Chapter 8
Oh, Pam! oh, Pam! hast ever read what's writ in holy pages, How blessed the peace-makers are, God's children of the ages? Perhaps you think the promise sweet was nothing but a platitude; 'Tis clear that _you_ have no concern in that divine beatitude.
But "hear! hear! hear!" another peer, that mighty man of muscle, Is on his legs, what slender pegs! "ye noble Earl" of Russell; Thus might he speak, did not of speech his shrewd reserve the folly see, And thus unfold the subtle plan of England's secret policy.
"John Bright was right, yes, let 'em fight, these fools across the water, 'Tis no affair at all of ours, their carnival of slaughter; The Christian world, indeed, may say we ought not to allow it, sirs, But still 'tis music in our ears, this roar of Yankee howitzers.
"A word or two of sympathy, that costs us not a penny, We give the gallant Southerners, the few against the many; We say their noble fortitude of final triumph presages, And praise, in Blackwood's Magazine, Jeff. Davis and his messages.
"Of course we claim the shining fame of glorious Stonewall Jackson, Who typifies the English race, a sterling Anglo-Saxon; To bravest song his deeds belong, to Clio and Melpomene"-- (And why not for a British stream demand the Chickahominy?)
"But for the cause in which he fell we cannot lift a finger, 'Tis idle on the question any longer here to linger; 'Tis true the South has freely bled, her sorrows are Homeric, oh! Her case is like to his of old who journeyed unto Jericho.
"The thieves have stripped and bruised, although as yet they have not bound her, We'd like to see her slay 'em all to right and left around her; We shouldn't cry in parliament if Lee should cross the Raritan, But England never yet was known to play the Good Samaritan.
"And so we pass the other side, and leave them to their glory, To give new proofs of manliness, new scenes for song and story; These honeyed words of compliment may possibly bamboozle 'em, But ere we intervene, you know, we'll see 'em in--Jerusalem.
"Yes, let 'em fight, till both are brought to hopeless desolation, Till wolves troop round the cottage door in one and t'other nation, Till, worn and broken down, the South shall prove no more refractory, And rust eats up the silent looms of every Yankee factory.
"Till bursts no more the cotton boll o'er fields of Carolina, And fills with snowy flosses the dusky hands of Dinah; Till war has dealt its final blow, and Mr. Seward's knavery Has put an end in all the land to freedom and to slavery.
"The grim Bastile, the rack, the wheel, without remorse or pity, May flourish with the guillotine in every Yankee city; No matter should old Abe revive the brazen bull of Phalaris, 'Tis no concern at all of ours"--(sensation in the galleries.)
"So shall our 'merry England' thrive on trans-Atlantic troubles, While India, on her distant plains, her crop of cotton doubles; And just so long as North or South shall show the least vitality, We cannot swerve, we must preserve our rigorous neutrality."
Your speech, my lord, might well become a Saxon legislator, When the "fine old English gentleman" lived in a state of natur', When Vikings quaffed from human skulls their fiery draughts of honey mead, Long, long before the barons bold met tyrant John at Runnymede.
But 'tis a speech so plain, my lord, that all may understand it, And so we quickly turn again to fight the Yankee bandit, Convinced that we shall fairly win at last our nationality, Without the help of Britain's arm, _in spite of_ her neutrality.
Illustrated News.
Close the Ranks.
By John L. O'Sullivan.
The fell invader is before! Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! We'll hunt his legions from our shore, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! Our wives, our children are behind, Our mothers, sisters, dear and kind, Their voices reach us on the wind, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
Are we to bend to slavish yoke? Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! We'll bend when bends our Southern oak. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! On with the line of serried steel, We all can die, we none can kneel To crouch beneath the Northern heel. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
We kneel to God, and God alone. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! One heart in all--all hearts as one. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! For home, for country, truth and right, We stand or fall in freedom's fight: In such a cause the right is might. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
We're here from every southern home. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! Fond, weeping voices bade us come. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks The husband, brother, boy, and sire, All burning with one holy fire-- Our country's love our only hire. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
We cannot fail, we will not yield! Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! Our bosoms are our country's shield. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! By Washington's immortal name, By Stonewall Jackson's kindred fame, Their souls, their deeds, their cause the same, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
By all we hope, by all we love, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! By home on earth, by Heaven above, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! By all the tears, and heart's blood shed, By all our hosts of martyred dead, We'll conquer, or we'll share their bed. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
The front may fall, the rear succeed, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! We smile in triumph as we bleed, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! Our Southern Cross above us waves, Long shall it bless the sacred graves Of those who died, but were not slaves. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
The Sea-Kings of the South.
By Edward C. Bruce, of Winchester, Va.
Full many have sung of the victories our warriors have won, From Bethel, by the eastern tide, to sunny Galveston, On fair Potomac's classic shore, by sweeping Tennessee, Hill, rock, and river shall tell forever the vengeance of the free.
The air still rings with the cannon-shot, with battle's breath is warm; Still on the hills their swords have saved our legions wheel and form; And Johnston, Beauregard, and Lee, with all their gallant train, Wait yet at their head, in silence dread, the hour to charge again.
But a ruggeder field than the mountain-side--a broader field than the plain, Is spread for the fight in the stormy wave and the globe-embracing main, 'Tis there the keel of the goodly ship must trace the fate of the land, For the name ye write in the sea-foam white shall first and longest stand.
For centuries on centuries, since first the hallowed tree Was launched by the lone mariner on some primeval sea, No stouter stuff than the heart of oak, or tough elastic pine, Had floated beyond the shallow shoal to pass the burning Line.
The Naiad and the Dryad met in billow and in spar; The forest fought at Salamis, the grove at Trafalgar. Old Tubalcain had sweated amain to forge the brand and ball; But failed to frame the mighty hull that held enfortressed all.
Six thousand years had waited for our gallant tars to show That iron was to ride the wave and timber sink below. The waters bland that welcomed first the white man to our shore, Columbus, of an iron world, the brave Buchanan bore.
Not gun for gun, but thirty to one, the odds he had to meet! One craft, untried of wind or tide, to beard a haughty fleet! Above her shattered relics now the billows break and pour; But the glory of that wondrous day shall be hers for evermore.
See yonder speck on the mist afar, as dim as in a dream! Anear it speeds, there are masts like reeds and a tossing plume of steam! Fleet, fierce, and gaunt, with bows aslant, she dashes proudly on, Whence and whither, her prey to gather, the foe shall learn anon.
Oh, broad and green is her hunting-park, and plentiful the game! From the restless bay of old Biscay to the Carib' sea she came. The catchers of the whale she caught; swift _Ariel_ overhauled; And made _Hatteras_ know the hardest _blow_ that ever a tar appalled.
She bears the name of a noble State, and sooth she bears it well. To us she hath made it a word of pride, to the Northern ear a knell. To the Puritan in the busy mart, the Puritan on his deck, With "Alabama" visions start of ruin, woe, and wreck.
In vain his lubberly squadrons round her magic pathway swoop-- Admiral, captain, commodore, in gunboat, frigate, sloop. Save to snatch a prize, or a foe chastise, as their feeble art she foils, She will scorn a point from her course to veer, to baffle all their toils.
And bravely doth her sister-ship begin her young career. Already hath her gentle name become a name of fear; The name that breathes of the orange-bloom, of soft lagoons that roll Round the home of the Roman of the West--the unconquered Seminole.
Like the albatross and the tropic-bird, forever on the wing, For them nor night nor breaking morn may peace nor shelter bring. All drooping from the weary cruise or shattered from the fight, No dear home-haven opes to them its arms with welcome bright.
Then side by side, in our love and pride, be our men of the land and sea; The fewer these, the sterner task, the greater their guerdon be! The fairest wreaths of amaranth the fairest hands shall twine For the brows of our preux chevaliers, the Bayards of the brine!
The "stars and bars" of our sturdy tars as gallantly shall wave As long shall live in the storied page, or the spirit-stirring stave, As hath the red cross of St. George or the raven-flag of Thor, Or flag of the sea, whate'er it be, that ever unfurled to war.
Then flout full high to their parent sky those circled stars of ours, Where'er the dark-hulled foeman floats, where'er his emblem towers! Speak for the right, for the truth and light, from the gun's unmuzzled mouth, And the fame of the Dane revive again, ye Vikings of the SOUTH!
Richmond Sentinel, March 30, 1863.
The Return.
Three years! I wonder if she'll know me? I limp a little, and I left one arm At Petersburg; and I am grown as brown As the plump chestnuts on my little farm: And I'm as shaggy as the chestnut burrs-- But ripe and sweet within, and wholly hers.
The darling! how I long to see her! My heart outruns this feeble soldier pace, For I remember, after I had left, A little Charlie came to take my place. Ah! how the laughing, three-year old, brown eyes-- His mother's eyes--will stare with pleased surprise!
Surely, they will be at the corner watching! I sent them word that I should come to-night: The birds all know it, for they crowd around, Twittering their welcome with a wild delight; And that old robin, with a halting wing-- I saved her life, three years ago last spring.
Three years! perhaps I am but dreaming! For, like the pilgrim of the long ago, I've tugged, a weary burden at my back, Through summer's heat and winter's blinding snow; Till now, I reach my home, my darling's breast, There I can roll my burden off, and rest.
* * * * *
When morning came, the early rising sun Laid his light fingers on a soldier sleeping-- Where a soft covering of bright green grass Over two mounds was lightly creeping; But waked him not: his was the rest eternal, Where the brown eyes reflected love supernal.
Our Christmas Hymn.
By John Dickson Bruns, M.D., of Charleston, S.C.
"Good-will and peace! peace and good-will!" The burden of the Advent song, What time the love-charmed waves grew still To hearken to the shining throng; The wondering shepherds heard the strain Who watched by night the slumbering fleece, The deep skies echoed the refrain, "Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!"
And wise men hailed the promised sign, And brought their birth-gifts from the East, Dear to that Mother as the wine That hallowed Cana's bridal feast; But what to these are myrrh or gold, And what Arabia's costliest gem, Whose eyes the Child divine behold, The blessed Babe of Bethlehem.
"Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!" They sing, the bright ones overhead; And scarce the jubilant anthems cease Ere Judah wails her first-born dead; And Rama's wild, despairing cry Fills with great dread the shuddering coast, And Rachel hath but one reply, "Bring back, bring back my loved and lost."
So, down two thousand years of doom That cry is borne on wailing winds, But never star breaks through the gloom, No cradled peace the watcher finds; And still the Herodian steel is driven, And breaking hearts make ceaseless moan, And still the mute appeal to heaven Man answers back with groan for groan.
How shall we keep our Christmas tide? With that dread past, its wounds agape, Forever walking by our side, A fearful shade, an awful shape; Can any promise of the spring Make green the faded autumn leaf? Or who shall say that time will bring Fair fruit to him who sows but grief?
Wild bells! that shake the midnight air With those dear tones that custom loves, You wake no sounds of laughter here, Nor mirth in all our silent groves; On one broad waste, by hill or flood, Of ravaged lands your music falls, And where the happy homestead stood The stars look down on roofless halls.
At every board a vacant chair Fills with quick tears some tender eye, And at our maddest sports appear Those well-loved forms that will not die. We lift the glass, our hand is stayed-- We jest, a spectre rises up-- And weeping, though no word is said, We kiss and pass the silent cup,
And pledge the gallant friend who keeps His Christmas-eve on Malvern's height, And him, our fair-haired boy, who sleeps Beneath Virginian snows to-night; While, by the fire, she, musing, broods On all that was and might have been, If Shiloh's dank and oozing woods Had never drunk that crimson stain.
O happy Yules of buried years! Could ye but come in wonted guise, Sweet as love's earliest kiss appears, When looking back through wistful eyes, Would seem those chimes whose voices tell His birth-night with melodious burst, Who, sitting by Samaria's well, Quenched the lorn widow's life-long thirst.
Ah! yet I trust that all who weep, Somewhere, at last, will surely find His rest, if through dark ways they keep The child-like faith, the prayerful mind; And some far Christmas morn shall bring From human ills a sweet release To loving hearts, while angels sing "Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!"
Charleston.
Written for the Charleston Courier in 1863.
By Miss E. B. Cheesborough.
Proudly she stands by the crystal sea, With the fires of hate around her, But a cordon of love as strong as fate, With adamant links surround her. Let them hurl their bolts through the azure sky, And death-bearing missiles send her, She finds in our God a mighty shield, And in heaven a sure defender.
Her past is a page of glory bright, Her present a blaze of splendor, You may turn o'er the leaves of the jewell'd tome, You'll not find the word _surrender_; For sooner than lay down her trusty arms, She'd build her own funeral pyre, And the flames that give her a martyr's fate Will kindle her glory higher.
How the demons glare as they see her stand In majestic pride serenely, And gnash with the impotent rage of hate, Creeping up slowly, meanly; While she cries, "Come forth from your covered dens, All your hireling legions send me, I'll bare my breast to a million swords, Whilst God and my sons defend me."
Oh, brave old town, o'er thy sacred form Whilst the fiery rain is sweeping, May He whose love is an armor strong Embrace thee in tender keeping; And when the red war-cloud has rolled away, Anoint thee with holy chrism, And sanctified, chastened, regenerate, true, Thou surviv'st this fierce baptism.
Gathering Song.
Air--Bonnie Blue Flag
By Annie Chambers Ketchum.
Come, brothers! rally for the right! The bravest of the brave Sends forth her ringing battle-cry Beside the Atlantic wave! She leads the way in honor's path! Come, brothers, near and far, Come rally 'round the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star!
We've borne the Yankee trickery, The Yankee gibe and sneer, Till Yankee insolence and pride Know neither shame nor fear; But ready now with shot and steel Their brazen front to mar, We hoist aloft the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star!
Now Georgia marches to the front, And close beside her come Her sisters by the Mexique Sea, With pealing trump and drum! Till, answering back from hill and glen The rallying cry afar, A NATION hoists the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star!
By every stone in Charleston Bay, By each beleaguered town, We swear to rest not, night nor day, But hunt the tyrants down! Till, bathed in valor's holy blood The gazing world afar Shall greet with shouts the Bonnie Blue That bears the cross and star!
Christmas.
By Henry Timrod, of South Carolina.
How grace this hallowed day? Shall happy bells, from yonder ancient spire, Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fire Round which the children play?
Alas! for many a moon, That tongueless tower hath cleaved the Sabbath air, Mute as an obelisk of ice aglare Beneath an Arctic noon.
Shame to the foes that drown Our psalms of worship with their impious drum. The sweetest chimes in all the land lie dumb In some far rustic town.
There, let us think, they keep, Of the dead Yules which here beside the sea They've ushered in with old-world, English glee, Some echoes in their sleep.
How shall we grace the day? With feast, and song, and dance, and antique sports, And shout of happy children in the courts, And tales of ghost and fay?
Is there indeed a door Where the old pastimes, with their lawful noise, And all the merry round of Christmas joys, Could enter as of yore?
Would not some pallid face Look in upon the banquet, calling up Dread shapes of battle in the wassail cup, And trouble all the place?
How could we bear the mirth, While some loved reveller of a year ago Keeps his mute Christmas now beneath the snow, In cold Virginian earth?
How shall we grace the day? Ah! let the thought that on this holy morn The Prince of Peace--the Prince of Peace was born, Employ us, while we pray!
Pray for the peace which long Hath left this tortured land, and haply now Holds its white court on some far mountain's brow, There hardly safe from wrong.
Let every sacred fane Call its sad votaries to the shrine of God, And, with the cloister and the tented sod, Join in one solemn strain!
With pomp of Roman form, With the grave ritual brought from England's shore, And with the simple faith which asks no more Than that the heart be warm.
He, who till time shall cease, Shall watch that earth, where once, not all in vain, He died to give us peace, will not disdain A prayer whose theme is--peace.
Perhaps, ere yet the spring Hath died into the summer, over all The land, the peace of His vast love shall fall Like some protecting wing.
Oh, ponder what it means! Oh, turn the rapturous thought in every way! Oh, give the vision and the fancy play, And shape the coming scenes!
Peace in the quiet dales, Made rankly fertile by the blood of men; Peace in the woodland, and the lonely glen, Peace in the peopled vales!
Peace in the crowded town, Peace in a thousand fields of waving grain, Peace in the highway and the flowery lane, Peace on the wind-swept down!
Peace on the furthest seas, Peace in our sheltered bays and ample streams, Peace wheresoe'er our starry garland gleams, And peace in every breeze!
Peace on the whirring marts, Peace where the scholar thinks, the hunter roams, Peace, God of Peace! peace, peace in all our homes, And peace in all our hearts!
A Prayer for Peace.
By S. Teackle Wallis, of Maryland.
Peace! Peace! God of our fathers, grant us Peace! Unto our cry of anguish and despair Give ear and pity! From the lonely homes, Where widowed beggary and orphaned woe Fill their poor urns with tears; from trampled plains, Where the bright harvest Thou has sent us rots-- The blood of them who should have garnered it Calling to Thee--from fields of carnage, where The foul-beaked vultures, sated, flap their wings O'er crowded corpses, that but yesterday Bore hearts of brothers, beating high with love And common hopes and pride, all blasted now-- Father of Mercies! not alone from these Our prayer and wail are lifted. Not alone Upon the battle's seared and desolate track, Nor with the sword and flame, is it, O God, That Thou hast smitten us. Around our hearths, And in the crowded streets and busy marts, Where echo whispers not the far-off strife That slays our loved ones; in the solemn halls Of safe and quiet counsel--nay, beneath The temple-roofs that we have reared to Thee, And 'mid their rising incense--God of Peace! The curse of war is on us. Greed and hate Hungering for gold and blood; Ambition, bred Of passionate vanity and sordid lusts, Mad with the base desire of tyrannous sway Over men's souls and thoughts, have set their price On human hecatombs, and sell and buy Their sons and brothers for the shambles. Priests, With white, anointed, supplicating hands, From Sabbath unto Sabbath clasped to Thee, Burn, in their tingling pulses, to fling down Thy censers and Thy cross, to clutch the throats Of kinsmen, by whose cradles they were born, Or grasp the brand of Herod, and go forth Till Rachel hath no children left to slay. The very name of Jesus, writ upon Thy shrines beneath the spotless, outstretched wings, Of Thine Almighty Dove, is wrapt and hid With bloody battle-flags, and from the spires That rise above them angry banners flout The skies to which they point, amid the clang Of rolling war-songs tuned to mock Thy praise.
All things once prized and honored are forgot: The freedom that we worshipped next to Thee; The manhood that was freedom's spear and shield; The proud, true heart; the brave, outspoken word, Which might be stifled, but could never wear The guise, whate'er the profit, of a lie; All these are gone, and in their stead have come The vices of the miser and the slave-- Scorning no shame that bringeth gold or power, Knowing no love, or faith, or reverence, Or sympathy, or tie, or aim, or hope, Save as begun in self, and ending there. With vipers like to these, oh! blessed God! Scourge us no longer! Send us down, once more, Some shining seraph in Thy glory glad, To wake the midnight of our sorrowing With tidings of good-will and peace to men; And if the star, that through the darkness led Earth's wisdom then, guide not our folly now, Oh, be the lightning Thine Evangelist, With all its fiery, forked tongues, to speak The unanswerable message of Thy will.
Peace! Peace! God of our fathers, grant us peace! Peace in our hearts, and at Thine altars; Peace On the red waters and their blighted shores; Peace for the 'leaguered cities, and the hosts That watch and bleed around them and within, Peace for the homeless and the fatherless; Peace for the captive on his weary way, And the mad crowds who jeer his helplessness; For them that suffer, them that do the wrong Sinning and sinned against.--O God! for all; For a distracted, torn, and bleeding land-- Speed the glad tidings! Give us, give us Peace!
The Band in the Pines.
(Heard after Pelham Died.)
By John Esten Cooke.
Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease! Cease with your splendid call; The living are brave and noble, But the dead were bravest of all!
They throng to the martial summons, To the loud, triumphant strain; And the dear bright eyes of long-dead friends Come to the heart again!
They come with the ringing bugle, And the deep drum's mellow roar; Till the soul is faint with longing For the hands we clasp no more!
Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease! Or the heart will melt in tears, For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips, And the voices of old years!