Chapter 4
Like the leaves of Vallambrosa they are lying; In the moonlight, in the midnight, dead and dying: Like those leaves before the gale, Swept their legions, wild and pale; While the host that made them quail stood, defying.
When aloft in morning sunlight flags were flaunted, And "swift vengeance on the rebel" proudly vaunted: Little did they think that night Should close upon their shameful flight, And rebels, victors in the fight, stand undaunted.
But peace to those who perished in our passes! Light be the earth above them! green the grasses! Long shall Northmen rue the day, When they met our stern array, And shrunk from battle's wild affray at Manassas!
Virginia.
By Catherine M. Warfield.
Glorious Virginia! Freedom sprang Light to her feet at thy trumpet's clang: At the first sound of that clarion blast, Foes like the chaff from the whirlwind passed-- Passed to their doom: from that hour no more Triumphs their cause by sea or shore.
Glorious Virginia! noble the blood That hath bathed thy fields in a crimson flood; On many a wide-spread and sunny plain, Like leaves of autumn thy dead have lain: The Southron heart is their funeral urn! The Southern slogan their requiem stern!
Glorious Virginia! to thee, to thee We lean, as the shoots to the parent tree; Bending in awe at thy glance of might;-- First in the council, first in the fight! While our flag is fanned by the breath of fame, Glorious Virginia! we'll bless thy name.
The War-Christian's Thanksgiving.
Respectfully dedicated to the War-Clergy of the United States.
By S. Teackle Wallis.
Oh, God of battles! once again, With banner, trump, and drum, And garments in thy wine-press dyed, To give Thee thanks we come.
No goats or bullocks garlanded, Unto thine altars go; With brothers' blood, by brothers shed, Our glad libations flow,
From pest-house and from dungeon foul, Where, maimed and torn, they die, From gory trench and charnel-house, Where, heap on heap, they lie.
In every groan that yields a soul, Each shriek a heart that rends, With every breath of tainted air, Our homage, Lord, ascends.
We thank Thee for the sabre's gash, The cannon's havoc wild; We bless Thee for the widow's tears, The want that starves her child!
We give Thee praise that Thou hast lit The torch, and fanned the flame; That lust and rapine hunt their prey, Kind Father, in Thy name!
That, for the songs of idle joy False angels sang of yore, Thou sendest War on earth--ill-will To men for evermore!
We know that wisdom, truth, and right To us and ours are given; That Thou hast clothed us with the wrath, To do the work of heaven.
We know that plains and cities waste Are pleasant in Thine eyes-- Thou lov'st a hearthstone desolate, Thou lov'st a mourner's cries.
Let not our weakness fall below The measure of Thy will, And while the press hath wine to bleed, Oh, tread it with us still!
Teach us to hate--as Jesus taught Fond fools, of yore, to love; Give us Thy vengeance as our own-- Thy pity, hide above!
Teach us to turn, with reeking hands, The pages of Thy word, And learn the blessed curses there, On them that sheathe the sword.
Where'er we tread may deserts spring, 'Till none are left to slay; And when the last red drop is shed, We'll kneel again--and pray!
Sonnet.
Charleston Mercury.
Man makes his own dread fates, and these in turn Create his tyrants. In our lust and passion, Our appetite and ignorance, he springs. The creature of our need as our desert, The scourge that whips us for decaying virtue, He chastens to reform us! Never yet, In mortal life, did tyrant rise to power, But in the people's worst infirmities Of crime and greed. The creature of our vices, The loathsome ulcer of our vicious moods, He is decreed their proper punishment.
Marching to Death.
By J. Herbert Sass, of South Carolina.
1862.
"The National Quarterly depicts a remarkable scene, which occurred some years since on one of the British transport ships. The commander of the troops on board, seeing that the vessel must soon sink, and that there was no hope of saving his men, drew them up in order of battle, and, as in the presence of a human enemy, bravely faced the doom that was before them. We know of no more impressive illustration of the power of military discipline in the presence of death."
I.
The last farewells are breathed by loving lips, The last fond prayer for darling ones is said, And o'er each heart stern sorrow's dark eclipse Her sable pall hath spread.
II.
Far, far beyond each anxious watcher's sight, Baring her bosom to the wanton sea, The lordly ship sweeps onward in her might, Her tameless majesty.
III.
Forth from his fortress in the western sky, Flashing defiance on each crested wave, Out glares the sun, with red and lowering eye, Grand, even in his grave.
IV.
Till, waxing bolder as his rays decline, The clustering billows o'er his ramparts sweep, Slow droops his banner--fades his light divine, And darkness rules the deep.
V.
Look once again!--Night's sombre shades have fled: But the pale rays that glimmer from their sheath, Serve but to show the blackness overhead, And the wild void beneath.
VI.
Mastless and helmless drifts the helpless bark; Her pride, her majesty, her glory gone; While o'er the waters broods the tempest dark, And the wild winds howl on.
VII.
But hark! amid the madness of the storm There comes an echo o'er the surging wave; Firm at its call the dauntless legions form, The resolute and brave.
VIII.
Eight hundred men, the pride of England's host, In stern array stand marshall'd on her deck, Calmly as though they knew not they were lost-- Lost in that shattered wreck.
IX.
Eight hundred men,--old England's tried and true, Their hopes, their fears, their tasks of glory done, Steadfast, till the last foe be conquered too, And the last fight be won.
X.
Free floats their banner o'er them as they stand; No mournful dirge may o'er the waters ring; Out peals the anthem, glorious and grand, "The king! God save the king!"
XI.
Lower and lower sinks the fated bark, Closer and closer creeps the ruthless wave, But loud outswells, across the waters dark, The death-song of the brave.
XII.
Over their heads the gurgling billows sweep; Still o'er the waves the last fond echoes ring, Out-thrilling from the caverns of the deep, "The king! God save the king!"
XIII.
Oh thou! whoe'er thou art that reads this page, Learn here a lesson of high, holy faith, For all throughout our earthly pilgrimage, We hold a tryst with death.
XIV.
Not in the battle-field's tumultuous strife, Not in the hour when vanquished foemen fly, Not in the midst of bright and happy life, Is it most hard to die.
XV.
Greater the guerdon, holier the prize, Of him who trusts, and waits in lowly mood; Oh! learn how high, how holy courage lies In patient fortitude.
Charleston.
By Henry Timrod.
Calm as that second summer which precedes The first fall of the snow, In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds, The city bides the foe.
As yet, behind their ramparts, stern and proud, Her bolted thunders sleep-- Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud, Looms o'er the solemn deep.
No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scaur To guard the holy strand; But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war, Above the level sand.
And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched. Unseen, beside the flood-- Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched, That wait and watch for blood.
Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade, Walk grave and thoughtful men, Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade As lightly as the pen.
And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim Over a bleeding hound, Seem each one to have caught the strength of him Whose sword she sadly bound.
Thus girt without and garrisoned at home, Day patient following day, Old Charleston looks from roof, and spire, and dome, Across her tranquil bay.
Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands And spicy Indian ports, Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands, And summer to her courts.
But still, along yon dim Atlantic line, The only hostile smoke Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine, From some frail, floating oak.
Shall the spring dawn, and she still clad in smiles, And with an unscathed brow, Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles, As fair and free as now?
We know not; in the temple of the Fates God has inscribed her doom; And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits The triumph or the tomb.
Charleston.
By Paul H. Hayne.
I.
What! still does the Mother of Treason uprear Her crest 'gainst the Furies that darken her sea? Unquelled by mistrust, and unblanched by a Fear, Unbowed her proud head, and unbending her knee, Calm, steadfast, and free?
II.
Aye! launch your red lightnings, blaspheme in your wrath, Shock earth, wave, and heaven with the blasts of your ire;-- But she seizes your death-bolts, yet hot from their path, And hurls back your lightnings, and mocks at the fire Of your fruitless desire.
III.
Ringed round by her Brave, a fierce circlet of flame, Flashes up from the sword-points that cover her breast; She is guarded by Love, and enhaloed by Fame, And never, we swear, shall _your_ footsteps be pressed Where her dead heroes rest!
IV.
Her voice shook the Tyrant!--sublime from her tongue Fell the accents of warning,--a Prophetess grand,-- On her soil the first life-notes of Liberty rung, _And the first stalwart blow of her gauntleted hand_ Broke the sleep of her land!
V.
What more! she hath grasped with her iron-bound will The Fate that would trample her honor to earth,-- The light in those deep eyes is luminous still With the warmth of her valor, the glow of her worth, Which illumine the Earth!
VI.
And beside her a Knight the great Bayard had loved, "Without fear or reproach," lifts her Banner on high; He stands in the vanguard, majestic, unmoved, And a thousand firm souls, when that Chieftain is nigh, Vow, "'tis easy to die!"
VII.
Their swords have gone forth on the fetterless air! The world's breath is hushed at the conflict! before Gleams the bright form of Freedom with wreaths in her hair-- And what though the chaplet be crimsoned with gore, We shall prize her the more!
VIII.
And while Freedom lures on with her passionate eyes To the height of her promise, the voices of yore, From the storied Profound of past ages arise, And the pomps of their magical music outpour O'er the war-beaten shore.
IX.
Then gird your brave Empress, O! Heroes, with flame Flashed up from the sword-points that cover her breast, She is guarded by Love, and enhaloed by Fame, And never, base Foe! shall your footsteps be pressed Where her dead Martyrs rest!
"Ye Men of Alabama!"
By John D. Phelan, of Montgomery, Ala.
Air--"Ye Mariners of England."
I.
Ye men of Alabama, Awake, arise, awake! And rend the coils asunder Of this Abolition snake. If another fold he fastens-- If this final coil he plies-- In the cold clasp of hate and power Fair Alabama dies.
II.
Though round your lower limbs and waist His deadly coils I see, Yet, yet, thank Heaven! your head and arms, And good right hand, are free; And in that hand there glistens-- O God! what joy to feel!-- A polished blade, full sharp and keen, Of tempered State Rights steel.
III.
Now, by the free-born sires From whose brave loins ye sprung! And by the noble mothers At whose fond breasts ye hung! And by your wives and daughters, And by the ills they dread, Drive deep that good Secession steel Right through the Monster's head.
IV.
This serpent Abolition Has been coiling on for years; We have reasoned, we have threatened, We have begged almost with tears: Now, away, away with Union, Since on our Southern soil The only _union_ left us Is an anaconda's coil.
V.
Brave little South Carolina Will strike the self-same blow, And Florida, and Georgia, And Mississippi too; And Arkansas, and Texas; And at the death, I ween, The head will fall beneath the blows Of all the brave Fifteen.
VI.
In this our day of trial, Let feuds and factions cease, Until above this howling storm We see the sign of Peace. Let Southern men, like brothers, In solid phalanx stand, And poise their spears, and lock their shields, To guard their native land.
VII.
The love that for the Union Once in our bosoms beat, From insult and from injury Has turned to scorn and hate; And the banner of Secession To-day we lift on high, Resolved, beneath that sacred flag, To conquer, or TO DIE!
Montgomery Advertiser, October, 1860.
Nec Temere, Nec Timide.
By Annie Chambers Ketchum.
Gentlemen of the South, Gird on your glittering swords! Darkly along our borders fair Gather the Northern hordes. Ruthless and fierce they come At the fiery cannon's mouth, To blast the glory of our land, Gentlemen of the South!
Ride forth in your stately pride, Each bearing on his shield Ensigns our fathers won of yore On many a well-fought field! Let this be your battle-cry, Even to the cannon's mouth, _Cor unum via una!_ Onward, Gentlemen of the South!
Brave knights of a knightly race, Gordon, and Chambers, and Gray, Show to the minions of the North How Valor dares the fray! Let them read on each stainless crest At the belching cannon's mouth, _Decori decus addit avito_, Gentlemen of the South!
Morrison, Douglas, Stuart, Erskine, and Bradford, and West, Your gauntlets on many a bloody field Have stood the battle's test! _Animo non astutia!_ March to the cannon's mouth, Heirs of the brave dead centuries! Onward, Gentlemen of the South!
Call forth your stalwart men, Workers in brass and steel! Bid the swart artisans come forth At sound of the trumpet's peal! Give them your war-cry, Erskine! _Fight!_ to the cannon's mouth! Bid the men _Forward!_ Douglas, _Forward!_ Yeomanry of the South!
Brave hunters! Ye have met The fierce black bear in the fray; Ye have trailed the panther night by night, Ye have chased the fox by day! Your prancing chargers pant To dash at the gray wolf's mouth, Your arms are sure of their quarry! Onward! Gentlemen of the South!
Fight! that the lowly serf And the high-born lady still May bide in their proud dependency, Free subjects of your will! Teach the base North how ill, At the fiery cannon's mouth, He fares who touches your household gods, Gentlemen of the South!
From mother, and wife, and child, From faithful and happy slave, Prayers for your sakes ascend to Him Whose arm is strong to save! We check the gathering tears, Though ye go to the cannon's mouth; _Dominus providebit!_ Onward, Gentlemen of the South!
Memphis Appeal.
Dixie.
By Albert Pike.
I.
Southrons, hear your Country call you! Up! lest worse than death befall you! To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie! Lo! all the beacon-fires are lighted, Let all hearts be now united! To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie! Advance the flag; of Dixie! Hurrah! hurrah! For Dixie's land we'll take our stand, To live or die for Dixie! To arms! to arms! And conquer peace for Dixie! To arms! to arms! And conquer peace for Dixie!
II.
Hear the Northern thunders mutter! Northern flags in South-winds flutter! To arms! etc. Send them back your fierce defiance! Stamp upon the accursed alliance! To arms! etc. Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.
III.
Fear no danger! shun no labor! Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre! To arms! etc. Shoulder pressing close to shoulder, Let the odds make each heart bolder! To arms! etc. Advance the flag of Dixie, etc.
IV.
How the South's great heart rejoices At your cannon's ringing voices; To arms! etc. For faith betrayed and pledges broken, Wrong inflicted, insults spoken. To arms! etc. Advance the flag of Dixie, etc.
V.
Strong as lions, swift as eagles, Back to their kennels hunt these beagles! To arms! etc. Cut the unequal bonds asunder! Let them hence each other plunder! To arms! etc. Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.
VI.
Swear upon your Country's altar, Never to submit or falter; To arms! etc. Till the spoilers are defeated, Till the Lord's work is completed. To arms! etc. Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.
VII.
Halt not till our Federation Secures among earth's Powers its station! To arms! etc. Then at peace, and crowned with glory, Hear your children tell the story! To arms! etc. Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.
VIII.
If the loved ones weep in sadness, Victory soon shall bring them gladness; To arms! etc. Exultant pride soon banish sorrow; Smiles chase tears away to-morrow. To arms! etc. Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.
The Old Rifleman.
By Frank Ticknor, of Georgia.
Now bring me out my buckskin suit! My pouch and powder, too! We'll see if seventy-six can shoot As sixteen used to do.
Old Bess! we've kept our barrels bright! Our trigger quick and true! As far, if not as _fine_ a sight, As long ago we drew!
And pick me out a trusty flint! A real white and blue, Perhaps 'twill win the _other_ tint Before the hunt is through!
Give boys your brass percussion caps! Old "shut-pan" suits as well! There's something in the _sparks:_ perhaps There's something in the smell!
We've seen the red-coat Briton bleed! The red-skin Indian, too! We've never thought to draw a bead On Yanke-doodle-doo!
But, Bessie! bless your dear old heart! Those days are mostly done; And now we must revive the art Of shooting on the run!
If Doodle must be meddling, why, There's only this to do-- Select the black spot in his eye, And let the daylight through!
And if he doesn't like the way That Bess presents the view, He'll maybe change his mind, and stay Where the good Doodles do!
Where Lincoln lives. The man, you know, Who kissed the Testament; To keep the Constitution? No! _To keep the Government!_
We'll hunt for Lincoln, Bess! old tool, And take him half and half; We'll aim to _hit_ him, if a fool, And _miss_ him, if a calf!
We'll teach these shot-gun boys the tricks By which a war is won; Especially how Seventy-six Took Tories on the run.
Battle Hymn.
Charleston Mercury.
Lord of Hosts, that beholds us in battle, defending The homes of our sires 'gainst the hosts of the foe, Send us help on the wings of thy angels descending, And shield from his terrors, and baffle his blow. Warm the faith of our sons, till they flame as the iron, Red-glowing from the fire-forge, kindled by zeal; Make them forward to grapple the hordes that environ, In the storm-rush of battle, through forests of steel!
Teach them, Lord, that the cause of their country makes glorious The martyr who falls in the front of the fight;-- That the faith which is steadfast makes ever victorious The arm which strikes boldly defending the right;-- That the zeal, which is roused by the wrongs of a nation, Is a war-horse that sweeps o'er the field as his own; And the Faith, which is winged by the soul's approbation, Is a warrior, in proof, that can ne'er be o'erthrown.
Kentucky, She Is Sold
By J. R. Barrick, of Kentucky.
A tear for "the dark and bloody ground," For the land of hills and caves; Her Kentons, Boones, and her Shelbys sleep Where the vandals tread their graves; A sigh for the loss of her honored fame, Dear won in the days of old; Her ship is manned by a foreign crew, For Kentucky, she is sold.
The bones of her sons lie bleaching on The plains of Tippecanoe, On the field of Raisin her blood was shed, As free as the summer's dew; In Mexico her McRee and Clay Were first of the brave and bold-- A change has been in her bosom wrought, For Kentucky, she is sold.
Pride of the free, was that noble State, And her banner still were so, Had the iron heel of the despot not Her prowess sunk so low; Her valleys once were the freeman's home, Her valor unbought with gold, But now the pride of her life is fled, For Kentucky, she is sold.
Her brave would once have scorned to wear The yoke that crushes her now, And the tyrant grasp, and the vandal tread, Would sullen have made her brow; Her spirit yet will be wakened up, And her saddened fate be told, Her gallant sons to the world yet prove That Kentucky is not sold.
Sonnet--The Ship of State.
Here lie the peril and necessity That need a race of giants--a great realm, With not one noble leader at the helm; And the great Ship of State still driving high, 'Midst breakers, on a lee shore--to the rocks. With ever and anon most terrible shocks-- The crew aghast, and fear in every eye. Yet is the gracious Providence still nigh; And, if our cause be just, our hearts be true, We shall save goodly ship and gallant crew, Nor suffer shipwreck of our liberty! It needs that as a people we arise, With solemn purpose that even fate defies, And brave all perils with unblenching eye!
Charleston Mercury.
"In His Blanket on the Ground."
By Caroline H. Gervais, Charleston.
Weary, weary lies the soldier, In his blanket on the ground With no sweet "Good-night" to cheer him, And no tender voice's sound, Making music in the darkness, Making light his toilsome hours, Like a sunbeam in the forest, Or a tomb wreathed o'er with flowers.
Thoughtful, hushed, he lies, and tearful, As his memories sadly roam To the "cozy little parlor" And the loved ones of his home; And his waking and his dreaming Softly braid themselves in one, As the twilight is the mingling Of the starlight and the sun.
And when sleep descends upon him, _Still_ his thought within his dream Is of home, and friends, and loved ones, And his busy fancies seem To be _real_, as they wander To his mother's cherished form. As she gently said, in parting "Thine in sunshine and in storm: Thine in helpless childhood's morning, And in boyhood's joyous time, Thou must leave me now--_God_ watch thee In thy manhood's ripened prime."
Or, mayhap, amid the phantoms Teeming thick within his brain, His dear father's locks, o'er-silvered, Come to greet his view again; And he hears his trembling accents, Like a clarion ringing high, "Since _not mine_ are youth and strength, boy, _Thou_ must victor prove, or die."
Or perchance he hears a whisper Of the faintest, faintest sigh, Something deeper than word-spoken, Something breathing of a tie Near his soul as bounding heart-blood: It is hers, that patient wife-- And again that parting seemeth Like the taking leave of life: And her last kiss he remembers, And the agonizing thrill, And the "_Must you go?_" and answer, "_I but know my Country's will._"
Or the little children gather, Half in wonder, round his knees; And the faithful dog, mute, watchful, In the mystic glass he sees; And the voice of song, and pictures, And the simplest homestead flowers, Unforgotten, crowd before him In the solemn midnight hours.
Then his thoughts in Dreamland wander To a sister's sweet caress, And he feels her dear lips quiver As his own they fondly press; And he hears her proudly saying, (Though sad tears are in her eyes), "Brave men fall, but live in story, _For the Hero never dies!_"
Or, perhaps, his brown cheek flushes, And his heart beats quicker now, As he thinks of one who gave him, Him, the loved one, love's sweet vow; And, ah, fondly he remembers He is _still_ her dearest care, Even in his star-watched slumber That she pleads for him in prayer.