Chapter 15
Major-General Scott An order had got To push on the columns to Richmond; For loudly went forth, From all parts of the North, The cry that an end of the war must be made In time for the regular yearly Fall Trade: Mr. Greeley spoke freely about the delay, The Yankees "to hum" were all hot for the fray; The chivalrous Grow Declared they were slow, And therefore the order To march from the border And make an excursion to Richmond. Major-General Scott Most likely was not Very loth to obey this instruction, I wot; In his private opinion The Ancient Dominion Deserved to be pillaged, her sons to be shot, And the reason is easily noted; Though this part of the earth Had given him birth, And medals and swords, Inscribed with fine words, It never for Winfield had voted. Besides, you must know that our First of Commanders Had sworn, quite as hard as the Army in Flanders, With his finest of armies and proudest of navies, To wreak his old grudge against Jefferson Davis. Then "forward the column," he said to McDowell; And the Zouaves, with a shout, Most fiercely cried out, "To Richmond or h--ll" (I omit here the vowel), And Winfield, he ordered his carriage and four, A dashing turn-out, to be brought to the door, For a pleasant excursion to Richmond. Major-General Scott Had there on the spot A splendid array To plunder and slay; In the camp he might boast Such a numerous host, As he never had yet In the battle-field set; Every class and condition of Northern society Were in for the trip, a most varied variety: In the camp he might hear every lingo in vogue, "The sweet German accent, the rich Irish brogue." The buthiful boy From the banks of the Shannon, Was there to employ His excellent cannon; And besides the long files of dragoons and artillery. The Zouaves and Hussars, All the children of Mars, There were barbers and cooks And writers of books,-- The _chef de cuisine_ with his French bills of fare, And the artists to dress the young officers' hair. And the scribblers all ready at once to prepare An eloquent story Of conquest and glory; And servants with numberless baskets of Sillery, Though Wilson, the Senator, followed the train, At a distance quite safe, to "conduct the _champagne_:" While the fields were so green and the sky was so blue, There was certainly nothing more pleasant to do On this pleasant excursion to Richmond. In Congress the talk, as I said, was of action, To crush out _instanter_ the traitorous faction. In the press, and the mess, They would hear nothing less Than to make the advance, spite of rhyme or of reason, And at once put an end to the insolent treason. There was Greeley, And Ely, The bloodthirsty Grow, And Hickman (the rowdy, not Hickman the beau), And that terrible Baker Who would seize on the South, every acre, And Webb, who would drive us all into the Gulf, or Some nameless locality smelling of sulphur; And with all this bold crew Nothing would do, While the fields were so green and the sky was so blue, But to march on directly to Richmond.
Then the gallant McDowell Drove madly the rowel Of spur that had never been "won" by him, In the flank of his steed, To accomplish a deed, Such as never before had been done by him; And the battery called Sherman's Was wheeled into line, While the beer-drinking Germans, From Neckar and Rhine, With minie and yager, Came on with a swagger, Full of fury and lager, (The day and the pageant were equally fine.) Oh! the fields were so green and the sky was so blue, Indeed 'twas a spectacle pleasant to view, As the column pushed onward to Richmond.
Ere the march was begun, In a spirit of fun, General Scott in a speech Said this army should teach The Southrons the lesson the laws to obey, And just before dusk of the third or fourth day, Should joyfully march into Richmond.
He spoke of their drill And their courage and skill, And declared that the ladies of Richmond would rave O'er such matchless perfection, and gracefully wave In rapture their delicate kerchiefs in air At their morning parades on the Capitol Square. But alack! and alas! Mark what soon came to pass, When this army, in spite of his flatteries, Amid war's loudest thunder Must stupidly blunder Upon those accursed "masked batteries." Then Beauregard came, Like a tempest of flame, To consume them in wrath On their perilous path; And Johnston bore down in a whirlwind to sweep Their ranks from the field Where their doom had been sealed, As the storm rushes over the face of the deep; While swift on the centre our President pressed. And the foe might descry In the glance of his eye The light that once blazed upon Diomed's crest. McDowell! McDowell! weep, weep for the day. When the Southrons you meet in their battle array; To your confident hosts with its bullets and steel 'Twas worse than Culloden to luckless Lochiel. Oh! the generals were green and old Scott is now blue, And a terrible business, McDowell, to you, Was that pleasant excursion to Richmond.
Richmond Whig.
Turner Ashby.
By John R. Thompson, of Virginia
To the brave all homage render, Weep, ye skies of June! With a radiance pure and tender, Shine, oh saddened moon! "Dead upon the field of glory," Hero fit for song and story, Lies our bold dragoon!
Well they learned, whose hands have slain him, Braver, knightlier foe Never fought with Moor nor Paynim-- Rode at Templestowe; With a mien how high and joyous, 'Gainst the hordes that would destroy us, Went he forth we know.
Never more, alas I shall sabre Gleam around his crest; Fought his fight, fulfilled his labor, Stilled his manly breast; All unheard sweet nature's cadence, Trump of fame and voice of maidens-- Now he takes his rest.
Earth, that all too soon hath bound him? Gently wrap his clay; Linger lovingly around him, Light of dying day; Softly fall the summer showers, Birds and bees among the flowers Make the gloom seem gay.
There, throughout the coming ages, When his sword is rust, And his deeds in classic pages; Mindful of her trust, Shall Virginia, bending lowly, Still a ceaseless vigil holy Keep above his dust.
Captain Latane.
By John R. Thompson, of Virginia.
The combat raged not long; but ours the day, And through the hosts which compassed us around Our little band rode proudly on its way, Leaving one gallant spirit, glory crowned, Unburied on the field he died to gain; Single, of all his men, among the hostile slain!
One moment at the battle's edge he stood, Hope's halo, like a helmet, round his hair-- The next, beheld him dabbled in his blood, Prostrate in death; and yet in death how fair! And thus he passed, through the red gates of strife, From earthly crowns and palms, to an eternal life.
A brother bore his body from the field, And gave it into strangers' hands, who closed His calm blue eyes, on earth forever sealed, And tenderly the slender limbs composed; Strangers, but _sisters, who, with Mary's love, Sat by the open tomb and, weeping, looked above._
A little girl strewed roses on his bier, Pale roses--not more stainless than his soul, Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere, That blossomed with good actions--brief, but whole. The aged matron, with the faithful slave, Approached with reverent steps the hero's lowly grave.
No man of God might read the burial rite Above the rebel--thus declared the foe, Who blanched before him in the deadly fight; But woman's voice, in accents soft and low, Trembling with pity, touched with pathos, read Over his hallowed dust, the ritual for the dead!
"'Tis sown in weakness; it is raised in power." Softly the promise floated on the air, Arid the sweet breathings of the sunset hour, Come back responsive to the mourner's prayer. Gently they laid him underneath the sod, And left him with his fame, his country, and his God.
We should not weep for him! His deeds endure; So young, so beautiful, so brave--he died As he would wish to die. The past secure, Whatever yet of sorrow may betide Those who still linger by the stormy shore; Change cannot hurt him now, nor fortune reach him more.
And when Virginia, leaning on her spear, _Vitrix et vidua_, the conflict done, Shall raise her mailéd hand to wipe the tear That starts, as she recalls each martyr son; No prouder memory her breast shall sway Than thine--the early lost--lamented Lat-a-nè!
The Men.
By Maurice Bell.
In the dusk of the forest shade A sallow and dusty group reclined; Gallops a horseman up the glade-- "Where will I your leader find? Tidings I bring from the morning's scout-- I've borne them o'er mound, and moor, and fen." "Well, sir, stay not hereabout, Here are only a few of 'the men.'
"Here no collar has bar or star, No rich lacing adorns a sleeve; Further on our officers are, Let them your report receive. Higher up, on the hill up there, Overlooking this shady glen. There are their quarters--don't stop here, We are only some of 'the men.'
"Yet stay, courier, if you bear Tidings that the fight is near; Tell them we're ready, and that where They wish us to be we'll soon appear; Tell them only to let us know Where to form our ranks, and when; And we'll teach the vaunting foe That they've met a few of 'the men.'
"We're _the men_, though our clothes are worn-- We're _the men_, though we wear no lace-- We're _the men_, who the foe hath torn, And scattered their ranks in dire disgrace; We're the men who have triumphed before-- We're the men who will triumph again; For the dust, and the smoke, and the cannon's roar, And the clashing bayonets--'_we're the men_.'
"Ye who sneer at the battle-scars, Of garments faded, and soiled and bare, Yet who have for the 'stars and bars' Praise, and homage, and dainty fare; Mock the wearers and pass them on, Refuse them kindly word--and then Know, if your freedom is ever won By human agents--_these are the men!_"
"A Rebel Soldier Killed in the Trenches before Petersburg, Va., April 15, 1865."
By a Kentucky Girl.
Killed in the trenches! How cold and bare The inscription graved on the white card there. 'Tis a photograph, taken last Spring, they say, Ere the smoke of battle had cleared away-- Of a rebel soldier--just as he fell, When his heart was pierced by a Union shell; And his image was stamped by the sunbeam's ray, As he lay in the trenches that April day.
Oh God! Oh God! How my woman's heart Thrills with a quick, convulsive pain, As I view, unrolled by the magic of Art, One dreadful scene from the battle-plain:-- White as the foam of the storm-tossed wave, Lone as the rocks those billows lave-- Gray sky above--cold clay beneath-- A gallant form lies stretched in death!
With his calm face fresh on the trampled clay, And the brave hands clasped o'er the manly breast: Save the sanguine stains on his jacket gray, We might deem him taking a soldier's rest. Ah no! Too red is that crimson tide-- Too deeply pierced that wounded side; Youth, hope, love, glory--manhood's pride-- Have all in vain Death's bolt defied.
His faithful carbine lies useless there, As it dropped from its master's nerveless ward; And the sunbeams glance on his waving hair Which the fallen cap has ceased to guard-- Oh Heaven! spread o'er it thy merciful shield, No more to my sight be the battle revealed! Oh fiercer than tempest--grim Hades as dread-- On woman's eye flashes the field of the dead!
The scene is changed: In a quiet room, Far from the spot where the lone corse lies, A mother kneels in the evening gloom To offer her nightly sacrifice. The noon is past, and the day is done, She knows that the battle is lost or won-- Who lives? Who died? Hush! be thou still! The boy lies dead on the trench-barred hill.
Battle of Hampton Roads.
By Ossian D. Gorman.
Ne'er had a scene of beauty smiled On placid waters 'neath the sun, Like that on Hampton's watery plain, The fatal morn the fight begun. Far toward the silvery Sewell shores, Below the guns of Craney Isle, Were seen our fleet advancing fast, Beneath the sun's auspicious smile.
Oh, fatal sight! the hostile hordes Of Newport camp spread dire alarms: The Cumberland for fight prepares-- The fierce marines now rush to arms. The Merrimac, strong cladded o'er, In quarters close begins her fire, Nor fears the rushing hail of shot, And deadly missiles swift and dire; But, rushing on 'mid smoke and flame, And belching thunder long and loud, Salutes the ship with bow austere, And then withdraws in wreaths of cloud.
The work is done. The frigate turns In agonizing, doubtful poise-- She sinks, she sinks! along the deck Is heard a shrieking, wailing noise. Engulfed beneath those placid waves Disturbed by battle's onward surge, The crew is gone; the vessel sleeps, And whistling bombshells sing her dirge.
The battle still is raging fierce: The Congress, "high and dry" aground, Maintains in vain her boasted power, For now the gunboats flock around, With "stars and bars" at mainmast reared, And pour their lightning on the main, While Merrimac, approaching fast Sends forth her shell and hot-shot rain.
Meantime the Jamestown, gallant boat, Engages strong redoubts at land-- While Patrick Henry glides along, To board the Congress, still astrand. This done, we turn intently on The Minnesota, which replies, With whizzing shell to Teuser's gun, Whose booming cleaves the distant skies. The naval combat sounds anew; The hostile fleets are not withdrawn, Though night is closing earth and sea In twilight's pale and mystic dawn. Strange whistling noises fill the air; The powdered smoke looks dark as night, And deadly, lurid flames, pour forth Their radiance on the missiles' flight; Grand picture on the noisy waves! The breezy zephyrs onward roam, And echoing volleys float afar, Disturbing Neptune's coral home. The victory's ours, and let the world Record Buchanan's[1] name with pride; The _crew is brave, the banner bright_, That ruled the day when Hutter[2] died.
[1] Commander of the "Merrimac."
[2] Midshipman on the "Patrick Henry."
Macon Daily Telegraph.
Is This a Time to Dance?
The breath of evening' sweeps the plain, And sheds its perfume in the dell, But on its wings are sounds of pain, Sad tones that drown the echo's swell; And yet we hear a mirthful call, Fair pleasure smiles with beaming glance, Gay music sounds in the joyous hall: Oh God! is this a time to dance?
Sad notes, as if a spirit sighed, Float from the crimson battle-plain, As if a mighty spirit cried In awful agony and pain: Our friends we know there suffering lay, Our brothers, too, perchance, And in reproachful accents say, Loved ones, is this a time to dance?
Oh, lift your festal robes on high! The human gore that flows around Will stain their hues with crimson dye; And louder let your music sound To drown the dying warrior's cry! Let sparkling wine your joy enhance Forget that _blood_ has tinged its dye, And quicker urge the maniac dance.
But stop! the floor beneath your feet Gives back a _coffin's_ hollow moan, And every strain of music sweet, Wafts forth a _dying soldier's groan_. Oh, sisters! who have brothers dear Exposed to every battle's chance, Brings dark Remorse no forms of fear, To fright you from the heartless dance?
Go, fling your festal robes away! Go, don the mourner's sable veil! Go, bow before your God, and pray! If yet your prayers may aught avail. Go, face the fearful form of Death! And trembling meet his chilling glance, And then, for once, with truthful breath, Answer, _Is this a time to dance?_
"The Maryland Line."
By J.D. M'Cabe, Jr.
The Maryland regiments in the Confederate army have adopted the title of "The Maryland Line," which was so heroically sustained by their patriot sires of the first Revolution, and which the deeds of Marylanders at Manassas, show that the patriot Marylanders of this second Revolution are worthy to bear.
By old Potomac's rushing tide, Our bayonets are gleaming; And o'er the bounding waters wide We gaze, while tears are streaming. The distant hills of Maryland Rise sadly up before us-- And tyrant bands have chained our laud, Our mother proud that bore us.
Our proud old mother's queenly head Is bowed in subjugation; With her children's blood her soil is red, And fiends in exultation Taunt her with shame as they bind her chains, While her heart is torn with anguish; Old mother, on famed Manassas' plains Our vengeance did not languish.
We thought of your wrongs as on we rushed, 'Mid shot and shell appalling; We heard your voice as it upward gush'd, From the Maryland life-blood falling. No pity we knew! Did they mercy show When they bound the mother that bore us? But we scattered death 'mid the dastard foe Till they, shrieking, fled before us.
We mourn for our brothers brave that fell On that field so stern and gory; But their spirits rose with our triumph yell To the heavenly realms of glory. And their bodies rest on the hard-won field-- By their love so true and tender, We'll keep the prize they would not yield, We'll die, but we'll not surrender.
The Virginians of the Shenandoah Valley.
"_Sic Jurat_."
By Frank Ticknor, M.D., of Georgia.
The knightliest of the knightly race Who, since the clays of old, Have kept the lamp of chivalry Alight in hearts of gold; The kindliest of the kindly band Who rarely hated ease, Yet rode with Smith around the land, And Raleigh o'er the seas;
Who climbed the blue Virginia hills, Amid embattled foes, And planted there, in valleys fair, The lily and the rose; Whose fragrance lives in many lands, Whose beauty stars the earth, And lights the hearths of thousand homes With loveliness and worth,--
We feared they slept!--the sons who kept The names of noblest sires, And waked not, though the darkness crept Around their vigil fires; But still the Golden Horse-shoe Knights Their "Old Dominion" keep: The foe has found the enchanted ground, But not a knight asleep.
Torch-Hall, Georgia.
Sonnet.--The Avatar of Hell.
Charleston Mercury.
Six thousand years of commune, God with man,-- Two thousand years of Ohrist; yet from such roots, Immortal, earth reaps only bitterest fruits! The fiends rage now as when they first began! Hate, Lust, Greed, Vanity, triumphant still, Yell, shout, exult, and lord o'er human will! The sun moves back! The fond convictions felt, That, in the progress of the race, we stood, Two thousand years of height above the flood Before the day's experience sink and melt, As frost beneath the fire! and what remains Of all our grand ideals and great gains, With Goth, Hun, Vandal, warring in their pride, While the meek Christ is hourly crucified!
Pax.
"Stonewall" Jackson's Way.
These verses, according to the newspaper account, _may_ have been found in the bosom of a dead rebel, after one of Jackson's battles in the Shenandoah valley; but we are pleased to state that the _author_ of them is a still living rebel, and able to write even better things.
Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails; Stir up the camp-fire bright; No matter if the canteen fails, We'll make a roaring night. Here Shenandoah brawls along, Here burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, To swell the brigade's rousing song, Of "Stonewall Jackson's way."
We see him now--the old slouched hat Cocked o'er his eye askew-- The shrewd dry smile--the speech so pat, So calm, so blunt, so true. The "Blue Light Elder" knows 'em well: Says he, "That's Banks; he's fond of shell. Lord save his soul! we'll give him ----" well That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."
Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Caps off! Old "Blue Light's" going to pray. Strangle the fool that dares to scoff! Attention! it's his way! Appealing from his native sod _In forma pauperis_ to God, "Lay bare thine arm! Stretch forth thy rod! Amen!" That's Stonewall's way.
He's in the saddle now: Fall in! Steady! The whole brigade! Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win His way out, ball and blade. What matter if our shoes are worn? What matter if our feet are torn? Quick step! we're with him before dawn! That's Stonewall Jackson's way!
The sun's bright lances rout the mists Of morning--and, by George! Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists, Hemmed in an ugly gorge. Pope and his Yankees, whipped before: "Bayonets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar; "Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score, In Stonewall Jackson's way!"
Ah, maiden! wait, and watch, and yearn, For news of Stonewall's band! Ah, widow! read--with eyes that burn, That ring upon thy hand! Ah! wife, sew on, pray on, hope on: Thy life shall not be all forlorn. The foe had better ne'er been born, That gets in Stonewall's way.
The Silent March.
On one occasion during the war in Virginia, General Lee was lying asleep by the wayside, when an army of fifteen thousand men passed by with hushed voices and footsteps, lest they should disturb his slumbers.
O'ercome with weariness and care, The war-worn veteran lay On the green turf of his native land, And slumbered by the way; The breeze that sighed across his brow, And smoothed its deepened lines, Fresh from his own loved mountain bore The murmur of their pines; And the glad sound of waters, The blue rejoicing streams, Whose sweet familiar tones were blent With the music of his dreams: They brought no sound of battle's din, Shrill fife or clarion, But only tenderest memories Of his own fair Arlington. While thus the chieftain slumbered, Forgetful of his care, The hollow tramp of thousands Came sounding through the air. With ringing spur and sabre, And trampling feet they come, Gay plume and rustling banner, And fife, and trump, and drum; But soon the foremost column Sees where, beneath the shade, In slumber, calm as childhood, Their wearied chief is laid; And down the line a murmur From lip to lip there ran, Until the stilly whisper Had spread to rear from van; And o'er the host a silence As deep and sudden fell, As though some mighty wizard Had hushed them with a spell; And every sound was muffled, And every soldier's tread Fell lightly as a mother's 'Round her baby's cradle-bed; And rank, and file, and column, So softly by they swept, It seemed a ghostly army Had passed him as he slept; But mightier than enchantment Was that with magic move-- The spell that hushed their voices-- Deep reverence and love.
Pro Memoria.
Air--There is rest for the weary.
By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama.
Lo! the Southland Queen, emerging From her sad and wintry gloom, Robes her torn and bleeding bosom In her richest orient bloom:
CHORUS.--(Repeat first line three times.) For her weary sons are resting By the Edenshore; They have won the crown immortal, And the cross of death is o'er! Where the Oriflamme is burning On the starlit Edenshore!
Brightly still, in gorgeous glory, God's great jewel lights our sky; Look! upon the heart's white dial There's a SHADOW flitting by!
CHORUS.--But the weary feet are resting, etc.
Homes are dark and hearts are weary, Souls are numb with hopeless pain; For the footfall on the threshold Never more to sound again!
CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, Aye, for evermore! We must win the crown immortal, Follow where they led before, Where the Oriflamme is burning On the starlit Edenshore.
Proudly, as our Southern forests Meet the winter's shafts so keen: Time-defying memories cluster Round our hearts in living green.
CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.
May our faltering voices mingle In the angel-chanted psalm; May our earthly chaplets linger By the bright celestial palm.
CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.