V. THE WAR WITH MEXICO
In 1821 Mexico acquired her independence of Spain, but the country became the prey of military adventurers, who were made presidents by proclamation, and retained office as long as they had an army to support them. In 1834 Santa Anna, who was in power at the time, abolished the constitution and established a military despotism. The citizens of the province of Texas, which had been largely settled from the United States, revolted and declared their independence. General Cos, the military governor, and fifteen hundred men, were besieged at Bejar, and forced to surrender, after a desperate assault led by Benjamin R. Milam.
THE VALOR OF BEN MILAM
[December 5-11, 1835]
Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio? Such was the thrilling word we heard in the chill December glow; Such was the thrilling word we heard, and a ringing, answering cry Went up from the dun adobe walls to the cloudless Texas sky.
He had won from the reek of a Mexique jail back without map or chart, With his mother-wit and his hero-grit and his stanch Kentucky heart; He had trudged by vale and by mountain trail, and by thorny and thirsty plain, And now, with joy on his grizzled brow, he had come to his own again.
They're the spawn of Hell! we heard him tell; they will knife and lie and cheat; At the board of none of the swarthy horde would I deign to sit at meat; They hold it naught that I bled and fought when Spain was their ruthless foe; Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio?
It was four to one, not gun for gun, but never a curse cared we, Three hundred faithful and fearless men who had sworn to make Texas free. It was mighty odds, by all the gods, this brute of the Mexique dam, But it was not much for heroes such as followed old Ben Milam!
With rifle-crack and sabre-hack we drove them back in the street; From house to house in the red carouse we hastened their flying feet; And ever that shout kept pealing out with a swift and sure death-blow: Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio?
Behind the walls from the hurtling balls Cos cowered and swore in his beard, While we slashed and slew from dawn till dew, and, Bexar, how we cheered! But ere failed each ruse, and the white of truce on the failing day was thrown, Our fearless soul had gone to the goal, the Land of the Great Unknown.
Death brought the darksome boon too soon to this truest one of the true, Or, men of the fated Alamo, Milam had died with you! So when their names that now are Fame's--the scorner of braggart sham;-- In song be praised, let a rouse be raised for the name of Ben Milam!
CLINTON SCOLLARD.
BEN MILAM
Oft shall the soldier think of thee, Thou dauntless leader of the brave, Who on the heights of Tyranny Won Freedom and a glorious grave.
And o'er thy tomb shall pilgrims weep, And pray to heaven in murmurs low That peaceful be the hero's sleep Who conquered San Antonio.
Enshrined on Honor's deathless scroll, A nation's thanks will tell thy fame; Long as her beauteous rivers roll Shall Freedom's votaries hymn thy name.
For bravest of the Texan clime, Who fought to make her children free, Was Milam, and his death sublime Linked with undying Liberty!
WILLIAM H. WHARTON.
On February 23, 1836, Santa Anna appeared at the head of two thousand men before San Antonio. The town was guarded by a fort called the Alamo, held by Colonel William Travis and one hundred and fifty Texans. Travis sent to Gonzales for reinforcements and shut himself up in the fort. A few days later, thirty-two men got through the Mexican lines, swelling his force to one hundred and eighty-three. After a terrific struggle, the Mexicans carried the fort on March 6. Not one of the garrison survived.
THE MEN OF THE ALAMO
[February 23-March 6, 1836]
To Houston at Gonzales town, ride, Ranger, for your life, Nor stop to say good-bye to-day to home, or child, or wife; But pass the word from ranch to ranch, to every Texan sword, That fifty hundred Mexicans have crossed the Nueces ford, With Castrillon and perjured Cos, Sesmá and Almontê, And Santa Anna ravenous for vengeance and for prey! They smite the land with fire and sword; the grass shall never grow Where northward sweeps that locust herd on San Antonio!
Now who will bar the foeman's path, to gain a breathing space, Till Houston and his scattered men shall meet him face to face? Who holds his life as less than naught when home and honor call, And counts the guerdon full and fair for liberty to fall? Oh, who but Barrett Travis, the bravest of them all! With seven score of riflemen to play the rancher's game, And feed a counter-fire to halt the sweeping prairie flame; For Bowie of the broken blade is there to cheer them on, With Evans of Concepcion, who conquered Castrillon, And o'er their heads the Lone Star flag defiant floats on high, And no man thinks of yielding, and no man fears to die.
But ere the siege is held a week a cry is heard without, A clash of arms, a rifle peal, the Ranger's ringing shout, And two-and-thirty beardless boys have bravely hewed their way To die with Travis if they must, to conquer if they may. Was ever valor held so cheap in Glory's mart before In all the days of chivalry, in all the deeds of war? But once again the foemen gaze in wonderment and fear To see a stranger break their lines and hear the Texans cheer. God! how they cheered to welcome him, those spent and starving men! For Davy Crockett by their side was worth an army then. The wounded ones forgot their wounds; the dying drew a breath To hail the king of border men, then turned to laugh at death. For all knew Davy Crockett, blithe and generous as bold, And strong and rugged as the quartz that hides its heart of gold. His simple creed for word or deed true as the bullet sped, And rung the target straight: "Be sure you're right, then go ahead!"
And were they right who fought the fight for Texas by his side? They questioned not; they faltered not; they only fought and died. Who hath an enemy like these, God's mercy slay him straight!-- A thousand Mexicans lay dead outside the convent gate, And half a thousand more must die before the fortress falls, And still the tide of war beats high around the leaguered walls. At last the bloody breach is won; the weakened lines give way; The wolves are swarming in the court; the lions stand at bay. The leader meets them at the breach, and wins the soldier's prize; A foeman's bosom sheathes his sword when gallant Travis dies. Now let the victor feast at will until his crest be red-- We may not know what raptures fill the vulture with the dead. Let Santa Anna's valiant sword right bravely hew and hack The senseless corse; its hands are cold; they will not strike him back. Let Bowie die, but 'ware the hand that wields his deadly knife; Four went to slay, and one comes back, so dear he sells his life. And last of all let Crockett fall, too proud to sue for grace, So grand in death the butcher dared not look upon his face.
But far on San Jacinto's field the Texan toils are set, And Alamo's dread memory the Texan steel shall whet. And Fame shall tell their deeds who fell till all the years be run. "Thermopylæ left one alive--the Alamo left none."
JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.
THE DEFENCE OF THE ALAMO
[March 6, 1835]
Santa Ana came storming, as a storm might come; There was rumble of cannon; there was rattle of blade; There was cavalry, infantry, bugle and drum-- Full seven thousand in pomp and parade. The chivalry, flower of Mexico; And a gaunt two hundred in the Alamo!
And thirty lay sick, and some were shot through; For the siege had been bitter, and bloody, and long. "Surrender, or die!"--"Men, what will you do?" And Travis, great Travis, drew sword, quick and strong; Drew a line at his feet.... "Will you come? Will you go? I die with my wounded, in the Alamo."
The Bowie gasped, "Lead me over that line!" Then Crockett, one hand to the sick, one hand to his gun, Crossed with him; then never a word or a sign Till all, sick or well, all, all save but one, One man. Then a woman stepped, praying, and slow Across; to die at her post in the Alamo.
Then that one coward fled, in the night, in that night When all men silently prayed and thought Of home; of to-morrow; of God and the right, Till dawn; and with dawn came Travis's cannon-shot, In answer to insolent Mexico, From the old bell-tower of the Alamo.
Then came Santa Ana; a crescent of flame! Then the red escalade; then the fight hand to hand; Such an unequal fight as never had name Since the Persian hordes butchered that doomed Spartan band. All day--all day and all night; and the morning? so slow, Through the battle smoke mantling the Alamo.
Now silence! Such silence! Two thousand lay dead In a crescent outside! And within? Not a breath Save the gasp of a woman, with gory gashed head, All alone, all alone there, waiting for death; And she but a nurse. Yet when shall we know Another like this of the Alamo?
Shout "Victory, victory, victory ho!" I say 'tis not always to the hosts that win! I say that the victory, high or low, Is given the hero who grapples with sin, Or legion or single; just asking to know When duty fronts death in his Alamo.
JOAQUIN MILLER.
A few days later, at Goliad, Colonel Fannin and four hundred soldiers surrendered to the Mexicans under solemn assurances that their lives would be spared. On March 27 the prisoners were marched out under guard and shot down like cattle in the shambles. This massacre aroused the wildest indignation, and recruits flocked to the army under Houston, and on April 21 surprised Santa Anna at San Jacinto, routed the Mexicans, and inflicted a terrible vengeance.
THE FIGHT AT SAN JACINTO
[April 21, 1836]
"Now for a brisk and cheerful fight!" Said Harman, big and droll, As he coaxed his flint and steel for a light, And puffed at his cold clay bowl; "For we are a skulking lot," says he, "Of land-thieves hereabout, And the bold señores, two to one, Have come to smoke us out."
Santa Anna and Castrillon, Almonte brave and gay, Portilla red from Goliad, And Cos with his smart array. Dulces and cigaritos, And the light guitar, ting-tum! Sant' Anna courts siesta-- And Sam Houston taps his drum.
The buck stands still in the timber-- "Is't the patter of nuts that fall?" The foal of the wild mare whinnies-- "Did he hear the Comanche call?" In the brake by the crawling bayou The slinking she-wolves howl, And the mustang's snort in the river sedge Has startled the paddling fowl.
A soft low tap, and a muffled tap, And a roll not loud nor long-- We would not break Sant' Anna's nap, Nor spoil Almonte's song. Saddles and knives and rifles! Lord! but the men were glad When Deaf Smith muttered "Alamo!" And Karnes hissed "Goliad!"
The drummer tucked his sticks in his belt, And the fifer gripped his gun. Oh, for one free, wild Texan yell, And we took the slope in a run! But never a shout nor a shot we spent, Nor an oath nor a prayer that day, Till we faced the bravos, eye to eye, And then we blazed away.
Then we knew the rapture of Ben Milam, And the glory that Travis made, With Bowie's lunge and Crockett's shot, And Fannin's dancing blade; And the heart of the fighter, bounding free In his joy so hot and mad-- When Millard charged for Alamo, Lamar for Goliad.
Deaf Smith rode straight, with reeking spur, Into the shock and rout: "I've hacked and burned the bayou bridge, There's no sneak's back-way out!" Muzzle or butt for Goliad, Pistol and blade and fist! Oh, for the knife that never glanced, And the gun that never missed!
Dulces and cigaritos, Song and the mandolin! That gory swamp was a gruesome grove To dance fandangos in. We bridged the bog with the sprawling herd That fell in that frantic rout; We slew and slew till the sun set red, And the Texan star flashed out.
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.
The victory at San Jacinto ended the war. Santa Anna at once signed a treaty recognizing the independence of Texas, and it was formally ratified May 14, 1836. The Republic of Texas was established, and commissioners were dispatched to Washington to secure recognition and proffer annexation.
SONG OF TEXAS
Make room on our banner bright That flaps in the lifting gale, For the orb that lit the fight In Jacinto's storied vale. Through clouds, all dark of hue, It arose with radiant face; Oh, grant to a sister true, Ye stars, in your train a place!
The blood of the Saxon flows In the veins of the men who cry,-- "Give ear, give ear unto those Who pine for their native sky! We call on our Motherland For a home in Freedom's hall,-- While stretching forth the hand, Oh, build no dividing wall!
"The Mexican vaunteth no more; In strife we have tamed his pride; The coward raps not at your door, Speak out! shall it open wide? Oh, the wish of our hearts is strong, That the star of Jacinto's fight Have place in the flashing throng That spangle your banner bright."
WILLIAM HENRY CUYLER HOSMER.
The question of the admission of Texas was destined to occasion the bitterest controversy that ever shook the Union. The struggle between the advocates of freedom and of slavery was at its height; the former feared that to annex Texas, with its two hundred thousand square miles, would be to seat the slave interests more firmly than ever in power. It would also involve war with Mexico. The controversy raged with unexampled venom, but on December 29, 1845, Texas was admitted to the Union.
TEXAS
VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND
Up the hillside, down the glen, Rouse the sleeping citizen; Summon out the might of men!
Like a lion growling low, Like a night-storm rising slow, Like the tread of unseen foe;
It is coming, it is nigh! Stand your homes and altars by; On your own free thresholds die.
Clang the bells in all your spires; On the gray hills of your sires Fling to heaven your signal-fires.
From Wachuset, lone and bleak, Unto Berkshire's tallest peak, Let the flame-tongued heralds speak.
Oh, for God and duty stand, Heart to heart and hand to hand, Round the old graves of the land.
Whoso shrinks or falters now, Whoso to the yoke would bow, Brand the craven on his brow!
Freedom's soil hath only place For a free and fearless race, None for traitors false and base.
Perish party, perish clan; Strike together while ye can, Like the arm of one strong man.
Like that angel's voice sublime, Heard above a world of crime, Crying of the end of time;
With one heart and with one mouth, Let the North unto the South Speak the word befitting both:
"What though Issachar be strong! Ye may load his back with wrong Overmuch and over long:
"Patience with her cup o'errun, With her weary thread outspun, Murmurs that her work is done.
"Make our Union-bond a chain, Weak as tow in Freedom's strain Link by link shall snap in twain.
"Vainly shall your sand-wrought rope Bind the starry cluster up, Shattered over heaven's blue cope!
"Give us bright though broken rays, Rather than eternal haze, Clouding o'er the full-orbed blaze.
"Take your land of sun and bloom; Only leave to Freedom room For her plough, and forge, and loom;
"Take your slavery-blackened vales; Leave us but our own free gales, Blowing on our thousand sails.
"Boldly, or with treacherous art, Strike the blood-wrought chain apart; Break the Union's mighty heart;
"Work the ruin, if ye will; Pluck upon your heads an ill Which shall grow and deepen still.
"With your bondman's right arm bare, With his heart of black despair, Stand alone, if stand ye dare!
"Onward with your fell design; Dig the gulf and draw the line: Fire beneath your feet the mine:
"Deeply, when the wide abyss Yawns between your land and this, Shall ye feel your helplessness.
"By the hearth and in the bed, Shaken by a look or tread, Ye shall own a guilty dread.
"And the curse of unpaid toil, Downward through your generous soil Like a fire shall burn and spoil.
"Our bleak hills shall bud and blow, Vines our rocks shall overgrow, Plenty in our valleys flow;--
"And when vengeance clouds your skies, Hither shall ye turn your eyes, As the lost on Paradise!
"We but ask our rocky strand, Freedom's true and brother band, Freedom's strong and honest hand;
"Valleys by the slave untrod, And the Pilgrim's mountain sod, Blessèd of our fathers' God!"
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
The Mexican minister had already demanded his passports, and the annexation of Texas to the Union was regarded by Mexico as an act of war. A Mexican army was collected on the Rio Grande, while an American army of occupation under General Zachary Taylor was thrown into Texas. The war awakened the most violent hostility in the North, and especially in New England, where it was held to be merely a pretext for extending slave territory.
MR. HOSEA BIGLOW SPEAKS
Thrash away, you'll hev to rattle On them kittle-drums o' yourn,-- 'Taint a knowin' kind o' cattle Thet is ketched with mouldy corn; Put in stiff, you fifer feller, Let folks see how spry you be,-- Guess you'll toot till you are yeller 'Fore you git ahold o' me!
Thet air flag's a leetle rotten, Hope it aint your Sunday's best;-- Fact! it takes a sight o' cotton To stuff out a soger's chest: Sence we farmers hev to pay fer 't, Ef you must wear humps like these, S'posin' you should try salt hay fer 't, It would du ez slick ez grease.
'Twouldn't suit them Southun fellers, They're a dreffle graspin' set, We must ollers blow the bellers Wen they want their irons het; May be it's all right ez preachin', But my narves it kind o' grates, Wen I see the overreachin' O' them nigger-drivin' States.
Them thet rule us, them slave-traders, Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth (Helped by Yankee renegaders), Thru the vartu o' the North! We begin to think it's nater To take sarse an' not be riled;-- Who'd expect to see a tater All on eend at bein' biled?
Ez fer war, I call it murder,-- There you hev it plain an' flat; I don't want to go no furder Than my Testyment fer that; God hez sed so plump an' fairly, It's ez long ez it is broad, An' you've gut to git up airly Ef you want to take in God.
'Taint your eppyletts an' feathers Make the thing a grain more right; 'Taint afollerin' your bell-wethers Will excuse ye in His sight; Ef you take a sword an' dror it, An' go stick a feller thru, Guv'ment aint to answer for it, God'll send the bill to you.
Wut's the use o' meetin'-goin' Every Sabbath, wet or dry, Ef it's right to go amowin' Feller-men like oats an' rye? I dunno but what it's pooty Trainin' round in bobtail coats,-- But it's curus Christian dooty This 'ere cuttin' folks's throats.
They may talk o' Freedom's airy Tell they're pupple in the face,-- It's a grand gret cemetary Fer the barthrights of our race; They jest want this Californy So's to lug new slave-states in To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye, An' to plunder ye like sin.
Aint it cute to see a Yankee Take sech everlastin' pains, All to get the Devil's thankee Helpin' on 'em weld their chains? Wy, it's jest ez clear es figgers, Clear ez one an' one make two, Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggers Want to make wite slaves o' you.
Tell ye jest the eend I've come to Arter cipherin' plaguy smart, An' it makes a handy sum, tu, Any gump could larn by heart; Laborin' man an' laborin' woman, Hev one glory an' one shame, Ev'y thin' thet's done inhuman Injers all on 'em the same.
'Taint by turnin' out to hack folks You're agoin' to git your right, Nor by lookin' down on black folks Coz you're put upon by wite; Slavery aint o' nary color, 'Taint the hide thet makes it wus, All it keers fer in a feller 'S jest to make him fill its pus.
Want to tackle me in, du ye? I expect you'll hev to wait; Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye You'll begin to kal'late; S'pose the crows wun't fall to pickin' All the carkiss from your bones, Coz you helped to give a lickin' To them poor half-Spanish drones?
Jest go home an' ask our Nancy Wether I'd be such a goose Ez to jine ye,--guess you'd fancy The eternal bung wuz loose! She wants me fer home consumption, Let alone the hay's to mow,-- Ef you're arter folks o' gumption, You've a darned long row to hoe.
Take them editors thet's crowin' Like a cockerel three months old,-- Don't ketch any on 'em goin', Though they be so blasted bold; Aint they a prime lot o' fellers? 'Fore they think on 't guess they'll sprout (Like a peach thet's got the yellers), With the meanness bustin' out.
Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin' Bigger pens to cram with slaves, Help the men thet's ollers dealin' Insults on your fathers' graves; Help the strong to grind the feeble, Help the many agin the few, Help the men thet call your people Witewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew!
Massachusetts, God forgive her, She's akneelin' with the rest, She, thet ough' to ha' clung ferever In her grand old eagle-nest; She thet ough' to stand so fearless W'ile the wracks are round her hurled, Holdin' up a beacon peerless To the oppressed of all the world!
Ha'n't they sold your colored seamen? Ha'n't they made your env'ys w'iz? Wut'll make ye act like freemen? Wut'll git your dander riz? Come, I tell you wut I'm thinkin' Is our dooty in this fix, They'd ha' done 't ez quick ez winkin' In the days o' seventy-six.
Clang the bells in every steeple, Call all true men to disown The tradoocers of our people, The enslavers o' their own; Let our dear old Bay State proudly Put the trumpet to her mouth, Let her ring this messidge loudly In the ears of all the South:--
"I'll return ye good fer evil Much ez we frail mortils can, But I wun't go help the Devil Makin' man the cus o' man; Call me coward, call me traitor, Jest ez suits your mean idees,-- Here I stand a tyrant-hater, An' the friend o' God an' Peace!"
Ef I'd my way I hed ruther We should go to work an' part, They take one way, we take t'other, Guess it wouldn't break my heart; Man hed ough' to put asunder Them thet God has noways jined; An' I shouldn't gretly wonder Ef there's thousands o' my mind.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
General Taylor took up his station opposite Matamoras, where the Mexican army was, and the Mexicans finally attacked Fort Brown, which Taylor had erected opposite one of their batteries. On May 7 Taylor started to relieve the fort, with a force of twenty-one hundred men, and at noon next day found the Mexican army, six thousand strong, drawn up before him at Palo Alto. Taylor ordered Lieutenant Blake to reconnoitre the enemy's position.
THE GUNS IN THE GRASS
[May 8, 1846]
As hang two mighty thunderclouds Ere lightnings link the twain, So lie we and the Mexican On Palo Alto plain; And silence, solemn, dread, profound, Broods o'er the waiting battle-ground.
We see the foeman's musketeers Deployed upon his right, And on his left the cavalry Stand, hungry for the fight; But that blank centre--what? Alas, 'Tis hidden by the prairie grass!
Old Rough and Ready scans the foe; "I would I knew," says he, "Whether or no that lofty grass Conceals artillery. Could I but bring that spot in ken, 'Twere worth to me five thousand men!"
Then forward steps Lieutenant Blake, Touches his hat, and says, "I wait command to ride and see What 'neath that prairie lays." We stand amazed: no cowards, we: But this is more than bravery!
"'Command'!" cries Taylor; "nay, I ne'er To such a deed 'command!'" Then bends he o'er his horse's neck And takes as brave a hand As e'er a loyal sabre bore: "God bless you, Blake," he says--no more.
The soldier to his saddle springs And gayly waves good-by, Determination on his lips, A proud light in his eye: And then, as pity holds our breath, We see him dare that road of death.
To utmost pace his steed he spurs. Save that his sword hangs free, It were as though a madman charged A nation's chivalry! On, on, he flies, his steed unreined Till yonder hillock's crest is gained.
And now he checks his horse, dismounts, And coolly through his glass Surveys the phalanx of the foe That lies beyond the grass. A musket-flash! They move! Advance! Halt!--'twas the sunlight on a lance!
He turns, remounts, and speeds him back. Hark! what is that we hear? Across the rolling prairie rings-- A gun? ah, no--a cheer! A noble tribute sweeps the plain: A thousand throats take up the strain.
Safe! But the secret to unveil Taylor no longer seeks; For with a roar that shakes the earth That unmasked centre speaks! 'Gainst fearful odds, till set of sun, We battle--and the field is won!
THOMAS FROST.
Blake brought back with him an accurate description of the disposition of the Mexican forces, and Taylor resolved to attack, despite the odds against him. His artillery did great execution, and gradually advanced, as the Mexicans were forced back. Charge after charge was repulsed, and the Mexicans finally withdrew to Resaca de la Palma. There Taylor attacked them next day, routed them, and marched on to relieve Fort Brown.
RIO BRAVO--A MEXICAN LAMENT
[May 8, 1846]
Rio Bravo! Rio Bravo! Saw men ever such a sight? Since the field of Roncesvalles Sealed the fate of many a knight.
Dark is Palo Alto's story, Sad Reseca Palma's rout, On those fatal fields so gory, Many a gallant life went out.
There our best and bravest lances Shivered 'gainst the Northern steel, Left the valiant hearts that couched them 'Neath the Northern charger's heel.
Rio Bravo! Rio Bravo! Minstrel ne'er knew such a fight Since the field of Roncesvalles Sealed the fate of many a knight.
Rio Bravo, fatal river, Saw ye not while red with gore, Torrejon all headless quiver, A ghastly trunk upon thy shore!
Heard you not the wounded coursers Shrieking on your trampled banks, As the Northern winged artillery Thundered on our shattered ranks!
There Arista, best and bravest, There Raguena, tried and true, On the fatal field thou lavest, Nobly did all men could do.
Vainly there those heroes rally, Castile on Montezuma's shore, "Rio Bravo"--"Roncesvalles," Ye are names blent evermore.
Weepest thou, lorn lady Inez, For thy lover 'mid the slain, Brave La Vega's trenchant falchion Cleft his slayer to the brain.
Brave La Vega who all lonely, By a host of foes beset, Yielded up his sabre only When his equal there he met.
Other champions not less noted Sleep beneath that sullen wave; Rio Bravo, thou hast floated An army to an ocean grave.
On they came, those Northern horsemen, On like eagles toward the sun, Followed then the Northern bayonet, And the field was lost and won.
Oh! for Orlando's horn to rally His Paladins on that sad shore, "Rio Bravo"--"Roncesvalles," Ye are names blent evermore.
Translated by CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN from the Spanish of DON JOSE DE SALTILLO.
These brilliant victories served to kindle enthusiasm for the war throughout the whole country. Congress authorized the enlistment of fifty thousand volunteers, and reinforcements were promptly started to General Taylor at Matamoras.
TO ARMS
[1846]
Awake! arise, ye men of might! The glorious hour is nigh,-- Your eagle pauses in his flight, And screams his battle-cry.
From North to South, from East to West: Send back an answering cheer, And say farewell to peace and rest, And banish doubt and fear.
Arm! arm! your country bids you arm! Fling out your banners free-- Let drum and trumpet sound alarm, O'er mountains, plain, and sea.
March onward from th' Atlantic shore, To Rio Grande's tide-- Fight as your fathers fought of yore! Die as your fathers died!
Go! vindicate your country's fame, Avenge your country's wrong! The sons should own a deathless name, To whom such sires belong.
The kindred of the noble dead As noble deeds should dare: The fields whereon their blood was shed A deeper stain must bear.
To arms! to arms! ye men of might; Away from home, away! The first and foremost in the fight Are sure to win the day!
PARK BENJAMIN.
By the last of August, Taylor had whipped his army into shape, and began to advance on Monterey, a town believed to be impregnable, and where General Arista had collected an army of ten thousand men. The American army reached the town September 19; and after two days' desperate fighting the town surrendered.
MONTEREY
[September 23, 1846]
We were not many, we who stood Before the iron sleet that day: Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if but he could Have been with us at Monterey.
Now here, now there, the shot is hail'd In deadly drifts of fiery spray, Yet not a single soldier quail'd When wounded comrades round them wail'd Their dying shout at Monterey.
And on--still on our column kept Through walls of flame its withering way; Where fell the dead, the living stept, Still charging on the guns which swept The slippery streets of Monterey.
The foe himself recoil'd aghast, When, striking where he strongest lay, We swoop'd his flanking batteries past, And braving full their murderous blast, Storm'd home the towers of Monterey.
Our banners on those turrets wave, And there our evening bugles play: Where orange-boughs above their grave Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and fell at Monterey.
We are not many--we who press'd Beside the brave who fell that day-- But who of us has not confess'd He'd rather share their warrior rest Than not have been at Monterey?
CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.
The city had cost the Americans five hundred in killed and wounded; but the Mexican loss was nearly twice as great. Among the American dead was Victor Galbraith, a bugler in a company of volunteer cavalry, who was shot for disobeying orders.
VICTOR GALBRAITH
[September 23, 1846]
Under the walls of Monterey At daybreak the bugles began to play, Victor Galbraith! In the mist of the morning damp and gray, These were the words they seemed to say: "Come forth to thy death, Victor Galbraith!"
Forth he came, with a martial tread; Firm was his step, erect his head; Victor Galbraith, He who so well the bugle played, Could not mistake the words it said: "Come forth to thy death, Victor Galbraith!"
He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, He looked at the files of musketry, Victor Galbraith! And he said, with a steady voice and eye, "Take good aim; I am ready to die!" Thus challenges death Victor Galbraith.
Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red, Six leaden balls on their errand sped; Victor Galbraith Falls to the ground, but he is not dead: His name was not stamped on those balls of lead, And they only scath Victor Galbraith.
Three balls are in his breast and brain, But he rises out of the dust again, Victor Galbraith! The water he drinks has a bloody stain; "Oh, kill me, and put me out of my pain!" In his agony prayeth Victor Galbraith.
Forth dart once more those tongues of flame, And the bugler has died a death of shame, Victor Galbraith! His soul has gone back to whence it came, And no one answers to the name When the Sergeant saith, "Victor Galbraith!"
Under the walls of Monterey By night a bugle is heard to play, Victor Galbraith! Through the mist of the valley damp and gray The sentinels hear the sound, and say, "That is the wraith Of Victor Galbraith!"
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Further reinforcements were hurried forward to General Taylor. Santa Anna had collected a great army, and Taylor fell back to Angostura, near the village of Buena Vista. There, on February 22, Santa Anna summoned him to surrender, stating that he was surrounded by twenty thousand men and could not avoid defeat. Taylor tartly refused, and Santa Anna advanced to the attack, only to be routed after a desperate two days' struggle.
BUENA VISTA
[February 22-23, 1847]
From the Rio Grande's waters to the icy lakes of Maine, Let all exult! for we have met the enemy again; Beneath their stern old mountains we have met them in their pride, And rolled from BUENA VISTA back the battle's bloody tide; Where the enemy came surging swift, like the Mississippi's flood, And the reaper, Death, with strong arms swung his sickle red with blood.
SANTANA boasted loudly that, before two hours were past, His Lancers through Saltillo should pursue us fierce and fast:-- On comes his solid infantry, line marching after line; Lo! their great standards in the sun like sheets of silver shine: With thousands upon thousands,--yea, with more than three to one,-- Their forests of bright bayonets fierce-flashing in the sun.
Lo! Guanajuato's regiment; Morelos' boasted corps, And Guadalajara's chosen troops!--all veterans tried before. Lo! galloping upon the right four thousand lances gleam, Where, floating in the morning wind, their blood-red pennons stream; And here his stern artillery climbs up the broad plateau: To-day he means to strike at us an overwhelming blow.
Now, WOOL, hold strongly to the heights! for, lo! the mighty tide Comes, thundering like an avalanche, deep, terrible, and wide. Now, ILLINOIS, stand steady! Now, KENTUCKY, to their aid! For a portion of our line, alas! is broken and dismayed: Great bands of shameless fugitives are fleeing from the field, And the day is lost, if Illinois and brave Kentucky yield.
One of O'Brien's guns is gone!--On, on their masses drift, Till their cavalry and infantry outflank us on the left; Our light troops, driven from the hills, retreat in wild dismay, And round us gather, thick and dark, the Mexican array. SANTANA thinks the day is gained; for, now approaching near, MIÑON'S dark cloud of Lancers sternly menaces our rear.
Now, LINCOLN, gallant gentleman, lies dead upon the field, Who strove to stay those cravens, when before the storm they reeled. Fire, WASHINGTON, fire fast and true! Fire, SHERMAN, fast and far! Lo! BRAGG comes thundering to the front, to breast the adverse war! SANTANA thinks the day is gained! On, on his masses crowd, And the roar of battle swells again more terrible and loud.
NOT YET! Our brave old General comes to regain the day; KENTUCKY, to the rescue! MISSISSIPPI, to the fray! Again our line advances! Gallant DAVIS fronts the foe, And back before his rifles, in red waves the Lancers flow. Upon them yet once more, ye brave! The avalanche is stayed! Back roll the Aztec multitudes, all broken and dismayed.
Ride! MAY!--To Buena Vista! for the Lancers gain our rear, And we have few troops there to check their vehement career. Charge, ARKANSAS! KENTUCKY, charge! YELL, PORTER, VAUGHAN, are slain. But the shattered troops cling desperately unto that crimsoned plain; Till, with the Lancers intermixed, pursuing and pursued, Westward, in combat hot and close, drifts off the multitude.
And MAY comes charging from the hills with his ranks of flaming steel, While, shattered with a sudden fire, the foe already reel: They flee amain!--Now to the left, to stay the torrent there, Or else the day is surely lost, in horror and despair! For their hosts pour swiftly onward, like a river in the spring, Our flank is turned, and on our left their cannon thundering.
Now, good Artillery! bold Dragoons! Steady, brave hearts, be calm! Through rain, cold hail, and thunder, now nerve each gallant arm! What though their shot fall round us here, yet thicker than the hail? We'll stand against them, as the rock stands firm against the gale. Lo! their battery is silenced! but our iron sleet still showers: They falter, halt, retreat,--Hurrah! the glorious day is ours!
In front, too, has the fight gone well, where upon gallant LANE, And on stout Mississippi, the thick Lancers charged in vain: Ah! brave Third Indiana! you have nobly wiped away The reproach that through another corps befell your State to-day; For back, all broken and dismayed, before your storm of fire, SANTANA'S boasted chivalry, a shattered wreck, retire.
Now charge again, SANTANA! or the day is surely lost-- For back, like broken waves, along our left your hordes are tossed. Still faster roar his batteries,--his whole reserve moves on; More work remains for us to do, ere the good fight is won. Now for your wives and children, men! Stand steady yet once more! Fight for your lives and honors! Fight as you never fought before!
Ho! HARDIN breasts it bravely! and heroic BISSELL there Stands firm before the storm of balls that fill the astonished air: The Lancers dash upon them too! The foe swarm ten to one: HARDIN is slain; MCKEE and CLAY the last time see the sun: And many another gallant heart, in that last desperate fray, Grew cold, its last thought turning to its loved ones far away.
Speed, speed, Artillery! to the front!--for the hurricane of fire Crushes those noble regiments, reluctant to retire! Speed swiftly! Gallop! Ah! they come! Again BRAGG climbs the ridge, And his grape sweeps down the swarming foe, as a strong man moweth sedge: Thus baffled in their last attack, compelled perforce to yield, Still menacing in firm array, their columns leave the field.
The guns still roared at intervals; but silence fell at last, And on the dead and dying came the evening shadows fast. And then above the mountains rose the cold moon's silver shield, And patiently and pitying she looked upon the field. While careless of his wounded, and neglectful of his dead, Despairingly and sullenly by night SANTANA fled.
And thus on BUENA VISTA'S heights a long day's work was done, And thus our brave old General another battle won. Still, still our glorious banner waves, unstained by flight or shame, And the Mexicans among their hills still tremble at our name. SO, HONOR UNTO THOSE THAT STOOD! DISGRACE TO THOSE THAT FLED! AND EVERLASTING GLORY UNTO BUENA VISTA'S DEAD!
ALBERT PIKE.
February 28, 1847.
THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA
[February 22-23, 1847]
Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away, O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array, Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they near? Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear.
"Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls; Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their souls!" Who is losing? who is winning? "Over hill and over plain, I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain rain."
Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, look once more. "Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse, Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain course."
Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke has rolled away; And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray. Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of Minon wheels; There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their heels.
"Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now advance! Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance! Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together fall; Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the Northern ball."
Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on! Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost, and who has won? "Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together fall, O'er the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters, for them all!
"Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting. Blessed Mother, save my brain! I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain. Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and strive to rise; Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes!
"O my heart's love! O my dear one! lay thy poor head on my knee; Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me? canst thou see? O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernal, look once more On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy! mercy! all is o'er!"
Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest; Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast; Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said; To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid.
Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away; But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt, She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt.
With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her head; With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her dead; But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain, And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again.
Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand and faintly smiled; Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch beside her child? All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart supplied; With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" murmured he, and died!
"A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth, From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, in the North!" Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead, And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled.
Look forth once more, Ximena! "Like a cloud before the wind Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind; Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded strive; Hide your faces, holy angels! O thou Christ of God, forgive!"
Sink, O Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray shadows fall; Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all! Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled, In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold.
But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and lacking food. Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they hung, And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern tongue.
Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours; Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden flowers; From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer, And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air!
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
The American forces in this memorable battle totalled 4691, while the Mexicans mustered over 23,000 men. The Mexican losses exceeded 2500. The Americans lost 264 killed and 450 wounded. Theodore O'Hara's famous poem was written to commemorate them.
THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo; No more on Life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few. On Fame's eternal camping-ground Their silent tents are spread, And Glory guards, with solemn round, The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms; No braying horn nor screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms.
Their shivered swords are red with rust; Their plumèd heads are bowed; Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud. And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow, And the proud forms, by battle gashed, Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The bugle's stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout are past; Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that nevermore may feel The rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe. Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was "Victory or Death."
Long had the doubtful conflict raged O'er all that stricken plain, For never fiercer fight had waged The vengeful blood of Spain; And still the storm of battle blew, Still swelled the gory tide; Not long our stout old chieftain knew, Such odds his strength could bide.
'Twas in that hour his stern command Called to a martyr's grave The flower of his belovèd land, The nation's flag to save. By rivers of their fathers' gore His first-born laurels grew, And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory too.
Full many a norther's breath has swept, O'er Angostura's plain-- And long the pitying sky has wept Above its mouldered slain. The raven's scream or eagle's flight Or shepherd's pensive lay, Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray.
Sons of the Dark and Bloody ground, Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air. Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave; She claims from war his richest spoil-- The ashes of her brave.
Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield; The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulchre.
Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! Dear as the blood ye gave, No impious footstep here shall tread The herbage of your grave; Nor shall your story be forgot, While Fame her record keeps, Or Honor points the hallowed spot Where Valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell When many a vanished age hath flown, The story how ye fell; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Nor Time's remorseless doom, Shall dim one ray of glory's light That gilds your deathless tomb.
THEODORE O'HARA.
Despite the victories, the war continued unpopular in New England, and particularly in Massachusetts. In the campaign of 1847, Caleb Cushing, who had raised a regiment at his own expense and taken it to Mexico, was nominated by the Democrats for governor, but was defeated by George Nixon Briggs, his Whig opponent, by a majority of fourteen thousand.
WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS
[1847]
Guvener B. is a sensible man; He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes; But John P. Robinson he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.
My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du? We can't never choose him o' course,--thet's flat; Guess we shell hev to come round, (don't you?) An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.
Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf; But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,-- He's ben true to one party,--an' thet is himself;-- So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.
Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; He don't vally princerple more 'n an old cud; Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood? So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.
We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village, With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint, We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage, An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint; But John P. Robinson he Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.
The side of our country must ollers be took, An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country. An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry; An' John P. Robinson he Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.
Parson Wilbur he calls all these argiments lies; Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum; An' thet all this big talk of our destinies Is half on it ign'ance, an' t'other half rum; But John P. Robinson he Sez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.
Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats, An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes; But John P. Robinson he Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.
Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,-- God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers, To start the world's team wen it gits in a slough; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
On March 9, 1847, General Winfield Scott arrived off Vera Cruz with twelve thousand men to march against the City of Mexico. On April 18 he met and defeated Santa Anna's army at Cerro Gordo. On August 20 he arrived before the City of Mexico, and, after an ill-advised armistice, advanced to storm the city on September 8. He chose the approach guarded by the formidable works of Malino del Rey and Chapultepec. The former was carried by assault, after a fierce hand-to-hand battle.
BATTLE OF THE KING'S MILL
[September 8, 1847]
Said my landlord, white-headed Gil Gomez, With newspaper held in his hand-- "So they've built from El Paso a railway That Yankees may visit our land. As guests let them come and be welcome, But not as they came here before; They are rather rough fellows to handle In the rush of the battle and roar.
"They took Vera Cruz and its castle; In triumph they marched through the land; We fought them with desperate daring, But lacked the right man to command. They stormed, at a loss, Cerro Gordo-- Every mile in their movement it cost; And when they arrived at Puebla, Some thousands of men they had lost.
"Ere our capital fell, and the city By foreign invaders was won, We called out among its defenders Each man who could handle a gun. Chapultepec stood in their pathway; Churubusco they had to attack; The mill of the King--well, I fought there, And they were a hard nut to crack.
"While their right was assailing the ramparts, Our force struck their left on the field, Where our colonel, in language that stirred us, To love of our country appealed. And we swore that we never would falter Before either sabre or ball; We would beat back the foeman before us, Or dead on the battle-field fall.
"Fine words, you may say, but we meant them; And so when they came up the hill, We poured on them volley on volley, And riddled their ranks with a will. Their line in a moment was broken; They closed it, and came with a cheer; But still we fired quickly and deadly, And felt neither pity nor fear.
"We smote the blue column with grape-shot, But it rushed as the wild torrent runs; At the pieces they slew our best gunners, And took in the struggle our guns. We sprang in a rage to retake them, And lost nearly half of our men; Then, baffled and beaten, retreated, And gained our position again.
"Ceased their yell, and in spite of our firing They dressed like an arrow in line, Then, standing there moveless a moment, Their eyes flashed with purpose malign, All still as the twilight in summer, No cloud on the sky to deform, Like the lull in the voices of nature Ere wakens the whirlwind and storm.
"We had fought them with death-daring spirit, And courage unyielding till then; No man could have forced us to falter, But these were more demons than men. Our ranks had been torn by their bullets, We filled all the gaps they had made; But the pall of that terrible silence The hearts of our boldest dismayed.
"Before us no roaring of cannon, Rifle-rattle, or musketry peal; But there on the ocean of battle Surged steady the billow of steel. Fierce we opened our fire on the column, We pierced it with ball here and there; But it swept on in pitiless sternness Till we faltered and fled in despair.
"After that all their movements were easy; At their storming Chapultepec fell, And that ended the war--we were beaten: No story is left me to tell. And now they come back to invade us, Though not with the bullet and blade; They are here with their goods on a railway, To conquer the country by trade."
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.
Chapultepec still remained, and on the morning of September 13 two storming parties rushed it, swarmed over the walls, swept back the garrison, and planted the American flag on the ramparts. The Mexican army hastened to evacuate the city, and on September 14 the Stars and Stripes floated over the capital of Mexico.
THE SIEGE OF CHAPULTEPEC
[September 13, 1847]
Wide o'er the valley the pennons are fluttering, War's sullen story the deep guns are muttering, Forward! blue-jackets, in good steady order, Strike for the fame of your good northern border; Forever shall history tell of the bloody check Waiting the foe at the siege of Chapultepec.
Let the proud deeds of your fathers inspire ye still, Think ye of Monmouth, and Princeton, and Bunker Hill, Come from your hallowed graves, famous in story, Shades of our heroes, and lead us to glory. Side by side, son and father with hoary head Struggle for triumph, or death on a gory bed.
Hark! to the charge! the war-hail is pattering, The foe through our ranks red rain is scattering; Huzza! forward! no halting or flagging till Proudly the red stripes float o'er yon rocky hill. Northern and Southerner, let your feuds smolder; Charge! for our banner's fame, shoulder to shoulder!
Flash the fort guns, and thunders their stunning swell Far o'er the valley to white Popocatapetl, Death revels high in the midst of the bloody sport, Bursting in flame from each black-throated castle-port, Press on the line with keen sabres dripping wet, Cheer, as ye smite with the death-dealing bayonet!
Our bold Northern eagle, king of the firmament, Shares with no rival the skies of the continent. Yields the fierce foeman; down let his flag be hurled, Shout, as our own from the turret is wide unfurled! Shout! for long shall Mexico mourn the wreck Of her proud state at the siege of Chapultepec.
WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE.
While these victories were being won in Mexico, General Stephen W. Kearny, at the head of the Army of the West, had seized the territory of New Mexico, and established a civil government at Santa Fé. He then proceeded to California, defeated the Mexicans at Sacramento, and took possession of that province.
ILLUMINATION FOR VICTORIES IN MEXICO
Light up thy homes, Columbia, For those chivalric men Who bear to scenes of warlike strife Thy conquering arms again, Where glorious victories, flash on flash, Reveal their stormy way,-- Resaca's, Palo Alto's fields, The heights of Monterey!
They pile with thousands of thy foes Buena Vista's plain; With maids and wives, at Vera Cruz, Swell high the list of slain! They paint upon the Southern skies The blaze of burning domes,-- Their laurels dew with blood of babes! Light up, light up thy homes!
Light up your homes, O fathers! For those young hero bands, Whose march is still through vanquished towns, And over conquered lands! Whose valor, wild, impetuous, In all its fiery glow, Pours onward like a lava-tide, And sweeps away the foe!
For those whose dead brows glory crowns, On crimson couches sleeping, And for home faces wan with grief, And fond eyes dim with weeping. And for the soldier, poor, unknown, Who battled, madly brave, Beneath a stranger soil to share A shallow, crowded grave.
Light up thy home, young mother! Then gaze in pride and joy Upon those fair and gentle girls, That eagle-eyed young boy; And clasp thy darling little one Yet closer to thy breast, And be thy kisses on its lips In yearning love impressed.
In yon beleaguered city Were homes as sweet as thine; Where trembling mothers felt loved arms In fear around them twine,-- The lad with brow of olive hue, The babe like lily fair, The maiden with her midnight eyes, And wealth of raven hair.
The booming shot, the murderous shell, Crashed through the crumbling walls, And filled with agony and death Those sacred household halls! Then, bleeding, crushed, and blackened, lay The sister by the brother, And the torn infant gasped and writhed On the bosom of the mother!
O sisters, if ye have no tears For fearful tales like these, If the banners of the victors veil The victim's agonies, If ye lose the babe's and mother's cry In the noisy roll of drums, If your hearts with martial pride throb high, Light up, light up your homes!
GRACE GREENWOOD.
The Mexican people knew themselves defeated, and were eager for peace. The treaty was finally signed February 2, 1848. Mexico accepted the Rio Grande as her northern boundary, and ceded New Mexico and California to the United States. For this territory the United States was to pay her $15,000,000, and to assume debts to the amount of $3,500,000.
THE CRISIS
Across the Stony Mountains, o'er the desert's drouth and sand, The circles of our empire touch the western ocean's strand; From slumberous Timpanogos to Gila, wild and free, Flowing down from Nuevo-Leon to California's sea; And from the mountains of the east, to Santa Rosa's shore, The eagles of Mexitli shall beat the air no more.
O Vale of Rio Bravo! Let thy simple children weep; Close watch about their holy fire let maids of Pecos keep; Let Taos send her cry across Sierra Madre's pines, And Santa Barbara toll her bells amidst her corn and vines; For lo! the pale land-seekers come, with eager eyes of gain, Wide scattering, like the bison herds on broad Salada's plain.
Let Sacramento's herdsmen heed what sound the winds bring down Of footsteps on the crisping snow, from cold Nevada's crown! Full hot and fast the Saxon rides, with rein of travel slack, And, bending o'er his saddle, leaves the sunrise at his back; By many a lonely river, and gorge of fir and pine, On many a wintry hill-top, his nightly camp-fires shine.
O countrymen and brothers! that land of lake and plain, Of salt wastes alternating with valleys fat with grain; Of mountains white with winter, looking downward, cold, serene, On their feet with spring-vines tangled and lapped in softest green; Swift through whose black volcanic gates, o'er many a sunny vale, Wind-like the Arapahoe sweeps the bison's dusty trail!
Great spaces yet untravelled, great lakes whose mystic shores The Saxon rifle never heard, nor dip of Saxon oars; Great herds that wander all unwatched, wild steeds that none have tamed, Strange fish in unknown streams, and birds the Saxon never named; Deep mines, dark mountain crucibles, where Nature's chemic powers Work out the Great Designer's will; all these ye say are ours!
Forever ours! for good or ill, on us the burden lies: God's balance, watched by angels, is hung across the skies. Shall Justice, Truth, and Freedom turn the poised and trembling scale? Or shall the Evil triumph, and robber Wrong prevail? Shall the broad land o'er which our flag in starry splendor waves, Forego through us its freedom, and bear the tread of slaves?
The day is breaking in the East of which the prophets told, And brightens up the sky of Time the Christian Age of Gold; Old Might to Right is yielding, battle blade to clerkly pen, Earth's monarchs are her peoples, and her serfs stand up as men; The isles rejoice together, in a day are nations born, And the slave walks free in Tunis, and by Stamboul's Golden Horn!
Is this, O countrymen of mine! a day for us to sow The soil of new-gained empire with slavery's seeds of woe? To feed with our fresh life-blood the Old World's cast-off crime, Dropped, like some monstrous early birth, from the tired lap of Time? To run anew the evil race the old lost nations ran, And die like them of unbelief of God, and wrong of man?
Great Heaven! Is this our mission? End in this the prayers and tears, The toil, the strife, the watchings of our younger, better years? Still as the Old World rolls in light, shall ours in shadow turn, A beamless Chaos, cursed of God, through outer darkness borne? Where the far nations looked for light, a blackness in the air? Where for words of hope they listened, the long wail of despair?
The Crisis presses on us; face to face with us it stands, With solemn lips of question, like the Sphinx in Egypt's sands! This day we fashion Destiny, our web of Fate we spin; This day for all hereafter choose we holiness or sin; Even now from starry Gerizim, or Ebal's cloudy crown, We call the dews of blessing or the bolts of cursing down!
By all for which the martyrs bore their agony and shame; By all the warning words of truth with which the prophets came; By the Future which awaits us; by all the hopes which cast Their faint and trembling beams across the blackness of the Past; And by the blessed thought of Him who for Earth's freedom died, O my people! O my brothers! let us choose the righteous side.
So shall the Northern pioneer go joyful on his way; To wed Penobscot's waters to San Francisco's bay, To make the rugged places smooth, and sow the vales with grain; And bear, with Liberty and Law, the Bible in his train: The mighty West shall bless the East, and sea shall answer sea, And mountain unto mountain call, Praise God, for we are free!
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
On June 12, 1848, the last of the United States troops left the City of Mexico. They were received at home with the wildest enthusiasm. Never had a nation, in modern times, fought so successful a war in so short a time.
THE VOLUNTEERS
[1849]
The Volunteers! the Volunteers! I dream, as in the by-gone years, I hear again their stirring cheers, And see their banners shine, What time the yet unconquered North Pours to the wars her legions forth, For many a wrong to strike a blow With mailèd hand at Mexico.
The Volunteers! Ah, where are they Who bade the hostile surges stay, When the black forts of Monterey Frowned on their dauntless line? When, undismayed amid the shock Of war, like Cerro Gordo's rock, They stood, or rushed more madly on Than tropic tempest o'er San Juan?
On Angostura's crowded field Their shattered columns scorned to yield, And wildly yet defiance pealed Their flashing batteries' throats; And echoed then the rifle's crack, As deadly as when on the track Of flying foe, of yore, its voice Bade Orleans' dark-eyed girls rejoice.
Blent with the roar of guns and bombs, How grandly from the dim past comes The roll of their victorious drums, Their bugle's joyous notes, When over Mexico's proud towers, And the fair valley's storied bowers, Fit recompense of toil and scars, In triumph waved their flag of stars.
Ah, comrades, of your own tried troop, Whose honor ne'er to shame might stoop, Of lion heart and eagle swoop, But you alone remain; On all the rest has fallen the hush Of death; the men whose battle-rush Was wild as sun-loosed torrent's flow From Orizaba's crest of snow.
The Volunteers! the Volunteers! God send us peace through all our years, But if the cloud of war appears, We'll see them once again. From broad Ohio's peaceful side, From where the Maumee pours its tide, From storm-lashed Erie's wintry shore, Shall spring the Volunteers once more.
WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE.
VI. FOURTEEN YEARS OF PEACE
In his message to Congress at the opening of the December session of 1847, President Polk recommended, among other things, the construction of a ship canal across the Isthmus of Panama--a recommendation which was not to bear fruit for sixty years.
THE SHIP CANAL FROM THE ATLANTIC TO THE PACIFIC
AN ODE TO THE AMERICAN PEOPLE AND THEIR CONGRESS, ON READING THE MESSAGE OF THE UNITED STATES PRESIDENT IN DECEMBER, 1847
Rend America asunder And unite the Binding Sea That emboldens man and tempers-- Make the ocean free.
Break the bolt that bars the passage, That our River richly pours Western wealth to western nations; Let that sea be ours--
Ours by all the hardy whalers, By the pointing Oregon, By the west-impelled and working, Unthralled Saxon son.
Long indeed they have been wooing, The Pacific and his bride; Now 'tis time for holy wedding-- Join them by the tide.
Have the snowy surfs not struggled Many centuries in vain That their lips might seal the Union? Lock them main to main.
When the mighty God of nature Made this favored continent, He allowed it yet unsevered, That a race be sent,
Able, mindful of his purpose, Prone to people, to subdue, And to bind the land with iron, Or to force it through.
What the prophet-navigator, Seeking straits to his Catais, But began, now consummate it-- Make the strait and pass.
Blessed the eyes that shall behold it, When the pointing boom shall veer, Leading through the parted Andes, While the nations cheer!
There at Suez, Europe's mattock Cuts the briny road with skill, And must Darien bid defiance To the pilot still?
Do we breathe this breath of Knowledge Purely to enjoy its zest? Shall the iron arm of science Like a sluggard rest?
Up then, at it! earnest people! Bravely wrought thy scorning blade, But there's fresher fame in store yet, Glory for the spade.
What we want is naught in envy, And for all we pioneer; Let the keels of every nation Through the isthmus steer.
Must the globe be always girded Ere we get to Bramah's priest? Take the tissues of your Lowells Westward to the East.
Ye, that vanquish pain and distance, Ye, enmeshing Time with wire, Court ye patiently forever Yon Antarctic ire?
Shall the mariner forever Double the impending capes, While his longsome and retracing Needless course he shapes?
What was daring for our fathers, To defy those billows fierce, Is but tame for their descendants; We are bid to pierce.
Ye that fight with printing armies, Settle sons on forlorn track, As the Romans flung their eagles, But to win them back.
Who, undoubting, worship boldness, And, if baffled, bolder rise, Shall we lag when grandeur beckons To this good emprize?
Let the vastness not appal us; Greatness is thy destiny. Let the doubters not recall us: Venture suits the free.
Like a seer, I see her throning, WINLAND strong in freedom's health, Warding peace on both the waters, Widest Commonwealth.
Crowned with wreaths that still grow greener, Guerdon for untiring pain, For the wise, the stout, and steadfast: Rend the land in twain.
Cleave America asunder, This is worthy work for thee. Hark! The seas roll up imploring "Make the ocean free."
FRANCIS LIEBER.
The famine in Ireland in 1847 awakened much sympathy in the United States, and the ship Jamestown, laden with food, was dispatched to Cork, making a remarkably quick passage.
THE WAR SHIP OF PEACE
[1847]
Sweet land of song, thy harp doth hang Upon the willow now, While famine's blight and fever's pang Stamps mis'ry on thy brow; Yet take thy harp and raise thy voice, Though weak and low it be, And let thy sinking heart rejoice In friends still left to thee.
Look out! look out! across the sea That girds thy em'rald shore, A ship of war is bound to thee, But with no war-like store. Her thunders sleep; 'tis mercy's breath That wafts her o'er the sea; She goes not forth to deal out death, But bears new life to thee.
Thy wasted hands can scarcely strike The chords of grateful praise, Thy plaintive tone is now unlike The voice of prouder days; Yet, e'en in sorrow, tuneful still, Let Erin's voice proclaim In bardic praise on ev'ry hill Columbia's glorious name.
SAMUEL LOVER.
On June 8, 1848, Henry Clay was defeated by Zachary Taylor for the Whig nomination for the presidency.
ON THE DEFEAT OF HENRY CLAY
[June 8, 1848]
Fallen? How fallen? States and empires fall; O'er towers and rock-built walls, And perished nations, floods to tempests call With hollow sound along the sea of time: The great man never falls. He lives, he towers aloft, he stands sublime-- They fall who give him not The honor here that suits his future name-- They die and are forgot. O Giant loud and blind! the great man's fame Is his own shadow and not cast by thee-- A shadow that shall grow As down the heaven of time the sun descends, And on the world shall throw His god-like image, till it sinks where blends Time's dim horizon with Eternity.
WILLIAM WILBERFORCE LORD.
Margaret Fuller Ossoli, her husband, the Marquis Ossoli, and their child, were drowned off Fire Island, July 16, 1850, while returning from Europe in the ship Elizabeth. The ship was driven ashore in a storm, and broken up by the waves.
ON THE DEATH OF M. D'OSSOLI AND HIS WIFE, MARGARET FULLER
[July 16, 1850]
Over his millions Death has lawful power, But over thee, brave D'Ossoli! none, none. After a longer struggle, in a fight Worthy of Italy, to youth restored, Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the surge Of the Atlantic; on its shore; in reach Of help; in trust of refuge; sunk with all Precious on earth to thee--a child, a wife! Proud as thou wert of her, America Is prouder, showing to her sons how high Swells woman's courage in a virtuous breast. She would not leave behind her those she loved; Such solitary safety might become Others; not her; not her who stood beside The pallet of the wounded, when the worst Of France and Perfidy assailed the walls Of unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul, Renowned for the strength of genius, Margaret! Rest with the twain too dear! My words are few, And shortly none will hear my failing voice, But the same language with more full appeal Shall hail thee. Many are the sons of song Whom thou hast heard upon thy native plains Worthy to sing of thee: the hour is come; Take we our seats and let the dirge begin.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
The following verses from Punch describe various events of 1851--the winning of the international yacht race by the America; the project for a canal across the isthmus--and comment upon the ingenuity of some Yankee inventions.
THE LAST APPENDIX TO "YANKEE DOODLE"
[Punch, 1851]
Yankee Doodle sent to Town His goods for exhibition; Everybody ran him down, And laugh'd at his position. They thought him all the world behind; A goney, muff, or noodle; Laugh on, good people,--never mind-- Says quiet Yankee Doodle. Chorus--Yankee Doodle, keep it up, Yankee Doodle Dandy! Mind the music and the step, And with the girls be handy!
Yankee Doodle had a craft, A rather tidy clipper, And he challenged, while they laughed, The Britishers to whip her. Their whole yacht-squadron she outsped, And that on their own water; Of all the lot she went ahead, And they came nowhere arter.
O'er Panamà there was a scheme Long talked of, to pursue a Short route--which many thought a dream-- By Lake Nicaragua. John Bull discussed the plan on foot, With slow irresolution, While Yankee Doodle went and put It into execution.
A steamer of the Collins line, A Yankee Doodle's notion, Has also quickest cut the brine Across the Atlantic Ocean. And British Agents, no ways slow Her merits to discover, Have been and bought her--just to tow The Cunard packets over.
Your gunsmiths of their skill may crack, But that again don't mention: I guess that Colts' revolvers whack Their very first invention. By Yankee Doodle, too, you're beat Downright in Agriculture, With his machine for reaping wheat, Chawed up as by a vulture.
You also fancied, in your pride, Which truly is tarnation, Them British locks of yourn defied The rogues of all creation; But Chubbs' and Bramah's Hobbs has picked, And you must now be viewed all As having been completely licked By glorious Yankee Doodle.
DANIEL WEBSTER
[Died October 24, 1852]
When life hath run its largest round Of toil and triumph, joy and woe, How brief a storied page is found To compass all its outward show!
The world-tried sailor tires and droops; His flag is rent, his keel forgot; His farthest voyages seem but loops That float from life's entangled knot.
But when within the narrow space Some larger soul hath lived and wrought, Whose sight was open to embrace The boundless realms of deed and thought,--
When, stricken by the freezing blast, A nation's living pillars fall, How rich the storied page, how vast, A word, a whisper, can recall!
No medal lifts its fretted face, Nor speaking marble cheats your eye; Yet, while these pictured lines I trace, A living image passes by:
A roof beneath the mountain pines; The cloisters of a hill-girt plain; The front of life's embattled lines; A mound beside the heaving main.
These are the scenes: a boy appears; Set life's round dial in the sun. Count the swift arc of seventy years, His frame is dust; his task is done.
Yet pause upon the noontide hour, Ere the declining sun has laid His bleaching rays on manhood's power, And look upon the mighty shade.
No gloom that stately shape can hide, No change uncrown his brow: behold! Dark, calm, large-fronted, lightning-eyed, Earth has no double from its mould!
Ere from the fields by valor won The battle-smoke had rolled away, And bared the blood-red setting sun, His eyes were opened on the day.
His land was but a shelving strip, Black with the strife that made it free; He lived to see its banners dip Their fringes in the Western sea.
The boundless prairies learned his name, His words the mountain echoes knew; The Northern breezes swept his fame From icy lake to warm bayou.
In toil he lived; in peace he died; When life's full cycle was complete, Put off his robes of power and pride, And laid them at his Master's feet.
His rest is by the storm-swept waves Whom life's wild tempests roughly tried, Whose heart was like the streaming caves Of ocean, throbbing at his side.
Death's cold white hand is like the snow Laid softly on the furrowed hill, It hides the broken seams below, And leaves the summit brighter still.
In vain the envious tongue upbraids; His name a nation's heart shall keep Till morning's latest sunlight fades On the blue tablet of the deep!
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
In 1854 a survey was ordered of the Isthmus of Darien, and Lieutenant Isaac G. Strain was placed in charge of the work. His party was reduced to great extremities in crossing the isthmus, but bore their sufferings with a heroism seldom surpassed.
THE FLAG
AN INCIDENT OF STRAIN'S EXPEDITION
[1854]
I never have got the bearings quite, Though I've followed the course for many a year, If he was crazy, clean outright, Or only what you might say was "queer."
He was just a simple sailor man. I mind it as well as yisterday, When we messed aboard of the old Cyane. Lord! how the time does slip away! That was five and thirty year ago, And I never expect such times again, For sailors wasn't afraid to stow Themselves on a Yankee vessel then. He was only a sort of bosun's mate, But every inch of him taut and trim; Stars and anchors and togs of state Tailors don't build for the like of him. He flew a no-account sort of name, A reg'lar fo'castle "Jim" or "Jack," With a plain "McGinnis" abaft the same, Giner'ly reefed to simple "Mack." Mack, we allowed, was sorter queer,-- Ballast or compass wasn't right. Till he licked four Juicers one day, a fear Prevailed that he hadn't larned to fight. But I reckon the Captain knowed his man, When he put the flag in his hand the day That we went ashore from the old Cyane, On a madman's cruise for Darien Bay.
Forty days in the wilderness We toiled and suffered and starved with Strain, Losing the number of many a mess In the Devil's swamps of the Spanish Main. All of us starved, and many died. One laid down, in his dull despair; His stronger messmate went to his side-- We left them both in the jungle there. It was hard to part with shipmates so; But standing by would have done no good. We heard them moaning all day, so slow We dragged along through the weary wood. McGinnis, he suffered the worst of all; Not that he ever piped his eye Or wouldn't have answered to the call If they'd sounded it for "All hands to die." I guess 'twould have sounded for him before, But the grit inside of him kept him strong, Till we met relief on the river shore; And we all broke down when it came along.
All but McGinnis. Gaunt and tall, Touching his hat, and standing square: "Captain, the Flag."--And that was all; He just keeled over and foundered there. "The Flag?" We thought he had lost his head-- It mightn't be much to lose at best-- Till we came, by and by, to dig his bed, And we found it folded around his breast. He laid so calm and smiling there, With the flag wrapped tight about his heart; Maybe he saw his course all fair, Only--we couldn't read the chart.
JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.
On February 16, 1857, Elisha Kent Kane, explorer of the Arctic, died at Havana, Cuba, whither he had gone in the hope of regaining a health shattered by his sufferings in the north.
KANE
Aloft upon an old basaltic crag, Which, scalp'd by keen winds that defend the Pole, Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll Around the secret of the mystic zone, A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag Flutters alone, And underneath, upon the lifeless front Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced; Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt, But with a rocky purpose in his soul, Breasted the gathering snows, Clung to the drifting floes, By want beleaguer'd, and by winter chased, Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste.
Not many months ago we greeted him, Crown'd with the icy honors of the North, Across the land his hard-won fame went forth, And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb; His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim, Burst from decorous quiet as he came; Hot Southern lips with eloquence aflame Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim, Proffer'd its horny hand. The large-lung'd West, From out its giant breast, Yell'd its frank welcome. And from main to main, Jubilant to the sky, Thunder'd the mighty cry, HONOR TO KANE!
In vain, in vain beneath his feet we flung The reddening roses! All in vain we pour'd The golden wine, and round the shining board Sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast! Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes, Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies, Faded and faded! And the brave young heart That the relentless Arctic winds had robb'd Of all its vital heat, in that long quest For the lost captain, now within his breast More and more faintly throbb'd. His was the victory; but as his grasp Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp, Death launch'd a whistling dart; And ere the thunders of applause were done His bright eyes closed forever on the sun! Too late, too late the splendid prize he won In the Olympic race of Science and of Art! Like to some shatter'd berg that, pale and lone, Drifts from the white North to a tropic zone, And in the burning day Wastes peak by peak away, Till on some rosy even It dies with sunlight blessing it; so he Tranquilly floated to a Southern sea, And melted into heaven.
He needs no tears, who lived a noble life; We will not weep for him who died so well, But we will gather round the hearth, and tell The story of his strife; Such homage suits him well, Better than funeral pomp or passing bell. What tale of peril and self-sacrifice! Prison'd amid the fastnesses of ice, With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow! Night lengthening into months, the ravenous floe Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear Crunches his prey. The insufficient share Of loathsome food, The lethargy of famine, the despair Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued, Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind Glimmer'd the fading embers of a mind! That awful hour, when through the prostrate band Delirium stalk'd, laying his burning hand Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew. The whispers of rebellion, faint and few At first, but deepening ever till they grew Into black thoughts of murder; such the throng Of horrors bound the hero. High the song Should be that hymns the noble part he play'd! Sinking himself, yet ministering aid To all around him. By a mighty will Living defiant of the wants that kill, Because his death would seal his comrades' fate; Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill Those Polar waters, dark and desolate. Equal to every trial, every fate, He stands, until Spring, tardy with relief, Unlocks the icy gate, And the pale prisoners thread the world once more, To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shore Bearing their dying chief.
Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold From royal hands, who woo'd the knightly state; The knell of old formalities is toll'd, And the world's knights are now self-consecrate. No grander episode doth chivalry hold In all its annals, back to Charlemagne, Than that lone vigil of unceasing pain, Faithfully kept through hunger and through cold, By the good Christian knight, ELISHA KANE!
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN.
On September 12, 1857, the Central America was lost at sea in a great storm off Cape Hatteras. Captain William Lewis Herndon, of the navy, was in command. His tranquil courage preserved discipline up to the last, and until his passengers, officers, and crew were all in the boats. Seeing that the last boat was already overloaded, Captain Herndon refused to add to its danger, and, ordering it off, went down with his ship.
HERNDON
[September 12, 1857]
Ay, shout and rave, thou cruel sea, In triumph o'er that fated deck, Grown holy by another grave-- Thou hast the captain of the wreck.
No prayer was said, no lesson read, O'er him; the soldier of the sea: And yet for him, through all the land, A thousand thoughts to-night shall be.
And many an eye shall dim with tears, And many a cheek be flushed with pride; And men shall say, There died a man, And boys shall learn how well he died.
Ay, weep for him, whose noble soul Is with the God who made it great; But weep not for so proud a death,-- We could not spare so grand a fate.
Nor could Humanity resign That hour which bade her heart beat high, And blazoned Duty's stainless shield, And set a star in Honor's sky.
O dreary night! O grave of hope! O sea, and dark, unpitying sky! Full many a wreck these waves shall claim Ere such another heart shall die.
Alas, how can we help but mourn When hero bosoms yield their breath! A century itself may bear But once the flower of such a death;
So full of manliness, so sweet With utmost duty nobly done; So thronged with deeds, so filled with life, As though with death that life begun.
It has begun, true gentleman! No better life we ask for thee; Thy Viking soul and woman heart Forever shall a beacon be,--
A starry thought to veering souls, To teach it is not best to live; To show that life has naught to match Such knighthood as the grave can give.
S. WEIR MITCHELL.
In 1857 Commodore Josiah Tattnall was appointed flag-officer of the Asiatic station, and, finding China at war with the allied English and French fleets, went to the scene of operations at Pei-ho. Just before an engagement, his flagship grounded and was towed off by the English boats; and when he saw the English in trouble shortly afterwards, he sailed in to their assistance, exclaiming, "Blood is thicker than water!"
BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER
[June 25, 1859]
Ebbed and flowed the muddy Pei-Ho by the gulf of Pechili, Near its waters swung the yellow dragon-flag; Past the batteries of China, looking westward we could see Lazy junks along the lazy river lag; Villagers in near-by Ta-Kou toiled beneath their humble star, On the flats the ugly mud fort lay and dreamed; While the Powhatan swung slowly at her station by the bar, While the Toey-Wan with Tattnall onward steamed.
Lazy East and lazy river, fort of mud in lazy June, English gunboats through the waters slowly fare, With the dragon-flag scarce moving in the lazy afternoon O'er the mud-heap storing venom in the glare. We were on our way to Peking, to the Son of Heaven's throne, White with peace was all our mission to his court, Peaceful, too, the English vessels on the turbid stream bestrown Seeking passage up the Pei-Ho past the fort.
By the bar lay half the English, while the rest, with gallant Hope, Wrestled with the slipping ebb-tide up the stream; They had cleared the Chinese irons, reached the double chain and rope, Where the ugly mud fort scowled upon their beam-- Boom! the heavens split asunder with the thunder of the fight As the hateful dragon made its faith a mock; Every cannon spat its perfidy, each casemate blazed its spite, Crashing down upon the English, shock on shock.
In his courage Rason perished, brave McKenna fought and fell; Scores were dying as they'd lived, like valiant men; And the meteor flag that upward prayed to Heaven from that hell, Wept below for those who ne'er should weep again. Far away the English launches near the Powhatan swung slow, All despairing, useless, out of reach of war, Knew their comrades in the battle, felt them reel beneath the blow, Lying helpless 'gainst the ebb-tide by the bar.
On the Toey-Wan stood Tattnall, Stephen Trenchard by his side-- "Old Man" Tattnall, he who dared at Vera Cruz,-- Saw here, crippled by the cannon; saw there, throttled by the tide, Men of English blood and speech--could he refuse? I'll be damned, says he to Trenchard, _if old Tattnall's standing by, Seeing white men butchered here by such a foe. Where's my barge? No side-arms, mind you! See those English fight and die-- Blood is thicker, sir, than water. Let us go._
Quick we man the boat, and quicker plunge into that devil's brew-- "An official call," and Tattnall went in state. Trenchard's hurt, our flag in ribbons, and the rocking barge shot through, Hart, our coxswain, dies beneath the Chinese hate; But the cheers those English give us as we gain their Admiral's ship Make the shattered boat and weary arms seem light-- Then the rare smile from "Old" Tattnall, and Hope's hearty word and grip, Lying wounded, bleeding, brave in hell's despite.
Tattnall nods, and we go forward, find a gun no longer fought-- What is peace to us when all its crew lie dead? One bright English lad brings powder and a wounded man the shot, And we scotch that Chinese dragon, tail and head. Hands are shaken, faith is plighted, sounds our Captain's cheery call, In a British boat we speed us fast and far; And the Toey-Wan and Tattnall down the ebb-tide slide and fall To the launches lying moaning by the bar.
Eager for an English vengeance, battle-light on every face, See the Clustered Stars lead on the Triple Cross! Cheering, swinging into action, valiant Hope takes heart of grace From the cannon's cloudy roar, the lanyards' toss How they fought, those fighting English! How they cheered the Toey-Wan, Cheered our sailors, cheered "Old" Tattnall, grim and gray! And their cheers ring down the ages as they rang beneath the sun O'er those bubbling, troubled waters far away.
Ebbs and flows the muddy Pei-Ho by the gulf of Pechili, Idly floats beside the stream the dragon-flag; Past the batteries of China, looking westward still you see Lazy junks along the lazy river lag. Let the long, long years drip slowly on that lost and ancient land, Ever dear one scene to hearts of gallant men; There's a hand-clasp and a heart-throb, there's a word we understand: Blood is thicker, sir, than water, now as then.
WALLACE RICE.
In the fall of 1860 the Prince of Wales, travelling as Baron Renfrew, paid a visit to the United States, lasting from September 21 to October 20. He was the recipient of many attentions, and a great ball was given in his honor at the Academy of Music in New York city. While the ball was in progress, a portion of the floor gave way, but no one was injured.
BARON RENFREW'S BALL
[October, 1860]
'Twas a grand display was the prince's ball, A pageant or fête, or what you may call A brilliant coruscation, Where ladies and knights of noble worth Enchanted a prince of royal birth By a royal demonstration.
Like queens arrayed in their regal guise, They charmed the prince with dazzling eyes, Fair ladies of rank and station, Till the floor gave way, and down they sprawled, In a tableaux style, which the artists called A floor-all decoration.
At the prince's feet like flowers they were laid, In the brightest bouquet ever made, For a prince's choice to falter-- Perplexed to find, where all were rare, Which was the fairest of the fair To cull for a queenly altar.
But soon the floor was set aright, And Peter Cooper's face grew bright, When, like the swell of an organ, All hearts beat time to the first quadrille, And the prince confessed to a joyous thrill As he danced with Mrs. Morgan.
Then came the waltz--the Prince's Own-- And every bar and brilliant tone Had music's sweetest grace on; But the prince himself ne'er felt its charm Till he slightly clasped, with circling arm, That lovely girl, Miss Mason.
But ah! the work went bravely on, And meek-eyed Peace a trophy won By the magic art of the dancers; For the daring prince's next exploit Was to league with Scott's Camilla Hoyt, And overcome the Lancers.
Besides these three, he deigned to yield His hand to Mrs. M. B. Field, Miss Jay and Miss Van Buren; Miss Russell, too, was given a place-- All beauties famous for their grace From Texas to Lake Huron.
With Mrs. Kernochan he "lanced," With Mrs. Edward Cooper danced, With Mrs. Belmont capered; With fair Miss Fish, in fairy rig, He tripped a sort of royal jig, And next Miss Butler favored.
And thus, 'mid many hopes and fears, By the brilliant light of the chandeliers, Did they gayly quaff and revel; Well pleased to charm a royal prince-- The only one from old England since George Washington was a rebel.
And so the fleeting hours went by, And watches stopped--lest Time should fly-- Or that they winding wanted; Old matrons dozed, and papas smiled, And many a fair one was beguiled As the prince danced on, undaunted.
'Tis now a dream--the prince's ball, Its vanished glories, one and all, The scenes of the fairy tales; For Cinderella herself was there, And Barnum keeps for trial fair The beautiful slipper deposited there By his highness, the Prince of Wales.
CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE.
IV. THE CIVIL WAR
BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps. His day is marching on.
I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on."
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat: Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me: As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on.
JULIA WARD HOWE.