Chapter 6

Published in the New York News, 1865.

The cell is lonely, and the night Has filled it with a darker gloom; The little rays of friendly light, Which through each crack and chink found room To press in with their noiseless feet, All merciful and fleet, And bring, like Noah's trembling dove, God's silent messages of love-- These, too, are gone, Shut out, and gone, And that great heart is left alone.

Alone, with darkness and with woe, Around him Freedom's temple lies, Its arches crushed, its columns low, The night-wind through its ruin sighs; Rash, cruel hands that temple razed, Then stood the world amazed! And now those hands--ah, ruthless deeds! Their captive pierce--his brave heart bleeds; And yet no groan Is heard, no groan! He suffers silently, alone.

For all his bright and happy home, He has that cell, so drear and dark, The narrow walls, for heaven's blue dome, The clank of chains, for song of lark; And for the grateful voice of friends-- That voice which ever lends Its charm where human hearts are found-- He hears the key's dull, grating sound; No heart is near, No kind heart near, No sigh of sympathy, no tear!

Oh, dream not thus, thou true and good! Unnumbered hearts on thee await, By thee invisibly have stood, Have crowded through thy prison-gate; Nor dungeon bolts, nor dungeon bars, Nor floating "stripes and stars," Nor glittering gun or bayonet, Can ever cause us to forget Our faith to thee, Our love to thee, Thou glorious soul! thou strong! _thou free!_

The Rifleman's "Fancy Shot."

"Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot, Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette; Ring me a ball on the glittering spot That shines on his breast like an amulet."

"Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead; There's music around when my barrel's in tune." Crack! went the rifle; the messenger sped, And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.

"Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood: A button, a loop, or that luminous patch That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud."

"Oh, captain! I staggered, and sank in my track, When I gazed on the face of the fallen vidette; For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back, That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.

"But I snatched off the trinket--this locket of gold; An inch from the centre my lead broke its way, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, Of a beautiful lady in bridal array."

"Ha! rifleman! fling me the locket--'tis she! My brother's young bride; and the fallen dragoon. Was her husband. Hush, soldier!--'twas heaven's deer We must bury him there, by the light of the moon.

"But hark! the far bugles their warning unite; War is a virtue, and weakness a sin; There's a lurking and lopping around us to-night: Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!"

"All Quiet Along the Potomac To-Night."

By Lamar Fontaine.

[The claim to the authorship of this poem, which Fontaine alleges, has been disputed in behalf of a lady of New York, but she herself continues silent on the subject.]

"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!" Except here and there a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

'Tis nothing! a private or two now and then Will not count in the news of a battle; Not an officer lost! only one of the men Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night! Where soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; And their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, And the light of their camp-fires are gleaming.

A tremulous sigh, as a gentle night-wind Through the forest leaves slowly is creeping; While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard o'er the army while sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two on the low trundle bed, Far away, in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack, his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, And their mother--"may heaven defend her!"

The moon seems to shine forth as brightly as then-- That night, when the love, yet unspoken, Leaped up to his lips, and when low-murmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken.

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling; And gathers his gun closer up to his breast, As if to keep down the heart's swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree, And his footstep is lagging and weary; Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Towards the shades of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary, good-by!" And his life-blood is ebbing and splashing.

"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!" No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead, And the picket's off duty forever!

Address

Delivered at the opening of the new theatre at Richmond.

A Prize Poem.--By Henry Timrod.

A FAIRY ring

Drawn in the crimson of a battle-plain-- From whose weird circle every loathsome thing And sight and sound of pain Are banished, while about it in the air, And from the ground, and from the low-hung skies, Throng, in a vision fair As ever lit a prophet's dying eyes, Gleams of that unseen world That lies about us, rainbow-tinted shapes With starry wings unfurled, Poised for a moment on such airy capes As pierce the golden foam Of sunset's silent main-- Would image what in this enchanted dome, Amid the night of war and death In which the armed city draws its breath, We have built up! For though no wizard wand or magic cup The spell hath wrought, Within this charmed fane we ope the gates Of that divinest fairy-land Where, under loftier fates Than rule the vulgar earth on which we stand, Move the bright creatures of the realm of thought.

Shut for one happy evening from the flood That roars around us, here you may behold-- As if a desert way Could blossom and unfold A garden fresh with May-- Substantialized in breathing flesh and blood, Souls that upon the poet's page Have lived from age to age, And yet have never donned this mortal clay. A golden strand Shall sometimes spread before you like the isle Where fair Miranda's smile Met the sweet stranger whom the father's art Had led unto her heart, Which, like a bud that waited for the light, Burst into bloom at sight! Love shall grow softer in each maiden's eyes As Juliet leans her cheek upon her hand, And prattles to the night. Anon, a reverend form With tattered robe and forehead bare, That challenge all the torments of the air, Goes by! And the pent feelings choke in one long sigh, While, as the mimic thunder rolls, you hear The noble wreck of Lear Reproach like things of life the ancient skies, And commune with the storm! Lo! next a dim and silent chamber, where Wrapt in glad dreams, in which, perchance, the Moor Tells his strange story o'er, The gentle Desdemona chastely lies, Unconscious of the loving murderer nigh. Then through a hush like death Stalks Denmark's mailed ghost! And Hamlet enters with that thoughtful breath Which is the trumpet to a countless host Of reasons, but which wakes no deed from sleep; For while it calls to strife, He pauses on the very brink of fact To toy as with the shadow of an act, And utter those wise saws that cut so deep Into the core of life!

Nor shall be wanting many a scene Where forms of more familiar mien, Moving through lowlier pathways, shall present The world of every day, Such as it whirls along the busy quay, Or sits beneath a rustic orchard wall, Or floats about a fashion-freighted hall, Or toils in attics dark the night away. Love, hate, grief, joy, gain, glory, shame, shall meet, As in the round wherein our lives are pent; Chance for a while shall seem to reign, While goodness roves like guilt about the street, And guilt looks innocent.

But all at last shall vindicate the right. Crime shall be meted with its proper pain, Motes shall be taken from the doubter's sight, And fortune's general justice rendered plain. Of honest laughter there shall be no dearth, Wit shall shake hands with humor grave and sweet, Our wisdom shall not be too wise for mirth, Nor kindred follies want a fool to greet. As sometimes from the meanest spot of earth A sudden beauty unexpected starts, So you shall find some germs of hidden worth Within the vilest hearts; And now and then, when in those moods that turn To the cold Muse that whips a fault with sneers, You shall, perchance, be strangely touched to learn You've struck a spring of tears!

But while we lead you thus from change to change, Shall we not find within our ample range Some type to elevate a people's heart-- Some haro who shall teach a hero's part In this distracted time? Rise from thy sleep of ages, noble Tell! And, with the Alpine thunders of thy voice, As if across the billows unenthralled, Thy Alps unto the Alleghanies called, Bid liberty rejoice! Proclaim upon this trans-Atlantic strand The deeds which, more than their own awful mien, Make every crag of Switzerland sublime! And say to those whose feeble souls would lean Not on themselves, but on some outstretched hand, That once a single mind sufficed to quell The malice of a tyrant; let them know That each may crowd in every well-aimed blow, Not the poor strength alone of arm and brand, But the whole spirit of a mighty land!

Bid liberty rejoice! Aye, though its day Be far or near, these clouds shall yet be red With the large promise of the coming ray. Meanwhile, with that calm courage which can smile Amid the terrors of the wildest fray, Let us among the charms of art awhile Fleet the deep gloom away; Nor yet forget that on each hand and head Rest the dear rights for which we fight and pray.

The Battle of Richmond.

By George Herbert Sass, Charleston, S.C.

"For they gat not the land in possession by their own sword; neither was it their own arm that helped them; but Thy right hand, and Thine arm, and the light of Thy countenance, because Thou hadst a favor unto them." --Psalm, xliv. 3, 4.

I.

Now blessed be the Lord of Hosts through all our Southern land, And blessed be His holy name, in whose great might we stand; For He who loves the voice of prayer hath heard His people's cry, And with His own almighty arm hath won the victory! Oh, tell it out through hearth and home, from blue Potomac's wave To those far waters of the West which hide De Soto's grave.

II.

Now let there be through all the land one grand triumphant cry, Wherever beats a Southern heart, or glows a Southern sky; For He who ruleth every fight hath been with us to-day, And the great God of battles hath led the glorious fray; Oh, then unto His holy name ring out the joyful song, The race hath not been to the swift, the battle to the strong.

III.

From royal Hudson's cliff-crowned banks, from proud Ohio's flood, From that dark rock in Plymouth's bay where erst the pilgrims stood, From East and North, from far and near, went forth the gathering cry, And the countless hordes came swarming on with fierce and lustful eye. In the great name of Liberty each thirsty sword is drawn; In the great name of Liberty each tyrant presseth on.

IV.

Alas, alas! her sacred name is all dishonored now, And blood-stained hands are tearing off each laurel from her brow; But ever yet rings out the cry, in loud and mocking tone, Still in her holy shrine they strive to rear a despot's throne; And pressing on with eager tread, they sweep across the land, To burn and havoc and destroy--a fierce and ruthless band.

V.

I looked on fair Potomac's shore, and at my feet the while The sparkling waves leaped gayly up to meet glad summer's smile; And pennons gay were floating there, and banners fair to see, A mighty host arrayed, I ween, in war's proud panoply; And as I gazed a cry arose, a low, deep-swelling hum, And loud and stern along the line broke in the sullen drum.

VI.

Onward, o'er fair Virginia's fields, through ranks of nodding grain, With shout and song they sweep along, a gay and gallant train. Oh, ne'er, I ween, had those broad plains beheld a fairer sight, And clear and glad those skies of June shed forth their glorious light. Onwards, yea, ever onwards, that mighty host hath passed, And "On to Richmond!" is the cry which echoes on the blast.

VII.

I looked again, the rising sun shines down upon the moors, And 'neath his beams rise ramparts high and frowning embrasures, And on each proud abattis yawn, with menace stern and dread, Grim-visaged messengers of death: the watchful sentry's tread In measured cadence slowly falls; all Nature seems at ease, And over all the Stars and Stripes are floating in the breeze.

VIII.

But far away another line is stretching dark and long, Another flag is floating free where armed legions throng; Another war-cry's on the air, as wakes the martial drum, And onward still, in serried ranks, the Southern soldiers come, And up to that abattis high the charging' columns tread, And bold and free the Stars and Bars are waving at their head.

IX.

They are on it! they are o'er it! who can stay that living flood? Lo, ever swelling, rolleth on the weltering tide of blood. Yet another and another is full boldly stormed and won, And forward to the spoiler's camp the column presseth on. Hurrah! hurrah! the field is won! we'e met them man to man, And ever still the Stars and Bars are riding in the van.

X.

They are flying! they are flying! and close upon their track Comes our glorious "Stonewall" Jackson, with ten thousand at his back; And Longstreet, too, and gallant Hill, and Rhodes, and brave Huger,[1] And he whose name is worth a host, our bold, devoted Lee; And back to where the lordly James his scornful billow rolls, The recreant foe is fleeing fast--those men of dastard souls.

XI.

They are flying! they are flying! horse and foot, and bold dragoon, In one refluent mass are mingled, 'neath the slowly waning moon; And louder still the cry is heard, as borne upon the blast, The shouts of the pursuing host are rising full and fast: "On, on unto the river, 'tis our only chance for life! We needs must reach the gunboats, or we perish in the strife!"

XII.

'Tis done! the gory field is ours; we've conquered in the fight! And yet once more our tongues can tell the triumph of the right; And humbled is the haughty foe, who our destruction sought, For God's right hand and holy arm have great deliverance wrought. Oh, then, unto His holy name ring out the joyful song-- The race has not been to the swift, the battle to the strong.

[1] Pronounced _Eujee_

The Guerillas: A Southern War-Song.

By S. Teackle Wallis, of Maryland.

"Awake! and to horse, my brothers! For the dawn is glimmering gray; And hark! in the crackling brushwood There are feet that tread this way.

"Who cometh?" "A friend." "What tidings?" "O God! I sicken to tell, For the earth seems earth no longer, And its sights are sights of hell!

"There's rapine and fire and slaughter, From the mountain down to the shore; There's blood on the trampled harvest-- There's blood on the homestead floor.

"From the far-off conquered cities Comes the voice of a stifled wail; And the shrieks and moans of the houseless Ring out, like a dirge, on the gale.

"I've seen, from the smoking village Our mothers and daughters fly; I've seen where the little children Sank down, in the furrows, to die.

"On the banks of the battle-stained river I stood, as the moonlight shone, And it glared on the face of my brother, As the sad wave swept him on.

"Where my home was glad, are ashes, And horror and shame had been there-- For I found, on the fallen lintel, This tress of my wife's torn hair.

"They are turning the slave upon us, And, with more than the fiend's worst art, Have uncovered the fires of the savage That slept in his untaught heart.

"The ties to our hearths that bound him, They have rent, with curses, away, And maddened him, with their madness, To be almost as brutal as they.

"With halter and torch and Bible, And hymns to the sound of the drum, They preach the gospel of Murder, And pray for Lust's kingdom to come.

"To saddle! to saddle! my brothers! Look up to the rising sun, And ask of the God who shines there, Whether deeds like these shall be done!

"Wherever the vandal cometh, Press home to his heart with your steel, And when at his bosom you cannot, Like the serpent, go strike at his heel!

"Through thicket and wood go hunt him, Creep up to his camp fireside, And let ten of his corpses blacken Where one of our brothers hath died.

"In his fainting, foot-sore marches, In his flight from the stricken fray, In the snare of the lonely ambush, The debts that we owe him pay,

"In God's hand, alone, is judgment; But He strikes with the hands of men, And His blight would wither our manhood If we smote not the smiter again.

"By the graves where our fathers slumber, By the shrines where our mothers prayed, By our homes and hopes and freedom. Let every man swear on his blade.--

"That he will not sheath nor stay it, Till from point to heft it glow With the flush of Almighty vengeance, In the blood of the felon foe."

They swore--and the answering sunlight Leapt red from their lifted swords, And the hate in their hearts made echo To the wrath in their burning words.

There's weeping in all New England, And by Schuylkill's banks a knell, And the widows there, and the orphans, How the oath was kept can tell.

A Farewell to Pope.

By John K. Thompson, of Virginia.

"Hats off" in the crowd, "Present arms" in the line! Let the standards all bow, and the sabres incline-- Roll, drums, the Rogue's March, while the conqueror goes, Whose eyes have seen only "the backs of his foes"-- Through a thicket of laurel, a whirlwind of cheers, His vanishing form from our gaze disappears; Henceforth with the savage Dacotahs to cope, _Abiit, evasit, erupit_--John Pope.

He came out of the West, like the young Lochinvor, Compeller of fate and controller of war, _Videre et vincere_, simply to see, And straightway to conquer Hill, Jackson and Lee, And old Abe at the White House, like Kilmansegg _pére_, With a monkeyish grin and beatified air, "Seemed washing his hands with invisible soap," As with eager attention he listened to Pope.

He _came_--and the poultry was swept by his sword, Spoons, liquors, and furniture went by the board; He _saw_--at a distance, the rebels appear, And "rode to the front," which was strangely the rear; He _conquered_--truth, decency, honor full soon, Pest, pilferer, puppy, pretender, poltroon; And was fain from the scene of his triumphs to slope. Sure there never was fortunate hero like Pope.

He has left us his shining example to note, And Stuart has captured his uniform coat; But 'tis puzzling enough, as his deeds we recall, To tell on whose shoulders his mantle should fall; While many may claim to deserve it, at least, From Hunter, the Hound, down to Butler, the Beast, None else, we can say, without risking the trope, But himself can be parallel ever to Pope.

Like his namesake the poet of genius and fire, He gives new expression and force to _the lyre_; But in one little matter they differ, the two, And differ, indeed, very widely, 'tis true-- While his verses gave great Alexaader his fame, 'Tis our hero's reverses accomplish the same; And fate may decree that the end of a rope Shall award yet his highest position to Pope.

Sonnet.

On Reading a Proclamation for Public Prayer.

South Carolinian.

Oh! terrible, this prayer in the market-place, These advertised humilities--decreed By proclamation, that we may be freed, And mercy find for once, and saving grace, Even while we forfeit all that made the race Worthy of Heavenly favor--and profess Our faith and homage only through duress, And dread of danger which we dare not face.

All working that's done worthily is prayer-- And honest thought is prayer--the wish, the will To mend our ways, maintain our virtues still, And, losing life, still keep our bosoms fair In sight of God--with whom humility And patient working can alone make free.

Battle of Belmont.

By J. Augustine Signaigo.

From the Memphis Appeal, Dec. 21, 1861.

I.

Now glory to our Southern cause, and praises be to God, That He hath met the Southron's foe, and scourged him with his rod: On the tented plains of Belmont, in their might the Vandals came, And they gave unto destruction all they found, with sword and flame; But they met a stout resistance from a little band that day, Who swore nobly they would conquer, or return to mother clay.

II.

But the Vandals with presumption--for they came in all their might-- Gave free vent unto their _feelings_, for they thought to win the fight; And they forced our little cohorts to the very river's brink, With a breath between destruction and of life's remaining link: When the cannon of McCown, belching fire from out its mouth, Brought destruction to the Vandals and protection to the South.

III.

There was Pillow, Polk and Cheatham, who had sworn that day on high That field should see them conquer, or that field should see them die; And amid the groan of dying and amid the battle's din, Came the echo back from heaven, that they should that battle win: And amid the boom of cannons, and amid the clash of swords, Came destruction to the foeman--and the vengeance was the Lord's!

IV.

When the fight was raging hottest, came the wild and cheering cry, That brought terror to the foeman, and that raised our spirits high! It was "Cheatham!" "Cheatham!" "Cheatham!" that the Vandals' ears did sting, And our boys caught up the echo till it made the welkin ring; And the moment that the Hessians thought the fight was surely won, From the crackling of our rifles--_bravely_ then they had to run!

V.

Then they ran unto their transports in deep terror and dismay, And their great grandchildren's children will be shamed to name that day; For the woe they came to bring to the people of the South Was returned tenfold to them at the cannon's booming mouth: And the proud old Mississippi ran that day a horrid flood, For its banks were deeply crimsoned with the hireling Northman's blood.

VI.

Let us think of those who fell there, fighting foremost with the foe, And who nobly struck for Freedom, dealing Tyranny a blow: Like the ocean beating wildly 'gainst a prow of adamant, Or the storm that keeps on bursting, but cannot destroy the plant; Brave Lieutenant Walker, wounded, still fought on the bloody field, Cheering on his noble comrades, ne'er unto the foe to yield!

VII.

None e'er knew him but to love him, the brave martyr to his clime-- Now his name belongs to Freedom, to the very end of Time: And the last words that he uttered will forgotten be by few: "I have bravely fought them, mother--I have bravely fought for you!" Let his memory be green in the hearts who love the South, And his noble deeds the theme that shall dwell in every mouth.

VIII.

In the hottest of the battle stood a Vandal bunting rag, Proudly to the breeze 'twas floating in defiance to our flag; And our Southern boys knew well that, to bring that bunting down, They would meet the angel death in his sternest, maddest frown; But it could not gallant Armstrong, dauntless Vollmer, or brave Lynch, Though ten thousand deaths confronted, from the task of honor flinch!

IX.