who rode the foremost in the fight, Whose good blade flashed so far amid the foe?
Of all his knightly deeds what need to tell?-- That good blade now lies fast within its sheath; What can we do but point to where he fell, And, like a soldier, met a soldier's death?
We sorrow not as those who have no hope; For he was pure in heart as brave in deed-- God pardon us, if blindly we should grope, And love be questioned by the hearts that bleed.
And yet--oh! foolish and of little faith! We cannot choose but weep our useless tears; We loved him so; we never dreamed that death Would dare to touch him in his brave young years.
Ah! dear, browned face, so fearless and so bright! As kind to friend as thou wast stern to foe-- No more we'll see thee radiant in the fight, The eager eyes--the flush on cheek and brow!
No more we'll greet the lithe, familiar form, Amid the surging smoke, with deaf'ning cheer; No more shall soar above the iron storm, Thy ringing voice in accents sweet and clear.
Aye! he has fought the fight and passed away-- Our grand young leader smitten in the strife! So swift to seize the chances of the fray, And careless only of his noble life.
He is not dead, but sleepeth! well we know The form that lies to-day beneath the sod, Shall rise that time the golden bugles blow, And pour their music through the courts of God.
And there amid our great heroic dead-- The war-worn sons of God, whose work is done-- His face shall shine, as they with stately tread, In grand review, sweep past the jasper throne.
Let not our hearts be troubled! Few and brief His days were here, yet rich in love and faith: Lord, we believe, help thou our unbelief, And grant thy servants such a life and death!
Captives Going Home.
No flaunting banners o'er them wave, No arms flash back the sun's bright ray, No shouting crowds around them throng, No music cheers them on their way: They're going home. By adverse fate Compelled their trusty swords to sheathe; True soldiers they, even though disarmed-- Heroes, though robbed of victory's wreath.
Brave Southrons! 'Tis with sorrowing hearts We gaze upon them through our tears, And sadly feel how vain were all Their heroic deeds through weary years; Yet 'mid their enemies they move With firm, bold step and dauntless mien: Oh, Liberty! in every age, Such have thy chosen heroes been.
Going home! Alas, to them the words Bring visions fraught with gloom and woe: Since last they saw those cherished homes The legions of the invading foe Have swept them, simoon-like, along, Spreading destruction with the wind! "They found a garden, but they left A howling wilderness behind."
Ah! in those desolated homes To which the "fate of war has come," Sad is the welcome--poor the feast-- That waits the soldier's coming home; Yet loving ones will round him throng, With smiles more tender, if less gay, And joy will brighten pallid cheeks At sight of the dear boys in gray.
Aye, give them welcome home, fair South, For you they've made a deathless name; Bright through all after-time will glow The glorious record of their fame. They made a nation. What, though soon Its radiant sun has seemed to set; The past has shown what they can do, The future holds bright promise yet.
The Heights of Mission Ridge.
By J. Augustine Signaigo.
When the foes, in conflict heated, Battled over road and bridge, While Bragg sullenly retreated From the heights of Mission Ridge-- There, amid the pines and wildwood, Two opposing colonels fell, Who had schoolmates been in childhood, And had loved each other well.
There, amid the roar and rattle, Facing Havoc's fiery breath, Met the wounded two in battle, In the agonies of death. But they saw each other reeling On the dead and dying men, And the old time, full of feeling, Came upon them once again.
When that night the moon came creeping, With its gold streaks, o'er the slain, She beheld two soldiers, sleeping, Free from every earthly pain. Close beside the mountain heather, Where the rocks obscure the sand, They had died, it seems, together, As they clasped each other's hand.
"Our Left at Manassas."
From dawn to dark they stood, That long midsummer's day! While fierce and fast The battle-blast Swept rank on rank away!
From dawn to dark, they fought With legions swept and cleft, While black and wide, The battle-tide Poured ever on our "Left!"
They closed each ghastly gap! They dressed each shattered rank They knew, how well! That Freedom fell With that exhausted flank!
"Oh! for a thousand men, Like these that melt away!" And down they came, With steel and flame, _Four thousand_ to the fray!
They left the laggard train; The panting steam might stay; And down they came, With steel and flame, Head-foremost to the fray!
Right through the blackest cloud Their lightning-path they cleft! Freedom and Fame With triumph came To our immortal Left.
Ye! of your living, sure! Ye! of your dead, bereft! Honor the brave Who died to save _Your all_, upon our Left.
On to Richmond.
After Southey's "March to Moscow."
By John R. Thompson, of Virginia.