I. THE SLAVERY QUESTION
Negro slavery in the United States began in 1619, when a cargo of Africans was sold in Virginia. It gradually spread to all the states, but by the beginning of the nineteenth century it had been abolished in Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, New Hampshire, Connecticut, Rhode Island, Vermont, New York, and New Jersey. The ordinance of 1787 forbade slavery in the Northwest; but the purchase of Louisiana in 1803 added greatly to slave territory. The fight over the admission of Missouri (1817-21), resulting in the "Missouri Compromise," did much to intensify bitterness of feeling. Finally, in December, 1833, the American Anti-Slavery Society was organized at Philadelphia, with a platform of principles formulated by William Lloyd Garrison.
TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON
[Read at the Convention which formed the American Anti-Slavery Society, in Philadelphia, December, 1833.]
Champion of those who groan beneath Oppression's iron hand: In view of penury, hate, and death, I see thee fearless stand. Still bearing up thy lofty brow, In the steadfast strength of truth, In manhood sealing well the vow And promise of thy youth.
Go on, for thou hast chosen well; On in the strength of God! Long as one human heart shall swell Beneath the tyrant's rod. Speak in a slumbering nation's ear, As thou hast ever spoken, Until the dead in sin shall hear, The fetter's link be broken!
I love thee with a brother's love, I feel my pulses thrill, To mark thy spirit soar above The cloud of human ill. My heart hath leaped to answer thine, And echo back thy words, As leaps the warrior's at the shine And flash of kindred swords!
They tell me thou art rash and vain, A searcher after fame; That thou art striving but to gain A long-enduring name; That thou hast nerved the Afric's hand And steeled the Afric's heart, To shake aloft his vengeful brand, And rend his chain apart.
Have I not known thee well, and read Thy mighty purpose long? And watched the trials which have made Thy human spirit strong? And shall the slanderer's demon breath Avail with one like me, To dim the sunshine of my faith And earnest trust in thee?
Go on, the dagger's point may glare Amid thy pathway's gloom; The fate which sternly threatens there Is glorious martyrdom! Then onward with a martyr's zeal; And wait thy sure reward When man to man no more shall kneel, And God alone be Lord!
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
Branches of this society multiplied rapidly, and in order to counteract their influence, a great pro-slavery meeting was held at Charleston, S. C., September 4, 1835. The newspaper report that "the clergy of all denominations attended in a body, lending their sanction to the proceedings, and adding by their presence to the impressive character of the scene," drew a fiery protest from Whittier.
CLERICAL OPPRESSORS
[September 4, 1835]
Just God! and these are they Who minister at thine altar, God of Right! Men who their hands with prayer and blessing lay On Israel's Ark of light!
What! preach, and kidnap men? Give thanks, and rob thy own afflicted poor? Talk of thy glorious liberty, and then Bolt hard the captive's door?
What! servants of thy own Merciful Son, who came to seek and save The homeless and the outcast, fettering down The tasked and plundered slave!
Pilate and Herod, friends! Chief priests and rulers, as of old, combine! Just God and holy! is that church, which lends Strength to the spoiler, thine?
Paid hypocrites, who turn Judgment aside, and rob the Holy Book Of those high words of truth which search and burn In warning and rebuke;
Feed fat, ye locusts, feed! And, in your tasselled pulpits, thank the Lord That, from the toiling bondman's utter need, Ye pile your own full board.
How long, O Lord! how long Shall such a priesthood barter truth away, And in Thy name, for robbery and wrong At Thy own altars pray?
Is not Thy hand stretched forth Visibly in the heavens, to awe and smite? Shall not the living God of all the earth, And heaven above, do right?
Woe, then, to all who grind Their brethren of a common Father down! To all who plunder from the immortal mind Its bright and glorious crown!
Woe to the priesthood! woe To those whose hire is with the price of blood; Perverting, darkening, changing, as they go, The searching truths of God!
Their glory and their might Shall perish; and their very names shall be Vile before all the people, in the light Of a world's liberty.
Oh, speed the moment on When Wrong shall cease, and Liberty and Love And Truth and Right throughout the earth be known As in their home above.
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
In April, 1848, an attempt was made to abduct seventy-seven slaves from Washington in the schooner Pearl. The slaves were speedily recaptured and sold South, while their defenders barely escaped with their lives from an infuriated mob. The Abolitionists in Congress determined to evoke from that body some expression of sentiment on the subject. On the 20th of April Senator Hale introduced a resolution implying sympathy with the negroes. It stirred the slaveholders to unusual intemperance of language.
THE DEBATE IN THE SENNIT
SOT TO A NUSRY RHYME
[April 20, 1848]
"Here we stan' on the Constitution, by thunder! It's a fact o' wich ther's bushels o' proofs; Fer how could we trample on 't so, I wonder, Ef't worn't thet it's ollers under our hoofs?" Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; "Human rights haint no more Right to come on this floor, No more'n the man in the moon," sez he.
"The North haint no kind o' bisness with nothin', An' you've no idee how much bother it saves; We aint none riled by their frettin' an' frothin', We're used to layin' the string on our slaves," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- Sez Mister Foote, "I should like to shoot The holl gang, by the gret horn spoon!" sez he.
"Freedom's keystone is Slavery, thet ther's no doubt on, It's sutthin' thet's--wha' d'ye call it?--divine,-- An' the slaves thet we ollers make the most out on Air them north o' Mason an' Dixon's line," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Fer all thet," sez Mangum, "'Twould be better to hang 'em An' so git red on 'em soon," sez he.
"The mass ough' to labor an' we lay on soffies, Thet's the reason I want to spread Freedom's aree; It puts all the cunninest on us in office, An' reelises our Maker's orig'nal idee," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Thet's ez plain," sez Cass, "Ez thet some one's an ass, It's ez clear ez the sun is at noon," sez he.
"Now don't go to say I'm the friend of oppression, But keep all your spare breath fer coolin' your broth, Fer I ollers hev strove (at least thet's my impression) To make cussed free with the rights o' the North," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Yes," sez Davis o' Miss., "The perfection o' bliss Is in skinnin' thet same old coon," sez he.
"Slavery's a thing thet depends on complexion, It's God's law thet fetters on black skins don't chafe; Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflection!) Wich of our onnable body'd be safe?" Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- Sez Mister Hannegan, Afore he began agin, "Thet exception is quite oppertoon," sez he.
"Gen'nle Cass, Sir, you needn't be twitchin' your collar, Your merit's quite clear by the dut on your knees, At the North we don't make no distinctions o' color; You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- Sez Mister Jarnagin, "They wun't hev to larn agin, They all on 'em know the old toon," sez he.
"The slavery question aint no ways bewilderin', North an' South hev one int'rest, it's plain to a glance; No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't sell their childrin, But they du sell themselves, ef they git a good chance," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- Sez Atherton here, "This is gittin' severe, I wish I could dive like a loon," sez he.
"It'll break up the Union, this talk about freedom, An' your fact'ry gals (soon ez we split) 'll make head, An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to lead 'em, 'll go to work raisin' permiscoous Ned," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Yes, the North," sez Colquitt, "Ef we Southeners all quit, Would go down like a busted balloon," sez he.
"Jest look wut is doin', wut annyky's brewin' In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' vine, All the wise aristoxy's atumblin' to ruin, An' the sankylot's drorin' an' drinkin' their wine," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Yes," sez Johnson, "in France They're beginnin' to dance Beëlzebub's own rigadoon," sez he.
"The South's safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery, Our slaves in their darkness an' dut air tu blest Not to welcome with proud hallylugers the ery Wen our eagle kicks yourn from the naytional nest," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Oh," sez Westcott o' Florida, "Wut treason is horrider Than our priv'leges tryin' to proon?" sez he.
"It's 'coz they're so happy, thet, wen crazy sarpints Stick their nose in our bizness, we git so darned riled; We think it's our dooty to give pooty sharp hints, Thet the last crumb of Eden on airth sha'n't be spiled," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Ah," sez Dixon H. Lewis, "It perfectly true is Thet slavery's airth's grettest boon," sez he.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
On March 7, 1850, Daniel Webster delivered in the Senate his famous speech on slavery, in which he declared for the exclusion of slavery from new territory, but called attention to the pledge which had been given to permit slavery south of the line of 36° 30´, and gave his support to the fugitive slave bill introduced by a Virginia senator. The speech created a sensation; Webster was overwhelmed with abuse, and made the target for one of the greatest poems of denunciation in the language.
ICHABOD
[March 7, 1850]
So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore! The glory from his gray hairs gone Forevermore!
Revile him not, the Tempter hath A snare for all; And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, Befit his fall!
Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage, When he who might Have lighted up and led his age, Falls back in night.
Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, From hope and heaven!
Let not the land once proud of him Insult him now, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, Dishonored brow.
But let its humbled sons, instead, From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make.
Of all we loved and honored, naught Save power remains; A fallen angel's pride of thought, Still strong in chains.
All else is gone; from those great eyes The soul has fled; When faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead!
Then, pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame; Walk backward, with averted gaze, And hide the shame!
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
The feeling at the North against slavery was soon intensified in bitterness by the execution of the fugitive slave law, which, in a way, made Northern states participants in the detested traffic. On April 3, 1851, a fugitive slave named Thomas Sims was arrested at Boston, adjudged to his owner, and put on board a vessel bound for Savannah. Other efforts to enforce the law proved abortive, and it was soon evident that it was, to all intents and purposes, a dead letter.
THE KIDNAPPING OF SIMS
[April 3, 1851]
Souls of the patriot dead On Bunker's height who bled! The pile, that stands On your long-buried bones-- Those monumental stones-- Should not suppress the groans This day demands.
For Freedom there ye stood; There gave the earth your blood; There found your graves; That men of every clime, Faith, color, tongue, and time, Might, through your death sublime, Never be slaves.
Over your bed, so low, Heard ye not, long ago, A voice of power Proclaim to earth and sea, That where ye sleep should be A home for Liberty Till Time's last hour?
Hear ye the chains of slaves, Now clanking round your graves? Hear ye the sound Of that same voice that calls From out our Senate halls, "Hunt down those fleeing thralls, With horse and hound!"
That voice your sons hath swayed! 'Tis heard, and is obeyed! This gloomy day Tells you of ermine stained, Of Justice's name profaned, Of a poor bondman chained And borne away!
Over Virginia's Springs, Her eagles spread their wings, Her Blue Ridge towers-- That voice--once heard with awe-- Now asks, "Who ever saw, Up there, a higher law Than this of ours?"
Must we obey that voice? When God or man's the choice, Must we postpone Him, who from Sinai spoke? Must we wear slavery's yoke? Bear of her lash the stroke, And prop her throne?
Lashed with her hounds, must we Run down the poor who flee From Slavery's hell? Great God! when we do this Exclude us from thy bliss; At us let angels hiss From heaven that fell!
JOHN PIERPONT.
Abolition agitation was given new fuel when, on May 30, 1854, Congress passed the famous Kansas-Nebraska Bill, setting off the southern portion of Nebraska into a new territory called Kansas, and leaving the question of slavery or no-slavery to be decided by its inhabitants. The fight for Kansas began at once. Slaveholders from Missouri poured into the new territory, and in New England an Emigrant Aid Society was formed, which started large parties of Free-Soilers to Kansas. The first party started in July, 1854, and John G. Whittier sent them a hymn, which was sung over and over during the long journey.
THE KANSAS EMIGRANTS
[July, 1854]
We cross the prairie as of old The pilgrims crossed the sea, To make the West, as they the East, The homestead of the free!
We go to rear a wall of men On Freedom's southern line, And plant beside the cotton-tree The rugged Northern pine!
We're flowing from our native hills As our free rivers flow: The blessing of our Mother-land Is on us as we go.
We go to plant her common schools On distant prairie swells, And give the Sabbaths of the wild The music of her bells.
Upbearing, like the Ark of old, The Bible in our van, We go to test the truth of God Against the fraud of man.
No pause, nor rest, save where the streams That feed the Kansas run, Save where our Pilgrim gonfalon Shall flout the setting sun!
We'll tread the prairie as of old Our fathers sailed the sea, And make the West, as they the East, The homestead of the free!
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
The pro-slavery men soon resorted to violence. In December fifteen hundred Missourians laid siege to Lawrence, where most of the Free-Soilers had settled. The Free-Soilers threw up earthworks and mustered six hundred men to defend them, among them John Brown and his four sons from Osawatomie. One Free-Soiler, Thomas Barber, was killed under discreditable circumstances; but the Missourians were persuaded to withdraw before there were further hostilities.
BURIAL OF BARBER
[December 6, 1855]
Bear him, comrades, to his grave; Never over one more brave Shall the prairie grasses weep, In the ages yet to come, When the millions in our room, What we sow in tears, shall reap.
Bear him up the icy hill, With the Kansas, frozen still As his noble heart, below, And the land he came to till With a freeman's thews and will, And his poor hut roofed with snow!
One more look of that dead face, Of his murder's ghastly trace! One more kiss, O widowed one! Lay your left hands on his brow, Lift your right hands up, and vow That his work shall yet be done.
Patience, friends! The eye of God Every path by Murder trod Watches, lidless, day and night; And the dead man in his shroud, And his widow weeping loud, And our hearts, are in His sight.
Every deadly threat that swells With the roar of gambling hells, Every brutal jest and jeer, Every wicked thought and plan Of the cruel heart of man, Though but whispered, He can hear!
We in suffering, they in crime, Wait the just award of time, Wait the vengeance that is due; Not in vain a heart shall break, Not a tear for Freedom's sake Fall unheeded: God is true.
While the flag with stars bedecked Threatens where it should protect, And the Law shakes hands with Crime, What is left us but to wait, Match our patience to our fate, And abide the better time?
Patience, friends! The human heart Everywhere shall take our part, Everywhere for us shall pray; On our side are nature's laws, And God's life is in the cause That we suffer for to-day.
Well to suffer is divine; Pass the watchword down the line, Pass the countersign: "Endure." Not to him who rashly dares, But to him who nobly bears, Is the victor's garland sure.
Frozen earth to frozen breast, Lay our slain one down to rest; Lay him down in hope and faith, And above the broken sod, Once again, to Freedom's God, Pledge ourselves for life or death,
That the State whose walls we lay, In our blood and tears, to-day, Shall be free from bonds of shame, And our goodly land untrod By the feet of Slavery, shod With cursing as with flame!
Plant the Buckeye on his grave, For the hunter of the slave In its shadow cannot rest; And let martyr mound and tree Be our pledge and guaranty Of the freedom of the West!
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
Affairs in Kansas went from bad to worse. Bands of armed emigrants poured into the state from the south, and such disorder followed that on August 25, 1856, the governor proclaimed the territory in a state of insurrection. On September 14 a force of twenty-five hundred Missourians again attacked Lawrence, but were beaten off.
THE DEFENCE OF LAWRENCE
[September 14, 1856]
All night upon the guarded hill, Until the stars were low, Wrapped round as with Jehovah's will, We waited for the foe; All night the silent sentinels Moved by like gliding ghosts; All night the fancied warning bells Held all men to their posts.
We heard the sleeping prairies breathe, The forest's human moans, The hungry gnashing of the teeth Of wolves on bleaching bones; We marked the roar of rushing fires, The neigh of frightened steeds, The voices as of far-off lyres Among the river reeds.
We were but thirty-nine who lay Beside our rifles then; We were but thirty-nine, and they Were twenty hundred men. Our lean limbs shook and reeled about, Our feet were gashed and bare, And all the breezes shredded out Our garments in the air.
* * * * *
They came: the blessed Sabbath day, That soothed our swollen veins, Like God's sweet benediction, lay On all the singing plains; The valleys shouted to the sun, The great woods clapped their hands, And joy and glory seemed to run Like rivers through the lands.
And then our daughters and our wives, And men whose heads were white, Rose sudden into kingly lives And walked forth to the fight; And we drew aim along our guns And calmed our quickening breath, Then, as is meet for Freedom's sons, Shook loving hands with Death.
And when three hundred of the foe Rode up in scorn and pride, Whoso had watched us then might know That God was on our side; For all at once a mighty thrill Of grandeur through us swept, And strong and swiftly down the hill Like Gideons we leapt.
And all throughout that Sabbath day A wall of fire we stood, And held the baffled foe at bay, And streaked the ground with blood. And when the sun was very low They wheeled their stricken flanks, And passed on, wearily and slow, Beyond the river banks.
Beneath the everlasting stars We bended child-like knees, And thanked God for the shining scars Of His large victories. And some, who lingered, said they heard Such wondrous music pass As though a seraph's voice had stirred The pulses of the grass.
RICHARD REALF.
A bill for the admission of Kansas under a constitution permitting slavery was introduced in Congress in February, 1858, and occasioned one of the most acrimonious debates ever heard at the Capital. In the House, a fist fight occurred between Keitt of South Carolina, and Grow of Pennsylvania. The bill was passed on May 4.
THE FIGHT OVER THE BODY OF KEITT
A FRAGMENT FROM THE GREAT AMERICAN EPIC, THE WASHINGTONIAD
[March, 1858]
Sing, O goddess, the wrath, the ontamable dander of Keitt-- Keitt of South Carolina, the clear grit, the tall, the ondaunted-- Him that hath wopped his own niggers till Northerners all unto Keitt Seem but as niggers to wop, and hills of the smallest potatoes. Late and long was the fight on the Constitution of Kansas; Daylight passed into dusk, and dusk into lighting of gas-lamps;-- Still on the floor of the house the heroes unwearied were fighting. Dry grew palates and tongues with excitement and expectoration, Plugs were becoming exhausted, and Representatives also. Who led on to the war the anti-Lecomptonite phalanx? Grow, hitting straight from the shoulder, the Pennsylvania Slasher; Him followed Hickman, and Potter the wiry, from woody Wisconsin; Washburne stood with his brother,--Cadwallader stood with Elihu; Broad Illinois sent the one, and woody Wisconsin the other. Mott came mild as new milk, with gray hairs under his broad brim, Leaving the first chop location and water privilege near it, Held by his fathers of old on the willow-fringed banks of Ohio. Wrathy Covode, too, I saw, and Montgomery ready for mischief. Who against these to the floor led on the Lecomptonite legions? Keitt of South Carolina, the clear grit, the tall, the ondaunted-- Keitt and Reuben Davis, the ra'al hoss of wild Mississippi; Barksdale, wearer of wigs, and Craige from North Carolina; Craige and scorny McQueen, and Owen, and Lovejoy, and Lamar, These Mississippi sent to the war, "tres juncti in uno." Long had raged the warfare of words; it was four in the morning; Whittling and expectoration and liquorin' all were exhausted, When Keitt, tired of talk, bespake Reu. Davis, "O Reuben, Grow's a tarnation blackguard, and I've concluded to clinch him." This said, up to his feet he sprang, and loos'ning his choker, Straighted himself for a grip, as a b'ar-hunter down in Arkansas Squares to go in at the b'ar, when the dangerous varmint is cornered. "Come out, Grow," he cried, "you Black Republican puppy, Come on the floor, like a man, and darn my eyes, but I'll show you"-- Him answered straight-hitting Grow, "Wall now, I calkilate, Keitt, No nigger-driver shall leave his plantation in South Carolina, Here to crack his cow-hide round this child's ears, if he knows it." Scarce had he spoke when the hand, the chiválrous five fingers of Keitt, Clutched at his throat,--had they closed, the speeches of Grow had been ended,-- Never more from a stump had he stirred up the free and enlightened;-- But though smart Keitt's mauleys, the mauleys of Grow were still smarter; Straight from the shoulder he shot,--not Owen Swift or Ned Adams Ever put in his right with more delicate feeling of distance. As drops hammer on anvil, so dropped Grow's right into Keitt Just where the jugular runs to the point at which Ketch ties his drop-knot;-- Prone like a log sank Keitt, his dollars rattled about him. Forth sprang his friends o'er the body; first Barksdale, waving-wig-wearer, Craige and McQueen and Davis, the ra'al hoss of wild Mississippi; Fiercely they gathered round Grow, catawampously up as to chaw him; But without Potter they reckoned, the wiry from woody Wisconsin; He, striking out right and left, like a catamount varmint and vicious, Dashed to the rescue, and with him the Washburnes, Cadwallader, Elihu; Slick into Barksdale's bread-basket walked Potter's one, two,--hard and heavy; Barksdale fetched wind in a trice, dropped Grow, and let out at Elihu. Then like a fountain had flowed the claret of Washburne the elder, But for Cadwallader's care,--Cadwallader, guard of his brother, Clutching at Barksdale's nob, into Chancery soon would have drawn it. Well was it then for Barksdale, the wig that waved over his forehead: Off in Cadwallader's hands it came, and, the wearer releasing, Left to the conqueror naught but the scalp of his bald-headed foeman. Meanwhile hither and thither, a dove on the waters of trouble, Moved Mott, mild as new milk, with his gray hair under his broad brim, Preaching peace to deaf ears, and getting considerably damaged. Cautious Covode in the rear, as dubious what it might come to, Brandished a stone-ware spittoon 'gainst whoever might seem to deserve it,-- Little it mattered to him whether Pro- or Anti-Lecompton, So but he found in the Hall a foeman worthy his weapon! So raged the battle of men, till into the thick of the mêlée, Like to the heralds of old, stepped the Sergeant-at-Arms and the Speaker.
Only a few days later, on May 19, occurred an affair which threw the country into convulsion. A Georgian named Charles A. Hamilton gathered together a gang of twenty-five Missourians, attacked the Free-Soilers in the neighborhood of Marais des Cygnes, took eleven prisoners, marched them off to a gulch and shot them. The pursuit of the assassins was so half-hearted that they all escaped.
LE MARAIS DU CYGNE
[May 19, 1858]
A blush as of roses Where rose never grew! Great drops on the bunch-grass, But not of the dew! A taint in the sweet air For wild bees to shun! A stain that shall never Bleach out in the sun!
Back, steed of the prairies! Sweet song-bird, fly back! Wheel hither, bald vulture! Gray wolf, call thy pack! The foul human vultures Have feasted and fled; The wolves of the Border Have crept from the dead.
From the hearths of their cabins, The fields of their corn, Unwarned and unweaponed, The victims were torn,-- By the whirlwind of murder Swooped up and swept on To the low, reedy fen-lands, The Marsh of the Swan.
With a vain plea for mercy No stout knee was crooked; In the mouths of the rifles Right manly they looked. How paled the May sunshine, O Marais du Cygne! On death for the strong life, On red grass for green!
In the homes of their rearing, Yet warm with their lives, Ye wait the dead only, Poor children and wives! Put out the red forge-fire, The smith shall not come; Unyoke the brown oxen, The ploughman lies dumb.
Wind slow from the Swan's Marsh, O dreary death-train, With pressed lips as bloodless As lips of the slain! Kiss down the young eyelids, Smooth down the gray hairs; Let tears quench the curses That burn through your prayers.
Strong man of the prairies, Mourn bitter and wild! Wail, desolate woman! Weep, fatherless child! But the grain of God springs up From ashes beneath, And the crown of his harvest Is life out of death.
Not in vain on the dial The shade moves along, To point the great contrasts Of right and of wrong: Free homes and free altars, Free prairie and flood,-- The reeds of the Swan's Marsh, Whose bloom is of blood!
On the lintels of Kansas That blood shall not dry; Henceforth the Bad Angel Shall harmless go by; Henceforth to the sunset, Unchecked on her way, Shall Liberty follow The march of the day.
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
Prominent among the Kansas Free-Soilers was John Brown, a leader in the guerrilla warfare. United States troops were finally thrown into the territory to preserve peace, and Brown, looking around for new fields, decided to strike a blow in Virginia. On the night of October 16, 1859, at the head of a small company, he surprised and captured the arsenal at Harper's Ferry. He was attacked next day by an overwhelming force of militia and United States marines, his men either killed or captured, and he himself taken prisoner. He was tried for treason and murder in the first degree, was found guilty and hanged December 2, 1859. The men who had been captured with him were hanged a few days later.
HOW OLD BROWN TOOK HARPER'S FERRY
[October 16, 1859]
John Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer, Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men of might. There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Border-strife grew warmer, Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his absence, in the night; And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Came homeward in the morning--to find his house burned down.
Then he grasped his trusty rifle and boldly fought for freedom; Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band; And he and his brave boys vowed--so might Heaven help and speed 'em!-- They would save those grand old prairies from the curse that blights the land; And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Said, "Boys, the Lord will aid us!" and he shoved his ramrod down.
And the Lord did aid these men, and they labored day and even, Saving Kansas from its peril; and their very lives seemed charmed, Till the ruffians killed one son, in the blessed light of Heaven,-- In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journeyed all unarmed; Then Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and frowned a terrible frown!
Then they seized another brave boy,--not amid the heat of battle, But in peace, behind his ploughshare,--and they loaded him with chains, And with pikes, before their horses, even as they goad their cattle, Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew out his brains; Then Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Raised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heaven's vengeance down.
And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the Almighty, He would hunt this ravening evil that had scathed and torn him so; He would seize it by the vitals; he would crush it day and night; he Would so pursue its footsteps, so return it blow for blow, That Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in town!
Then his beard became more grizzled, and his wild blue eye grew wilder, And more sharply curved his hawk's-nose, snuffing battle from afar; And he and the two boys left, though the Kansas strife waxed milder, Grew more sullen, till was over the bloody Border War, And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Had gone crazy, as they reckoned by his fearful glare and frown.
So he left the plains of Kansas and their bitter woes behind him, Slipt off into Virginia, where the statesmen all are born, Hired a farm by Harper's Ferry, and no one knew where to find him, Or whether he'd turned parson, or was jacketed and shorn; For Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Mad as he was, knew texts enough to wear a parson's gown.
He bought no ploughs and harrows, spades and shovels, and such trifles; But quietly to his rancho there came, by every train, Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his well-beloved Sharp's rifles; And eighteen other madmen joined their leader there again. Says Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, "Boys, we've got an army large enough to march and take the town!
"Take the town, and seize the muskets, free the negroes and then arm them; Carry the County and the State, ay, and all the potent South. On their own heads be the slaughter, if their victims rise to harm them-- These Virginians! who believed not, nor would heed the warning mouth." Says Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, "The world shall see a Republic, or my name is not John Brown."
'Twas the sixteenth of October, on the evening of a Sunday: "This good work," declared the captain, "shall be on a holy night!" It was on a Sunday evening, and before the noon of Monday, With two sons, and Captain Stephens, fifteen privates--black and white, Captain Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Marched across the bridged Potomac, and knocked the sentry down;
Took the guarded armory-building, and the muskets and the cannon; Captured all the county majors and the colonels, one by one; Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they ran on, And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed was done. Mad Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and took the town.
Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder made he; It was all done in the midnight, like the Emperor's coup d'état. "Cut the wires! Stop the rail-cars! Hold the streets and bridges!" said he, Then declared the new Republic, with himself for guiding star,-- This Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown; And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left the town.
Then was riding and railroading and expressing here and thither; And the Martinsburg Sharpshooters and the Charlestown Volunteers, And the Shepherdstown and Winchester militia hastened whither Old Brown was said to muster his ten thousand grenadiers. General Brown! Osawatomie Brown! Behind whose rampant banner all the North was pouring down.
But at last, 'tis said, some prisoners escaped from Old Brown's durance, And the effervescent valor of the Chivalry broke out, When they learned that nineteen madmen had the marvellous assurance-- Only nineteen--thus to seize the place and drive them straight about; And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Found an army come to take him, encamped around the town.
But to storm, with all the forces I have mentioned, was too risky; So they hurried off to Richmond for the Government Marines, Tore them from their weeping matrons, fired their souls with Bourbon whiskey, Till they battered down Brown's castle with their ladders and machines; And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut on his brave old crown.
Tallyho! the old Virginia gentry gather to the baying! In they rushed and killed the game, shooting lustily away; And whene'er they slew a rebel, those who came too late for slaying, Not to lose a share of glory, fired their bullets in his clay; And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between them laid him down.
How the conquerors wore their laurels; how they hastened on the trial; How Old Brown was placed, half dying, on the Charlestown court-house floor; How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all denial; What the brave old madman told them,--these are known the country o'er. "Hang Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown," Said the judge, "and all such rebels!" with his most judicial frown.
But, Virginians, don't do it! for I tell you that the flagon, Filled with blood of Old Brown's offspring, was first poured by Southern hands; And each drop from Old Brown's life-veins, like the red gore of the dragon, May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through your slave-worn lands! And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, May trouble you more than ever, when you've nailed his coffin down!
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
November, 1859.
THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTOWN
[December 2, 1859]
Fresh palms for the Old Dominion! New peers for the valiant Dead! Never hath showered her sunshine On a field of doughtier dread-- Heroes in buff three thousand, And a single scarred gray head!
Fuss, and feathers, and flurry-- Clink, and rattle, and roar-- The old man looks around him On meadow and mountain hoar; The place, he remarks, is pleasant, I had not seen it before.
Form, in your boldest order, Let the people press no nigher! Would ye have them hear to his words-- The words that may spread like fire?
'Tis a right smart chance to test him (Here we are at the gallows-tree), So knot the noose--pretty tightly-- Bandage his eyes, and we'll see (For we'll keep him waiting a little), If he tremble in nerve or knee.
There, in a string, we've got him! (Shall the music bang and blow?) The chivalry wheels and marches, And airs its valor below.
Look hard in the blindfold visage (He can't look back), and inquire (He has stood there nearly a quarter), If he doesn't begin to tire?
Not yet! how long will he keep us, To see if he quail or no? I reckon it's no use waiting, And 'tis time that we had the show.
For the trouble--we can't see why-- Seems with us, and not with him, As he stands 'neath the autumn sky, So strangely solemn and dim! But high let our standard flout it! "Sic Semper"--the drop comes down-- And (woe to the rogues that doubt it!) There's an end of old John Brown!
HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.
BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE
[December 2, 1859]
John Brown of Ossawatomie spake on his dying day: "I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay. But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free, With her children, from the gallows-stair put up a prayer for me!"
John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him out to die; And lo! a poor slave-mother with her little child pressed nigh. Then the bold, blue eye grew tender, and the old harsh face grew mild, As he stooped between the jeering ranks and kissed the negro's child!
The shadows of his stormy life that moment fell apart; And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave the loving heart. That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the good intent, And round the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent!
Perish with him the folly that seeks through evil good! Long live the generous purpose unstained with human blood! Not the raid of midnight terror, but the thought which underlies; Not the borderer's pride of daring, but the Christian's sacrifice.
Nevermore may yon Blue Ridges the Northern rifle hear, Nor see the light of blazing homes flash on the negro's spear. But let the free-winged angel Truth their guarded passes scale, To teach that right is more than might, and justice more than mail!
So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in array; In vain her trampling squadrons knead the winter snow with clay. She may strike the pouncing eagle, but she dares not harm the dove; And every gate she bars to Hate shall open wide to Love!
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
In the North, Brown was considered a sainted martyr--an estimate as untrue as the Southern one--and "John Brown's Body" became the most popular marching song in the war which was to follow. Charles Sprague Hall is said to have been the author of the verses.
GLORY HALLELUJAH! OR JOHN BROWN'S BODY
John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in the grave, John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in the grave, John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in the grave, His soul is marching on! Chorus--Glory! Glory Hallelujah! Glory! Glory Hallelujah! Glory! Glory Hallelujah! His soul is marching on.
He's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord! His soul is marching on.
John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back. His soul is marching on.
His pet lambs will meet him on the way, And they'll go marching on.
They'll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree, As they go marching on.
Now for the Union let's give three rousing cheers, As we go marching on. Hip, hip, hip, hip, Hurrah!
CHARLES SPRAGUE HALL.
A variant of the John Brown song was written by Miss Edna Dean Proctor, and is certainly more coherent and intelligible than the lines which formed a marching song for over a million men.
JOHN BROWN
John Brown died on the scaffold for the slave; Dark was the hour when we dug his hallowed grave; Now God avenges the life he gladly gave, Freedom reigns to-day! Glory, glory hallelujah, Glory, glory hallelujah, Glory, glory hallelujah, Freedom reigns to-day!
John Brown sowed and the harvesters are we; Honor to him who has made the bondsman free; Loved evermore shall our noble ruler be, Freedom reigns to-day!
John Brown's body lies mouldering in the grave; Bright o'er the sod let the starry banner wave; Lo! for the million he perilled all to save, Freedom reigns to-day!
John Brown's body through the world is marching on; Hail to the hour when oppression shall be gone; All men will sing in the better day's dawn, Freedom reigns to-day!
John Brown dwells where the battle's strife is o'er; Hate cannot harm him, nor sorrow stir him more; Earth will remember the martyrdom he bore, Freedom reigns to-day!
John Brown's body lies mouldering in the grave; John Brown lives in the triumph of the brave; John Brown's soul not a higher joy can crave, Freedom reigns to-day!
EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.
JOHN BROWN: A PARADOX
Compassionate eyes had our brave John Brown, And a craggy stern forehead, a militant frown; He, the storm-bow of peace. Give him volley on volley, The fool who redeemed us once of our folly, And the smiter that healed us, our right John Brown!
Too vehement, verily, was John Brown! For waiting is statesmanlike; his the renown Of the holy rash arm, the equipper and starter Of freedmen; aye, call him fanatic and martyr: He can carry both halos, our plain John Brown.
A scandalous stumbling-block was John Brown, And a jeer; but ah! soon from the terrified town, In his bleeding track made over hilltop and hollow, Wise armies and councils were eager to follow, And the children's lips chanted our lost John Brown.
Star-led for us, stumbled and groped John Brown, Star-led, in the awful morasses to drown; And the trumpet that rang for a nation's upheaval, From the thought that was just, thro' the deed that was evil, Was blown with the breath of this dumb John Brown!
Bared heads and a pledge unto mad John Brown! Now the curse is allayed, now the dragon is down, Now we see, clear enough, looking back at the onset, Christianity's flood-tide and Chivalry's sunset In the old broken heart of our hanged John Brown!
LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY.
The summer of 1860 swung around, and on April 23 the National Democratic Convention met at Charleston, S. C. Antagonism at once developed between the delegates from the South and from the North, the committee on resolutions could not agree, and after a week of bitter debate the Northern platform was adopted and the Southern delegates withdrew in a body. It was the first step toward secession. The convention adjourned to meet at Baltimore, where Stephen A. Douglas was nominated for the presidency.
LECOMPTON'S BLACK BRIGADE
A SONG OF THE CHARLESTON CONVENTION
[April 23, 1860]
Single-handed, and surrounded by Lecompton's black brigade, With the treasury of a nation drained to pay for hireling aid; All the weapons of corruption--the bribe, the threat, the lie-- All the forces of his rivals leagued to make this one man die, Yet smilingly he met them, his heart and forehead bare, And they quailed beneath the lightnings of his blue eye's sudden glare; For all behind him thronging the mighty people came, With looks of fiery eagerness and words of leaping flame-- "A Douglas and a Douglas!" Hark to the people's cry, Shaking the earth beneath their feet, And thundering through the sky.
Crooked and weak, but envious as the witches of Macbeth, Came old and gray Buchanan a-hungering for his death; And full of mortal strategy, with green and rheumy eyes, John Slidell--he of Houmas--each poisoned arrow tries. With cold and stony visage, lo! Breckinridge is there, While old Joe Lane keeps flourishing his rusty sword in air; But still the "Little Giant" holds unmoved his fearless way, While the great waves of the people behind him rock and sway-- "A Douglas and a Douglas! No hand but his can guide, In such a strait, our ship of state Across the stormy tide."
A poisonous reptile, many-scaled and with most subtle fang, Crawled forward Caleb Cushing, while behind his rattles rang; And, mounted on a charger of hot and glossy black, The Alabamian Yancey dashes in with fell attack: Lo! Bayard is aroused, and quits his favorite cards and dice, While Jeff Davis plots with Bigler full many a foul device; But, smiling still, against them all their One Foe holds his own, While louder still and louder, the cry behind has grown-- "A Douglas and a Douglas, Who every base trick spurns; The people's will is sovereign still, And that to Douglas turns."
Half horse, half alligator, here from Mississippi's banks The blatant Barry caracoles and spurs along the ranks; From Arkansaw comes Burrows, with his "toothpick" in its sheath, While that jaundiced Georgian, Jackson, shows his grim and ugly teeth; And Barksdale barks his bitterest bark, and curls his stunted tail, And snarls like forty thousand curs beneath a storm of hail; But smiling now--almost a laugh--the Douglas marches on, While many million voices rise in chorus like to one-- "A Douglas and a Douglas" Louder the war-song grows: "God speed the man who fights so well Against a thousand foes."
Long and fierce was the encounter beneath the burning sky, Fierce were the threatening gestures--the words rang shrill and high; In a struggle most protracted, after seven and fifty shocks, Like those old gigantic combats in which Titans fought with rocks (And with "rocks," but of a different kind, no doubt Buchanan fought), This first pitched battle of the war unto its end was brought; And smiling still, with stainless plume and eye as clear as day, The "Little Giant" held his own through all that murderous fray: "A Douglas and a Douglas!" Still louder grows the roar Which swells and floats from myriad throats Like waves on some wild shore.
Oh! a cheer for Colonel Flournoy, who to help our chief did press, May memory perish if his name we cease to love and bless! And a cheer for all the good and true who faced the music's note, Who seized old Hydra in his den, and shook him by the throat. Though our country stand forever, from her record ne'er will fade The glory of that combat with Lecompton's black brigade; And when June comes with her roses, at Baltimore we'll crown The "Little Giant," who has met and struck corruption down. So a Douglas and a Douglas! While hearts have smiles and tears, Your name will glow, your praise shall flow, Through all the coming years.
CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE.
While the Democrats were thus divided, the Republicans had met at Chicago, adopted a platform protesting against the extension of slavery in the territories, and nominated for President Abraham Lincoln, of Illinois. On November 6, 1860, Lincoln was elected President, receiving one hundred and eighty electoral votes.
LINCOLN, THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE
When the Norn-Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour, Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, She bent the strenuous heavens and came down To make a man to meet the mortal need. She took the tried clay of the common road-- Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy; Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff. It was a stuff to wear for centuries, A man that matched the mountains, and compelled The stars to look our way and honor us.
The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; The tang and odor of the primal things-- The rectitude and patience of the rocks; The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; The courage of the bird that dares the sea; The justice of the rain that loves all leaves; The pity of the snow that hides all scars; The loving-kindness of the wayside well; The tolerance and equity of light That gives as freely to the shrinking weed As to the great oak flaring to the wind-- To the grove's low bill as to the Matterhorn That shoulders out the sky.
And so he came. From prairie cabin up to Capitol, One fair Ideal led our chieftain on. Forevermore he burned to do his deed With the fine stroke and gesture of a king. He built the rail-pile as he built the State, Pouring his splendid strength through every blow, The conscience of him testing every stroke, To make his deed the measure of a man.
So came the Captain with a mighty heart: And when the step of Earthquake shook the house, Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold, He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again The rafters of the Home. He held his place-- Held the long purpose like a growing tree-- Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down As when a kingly cedar green with boughs Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.
EDWIN MARKHAM.
Lincoln's election was the signal the South had been awaiting. On December 20, 1860, the state of South Carolina unanimously passed an ordinance of secession, and a week later, the state troops seized Castle Pinckney and Fort Moultrie, in Charleston harbor, and took possession of the United States arsenal at Charleston, with seventy-five thousand stands of arms.
BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE
She has gone,--she has left us in passion and pride,-- Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side! She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow, And turned on her brother the face of a foe!
O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, We can never forget that our hearts have been one,-- Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's name, From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame!
You were always too ready to fire at a touch; But we said: "She is hasty,--she does not mean much." We have scowled when you uttered some turbulent threat; But Friendship still whispered: "Forgive and forget."
Has our love all died out? Have its altars grown cold? Has the curse come at last which the fathers foretold? Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chain That her petulant children would sever in vain.
They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with their spoil,-- Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil, Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their caves, And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves:
In vain is the strife! When its fury is past, Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last, As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snow Roll mingled in peace through the valleys below.
Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky; Man breaks not the medal when God cuts the die! Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with steel, The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal!
O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, There are battles with fate that can never be won! The star-flowering banner must never be furled, For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world!
Go, then, our rash sister, afar and aloof,-- Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof; But when your heart aches and your feet have grown sore, Remember the pathway that leads to our door!
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
Georgia, Alabama, Florida, North Carolina, Mississippi, and Louisiana followed South Carolina's lead in seceding and seizing United States forts and arsenals. On February 4, 1861, the first Confederate congress met at Montgomery, Ala., and a few days later, Jefferson Davis, of Mississippi, was chosen President, and Alexander H. Stephens, of Georgia, Vice-President, of the Confederate States.
JEFFERSON D.
You're a traitor convicted, you know very well! Jefferson D., Jefferson D.! You thought it a capital thing to rebel, Jefferson D.! But there's one thing I'll say: You'll discover some day, When you see a stout cotton cord hang from a tree, There's an accident happened you didn't foresee, Jefferson D.!
What shall be found upon history's page? Jefferson D., Jefferson D.! When a student explores the republican age! Jefferson D.! He will find, as is meet, That at Judas's feet You sit in your shame, with the impotent plea, That you hated the land and the law of the free, Jefferson D.!
What do you see in your visions at night, Jefferson D., Jefferson D.? Does the spectacle furnish you any delight, Jefferson D.? Do you feel in disgrace The black cap o'er your face, While the tremor creeps down from your heart to your knee, And freedom, insulted, approves the decree, Jefferson D.?
Oh! long have we pleaded, till pleading is vain, Jefferson D., Jefferson D.! Your hands are imbrued with the blood of the slain, Jefferson D.! And at last, for the right, We arise in our might, A people united, resistless, and free, And declare that rebellion no longer shall be! Jefferson D.!
H. S. CORNWELL.
Davis was inaugurated on February 18, 1861, and declared in his inaugural that the attitude of the Southern States was purely one of self-defence. "All we want," he said, "is to be let alone."
THE OLD COVE
"All we ask is to be let alone."
[February 18, 1861]
As vonce I valked by a dismal svamp, There sot an Old Cove in the dark and damp, And at everybody as passed that road A stick or a stone this Old Cove throwed. And venever he flung his stick or his stone, He'd set up a song of "Let me alone."
"Let me alone, for I loves to shy These bits of things at the passers-by-- Let me alone, for I've got your tin And lots of other traps snugly in;-- Let me alone, I'm riggin' a boat To grab votever you've got afloat;-- In a veek or so I expects to come And turn you out of your 'ouse and 'ome;-- I'm a quiet Old Cove," says he, with a groan: "All I axes is--Let me alone."
Just then came along on the self-same vay, Another Old Cove, and began for to say-- "Let you alone! That's comin' it strong!-- You've ben let alone a darned sight too long;-- Of all the sarce that ever I heerd! Put down that stick! (You may well look skeered.) Let go that stone! If you once show fight, I'll knock you higher than ary kite. You must hev a lesson to stop your tricks, And cure you of shying them stones and sticks,-- And I'll hev my hardware back and my cash, And knock your scow into tarnal smash, And if ever I catches you round my ranch, I'll string you up to the nearest branch.
"The best you can do is to go to bed, And keep a decent tongue in your head; For I reckon, before you and I are done, You'll wish you had left honest folks alone." The Old Cove stopped, and t'other Old Cove He sot quite still in his cypress grove, And he looked at his stick revolvin' slow Whether 'twere safe to shy it or no,-- And he grumbled on, in an injured tone, "All that I axed vos, let me alone."
HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.
Texas, by a majority of over three to one, voted to join the Confederacy, and seized more than a million dollars' worth of government munitions. Some were saved by the Union troops, notably those at Fort Duncan.
A SPOOL OF THREAD
[March, 1861]
Well, yes, I've lived in Texas since the spring of '61; And I'll relate the story, though I fear, sir, when 'tis done, 'Twill be little worth your hearing, it was such a simple thing, Unheralded in verses that the grander poets sing.
There had come a guest unbidden, at the opening of the year, To find a lodgment in our hearts, and the tenant's name was fear; For secession's drawing mandate was a call for men and arms, And each recurring eventide but brought us fresh alarms.
They had notified the General that he must yield to fate, And all the muniments of war surrender to the state, But he sent from San Antonio an order to the sea To convey on board the steamer all the fort's artillery.
Right royal was his purpose, but the foe divined his plan, And the wily Texans set a guard to intercept the man Detailed to bear the message; they placed their watch with care That neither scout nor citizen should pass it unaware.
Well, this was rather awkward, sir, as doubtless you will say, But the Major, who was chief of staff, resolved to have his way Despite the watchful provost guard; so he asked his wife to send, With a box of knick-knacks, a letter to her friend; And the missive held one sentence I remember to this day: "The thread is for your neighbor, Mr. French, across the way."
He dispatched a youthful courier. Of course, as you will know, The Texans searched him thoroughly and ordered him to show The contents of the letter. They read it o'er and o'er, But failed to find the message they had hindered once before.
So it reached the English lady, and she wondered at the word, But gave the thread to Major French, explaining that she heard He wished a spool of cotton, and great was his surprise At such a trifle sent, unasked, through leagues of hostile spies.
"There's some hidden purpose, doubtless, in the curious gift," he said. Then he tore away the label, and inside the spool of thread Was Major Nichol's order, bidding him convey to sea All the arms and ammunition from Fort Duncan's battery. "Down to Brazon speed your horses," thus the Major's letter ran, "Shift equipments and munitions, and embark them if you can."
Yes, the transfer was effected, for the ships lay close at hand, Ere the Texans guessed their purpose, they had vanished from the land. Do I know it for a fact, sir? 'Tis no story that I've read-- I was but a boy in war time, and I carried him the thread.
SOPHIE E. EASTMAN.
On March 4, 1861, Abraham Lincoln was inaugurated President of the United States. In his address he stated that he had no intention of interfering with slavery in the states; but that acts of violence within any state against the authority of the United States were insurrectionary and would be repressed. In the Confederate States this announcement was construed to mean war.
GOD SAVE OUR PRESIDENT
[March 4, 1861]
All hail! Unfurl the Stripes and Stars! The banner of the free! Ten times ten thousand patriots greet The shrine of Liberty! Come, with one heart, one hope, one aim, An undivided band, To elevate, with solemn rites, The ruler of our land!
Not to invest a potentate With robes of majesty,-- Not to confer a kingly crown, Nor bend a subject knee. We bow beneath no sceptred sway, Obey no royal nod:-- Columbia's sons, erect and free, Kneel only to their God!
Our ruler boasts no titled rank, No ancient, princely line,-- No regal right to sovereignty, Ancestral and divine. A patriot,--at his country's call, Responding to her voice; One of the people,--he becomes A sovereign by our choice!
And now, before the mighty pile We've reared to Liberty, He swears to cherish and defend The charter of the free! God of our country! seal his oath With Thy supreme assent. God save the Union of the States! God save our President!
FRANCIS DEHAES JANVIER.
II. THE GAUNTLET
In the fall of 1860 Major Robert Anderson was selected to command the little garrison at Fort Moultrie, in Charleston harbor. In spite of his entreaties, no reinforcements were sent him, and on the night of December 26 he abandoned Fort Moultrie, which his little force was incapable of defending, and moved to Fort Sumter, where he remained in spite of the state's protests.
BOB ANDERSON, MY BEAU
(Miss Columbia Sings)
Bob Anderson, my beau, Bob, when we were first aquent, You were in Mex-i-co, Bob, because by order sent; But now you are in Sumter, Bob, because you chose to go; And blessings on you anyhow, Bob Anderson, my beau!
Bob Anderson, my beau, Bob, I really don't know whether I ought to like you so, Bob, considering that feather; I don't like standing armies, Bob, as very well you know, But I love a man that dares to act, Bob Anderson, my beau.
Fort Moultrie was seized by the South Carolina troops, which were assembled in force under command of General Pierre T. Beauregard, and it was decided to bombard Sumter.
ON FORT SUMTER
It was a noble Roman, In Rome's imperial day, Who heard a coward croaker Before the battle say-- "They're safe in such a fortress; There is no way to shake it"-- "On, on!" exclaimed the hero, "I'LL FIND A WAY, OR MAKE IT!"
Is FAME your aspiration? Her path is steep and high; In vain he seeks the temple, Content to gaze and sigh; The crowded town is waiting, But he alone can take it Who says, with "SOUTHERN FIRMNESS," "I'LL FIND A WAY, OR MAKE IT!"
Is GLORY your ambition? There is no royal road; Alike we all must labor, Must climb to her abode; Who feels the thirst for glory, In Helicon may slake it, If he has but the "SOUTHERN WILL," "TO FIND A WAY, OR MAKE IT!"
Is Sumter worth the getting? It must be bravely sought; With wishing and with fretting The boon cannot be bought; To all the prize is open, But only he can take it Who says, with "SOUTHERN COURAGE," "I'LL FIND A WAY, OR MAKE IT!"
In all impassioned warfare, The tale has ever been, That victory crowns the valiant, The brave are they who win. Though strong is "Sumter Fortress," A HERO still may take it, Who says, with "SOUTHERN DARING," "I'LL FIND A WAY, OR MAKE IT!"
Charleston, S. C., Mercury.
On April 11 Beauregard summoned Anderson to surrender. Anderson promptly refused, and at 4.30 o'clock on the morning of April 12, 1861, the first gun against Sumter was fired. The fort answered promptly, and a terrific bombardment continued all day. The fort's ammunition was exhausted by the 13th, and Major Anderson accepted the terms of evacuation offered by General Beauregard. On the afternoon of Sunday, April 14, the little garrison marched out of the fort with colors flying and drums beating. Not a man had been killed on either side.
SUMTER
[April 12, 1861]
Came the morning of that day When the God to whom we pray Gave the soul of Henry Clay To the land; How we loved him, living, dying! But his birthday banners flying Saw us asking and replying Hand to hand.
For we knew that far away, Round the fort in Charleston Bay, Hung the dark impending fray, Soon to fall; And that Sumter's brave defender Had the summons to surrender Seventy loyal hearts and tender-- (Those were all!)
And we knew the April sun Lit the length of many a gun-- Hosts of batteries to the one Island crag; Guns and mortars grimly frowning, Johnson, Moultrie, Pinckney, crowning, And ten thousand men disowning The old flag.
Oh, the fury of the fight Even then was at its height! Yet no breath, from noon till night, Reached us here; We had almost ceased to wonder, And the day had faded under, When the echo of the thunder Filled each ear!
Then our hearts more fiercely beat, As we crowded on the street, Hot to gather and repeat All the tale; All the doubtful chances turning, Till our souls with shame were burning, As if twice our bitter yearning Could avail!
Who had fired the earliest gun? Was the fort by traitors won? Was there succor? What was done Who could know? And once more our thoughts would wander To the gallant, lone commander, On his battered ramparts grander Than the foe.
Not too long the brave shall wait: On their own heads be their fate, Who against the hallowed State Dare begin; Flag defied and compact riven! In the record of high Heaven How shall Southern men be shriven For the sin!
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
THE BATTLE OF MORRIS' ISLAND
A CHEERFUL TRAGEDY
[April 12, 1861]
I
The morn was cloudy and dark and gray, When the first Columbiad blazed away, Showing that there was the d--l to pay With the braves on Morris' Island; They fired their cannon again and again, Hoping that Major Anderson's men Would answer back, but 'twas all in vain At first, on Morris' Island: Hokee pokee, winkee wum, Shattering shot and thundering bomb, Fiddle and fife and rattling drum, At the battle of Morris' Island!
II
At length, as rose the morning sun, Fort Sumter fired a single gun, Which made the chivalry want to run Away from Morris' Island; But they had made so much of a boast Of their fancy batteries on the coast, That each felt bound to stick to his post Down there on Morris' Island.
III
Then there was firing in hot haste; The chivalry stripped them to the waist, And, brave as lions, they sternly faced --Their grog, on Morris' Island! The spirit of Seventy-six raged high, The cannons roared and the men grew dry-- 'Twas marvellous like the Fourth of July, That fight on Morris' Island.
IV
All day they fought, till the night came down; It rained; the fellows were tired and blown, And they wished they were safely back to town, Away from Morris' Island. One can't expect the bravest men To shoot their cannons off in the rain, So all grew peaceful and still again, At the works on Morris' Island.
V
But after the heroes all had slept, To his gun each warrior swiftly leapt, Brisk, as the numerous fleas that crept In the sand on Morris' Island; And all that day they fired their shot, Heated in furnaces, piping hot, Hoping to send Fort Sumter to pot And glory to Morris' Island.
VI
Finally, wearying of the joke, Starved with hunger and blind with smoke From blazing barracks of pine and oak, Set fire from Morris' Island, The gallant Anderson struck his flag And packed his things in a carpet-bag, While cheers from bobtail, rag, and tag, Arose on Morris' Island.
VII
Then came the comforting piece of fun Of counting the noses one by one, To see if anything had been done On glorious Morris' Island: "Nobody hurt!" the cry arose; There was not missing a single nose, And this was the sadly ludicrous close Of the battle of Morris' Island.
VIII
But, gentle gunners, just wait and see What sort of a battle there yet will be; You'll hardly escape so easily, Next time on Morris' Island! There's a man in Washington with a will, Who won't mind shooting a little "to kill," If it proves that We Have a Government Still, Even on Morris' Island! Hokee pokee, winkee wum, Shattering shot and thundering bomb, Look out for the battle that's yet to come Down there on Morris' Island!
Anderson's total force numbered one hundred and twenty-eight. The South Carolina army opposed to him numbered about six thousand, and was made up largely of the best blood of the state. Planters and their sons, men of wealth and family, did not scruple to serve in the ranks. Their sweethearts and wives turned out in gala attire to witness their triumph, and when the fort surrendered, Charleston gave itself up to joy.
SUMTER--A BALLAD OF 1861
'Twas on the twelfth of April, Before the break of day. We heard the guns of Moultrie Give signal for the fray.
Anon across the waters There boomed the answering gun, From north and south came flash on flash; The battle had begun.
The mortars belched their deadly food And spiteful whizz'd the balls, A fearful storm of iron hailed On Sumter's doomèd walls.
We watched the meteor flight of shell, And saw the lightning flash-- Saw where each fiery missile fell, And heard the sullen crash.
The morn was dark and cloudy Yet till the sun arose, No answer to our gallant boys Came booming from our foes.
Then through the dark and murky clouds The morning sunlight came, And forth from Sumter's frowning walls Burst sudden sheets of flame.
Then shot and shell flew thick and fast, The war-dogs howling spoke, And thundering came their angry roar, Through wreathing clouds of smoke.
Again to fight for liberty Our gallant sons had come, They smiled when came the bugle call, And laughed when tapped the drum.
From cotton and from corn field, From desk and forum, too, From work bench and from anvil came Our gallant boys and true!
A hireling band had come to awe, Our chains to rivet fast; Yon lofty pile scowls on our homes Seaward the hostile mast.
But gallant freemen man our guns,-- No mercenary host, Who barter for their honor's price, And of their baseness boast.
Now came our stately matrons, And maidens, too, by scores; Oh! Carolina's beauty shone Like love-lights on her shores.
See yonder, anxious gazing, Alone a matron stands, The tear-drop glistening on each lid, And tightly clasped her hands.
For there, exposed to deadly fire, Her husband and her son-- "Father," she spoke, and heavenward look'd, "Father, thy will be done."
See yonder group of maidens, No joyous laughter now, For cares lie heavy on each heart And cloud each anxious brow;
For brothers dear and lovers fond Are there amid the strife; Tearful the sister's anxious gaze-- Pallid the promised wife.
Yet breathed no heart one thought of fear, Prompt at their country's call, They yielded forth their dearest hopes, And gave to honor all!
Now comes a message from below-- Oh! quick the tidings tell-- "At Moultrie and Fort Johnson, too, And Morris', all are well!"
Then mark the joyous bright'ning; See how each bosom swells; That friends and loved ones all are safe, Each to the other tells.
All day the shot flew thick and fast, All night the cannon roared, While wreathed in smoke stern Sumter stood And vengeful answer poured.
Again the sun rose, bright and clear, 'Twas on the thirteenth day, While, lo! at prudent distance moored, Five hostile vessels lay.
With choicest Abolition crews,-- The bravest of their brave,-- They'd come to pull our Crescent down And dig Secession's grave.
"See, see, how Sumter's banner trails, They're signalling for aid. See you no boats of armed men? Is yet no movement made?"
Now densest smoke and lurid flames Burst out o'er Sumter's walls; "The fort's on fire," is the cry, Again for aid he calls.
See you no boats or vessels yet? Dare they not risk one shot; To make report grandiloquent Of aid they rendered not?
Nor boat, nor vessel, leaves the fleet, "Let the old Major burn, We'll boast of what we would have done, If but--on our return."
Go back, go back, ye cravens; Go back the way ye came; Ye gallant, would-be men-of-war, Go! to your country's shame.
'Mid fiery storm of shot and shell, 'Mid smoke and roaring flame, See how Kentucky's gallant son Does honor to her name!
See how he answers gun for gun-- Hurrah! his flag is down! The white! the white! Oh see it wave! Is echoed all around.
God save the gallant Anderson, All honor to his name, A soldier's duty nobly done, He's earned a hero's fame.
Now ring the bells a joyous peal, And rend with shouts the air, We've torn the hated banner down, And placed the Crescent there.
All honor to our gallant boys, Bring forth the roll of fame, And there in glowing lines inscribe Each patriot hero's name.
Spread, spread the tidings far and wide, Ye winds take up the cry, "Our soil's redeemed from hateful yoke, We'll keep it pure or die."
Columbia, S. C., Banner.
Very different was the reception of the news at the North. At last war had begun. The time for argument and compromise and entreaty was past. The time for action was at hand.
THE FIGHT AT SUMTER
'Twas a wonderful brave fight! Through the day and all night, March! Halt! Left! Right! So they formed: And one thousand to ten, The bold Palmetto men Sumter stormed.
The smoke in a cloud Closed her in like a shroud, While the cannon roared aloud From the Port; And the red cannon-balls Ploughed the gray granite walls Of the Fort.
Sumter's gunners at their places, With their gunpowdered faces, Shook their shoulders from their braces, And stripped Stark and white to the waist, Just to give the foe a taste, And be whipped.
In the town, through every street, Tramp, tramp, went the feet, For they said the Federal fleet Hove in sight; And down the wharves they ran, Every woman, child, and man, To the fight.
On the fort the old flag waved, And the barking batteries braved, While the bold seven thousand raved As they fought; For each blinding sheet of flame From her cannon thundered shame!-- So they thought.
And strange enough to tell, Though the gunners fired well, And the balls ploughed red as hell Through the dirt; Though the shells burst and scattered, And the fortress walls were shattered,-- None were hurt.
But the fort--so hot she grew, As the cannon-balls flew, That each man began to stew At his gun; They were not afraid to die, But this making Patriot pie Was not fun.
So, to make the story short, The traitors got the fort After thirty hours' sport With the balls; But the victory is not theirs, Though their brazen banner flares From the walls.
It were better they should dare The lion in his lair, Or defy the grizzly bear In his den, Than to wake the fearful cry That is rising up on high From our men.
To our banner we are clinging, And a song we are singing, Whose chorus is ringing From each mouth; 'Tis "The old Constitution And a stern retribution To the South."
Vanity Fair, April 27, 1861.
SUMTER
So, they will have it! The Black Witch (curse on her) Always had won her Greediest demand--for we gave it-- All but our honor!
Thirty hours thundered Siege-guns and mortars-- (Flames in the quarters!) One to a hundred Stood our brave Forters!
No more of parties!-- Let them all moulder-- Here's work that's bolder! Forward, my hearties! Shoulder to shoulder.
Sight o'er the trunnion-- Send home the rammer-- Linstock and hammer! Speak for the Union! Tones that won't stammer!
Men of Columbia, Leal hearts from Annan, Brave lads of Shannon! We are all one to-day-- On with the cannon!
HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.
Nor was there any hesitation as to what that action should be. On Monday, April 15, 1861, President Lincoln issued a call for seventy-five thousand militia to suppress combinations obstructing the execution of the laws in seven of the Southern states.
THE GREAT BELL ROLAND
SUGGESTED BY THE PRESIDENT'S CALL FOR VOLUNTEERS
I
Toll! Roland, toll! --High in St. Bavon's tower, At midnight hour, The great bell Roland spoke, And all who slept in Ghent awoke. --What meant its iron stroke? Why caught each man his blade? Why the hot haste he made? Why echoed every street With tramp of thronging feet-- All flying to the city's wall? It was the call Known well to all, That Freedom stood in peril of some foe: And even timid hearts grew bold Whenever Roland tolled, And every hand a sword could hold;-- For men Were patriots then, Three hundred years ago!
II
Toll! Roland, toll! Bell never yet was hung, Between whose lips there swung So true and brave a tongue! --If men be patriots still, At thy first sound True hearts will bound, Great souls will thrill-- Then toll! and wake the test In each man's breast, And let him stand confess'd!
III
Toll! Roland, toll! --Not in St. Bavon's tower At midnight hour,-- Nor by the Scheldt, nor far-off Zuyder Zee; But here--this side the sea!-- And here in broad, bright day! Toll! Roland, toll! For not by night awaits A brave foe at the gates, But Treason stalks abroad--inside!--at noon! Toll! Thy alarm is not too soon! To arms! Ring out the Leader's call! Reëcho it from East to West, Till every dauntless breast Swell beneath plume and crest! Toll! Roland, toll! Till swords from scabbards leap! Toll! Roland, toll! --What tears can widows weep Less bitter than when brave men fall? Toll! Roland, toll! Till cottager from cottage-wall Snatch pouch and powder-horn and gun-- The heritage of sire to son, Ere half of Freedom's work was done! Toll! Roland, toll! Till son, in memory of his sire, Once more shall load and fire! Toll! Roland, toll! Till volunteers find out the art Of aiming at a traitor's heart!
IV
Toll! Roland, toll! --St. Bavon's stately tower Stands to this hour,-- And by its side stands Freedom yet in Ghent; For when the bells now ring, Men shout, "God save the King!" Until the air is rent! --Amen!--So let it be; For a true king is he Who keeps his people free. Toll! Roland, toll! This side the sea! No longer they, but we, Have now such need of thee! Toll! Roland, toll! And let thy iron throat Ring out its warning note, Till Freedom's perils be outbraved, And Freedom's flag, wherever waved, Shall overshadow none enslaved! Toll! till from either ocean's strand, Brave men shall clasp each other's hand, And shout, "God save our native land!" --And love the land which God hath saved! Toll! Roland, toll!
THEODORE TILTON.
Independent, April 18, 1861.
MEN OF THE NORTH AND WEST[7]
Men of the North and West, Wake in your might, Prepare, as the rebels have done, For the fight! You cannot shrink from the test; Rise! Men of the North and West!
They have torn down your banner of stars; They have trampled the laws; They have stifled the freedom they hate, For no cause! Do you love it or slavery best? Speak! Men of the North and West.
They strike at the life of the State: Shall the murder be done? They cry: "We are two!" And you: "We are one!" You must meet them, then, breast to breast; On! Men of the North and West!
Not with words; they laugh them to scorn, And tears they despise; But with swords in your hands and death In your eyes! Strike home! leave to God all the rest; Strike! Men of the North and West.
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.
[7] From Poetical Writings of Richard Henry Stoddard; copyright, 1880, by Charles Scribner's Sons.
OUT AND FIGHT
Out and fight! The clouds are breaking, Far and wide the red light streams, North and west see millions waking From their night-mare, doubting dreams. War is coming. As the thunder 'Mid the mountain caverns rolls, Driving rains in torrents under, So the wild roar wakes our souls.
Out and fight! The time is over For all truce and compromise, Words of calm are words of folly, Peaceful dreams are painted lies; Sumter's flames in Southern waters Are the first wild beacon light, And on Northern hills reflected Give the signal for the fight.
Out and fight! Endure no longer Goading insult, brazen guilt; Be the battle to the knife blade, And the knife blade to the hilt, Till the sacred zone of Freedom Girds the whole Atlantic strand, And the braggart and the Gascon Be extinguished from the land.
CHARLES GODFREY LELAND.
Vanity Fair, April 27, 1861.
NO MORE WORDS
No more words; Try it with your swords! Try it with the arms of your bravest and your best! You are proud of your manhood, now put it to the test; Not another word; Try it by the sword!
No more notes; Try it by the throats Of the cannon that will roar till the earth and air be shaken; For they speak what they mean, and they cannot be mistaken; No more doubt; Come--fight it out!
No child's play! Waste not a day; Serve out the deadliest weapons that you know; Let them pitilessly hail on the faces of the foe; No blind strife; Waste not one life.
You that in the front Bear the battle's brunt-- When the sun gleams at dawn on the bayonets abreast, Remember 'tis for government and country you contest; For love of all you guard, Stand, and strike hard!
You at home that stay From danger far away, Leave not a jot to chance, while you rest in quiet ease; Quick! forge the bolts of death; quick! ship them o'er the seas; If War's feet are lame, Yours will be the blame.
You, my lads, abroad, "Steady!" be your word; You, at home, be the anchor of your soldiers young and brave; Spare no cost, none is lost, that may strengthen or may save; Sloth were sin and shame, Now play out the game!
FRANKLIN LUSHINGTON.
"At the darkest hour in the history of the republic," Emerson wrote, "when it looked as if the nation would be dismembered, pulverized into its original elements, the attack on Fort Sumter crystallized the North into a unit, and the hope of mankind was saved."
OUR COUNTRY'S CALL
Lay down the axe; fling by the spade; Leave in its track the toiling plough; The rifle and the bayonet-blade For arms like yours were fitter now; And let the hands that ply the pen Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman's crooked brand, and rein The charger on the battle-field.
Our country calls; away! away! To where the blood-stream blots the green. Strike to defend the gentlest sway That Time in all his course has seen. See, from a thousand coverts--see, Spring the armed foes that haunt her track; They rush to smite her down, and we Must beat the banded traitors back.
Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave, And moved as soon to fear and flight, Men of the glade and forest! leave Your woodcraft for the field of fight. The arms that wield the axe must pour An iron tempest on the foe; His serried ranks shall reel before The arm that lays the panther low.
And ye, who breast the mountain-storm By grassy steep or highland lake, Come, for the land ye love, to form A bulwark that no foe can break. Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock The whirlwind, stand in her defence; The blast as soon shall move the rock As rushing squadrons bear ye thence.
And ye, whose homes are by her grand Swift rivers, rising far away, Come from the depth of her green land, As mighty in your march as they; As terrible as when the rains Have swelled them over bank and borne, With sudden floods to drown the plains And sweep along the woods uptorn.
And ye, who throng, beside the deep, Her ports and hamlets of the strand, In number like the waves that leap On his long-murmuring marge of sand-- Come like that deep, when, o'er his brim He rises, all his floods to pour, And flings the proudest barks that swim, A helpless wreck, against the shore!
Few, few were they whose swords of old Won the fair land in which we dwell, But we are many, we who hold The grim resolve to guard it well. Strike, for that broad and goodly land, Blow after blow, till men shall see That Might and Right move hand in hand, And glorious must their triumph be!
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
The people of the South were also wildly enthusiastic for the war. Prompted by the belief that they must arm to defend their property and their liberties, they rose as one man. All hearts were in the cause.
DIXIE
Southrons, hear your country call you! Up, lest worse than death befall you! To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie! Lo! all the beacon-fires are lighted,-- Let all hearts be now united! To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie! Advance the flag of Dixie! Hurrah! hurrah! For Dixie's land we take our stand, And live and die for Dixie! To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie! To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie!
Hear the Northern thunders mutter! Northern flags in South winds flutter! Send them back your fierce defiance! Stamp upon the accursed alliance!
Fear no danger! Shun no labor! Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre! Shoulder pressing close to shoulder, Let the odds make each heart bolder!
How the South's great heart rejoices At your cannons' ringing voices! For faith betrayed, and pledges broken, Wrongs inflicted, insults spoken.
Strong as lions, swift as eagles, Back to their kennels hunt these beagles! Cut the unequal bonds asunder! Let them hence each other plunder!
Swear upon your country's altar Never to submit or falter, Till the spoilers are defeated, Till the Lord's work is completed!
Halt not till our Federation Secures among earth's powers its station! Then at peace, and crowned with glory, Hear your children tell the story!
If the loved ones weep in sadness, Victory soon shall bring them gladness,-- To arms! Exultant pride soon vanish sorrow; Smiles chase tears away to-morrow. To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie! Advance the flag of Dixie! Hurrah! hurrah! For Dixie's land we take our stand, And live or die for Dixie! To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie! To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie!
ALBERT PIKE.
A CRY TO ARMS
Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side! Ho, dwellers in the vales! Ho, ye who by the chafing tide Have roughened in the gales! Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot, Lay by the bloodless spade; Let desk and case and counter rot, And burn your books of trade!
The despot roves your fairest lands; And till he flies or fears, Your fields must grow but armèd bands, Your sheaves be sheaves of spears! Give up to mildew and to rust The useless tools of gain, And feed your country's sacred dust With floods of crimson rain!
Come with the weapons at your call-- With musket, pike, or knife; He wields the deadliest blade of all Who lightest holds his life. The arm that drives its unbought blows With all a patriot's scorn, Might brain a tyrant with a rose Or stab him with a thorn.
Does any falter? Let him turn To some brave maiden's eyes, And catch the holy fires that burn In those sublunar skies. Oh, could you like your women feel, And in their spirit march, A day might see your lines of steel Beneath the victor's arch!
What hope, O God! would not grow warm When thoughts like these give cheer? The lily calmly braves the storm, And shall the palm-tree fear? No! rather let its branches court The rack that sweeps the plain; And from the lily's regal port Learn how to breast the strain.
Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side! Ho, dwellers in the vales! Ho, ye who by the roaring tide Have roughened in the gales! Come, flocking gayly to the fight, From forest, hill, and lake; We battle for our country's right, And for the lily's sake!
HENRY TIMROD.
"WE CONQUER OR DIE"
The war drum is beating, prepare for the fight, The stern bigot Northman exults in his might; Gird on your bright weapons, your foemen are nigh, And this be our watchword, "We conquer or die."
The trumpet is sounding from mountain to shore, Your swords and your lances must slumber no more, Fling forth to the sunlight your banner on high, Inscribed with the watchword, "We conquer or die."
March on the battlefield, there to do or dare, With shoulder to shoulder, all danger to share, And let your proud watchword ring up to the sky, Till the blue arch reëchoes, "We conquer or die."
Press forward undaunted nor think of retreat, The enemy's host on the threshold to meet; Strike firm, till the foeman before you shall fly, Appalled by the watchword, "We conquer or die."
Go forth in the pathway our forefathers trod; We, too, fight for freedom--our Captain is God, Their blood in our veins, with their honors we vie, Theirs, too, was the watchword, "We conquer or die."
We strike for the South--Mountain, Valley, and Plain, For the South we will conquer again and again; Her day of salvation and triumph is nigh, Ours, then, be the watchword, "We conquer or die."
JAMES PIERPONT.
"CALL ALL"
Whoop! the Doodles have broken loose, Roaring round like the very deuce! Lice of Egypt, a hungry pack,-- After 'em, boys, and drive 'em back.
Bull-dog, terrier, cur, and fice, Back to the beggarly land of ice; Worry 'em, bite 'em, scratch and tear Everybody and everywhere.
Old Kentucky is caved from under, Tennessee is split asunder, Alabama awaits attack, And Georgia bristles up her back.
Old John Brown is dead and gone! Still his spirit is marching on,-- Lantern-jawed, and legs, my boys, Long as an ape's from Illinois!
Want a weapon? Gather a brick, Club or cudgel, or stone or stick; Anything with a blade or butt, Anything that can cleave or cut.
Anything heavy, or hard, or keen! Any sort of slaying machine! Anything with a willing mind, And the steady arm of a man behind.
Want a weapon? Why, capture one! Every Doodle has got a gun, Belt, and bayonet, bright and new; Kill a Doodle, and capture two!
Shoulder to shoulder, son and sire! All, call all! to the feast of fire! Mother and maiden, and child and slave, A common triumph or a single grave.
Rockingham, Va., Register, 1861.
THE BONNIE BLUE FLAG
Come, brothers! rally for the right! The bravest of the brave Sends forth her ringing battle-cry Beside the Atlantic wave! She leads the way in honor's path; Come, brothers, near and far, Come rally round the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star!
We've borne the Yankee trickery, The Yankee gibe and sneer, Till Yankee insolence and pride Know neither shame nor fear; But ready now with shot and steel Their brazen front to mar, We hoist aloft the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star.
Now Georgia marches to the front, And close beside her come Her sisters by the Mexique Sea, With pealing trump and drum; Till answering back from hill and glen The rallying cry afar, A Nation hoists the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star.
By every stone in Charleston Bay, By each beleaguered town, We swear to rest not, night nor day, But hunt the tyrants down! Till bathed in valor's holy blood The gazing world afar Shall greet with shouts the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears the cross and star!
ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM.
The Southern women were carried away by enthusiasm and excitement. They believed the South invincible, and regarded the men who did not rush to enlist as cowards and traitors.
"I GIVE MY SOLDIER BOY A BLADE!"
I give my soldier boy a blade, In fair Damascus fashioned well: Who first the glittering falchion swayed, Who first beneath its fury fell, I know not; but I hope to know, That, for no mean or hireling trade. To guard no feeling base or low-- I give my soldier boy the blade!
Cool, calm, and clear--the lucid flood In which its tempering work was done;-- As calm, as clear, in wind and wood, Be thou where'er it sees the sun! For country's claim at honor's call, For outraged friend, insulted maid, At mercy's voice to bid it fall-- I give my soldier boy the blade!
The eye which marked its peerless edge, The hand that weighed its balanced poise, Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge, Are gone with all their flame and noise; Yet still the gleaming sword remains! So, when in dust I low am laid, Remember by these heartfelt strains, I give my soldier boy the blade!