Chapter 9
At Fort Pillow.
First published in the Wilmington Journal, April 25, 1864.
You shudder as you think upon The carnage of the grim report, The desolation when we won The inner trenches of the fort.
But there are deeds you may not know, That scourge the pulses into strife; Dark memories of deathless woe Pointing the bayonet and knife.
The house is ashes where I dwelt, Beyond the mighty inland sea; The tombstones shattered where I knelt, By that old church at Pointe Coupee.
The Yankee fiends, that came with fire, Camped on the consecrated sod, And trampled in the dust and mire The Holy Eucharist of God!
The spot where darling mother sleeps, Beneath the glimpse of yon sad moon, Is crushed, with splintered marble heaps, To stall the horse of some dragoon.
God! when I ponder that black day It makes my frantic spirit wince; I marched--with Longstreet--far away, But have beheld the ravage since
The tears are hot upon my face, When thinking what bleak fate befell The only sister of our race-- A thing too horrible to tell.
They say that, ere her senses fled, She rescue of her brothers cried; Then feebly bowed her stricken head, Too pure to live thus--so she died.
Two of those brothers heard no plea; With their proud hearts forever still-- John shrouded by the Tennessee, And Arthur there at Malvern Hill.
But I have heard it everywhere, Vibrating like a passing knell; 'Tis as perpetual as the air, And solemn as a funeral bell.
By scorched lagoon and murky swamp My wrath was never in the lurch; I've killed the picket in his camp, And many a pilot on his perch.
With steady rifle, sharpened brand, A week ago, upon my steed, With Forrest and his warrior band, I made the hell-hounds writhe and bleed.
You should have seen our leader go Upon the battle's burning marge, Swooping, like falcon, on the foe, Heading the gray line's iron charge!
All outcasts from our ruined marts, We heard th' undying serpent hiss, And in the desert of our hearts The fatal spell of Nemesis.
The Southern yell rang loud and high The moment that we thundered in, Smiting the demons hip and thigh, Cleaving them to the very chin.
My right arm bared for fiercer play, The left one held the rein in slack; In all the fury of the fray I sought the white man, not the black.
The dabbled clots of brain and gore Across the swirling sabres ran; To me each brutal visage bore The front of one accursed man.
Throbbing along the frenzied vein, My blood seemed kindled into song-- The death-dirge of the sacred slain, The slogan of immortal wrong.
It glared athwart the dripping glaves, It blazed in each avenging eye-- _The thought of desecrated graves, And some lone sister's desperate cry!_
From the Rapidan--1864.
A low wind in the pines! And a dull pain in the breast! And oh! for the sigh of her lips and eyes-- One touch of the hand I pressed!
The slow, sad lowland wind, It sighs through the livelong day, While the splendid mountain breezes blow, And the autumn is burning away.
Here the pines sigh ever above, And the broomstraw sighs below; And far from the bare, bleak, windy fields Comes the note of the drowsy crow.
There the trees are crimson and gold, Like the tints of a magical dawn, And the slender form, in the dreamy days, By the slow stream rambles on.
Oh, day that weighs on the heart! Oh, wind in the dreary pines! Does she think on me 'mid the golden hours, Past the mountain's long blue lines?
The old house, lonely and still, By the sad Shenandoah's waves, Must be touched to-day by the sunshine's gleam, As the spring flowers bloom on graves.
Oh, sunshine, flitting and sad, Oh, wind, that forever sighs! The hall may be bright, but my life is dark For the sunshine of her eyes!
Song of Our Glorious Southland.
By Mrs. Mary Ware.
From the Southern Field and Fireside.
I.
Oh, sing of our glorious Southland, The pride of the golden sun! 'Tis the fairest land of flowers The eye e'er looked upon.
Sing of her orange and myrtle That glitter like gems above; Sing of her dark-eyed maidens As fair as a dream of love.
Sing of her flowing rivers-- How musical their sound! Sing of her dark green forests, The Indian hunting-ground.
Sing of the noble nation Fierce struggling to be free; Sing of the brave who barter Their lives for liberty!
II.
Weep for the maid and matron Who mourn their loved ones slain; Sigh for the light departed, Never to shine again:
'Tis the voice of Rachel weeping, That never will comfort know; 'Tis the wail of desolation, The breaking of hearts in woe!
III.
Ah! the blood of Abel crieth For vengeance from the sod! 'Tis a brother's hand that's lifted In the face of an angry God!
Oh! brother of the Northland, We plead from our father's grave; We strike for our homes and altars, He fought to build and save!
A smouldering fire is burning, The Southern heart is steeled-- Perhaps 'twill break in dying, But never will it yield.
Sonnet.
By Paul H. Hayne.
Rise from your gory ashes stern and pale, Ye martyred thousands! and with dreadful ire, A voice of doom, a front of gloomy fire, Rebuke those faithless souls, whose querulous wail Disturbs your sacred sleep!--"The withering hail Of battle, hunger, pestilence, despair, Whatever of mortal anguish man may bear, We bore unmurmuring! strengthened by the mail Of a most holy purpose!--then we died!-- Vex not our rest by cries of selfish pain, But to the noblest measure of your powers Endure the appointed trial! Griefs defied, But launch their threatening thunderbolts in vain, And angry storms pass by in gentlest showers!"
Hospital Duties.
Charleston Courier.
Fold away all your bright-tinted dresses, Turn the key on your jewels to-day, And the wealth of your tendril-like tresses Braid back in a serious way; No more delicate gloves, no more laces, No more trifling in boudoir or bower, But come with your souls in your faces To meet the stern wants of the hour.
Look around. By the torchlight unsteady The dead and the dying seem one-- What! trembling and paling already, Before your dear mission's begun? These wounds are more precious than ghastly-- Time presses her lips to each scar, While she chants of that glory which vastly Transcends all the horrors of war.
Pause here by this bedside. How mellow The light showers down on that brow! Such a brave, brawny visage, poor fellow! Some homestead is missing him now. Some wife shades her eyes in the clearing, Some mother sits moaning distressed, While the loved one lies faint but unfearing, With the enemy's ball in his breast.
Here's another--a lad--a mere stripling, Picked up in the field almost dead, With the blood through his sunny hair rippling From the horrible gash in the head. They say he was first in the action: Gay-hearted, quick-headed, and witty: He fought till he dropped with exhaustion At the gates of our fair southern city.
Fought and fell 'neath the guns of that city, With a spirit transcending his years-- Lift him up in your large-hearted pity, And wet his pale lips with your tears. Touch him gently; most sacred the duty Of dressing that poor shattered hand! God spare him to rise in his beauty, And battle once more for his land!
Pass on! it is useless to linger While others are calling your care; There is need for your delicate finger, For your womanly sympathy there. There are sick ones athirst for caressing, There are dying ones raving at home, There are wounds to be bound with a blessing, And shrouds to make ready for some.
They have gathered about you the harvest Of death in its ghastliest view; The nearest as well as the furthest Is there with the traitor and true. And crowned with your beautiful patience, Made sunny with love at the heart, You must balsam the wounds of the nations, Nor falter nor shrink from your part.
And the lips of the mother will bless you, And angels, sweet-visaged and pale, And the little ones run to caress you, And the wives and the sisters cry hail! But e'en if you drop down unheeded, What matter? God's ways are the best: You have poured out your life where 'twas needed, And he will take care of the rest.
They Cry Peace, Peace, When There Is No Peace.
By Mrs. Alethea S. Burroughs, of Georgia.
They are ringing peace on my heavy ear-- No peace to my heavy heart! They are ringing peace, I hear! I hear! O God! how my hopes depart!
They are ringing peace from the mountain side; With a hollow voice it comes-- They are ringing peace o'er the foaming tide, And its echoes fill our homes.
They are ringing peace, and the spring-time blooms Like a garden fresh and fair; But our martyrs sleep in their silent tombs-- Do _they_ hear that sound--do they hear?
They are ringing peace, and the battle-cry And the bayonet's work are done, And the armor bright they are laying by, From the brave sire to the son.
And the musket's clang, and the soldier's drill, And the tattoo's nightly sound; We shall hear no more, with a joyous thrill, Peace, peace, they are ringing round!
There are women, still as the stifled air On the burning desert's track, Not a cry of joy, not a welcome cheer-- And their brave ones coming back!
There are fair young heads in their morning pride, Like the lilies pale they bow; Just a memory left to the soldier's bride-- Ah, God! sustain her now!
There are martial steps that we may not hear! There are forms we may not see! Death's muster roll they have answered clear, _They are free! thank God, they are free!_
Not a fetter fast, nor a prisoner's chain For the noble army gone-- No conqueror comes o'er the heavenly plain-- Peace, _peace to the dead alone!_
They are ringing peace, but strangers tread O'er the land where our fathers trod, And our birthright joys, like a dream, have fled, And _Thou!_ where art _Thou_, 0 God!
They are ringing peace! _not here, not here,_ Where the victor's mark is set; Roll back to the North its mocking cheer-- No peace to the Southland yet!
We may sheathe the sword, and the rifle-gun We may hang on the cottage wall, And the bayonet brave, sharp duty done, From, the soldier's arm it may fall.
But peace!--no peace! till the same good sword, Drawn out from its scabbard be, And the wide world list to my country's word, And the South! oh, the South, be free!
Charleston Broadside.
Ballad--"What! Have Ye Thought?"
Charleston Mercury.
I.
What! have ye thought to pluck Victory from chance and luck, Triumph from clamorous shout, without a will? Without the heart to brave All peril to the grave, And battle on its brink, unshrinking still?
II.
And did ye dream success Would still unvarying bless Your arms, nor meet reverse in some dread field? And shall an adverse hour Make ye mistrust the power Of virtue, in your souls, to make your enemy yield?
III.
Oh! from this dreary sleep Arise, and upward leap, Nor let your hearts grow palsied with dismay! Fling out your banner high, Still challenging the sky, While thousand strong arms bear it on its way.
IV.
Forth, as a sacred band, Sworn saviours of the land, Chosen by God, the champions of the right! And never doubt that _He_ Who _made_ will _keep_ ye free, If thus your souls resolve to triumph in the fight!
V.
The felon foe, no more Trampling the sacred shore, Shall leave defiling footprint on the sod; Where, desperate in the strife, Reckless of wounds and life, Ye brave your myriad foes beneath the eye of God!
VI.
On brothers, comrades, men, Rush to the field again; Home, peace, love, safety--freedom--are the prize! Strike! while an arm can bear Weapon--and do not spare-- Ye break a felon bond in every foe that dies!
Missing.
In the cool, sweet hush of a wooded nook, Where the May buds sprinkle the green old mound, And the winds, and the birds, and the limpid brook, Murmur their dreams with a drowsy sound; Who lies so still in the plushy moss, With his pale cheek pressed on a breezy pillow, Couched where the light and the shadows cross Through the flickering fringe of the willow? Who lies, alas! So still, so chill, in the whispering grass?
A soldier clad in the Zouave dress, A bright-haired man, with his lips apart, One hand thrown up o'er his frank, dead face, And the other clutching his pulseless heart, Lies here in the shadows, cool and dim, His musket swept by a trailing bough, With a careless grace in each quiet limb, And a wound on his manly brow; A wound, alas! Whence the warm blood drips on the quiet grass.
The violets peer from their dusky beds, With a tearful dew in their great, pure eyes; The lilies quiver their shining heads, Their pale lips full of a sad surprise; And the lizard darts through the glistening fern-- And the squirrel rustles the branches hoary; Strange birds fly out, with a cry, to bathe Their wings in the sunset glory; While the shadows pass O'er the quiet face and the dewy grass.
God pity the bride who waits at home, With her lily cheeks and her violet eyes, Dreaming the sweet old dreams of love, While her lover is walking in Paradise; God strengthen her heart as the days go by, And the long, drear nights of her vigil follow, Nor bird, nor moon, nor whispering wind, May breathe the tale of the hollow; Alas! alas! The secret is safe with the woodland grass.
Ode-"Souls of Heroes."
Charleston Mercury.
Souls of heroes, ascended from fields ye have won, Still smile on the conflict so greatly begun; Bring succor to comrade, to brother, to son Now breasting the battle in ranks of the brave; And the dastard that loiters, the conflict to shun, Pursue him with scorn to the grave!
II.
Pursue him with furies that goad to despair, Hunt him out, where he crouches in crevice and lair, Drive him forth, while the wife of his bosom cries--"There Goes the coward that skulks, though his sister and wife Tremble, nightly, in sleep, overshadowed by fear Of a sacrifice dearer than life."
III.
There are thousands that loiter, of historied claim, Who boast of the heritage shrined in each name-- Sting their souls to the quick, till they shrink from the shame Which dishonors the names and the past of their boast; Even now they may win the best guerdon of fame, And retrieve the bright honors they've lost!
IV.
Even now, while their country is torn in the toils, While the wild boar is raging to raven the spoils, While the boa is spreading around us the coils Which would strangle the freedom our ancestors gave; But each soul must be quickened until it o'er-boils, Every muscle be corded to save!
V.
Still the cause is the same which, in long ages gone, Roused up your great sires, so gallantly known, When, braving the tyrant, the sceptre and throne, They rushed to the conflict, despising the odds; Armed with bow, spear, and scythe, and with sling and with stone, For their homes and their family gods!
VI.
Shall we be less worthy the sacrifice grand, The heritage noble we took at their hand, The peace and the comfort, the fruits of the land; And, sunk in a torpor as hopeless as base, Recoil from the shock of the Sodomite band, That would ruin the realm and the race?
VII.
Souls of heroes, ascended from fields ye have won, Your toils are not closed in the deeds ye have done; Touch the souls of each laggard and profligate son, The greed and the sloth, and the cowardice shame; Till we rise to complete the great work ye've begun, And with freedom make conquest of fame!
Jackson.
By H. L. Flash, of Galveston, Formerly of Mobile.
Not midst the lightning of the stormy fight, Nor in the rush upon the vandal foe, Did kingly death, with his resistless might, Lay the great leader low.
His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke, In the full sunshine of a peaceful town: When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak That propped our cause went down.
Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, Recalling all his grand heroic deeds, Freedom herself is writhing with the wound, And all the country bleeds.
He entered not the nation's promised land, At the red belching of the cannon's mouth: But broke the house of bondage with his hand-- The Moses of the South!
O gracious God! not gainless in the loss; A glorious sunbeam gilds the sternest frown; And while his country staggers with the cross, He rises with the crown!
Mobile Advertiser and Register.
Captain Maffit's Ballad of the Sea.
Charleston Mercury.
I.
Though winds are high and skies are dark, And the stars scarce show us a meteor spark; Yet buoyantly bounds our gallant barque, Through billows that flash in a sea of blue; We are coursing free, like the Viking shark, And our prey, like him, pursue!
II.
At each plunge of our prow we bare the graves, Where, heedless of roar among winds and waves, The dead have slept in their ocean caves, Never once dreaming--as if no more They hear, though the Storm-God ramps and raves From the deeps to the rock-bound shore.
III.
Brave sailors were they in the ancient times, Heroes or pirates--men of all climes, That had never an ear for the Sabbath chimes, Never once called on the priest to be shriven; They died with the courage that still sublimes, And, haply, may fit for Heaven.
IV.
Never once asking the when or why, But ready, all hours, to battle and die, They went into fight with a terrible cry, Counting no odds, and, victors or slain, Meeting fortune or fate, with an equal eye, Defiant of death and pain.
V.
Dread are the tales of the wondrous deep, And well do the billows their secrets keep, And sound should those savage old sailors sleep, If sleep they may after such a life; Where every dark passion, alert and aleap, Made slumber itself a strife.
VI.
What voices of horror, through storm and surge, Sang in the perishing ear its dirge, As, raging and rending, o'er Hell's black verge, Each howling soul sank to its doom; And what thunder-tones from the deeps emerge, As yawns for its prey the tomb!
VII.
We plough the same seas which the rovers trod, But with better faith in the saving God, And bear aloft and carry abroad The starry cross, our sacred sign, Which, never yet sullied by crime or fraud, Makes light o'er the midnight brine.
VIII.
And we rove not now on a lawless quest, With passions foul in the hero's breast, Moved by no greed at the fiend's behest, Gloating in lust o'er a bloody prey; But from tyrant robber the spoil to wrest, And tear down his despot sway!
IX.
'Gainst the spawn of Europe, and all the lands, British and German--Norway's sands, Dutchland and Irish--the hireling bands Bought for butchery--recking no rede, But, flocking like vultures, with felon hands, To fatten the rage of greed.
X.
With scath they traverse both land and sea, And with sacred wrath we must make them flee; Making the path of the nations free, And planting peace in the heart of strife; In the star of the cross, our liberty Brings light to the world, and life!
XI.
Let Christendom cower 'neath Stripes and Stars, Cloaking her shame under legal bars, Not too moral for traffic, but shirking wars, While the Southern cross, floating topmast high. Though torn, perchance, by a thousand scars, Shall light up the midnight sky!
Melt the Bells.
F. Y. Rockett.--Memphis Appeal.
The following lines were written on General Beauregard's appeal to the people to contribute their bells, that they may be melted into cannon.
Melt the bells, melt the bells, Still the tinkling on the plains, And transmute the evening chimes Into war's resounding rhymes, That the invaders may be slain By the bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells, That for years have called to prayer, And, instead, the cannon's roar Shall resound the valleys o'er, That the foe may catch despair From the bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells, Though it cost a tear to part With the music they have made, Where the friends we love are laid, With pale cheek and silent heart, 'Neath the bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells, Into cannon, vast and grim, And the foe shall feel the ire From each heaving lungs of fire, And we'll put our trust in Him And the bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells, And when foes no more attack, And the lightning cloud of war Shall roll thunderless and far, We will melt the cannon back Into bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells, And they'll peal a sweeter chime, And remind of all the brave Who have sunk to glory's grave, And will sleep thro' coming time 'Neath the bells.
John Pelham.
By James R. Randall.
Just as the spring came laughing through the strife, With all its gorgeous cheer; In the bright April of historic life Fell the great cannoneer.
The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath His bleeding country weeps-- Hushed in the alabaster arms of death, Our young Marcellus sleeps.
Nobler and grander than the Child of Rome, Curbing his chariot steeds; The knightly scion of a Southern home Dazzled the land with deeds.
Gentlest and bravest in the battle brunt, The champion of the truth, He bore his banner to the very front Of our immortal youth.
A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow, The fiery pang of shells-- And there's a wail of immemorial woe In Alabama dells.
The pennon drops that led the sacred band Along the crimson field; The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand Over the spotless shield.
We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face While 'round the lips and eyes, Couched in the marble slumber, flashed the grace Of a divine surprise.
Oh, mother of a blessed soul on high! Thy tears may soon be shed-- Think of thy boy with princes of the sky, Among the Southern dead.
How must he smile on this dull world beneath, Fevered with swift renown-- He--with the martyr's amaranthine wreath Twining the victor's crown!
"Ye Batteries of Beauregard."
By J. R. Barrick, of Kentucky.
"Ye batteries of Beauregard!" Pour your hail from Moultrie's wall; Bid the shock of your deep thunder On their fleet in terror fall: Rain your storm of leaden fury On the black invading host-- Teach them that their step shall never Press on Carolina's coast.
"Ye batteries of Beauregard!" Sound the story of our wrong; Let your tocsin wake the spirit Of a people brave and strong; Her proud names of old remember-- Marion, Sumter, Pinckney, Greene; Swell the roll whose deeds of glory Side by side with theirs are seen.
"Ye batteries of Beauregard!" From Savannah on them frown; By the majesty of Heaven Strike their "grand armada" down; By the blood of many a freeman, By each dear-bought battle-field, By the hopes we fondly cherish, Never ye the victory yield.
"Ye batteries of Beauregard!" All along our Southern coast, Let, in after-time, your triumphs, Be a nation's pride and boast; Send each missile with a greeting To the vile, ungodly crew; Make them feel they ne'er can conquer People to themselves so true.
"Ye batteries of Beauregard!" By the glories of the past, By the memory of old Sumter, Whose renown will ever last, Speed upon their vaunted legions Volleys thick of shot and shell, Bid them welcome, in your glory, To their own appointed hell.
"When Peace Returns."
Published in the Granada Picket.
By Olivia Tully Thomas.
When "war has smoothed his wrinkled front," And meek-eyed peace returning, Has brightened hearts that long were wont To sigh in grief and mourning-- How blissful then will be the day When, from the wars returning, The weary soldier wends his way To dear ones that are yearning,