Chapter 5
Oh, the soldier _will_ be dreaming, Dreaming _often_ of us all, (When the damp earth is his pillow, And the snow and cold sleet fall), Of the dear, familiar faces, Of the cozy, curtained room, Of the flitting of the shadows In the twilight's pensive gloom.
Or when summer suns burn o'er him, Bringing drought and dread disease, And the throes of wasting fever Come his weary frame to seize-- In the restless sleep of sickness, Doomed, perchance, to martyr death, Hear him whisper "_Home_"--sweet cadence, With his quickened, labored breath.
Then God bless him, bless the soldier, And God nerve him for the fight; May He lend his arm new prowess To do battle for the right. Let him feel that while he's dreaming In his fitful slumber bound, That we're praying--_God watch o'er him In his blanket on the ground._
The Mountain Partisan.
I.
My rifle, pouch, and knife! My steed! And then we part! One loving kiss, dear wife, One press of heart to heart! Cling to me yet awhile, But stay the sob, the tear! Smile--only try to smile-- And I go without a fear.
II.
Our little cradled boy, He sleeps--and in his sleep, Smiles, with an angel joy, Which tells thee not to weep. I'll kneel beside, and kiss-- He will not wake the while, Thus dreaming of the bliss, That bids thee, too, to smile.
III.
Think not, dear wife, I go, With a light thought at my heart 'Tis a pang akin to woe, That fills me as we part; But when the wolf was heard To howl around our lot, Thou know'st, dear mother-bird, I slew him on the spot!
IV.
Aye, panther, wolf, and bear, Have perish'd 'neath my knife; Why tremble, then, with fear, When now I go, my wife? Shall I not keep the peace, That made our cottage dear; And 'till these wolf-curs cease Shall I be housing here?
V.
One loving kiss, dear wife, One press of heart to heart; Then for the deadliest strife, For freedom I depart! I were of little worth, Were these Yankee wolves left free To ravage 'round our hearth, And bring one grief to thee!
VI.
God's blessing on thee, wife, God's blessing on the young: Pray for me through the strife, And teach our infant's tongue. Whatever haps in fight, I shall be true to thee-- To the home of our delight-- To my people of the free.
The Cameo Bracelet.
By James R. Randall, of Maryland.
Eva sits on the ottoman there, Sits by a Psyche carved in stone, With just such a face, and just such an air, As Esther upon her throne.
She's sifting lint for the brave who bleed, And I watch her fingers float and flow Over the linen, as, thread by thread, It flakes to her lap like snow.
A bracelet clinks on her delicate wrist, Wrought, as Cellini's were at Rome, Out of the tears of the amethyst, And the wan Vesuvian foam.
And full on the bauble-crest alway-- A cameo image keen and fine-- Glares thy impetuous knife, Corday, And the lava-locks are thine!
I thought of the war-wolves on our trail, Their gaunt fangs sluiced with gouts of blood; Till the Past, in a dead, mesmeric veil, Drooped with a wizard flood
Till the surly blaze through the iron bars Shot to the hearth with a pang and cry-- And a lank howl plunged from the Champ de Mars To the Column of July--
Till Corday sprang from the gem, I swear, And the dove-eyed damsel I knew had flown-- For Eva was not on the ottoman there, By the Psyche carved in stone.
She grew like a Pythoness flushed with fate, With the incantation in her gaze, A lip of scorn--an arm of hate-- And a dirge of the "Marseillaise!"
Eva, the vision was not wild, When wreaked on the tyrants of the land-- For you were transfigured to Nemesis, child, With the dagger in your hand!
Zollicoffer.
By H. L. Flash, of Alabama.
First in the fight, and first in the arms Of the white-winged angels of glory, With the heart of the South at the feet of God, And his wounds to tell the story:
And the blood that flowed from his hero heart, On the spot where he nobly perished, Was drunk by the earth as a sacrament In the holy cause he cherished.
In Heaven a home with the brave and blessed, And, for his soul's sustaining, The apocalyptic eyes of Christ-- And nothing on earth remaining,
But a handful of dust in the land of his choice, A name in song and story, And Fame to shout with her brazen voice, "Died on the Field of Glory!"
Beauregard
By Catharine A. Warfield, of Mississippi.
Let the trumpet shout once more, Beauregard! Let the battle-thunders roar, Beauregard! And again by yonder sea, Let the swords of all the free Leap forth to fight with thee, Beauregard!
Old Sumter loves thy name, Beauregard! Grim Moultrie guards thy fame, Beauregard! Oh! first in Freedom's fight! Oh! steadfast in the right! Oh! brave and Christian Knight! Beauregard!
St. Michael with his host, Beauregard! Encamps by yonder coast, Beauregard! And the Demon's might shall quail, And the Dragon's terrors fail, Were he trebly clad in mail, Beauregard!
Not a leaf shall fall away, Beauregard! From the laurel won to-day, Beauregard! While the ocean breezes blow, While the billows lapse and flow O'er the Northman's bones below, Beauregard!
Let the trumpet shout once more, Beauregard! Let the battle-thunders roar, Beauregard! From the centre to the shore, From the sea to the land's core Thrills the echo, evermore, Beauregard!
South Carolina.
1719. Colonial Revolution. 1763. Colonial History--Progress, 1776. American Revolution. 1812-15. Second War with Great Britain 1830-32. Nullification for State Rights. 1835-40. Florida War. 1847. Mexican War--Palmetto Regiment. 1860-61. Secession, and Third War for Independence.
My brave old Country! I have watched thee long Still ever first to rise against the wrong; To check the usurper in his giant stride, And brave his terrors and abase his pride; Foresee the insidious danger ere it rise, And warn the heedless and inform the wise; Scorning the lure, the bribe, the selfish game, Which, through the office, still becomes the shame; Thou stood'st aloof--superior to the fate That would have wrecked thy freedom as a State. In vain the despot's threat, his cunning lure; Too proud thy spirit, and thy heart too pure; Thou hadst no quest but freedom, and to be In conscience well-assured, and people free. The statesman's lore was thine, the patriot's aim, These kept thee virtuous, and preserved thy fame; The wisdom still for council, the brave voice, That thrills a people till they all rejoice. These were thy birthrights; and two centuries pass'd, As, at the first, still find thee at the last; Supreme in council, resolute in will, Pure in thy purpose--independent still!
The great good counsels, the examples brave, Won from the past, not buried in its grave, Still warm your soul with courage--still impar Wisdom to virtue, valor to the heart! Still first to check th' encroachment--to declare "Thus far! no further, shall the assailant dare;" Thou keep'st thy ermine white, thy State secure, Thy fortunes prosperous, and thy freedom sure; No glozing art deceives thee to thy bane; The tempter and the usurper strive in vain! Thy spear's first touch unfolds the fiendish form, And first, with fearless breast, thou meet'st the storm; Though hosts assail thee, thou thyself a host, Prepar'st to meet the invader on the coast: Thy generous sons contending which shall be First in the phalanx, gathering by the sea; No dastard fear appals them, as they teach How best to hurl the bolt, or man the breach!
Great Soul in little frame!--the hope of man Exults, when such as thou art in the van! Unshaken, unbeguiled, unslaved, unbought, Thy fame shall brighten with each battle fought; True to the examples of the past, thou'lt be, For the long future, best security.
Charleston Mercury.
Gossypium.
Carolina.
By Henry Timrod.
I.
The despot treads thy sacred sands, Thy pines give shelter to his bands, Thy sons stand by with idle hands, Carolina! He breathes at ease thy airs of balm, He scorns the lances of thy palm; Oh I who shall break thy craven calm, Carolina! Thy ancient fame is growing dim, A spot is on thy garment's rim; Give to the winds thy battle hymn, Carolina!
II.
Call on thy children of the hill, Wake swamp and river, coast and rill, Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill, Carolina! Cite wealth and science, trade and art, Touch with thy fire the cautious mart, And pour thee through the people's heart, Carolina! Till even the coward spurns his fears, And all thy fields, and fens, and meres, Shall bristle like thy palm, with spears, Carolina!
III.
Hold up the glories of thy dead; Say how thy elder children bled, Arid point to Eutaw's battle-bed, Carolina! Tell how the patriot's soul was tried, And what his dauntless breast defied; How Rutledge ruled, and Laurens died, Carolina! Cry! till thy summons, heard at last, Shall fall, like Marion's bugle-blast, Re-echoed from the haunted past, Carolina!
IV.
I hear a murmur, as of waves That grope their way through sunless caves, Like bodies struggling in their graves, Carolina! And now it deepens; slow and grand It swells, as rolling to the land An ocean broke upon the strand, Carolina! Shout! let it reach the startled Huns! And roar with all thy festal guns! It is the answer of thy sons, Carolina!
V.
They will not wait to hear thee call; From Sachem's head to Sumter's wall Resounds the voice of hut and hall, Carolina! No! thou hast not a stain, they say, Or none save what the battle-day Shall wash in seas of blood away, Carolina! Thy skirts, indeed, the foe may part, Thy robe be pierced with sword and dart, They shall not touch thy noble heart, Carolina!
VI.
Ere thou shalt own the tyrant's thrall, Ten times ten thousand men must fall; Thy corpse may hearken to his call, Carolina! When by thy bier, in mournful throngs, The women chant thy mortal wrongs, 'Twill be their own funereal songs, Carolina! From thy dead breast, by ruffians trod, No helpless child shall look to God; All shall be safe beneath thy sod, Carolina!
VII.
Girt with such wills to do and bear, Assured in right, and mailed in prayer, Thou wilt not bow thee to despair, Carolina! Throw thy bold banner to the breeze! Front with thy ranks the threatening seas, Like thine own proud armorial trees, Carolina! Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns, And roar the challenge from thy guns; Then leave the future to thy sons, Carolina!
My Mother-Land.
By Paul H. Hayne.
_"Animis, Opibusque Parati."_
My Mother-land! thou wert the first to fling Thy virgin flag of freedom to the breeze, The first to humble, in thy neighboring seas, The imperious despot's power; But long before that hour, While yet, in false and vain imagining, Thy sister nations would not own their foe, And turned to jest thy warnings, though the low, Deep, awful mutterings, that precede the throe Of earthquakes, burdened all the ominous air; While yet they paused in scorn, Of fatal madness born,-- Thou, oh, my Mother! like a priestess bless'd With wondrous vision of the things to come, Thou couldst not calmly rest Secure and dumb-- But from thy borders, with the sounds of drum And trumpet, came the thrilling note, "PREPARE!" "Prepare for what?" thy careless sisters said; "We see no threatening tempest overhead, Only a few pale clouds, the west wind's breath Will sweep away, or melt in watery death."
"Prepare!" the time grows ripe to meet our doom! Alas! it was not till the thunder-boom Of shell and cannon shocked the vernal day, Which shone o'er Charleston Bay-- When the tamed "Stars and Stripes" before us bowed-- That startled, roused, the last scale fallen away From, blinded eyes, our SOUTH, erect and proud, Fronted the issue, and, though lulled too long, Felt her great spirit nerved, her patriot valor strong.
But darker days have found us--'gainst the horde Of robber Northmen, who, with torch and sword, Approach to desecrate The sacred hearthstone and the Temple-gate-- Who would defile our fathers' graves, and cast Their ashes to the blast-- Yea! who declare, "we will annihilate The very bound-lines of your sovereign State"-- Against this ravening flood Of foul invaders, drunk with lust and blood, Oh! we, Strong in the strength of God-supported might, Go forth to give our foe no paltry fight, Nor basely yield To venal legions a scarce blood-dewed field-- But witness, Heaven! if such the need should be, To make our fated land one vast Thermopylæ!
Death! What of Death?-- Can he who once drew honorable breath In liberty's pure sphere, Foster a sensual fear, When death and slavery meet him face to face, Saying: "Choose thou between us; here, the grace Which follows patriot martyrdom, and there, Black degradation, haunted by despair."
Death! What of Death?-- The vilest reptiles, brutes or men, who crawl Across their portion of this earthly ball, Share life and motion with us; would we strive Like such to creep alive, Polluted, loathsome, only that with sin We still might keep our mortal breathings in?
The very thought brings blushes to the cheek! I hear all 'round about me murmurs run, Hot murmurs, but soon merging into ONE Soul-stirring utterance--hark! the people speak:
"Our course is righteous, and our aims are just! Behold, we seek Not merely to preserve for noble wives The virtuous pride of unpolluted lives, To shield our daughters from the ruffian's hand, And leave our sons their heirloom of command, In generous perpetuity of trust; Not only to defend those ancient laws, Which Saxon sturdiness and Norman fire Welded forevermore with freedom's cause, And handed scathless down from sire to sire-- Nor yet, our grand religion, and our Christ, Undecked by upstart creeds and vulgar charms, (Though these had sure sufficed To urge the feeblest Sybarite to arms)-- But more than all, because embracing all, Insuring all, SELF-GOVERNMENT, the boon Our patriot statesmen strove to win and keep, From prescient Pinckney and the wise Calhoun To him, that gallant Knight, The youngest champion in the Senate hall, Who, led and guarded by a luminous fate, His armor, Courage, and his war-horse, Right, Dared through the lists of eloquence to sweep Against the proud Bois Guilbert of debate![1]
"There's not a tone from out the teeming past, Uplifted once in such a cause as ours, Which does not smite our souls In long reverberating thunder-rolls, From the far mountain-steeps of ancient story. Above the shouting, furious Persian mass, Millions arrayed in pomp of Orient powers, Rings the wild war-cry of Leonidas Pent in his rugged fortress of the rock; And o'er the murmurous seas, Compact of hero-faith and patriot bliss, (For conquest crowns the Athenian's hope at last), Gome the clear accents of Miltiades, Mingled with cheers that drown the battle-shock Beside the wave-washed strand of Salamis.
"Where'er on earth the self-devoted heart Hath been by worthy deeds exalted thus, We look for proud exemplars; yet for us It is enough to know _Our fathers left us freemen_; let us show The will to hold our lofty heritage, The patient strength to act our fathers' part-- Brothers on history's page, We wait to write our autographs in gore, To cast the morning brightness of our glory Beyond our day and hope, The narrow limit of _one_ age's scope, On Time's remotest shore!
"Yea! though our children's blood Kain 'round us in a crimson-swelling flood, Why pause or falter?--that red tide shall bear The Ark that holds our shrined liberty, Nearer, and yet more near Some height of promise o'er the ensanguined sea.
"At last, the conflict done, The fadeless meed of final victory won-- Behold! emerging from the rifted dark Athwart a shining summit high in heaven, That delegated Ark! No more to be by vengeful tempests driven, But poised upon the sacred mount, whereat The congregated nations gladly gaze, Struck by the quiet splendor of the rays That circle Freedom's blood-bought Ararat!"
Thus spake the people's wisdom; unto me Its voice hath come, a passionate augury! Methinks the very aspect of the world Changed to the mystic music of its hope. For, lo! about the deepening heavenly cope The stormy cloudland banners all are furled, And softly borne above Are brooding pinions of invisible love, Distilling balm of rest and tender thought From fairy realms, by fairy witchery wrought O'er the hushed ocean steal celestial gleams Divine as light that haunts a poet's dreams; And universal nature, wheresoever My vision strays--o'er sky, and sea, and river-- Sleeps, like a happy child, In slumber undefiled, A premonition of sublimer days, When war and warlike lays At length shall cease, Before a grand Apocalypse of Peace, Vouchsafed in mercy to all human kind-- A prelude and a prophecy combined!
[1]Everybody must remember the famous tournament scene in "Ivanhoe." Of course the author, in drawing a comparison between that chivalric battle and the contest upon "Foote's Resolutions" in the great Senatorial debate of 1832, would be understood as _not_ pushing the comparison further than the _first_ shock of arms between Bois Guilbert and his youthful opponent, which Scott tells us was the most spirited encounter of the day. Both the knights' lances were fairly broken, and they parted, with no decisive advantage on either side.
Joe Johnston.
By John R. Thompson.
Once more to the breach for the land of the West! And a leader we give of our bravest and best, Of his State and his army the pride; Hope shines like the plume of Navarre on his crest, And gleams in the glaive at his side.
For his courage is keen, and his honor is bright As the trusty Toledo[1] he wears to the fight, Newly wrought in the forges of Spain; And this weapon, like all he has brandished for right, Will never be dimmed by a stain.
He leaves the loved, soil of Virginia behind, Where the dust of his fathers is fitly enshrined, Where lie the fresh fields of his fame; Where the murmurous pines, as they sway in the wind, Seem ever to whisper his name.
The Johnstons have always borne wings on their spurs, And their motto a noble distinction confers-- "Ever ready!" for friend or for foe-- With a patriot's fervor the sentiment stirs The large, manly heart of our JOE.
We read that a former bold chief of the clan, Fell, bravely defending the West, in the van, On Shiloh's illustrious day; And with reason we reckon our Johnston's the man The dark, bloody debt to repay.
There is much to be done; if not glory to seek, There's a just and terrible vengeance to wreak For crimes of a terrible dye; While the plaint of the helpless, the wail of the weak, In a chorus rise up to the sky.
For the Wolf of the North we once drove to his den, That quailed with affright 'neath the stern glance of men, With his pack has returned to the spoil; Then come from the mountain, the hamlet, the glen, And drive him again from your soil.
Brave-born Tennesseeans, so loyal, so true, Who have hunted the beast in your highlands, of you Our leader had never a doubt; You will troop by the thousand the chase to renew, The day that his bugles ring out.
But ye "Hunters," so famed, "of Kentucky" of yore, Where now are the rifles that kept from your door The wolf and the robber as well? Of a truth, you have never been laggard before To deal with a savage so fell.
Has the love you once bore to your country grown cold? Has the fire on the altar died out? do you hold Your lives than your freedom more dear? Can you shamefully barter your birthright for gold, Or basely take counsel of fear?
We will not believe it; Kentucky, the land Of a Clay, will not tamely submit to the brand That disgraces the dastard, the slave: The hour of redemption draws nigh, is at hand, Her own sons her own honor shall save!
Mighty men of Missouri, come forth to the call, When the rush of your rivers, when tempests appal, And the torrents their sources unseal; And this be the watchword of one and of all-- "Remember the butcher, McNeil!"
Then once more to the breach for the land of the West; Strike home for your hearths--for the lips you love best; Follow on where your leader you see; One flash of his sword, when the foe is hard pressed, And the land of the West shall be free!
[Footnote 1: General Johnston carries with him a beautiful blade, recently presented to him, bearing the mark of the Royal Manufactory of Toledo, 1862.]
Over the River.
By Jane T. H. Cross.
Published in the Nashville Christian Advocate, 1861.
We hail your "stripes" and lessened "stars," As one may hail a neighbor; Now forward move! no fear of jars, With nothing but free labor; And we will mind our slaves and farm, And never wish you any harm, But greet you--_over the river_.
The self-same language do we speak, The same dear words we utter; Then let's not make each other weak, Nor 'gainst each other mutter; But let each go his separate way, And each will doff his hat, and say: "I greet you--over the river!"
Our flags, almost the same, unfurl, And nod across the border; Ohio's waves between them curl-- _Our stripe's a little broader_; May yours float out on every breeze, And, _in our wake_, traverse all seas-- We greet you--over the river!
We part, as friends of years should part, With pleasant words and wishes, And no desire is in our heart For Lincoln's loaves and fishes; "Farewell," we wave you from afar, We like you best--just where you are-- And greet you--over the river!
The Confederacy.
By Jane T. H. Cross.
Published in the Southern Christian Advocated.
Born in a day, full-grown, our Nation stood, The pearly light of heaven was on her face; Life's early joy was coursing in her blood; A thing she was of beauty and of grace.
She stood, a stranger on the great broad earth, No voice of sympathy was heard to greet The glory-beaming morning of her birth, Or hail the coming of the unsoiled feet.
She stood, derided by her passing foes; Her heart beat calmly 'neath their look of scorn; Their rage in blackening billows round her rose-- Her brow, meanwhile, as radiant as the morn.
Their poisonous coils about her limbs are cast, She shakes them off in pure and holy ire, As quietly as Paul, in ages past, Shook off the serpent in the crackling fire.
She bends not to her foes, nor to the world, She bears a heart for glory, or for gloom; But with her starry cross, her flag unfurled, She kneels amid the sweet magnolia bloom.
She kneels to Thee, O God, she claims her birth, She lifts to Thee her young and trusting eye, She asks of Thee her place upon the earth-- For it is Thine to give or to deny.
Oh, let _Thine_ eye but recognize her right! Oh, let _Thy_ voice but justify her claim! Like grasshoppers are nations in Thy sight, And all their power is but an empty name,
Then listen, Father, listen to her prayer! Her robes are dripping with her children's blood; Her foes around "like bulls of Bashan stare," They fain would sweep her off, "as with a flood."
The anguish wraps her close around, like death, Her children lie in heaps about her slain; Before the world she bravely holds her breath, Nor gives one utterance to a note of pain.
But 'tis not like Thee to forget the oppressed, Thou feel'st within her heart the stifled moan-- Thou Christ! Thou Lamb of God! oh, give her rest! For Thou hast called her!--is she not Thine own?
President Davis.
By Jane T. H. Cross.