V. THE WAR IN THE WEST…

V. THE WAR IN THE WEST

While the Army of the Potomac in the east was imitating the manoeuvres of the King of France, stirring times were enacting in the west. Missouri was torn with dissension. The state had voted against secession in February, but the governor, C. F. Jackson, was doing everything he could to throw it into the Confederacy. General Nathaniel Lyon raised a force of loyalists, and a number of skirmishes ensued.

THE LITTLE DRUMMER[9]

'Tis of a little drummer, The story I shall tell; Of how he marched to battle, Of all that there befell, Out in the west with Lyon (For once the name was true!) For whom the little drummer beat His rat-tat-too.

Our army rose at midnight, Ten thousand men as one, Each slinging off his knapsack And snatching up his gun. "Forward!" and off they started, As all good soldiers do, When the little drummer beats for them The rat-tat-too.

Across a rolling country, Where the mist began to rise; Past many a blackened farmhouse, Till the sun was in the skies; Then we met the rebel pickets, Who skirmished and withdrew, While the little drummer beat, and beat The rat-tat-too.

Along the wooded hollows The line of battle ran, Our centre poured a volley, And the fight at once began; For the rebels answered shouting, And a shower of bullets flew; But still the little drummer beat His rat-tat-too.

He stood among his comrades, As they quickly formed the line, And when they raised their muskets He watched the barrels shine. When the volley rang, he started, For war to him was new; But still the little drummer beat His rat-tat-too.

It was a sight to see them, That early autumn day, Our soldiers in their blue coats, And the rebel ranks in gray; The smoke that rolled between them, The balls that whistled through, And the little drummer as he beat His rat-tat-too!

His comrades dropped around him,-- By fives and tens they fell, Some pierced by minie bullets, Some torn by shot and shell; They played against our cannon, And a caisson's splinters flew; But still the little drummer beat His rat-tat-too!

The right, the left, the centre,-- The fight was everywhere; They pushed us here,--we wavered,-- We drove and broke them there. The graybacks fixed their bayonets, And charged the coats of blue, But still the little drummer beat His rat-tat-too!

"Where is our little drummer?" His nearest comrades say, When the dreadful fight is over, And the smoke has cleared away. As the rebel corps was scattering He urged them to pursue, So furiously he beat, and beat The rat-tat-too!

He stood no more among them, For a bullet, as it sped, Had glanced and struck his ankle, And stretched him with the dead! He crawled behind a cannon, And pale and paler grew; But still the little drummer beat His rat-tat-too!

They bore him to the surgeon, A busy man was he: "A drummer boy--what ails him?" His comrades answered, "See!" As they took him from the stretcher A heavy breath he drew, And his little fingers strove to beat The rat-tat-too!

The ball had spent its fury: "A scratch!" the surgeon said, As he wound the snowy bandage Which the lint was staining red. "I must leave you now, old fellow!" "Oh, take me back with you, For I know the men are missing me And the rat-tat-too!"

Upon his comrade's shoulder They lifted him so grand, With his dusty drum before him, And his drumsticks in his hand! To the fiery front of battle, That nearer, nearer drew,-- And evermore he beat, and beat His rat-tat-too!

The wounded as he passed them Looked up and gave a cheer; And one in dying blessed him, Between a smile and tear. And the graybacks--they are flying Before the coats of blue, For whom the little drummer beats His rat-tat-too.

When the west was red with sunset, The last pursuit was o'er; Brave Lyon rode the foremost, And looked the name he bore. And before him on his saddle, As a weary child would do, Sat the little drummer, fast asleep, With his rat-tat-too.

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

[9] From Poetical Writings of Richard Henry Stoddard; copyright, 1880, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

Hostilities culminated on August 10, 1861, in a pitched battle at Wilson's Creek, in which, through bad management, the Union forces were defeated and Lyon himself was killed.

THE DEATH OF LYON

[August 10, 1861]

Sing, bird, on green Missouri's plain, The saddest song of sorrow; Drop tears, O clouds, in gentlest rain Ye from the winds can borrow; Breathe out, ye winds, your softest sigh, Weep, flowers, in dewy splendor, For him who knew well how to die, But never to surrender.

Up rose serene the August sun Upon that day of glory; Up curled from musket and from gun The war-cloud, gray and hoary; It gathered like a funeral pall, Now broken, and now blended, Where rang the bugle's angry call, And rank with rank contended.

Four thousand men, as brave and true As e'er went forth in daring, Upon the foe that morning threw The strength of their despairing. They feared not death--men bless the field That patriot soldiers die on; Fair Freedom's cause was sword and shield, And at their head was Lyon.

Their leader's troubled soul looked forth From eyes of troubled brightness; Sad soul! the burden of the North Had pressed out all its lightness. He gazed upon the unequal fight, His ranks all rent and gory, And felt the shadows close like night Round his career of glory.

"General, come lead us!" loud the cry From a brave band was ringing-- "Lead us, and we will stop, or die, That battery's awful singing!" He spurred to where his heroes stood-- Twice wounded, no one knowing-- The fire of battle in his blood And on his forehead glowing.

Oh! cursed for aye that traitor's hand, And cursed that aim so deadly, Which smote the bravest of the land, And dyed his bosom redly. Serene he lay, while past him pressed The battle's furious billow, As calmly as a babe may rest Upon its mother's pillow.

So Lyon died; and well may flowers His place of burial cover, For never had this land of ours A more devoted lover. Living, his country was his bride; His life he gave her, dying; Life, fortune, love, he nought denied To her, and to her sighing.

Rest, patriot, in thy hillside grave, Beside her form who bore thee! Long may the land thou diedst to save Her bannered stars wave o'er thee! Upon her history's brightest page, And on fame's glowing portal, She'll write thy grand, heroic age, And grave thy name immortal.

HENRY PETERSON.

John C. Frémont had been placed in command of the department and advanced against the Confederates at the head of a strong force. On October 23, 1861, he detached a squadron of cavalry under Major Charles Zagonyi to reconnoitre the Confederate position at Springfield. Zagonyi found the Confederates two thousand strong, but charged them at the head of his hundred and fifty men, routed them, cut them to pieces, and drove them from the city. The charge was one of the most remarkable in history. The Confederates finally withdrew from the state.

ZAGONYI

[October 25, 1861]

Bold Captain of the Body-Guard, I'll troll a stave to thee! My voice is somewhat harsh and hard, And rough my minstrelsy. I've cheered until my throat is sore For how Dupont at Beaufort bore; Yet here's a cheer for thee!

I hear thy jingling spurs and reins, Thy sabre at thy knee; The blood runs lighter through my veins, As I before me see Thy hundred men with thrusts and blows Ride down a thousand stubborn foes, The foremost led by thee.

With pistol snap and rifle crack-- Mere salvos fired to honor thee-- Ye plunge, and stamp, and shoot, and hack The way your swords make free; Then back again,--the path is wide This time,--ye gods! it was a ride, The ride they took with thee!

No guardsman of the whole command Halts, quails, or turns to flee; With bloody spur and steady hand They gallop where they see Thy daring plume stream out ahead O'er flying, wounded, dying, dead; They can but follow thee.

So, Captain of the Body-Guard, I pledge a health to thee! I hope to see thy shoulders starred, My Paladin; and we Shall laugh at fortune in the fray Whene'er you lead your well-known way To death or victory!

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

Kentucky was another state divided against itself. For a time, it endeavored to preserve neutrality, but finally chose the Union side. On January 19, 1862, the battle of Somerset was fought, resulting in a Union victory.

BATTLE OF SOMERSET

[January 19, 1862]

I gazed, and lo! Afar and near, With hastening speed, now there, now here, The horseman rode with glittering spear-- 'Twas awful to behold!

Ten thousand men, in dread array-- On every hill and mound they lay-- A dreadful sight it was that day To see the front they formed.

The polished sabres, waving high, Flashed brightly in the morning sky; While, beaming on the dazzled eye, The glittering bayonets shone.

All, all was hushed among the trees, Save now and then a gentle breeze, Which stirr'd the brown and serried leaves That in the forest lay.

But what is that which greets mine eye? Is it Columbia's sons I spy? Hark! hark! I hear their battle cry-- Their shouts of victory!

Still hotter does the conflict grow; While dealing death in every blow, McCook charged on the routed foe His daring little band.

Rest, patriots, rest; the conflict's o'er, Your erring brethren punished sore; Oh, would they'd fight their friends no more, And cease this bloody strife.

CORNELIUS C. CULLEN.

The Confederate loss was very heavy, and in one respect irreparable, for General Felix K. Zollicoffer was killed while reconnoitring the Union position.

ZOLLICOFFER

[January 19, 1862]

First in the fight, and first in the arms Of the white-winged angels of glory, With the heart of the South at the feet of God, And his wounds to tell the story;

For the blood that flowed from his hero heart, On the spot where he nobly perished, Was drunk by the earth as a sacrament In the holy cause he cherished!

In Heaven a home with the brave and blessed, And for his soul's sustaining The apocalyptic eyes of Christ-- And nothing on earth remaining,

But a handful of dust in the land of his choice, A name in song and story-- And fame to shout with immortal voice Dead on the field of Glory!

HENRY LYNDEN FLASH.

Near the southern line of Kentucky, the Confederates held two strong forts, Henry and Donelson, and on February 2, 1862, a Union force under General Ulysses S. Grant moved forward to attack them. The army was supported by a fleet of gunboats, and Fort Henry surrendered to the fleet before the land forces came up. The gunboat Essex led the attack and suffered severely, among her dead being Lieutenant S. B. Brittan, Jr., a boy of not quite seventeen.

BOY BRITTAN

[February 6, 1862]

I

Boy Brittan--only a lad--a fair-haired boy--sixteen, In his uniform, Into the storm--into the roaring jaws of grim Fort Henry-- Boldly bears the Federal flotilla-- Into the battle storm!

II

Boy Brittan is master's mate aboard of the Essex-- There he stands, buoyant and eager-eyed, By the brave captain's side; Ready to do and dare. Aye, aye, sir! always ready-- In his country's uniform. Boom! Boom! and now the flag-boat sweeps, and now the Essex, Into the battle storm!

III

Boom! Boom! till river and fort and field are overclouded By battle's breath; then from the fort a gleam And a crashing gun, and the Essex is wrapt and shrouded In a scalding cloud of steam!

IV

But victory! victory! Unto God all praise be ever rendered, Unto God all praise and glory be! See, Boy Brittan! see, boy, see! They strike! Hurrah! the fort has just surrendered! Shout! Shout! my boy, my warrior boy! And wave your cap and clap your hands for joy! Cheer answer cheer and bear the cheer about-- Hurrah! Hurrah! for the fiery fort is ours; And "Victory!" "Victory!" "Victory!" Is the shout. Shout--for the fiery fort, and the field, and the day are ours-- The day is ours--thanks to the brave endeavor Of heroes, boy, like thee! The day is ours--the day is ours! Glory and deathless love to all who shared with thee, And bravely endured and dared with thee-- The day is ours--the day is ours-- Forever! Glory and Love for one and all; but--but--for thee-- Home! Home! a happy "Welcome--welcome home" for thee! And kisses of love for thee-- And a mother's happy, happy tears, and a virgin's bridal wreath of flowers-- For thee!

V

Victory! Victory!... But suddenly wrecked and wrapt in seething steam, the Essex Slowly drifted out of the battle's storm; Slowly, slowly down--laden with the dead and the dying; And there, at the captain's feet, among the dead and the dying, The shot-marred form of a beautiful boy is lying-- There in his uniform!

VI

Laurels and tears for thee, boy, Laurels and tears for thee! Laurels of light, moist with the precious dew Of the inmost heart of the nation's loving heart, And blest by the balmy breath of the beautiful and the true; Moist--moist with the luminous breath of the singing spheres And the nation's starry tears! And tremble-touched by the pulse-like gush and start Of the universal music of the heart, And all deep sympathy. Laurels and tears for thee, boy, Laurels and tears for thee-- Laurels of light and tears of love forever more-- For thee!

VII

And laurels of light, and tears of truth, And the mantle of immortality; And the flowers of love and of immortal youth, And the tender heart-tokens of all true ruth-- And the everlasting victory! And the breath and bliss of Liberty; And the loving kiss of Liberty; And the welcoming light of heavenly eyes, And the over-calm of God's canopy; And the infinite love-span of the skies That cover the valleys of Paradise-- For all of the brave who rest with thee; And for one and all who died with thee, And now sleep side by side with thee; And for every one who lives and dies, On the solid land or the heaving sea, Dear warrior-boy--like thee.

VIII

O the victory--the victory Belongs to thee! God ever keeps the brightest crown for such as thou-- He gives it now to thee! O young and brave, and early and thrice blest-- Thrice, thrice, thrice blest! Thy country turns once more to kiss thy youthful brow, And takes thee--gently--gently to her breast; And whispers lovingly, "God bless thee--bless thee now-- My darling, thou shalt rest!"

FORCEYTHE WILLSON.

The fall of Fort Donelson, soon afterwards, opened the way to the south and it was decided to advance against Corinth, Miss., with Pittsburg Landing as the base of operations. By the first of April, 1862, five divisions had been concentrated there, but the Confederates had also massed a great army near by, and on the morning of Sunday, April 6, moved forward to the attack, took their opponents by surprise, and drove them back to the river. The Confederate leader, Albert Sidney Johnston, was killed during the battle.

ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON

[April 6, 1862]

I hear again the tread of war go thundering through the land, And Puritan and Cavalier are clinching neck and hand, Round Shiloh church the furious foes have met to thrust and slay, Where erst the peaceful sons of Christ were wont to kneel and pray.

The wrestling of the ages shakes the hills of Tennessee, With all their echoing mounts a-throb with war's wild minstrelsy; A galaxy of stars new-born round the shield of Mars, And set against the Stars and Stripes the flashing Stars and Bars.

'Twas Albert Sidney Johnston led the columns of the Gray, Like Hector on the plains of Troy his presence fired the fray; And dashing horse and gleaming sword spake out his royal will As on the slopes of Shiloh field the blasts of war blew shrill.

"Down with the base invaders," the Gray shout forth the cry, "Death to presumptuous rebels," the Blue ring out reply; All day the conflict rages and yet again all day, Though Grant is on the Union side he cannot stem nor stay.

They are a royal race of men, these brothers face to face, Their fury speaking through their guns, their frenzy in their pace; The sweeping onset of the Gray bears down the sturdy Blue, Though Sherman and his legions are heroes through and through.

Though Prentiss and his gallant men are forcing scaur and crag, They fall like sheaves before the scythes of Hardee and of Bragg; Ah, who shall tell the victor's tale when all the strife is past, When man and man in one great mould the men who strive are cast.

As when the Trojan hero came from that fair city's gates, With tossing mane and flaming crest to scorn the scowling fates, His legions gather round him and madly charge and cheer, And fill the besieging armies with wild disheveled fear;

Then bares his breast unto the dart the daring spearsman sends, And dying hears his cheering foes, the wailing of his friends, So Albert Sidney Johnston, the chief of belt and scar, Lay down to die at Shiloh and turned the scales of war.

Now five and twenty years are gone, and lo, to-day they come, The Blue and Gray in proud array with throbbing fife and drum; But not as rivals, not as foes, as brothers reconciled, To twine love's fragrant roses where the thorns of hate grew wild.

They tell the hero of three wars, the lion-hearted man, Who wore his valor like a star--uncrowned American; Above his heart serene and still the folded Stars and Bars, Above his head like mother-wings, the sheltering Stripes and Stars.

Aye, five and twenty years, and lo, the manhood of the South Has held its valor stanch and strong as at the cannon's mouth, With patient heart and silent tongue has kept its true parole, And in the conquests born of peace has crowned its battle roll.

But ever while we sing of war, of courage tried and true, Of heroes wed to gallant deeds, or be it Gray or Blue, Then Albert Sidney Johnston's name shall flash before our sight Like some resplendent meteor across the sombre night.

America, thy sons are knit with sinews wrought of steel, They will not bend, they will not break, beneath the tyrant's heel; But in the white-hot flame of love, to silken cobwebs spun, They whirl the engines of the world, all keeping time as one.

To-day they stand abreast and strong, who stood as foes of yore, The world leaps up to bless their feet, heaven scatters blessings o'er; Their robes are wrought of gleaming gold, their wings are freedom's own, The trampling of their conquering hosts shakes pinnacle and throne.

Oh, veterans of the Blue and Gray, who fought on Shiloh field, The purposes of God are true, His judgment stands revealed; The pangs of war have rent the veil, and lo, His high decree: One heart, one hope, one destiny, one flag from sea to sea.

KATE BROWNLEE SHERWOOD.

ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON

SHILOH

His soul to God! on a battle-psalm! A soldier's plea to Heaven! From the victor wreath to the shining Palm; From the battle's core to the central calm, And peace of God in Heaven.

Oh, Land! in your midnight of mistrust The golden gates flew wide, And the kingly soul of your wise and just Passed in light from the house of dust To the Home of the Glorified!

FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR.

Buell's army came up during the night, and Grant was able next day to assume the offensive and drive the enemy from the field. Johnston's death left Beauregard commander-in-chief of the Confederate forces.

BEAUREGARD

Our trust is now in thee, Beauregard! In thy hand the God of Hosts Hath placed the sword; And the glory of thy fame Has set the world aflame-- Hearts kindle at thy name, Beauregard!

The way that lies before Is cold and hard; We are led across the desert By the Lord! But the cloud that shines by night To guide our steps aright, Is the pillar of thy might, Beauregard!

Thou hast watched the southern heavens Evening starred, And chosen thence thine emblems, Beauregard; And upon thy banner's fold Is that starry cross enrolled, Which no Northman shall behold Shamed or scarred.

By the blood that crieth loudly From the sword, We have sworn to keep around it Watch and ward, And the standard of thine hand Yet shall shine above a land, Like its leader, free and grand, Beauregard!

MRS. C. A. WARFIELD.

The advance against Corinth was continued, and on May 30, 1862, the Union army entered the city, which the Confederates had evacuated. On October 3, 4, the Confederates attempted to recapture it, but were repulsed with heavy loss. The Eighth Wisconsin carried a live eagle in place of a flag, and during the battle the great bird circled and circled above the field.

THE EAGLE OF CORINTH

[October 3, 4, 1862]

Did you hear of the fight at Corinth, How we whipped out Price and Van Dorn? Ah, that day we earned our rations (Our cause was God's and the Nation's, Or we'd have come out forlorn!)-- A long and terrible day! And at last, when night grew gray, By the hundreds, there they lay (Heavy sleepers, you'd say), That wouldn't wake on the morn.

Our staff was bare of a flag, We didn't carry a rag In those brave marching days;-- Ah, no, but a finer thing! With never a cord or string, An eagle of ruffled wing, And an eye of awful gaze. The grape it rattled like hail, The minies were dropping like rain, The first of a thunder shower; The wads were blowing like chaff (There was pounding like floor and flail, All the front of our line!), So we stood it hour after hour; But our eagle, he felt fine! 'Twould have made you cheer and laugh, To see, through that iron gale, How the old fellow'd swoop and sail Above the racket and roar,-- To right and to left he'd soar, But ever came back, without fail, And perched on his standard-staff.

All that day, I tell you true, They had pressed us steady and fair, Till we fought in street and square (The affair, you might think, looked blue),-- But we knew we had them there! Our batteries were few, Every gun, they'd have sworn, they knew, But, you see, there were one or two We had fixed for them, unaware.

They reckon they've got us now! For the next half hour 'twill be warm-- Aye, aye, look yonder!--I vow, If they weren't Secesh, how I'd love them! Only see how grandly they form (Our eagle whirling above them), To take Robinett by storm! They're timing!--it can't be long-- Now for the nub of the fight! (You may guess that we held our breath.) By the Lord, 'tis a splendid sight! A column two thousand strong Marching square to the death!

On they came in solid column, For once no whooping nor yell (Ah, I dare say they felt solemn!)-- Front and flank, grape and shell, Our batteries pounded away! And the minies hummed to remind 'em They had started on no child's play!

Steady they kept a-going, But a grim wake settled behind 'em From the edge of the abattis (Where our dead and dying lay Under fence and fallen tree), Up to Robinett, all the way The dreadful swath kept growing! 'Twas butternut mixed with gray.

Now for it, at Robinett! Muzzle to muzzle we met (Not a breath of bluster or brag, Not a lisp for quarter or favor)-- Three times, there, by Robinett, With a rush, their feet they set On the logs of our parapet, And waved their bit of a flag-- What could be finer or braver! But our cross-fire stunned them in flank, They melted, rank after rank (O'er them, with terrible poise, Our Bird did circle and wheel!)-- Their whole line began to waver-- Now for the bayonet, boys! On them with the cold steel!

Ah, well--you know how it ended-- We did for them, there and then, But their pluck throughout was splendid. (As I said before, I could love them!) They stood to the last, like men-- Only a handful of them Found the way back again. Red as blood, o'er the town, The angry sun went down, Firing flagstaff and vane-- And our eagle,--as for him, There, all ruffled and grim, He sat, o'erlooking the slain!

Next morning, you'd have wondered How we had to drive the spade! There, in great trenches and holes (Ah, God rest their poor souls!), We piled some fifteen hundred, Where that last charge was made! Sad enough, I must say. No mother to mourn and search, No priest to bless or to pray-- We buried them where they lay, Without a rite of the church-- But our eagle, all that day, Stood solemn and still on his perch.

'Tis many a stormy day Since, out of the cold bleak north, Our great war-eagle sailed forth To swoop o'er battle and fray. Many and many a day O'er charge and storm hath he wheeled, Foray and foughten field, Tramp, and volley, and rattle!-- Over crimson trench and turf, Over climbing clouds of surf, Through tempest and cannon-wrack, Have his terrible pinions whirled (A thousand fields of battle! A million leagues of foam!);-- But our bird shall yet come back, He shall soar to his eyrie-home, And his thunderous wings be furled, In the gaze of a gladdened world, On the nation's loftiest dome.

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

One more struggle closed the campaign. On December 29, 1862, the armies of Bragg and Rosecrans met at Murfreesboro, Tenn., and for four days a desperate battle raged, which ended finally in the Confederates falling back and leaving their antagonists in possession of the field.

THE BATTLE OF MURFREESBORO

[December 31, 1862]

Ere Murfreesboro's thunders rent the air-- With cannon booming 'mid the trumpet's blare-- Cane Hill and David Mills, stern battles, too, Had carried death to hosts in Gray and Blue. But here, more deadly, war's wild torrent rushed, And victory, at first, the Rebels flushed. The "right wing" gone, and troops in panic, lo! The battle seemed already lost. But, No. Brave Rosecrans cried out--"Now stop retreat! We'll turn to victory this sore defeat! We must and shall this battle--Soldiers!--win! Now silence yonder batt'ry, to begin! And all re-form and meet the yelling foe! Stand firm and fire a volley! Back he'll go. If not, present your bayonets, and Charge! 'Tis needless on these orders to enlarge; But--Comrades!--here we conquer or we die!" And all that Rosecrans desired was done; And Murfreesboro's battle thus was won. Hail! to that New Year's Day in 'Sixty-three, And to that morrow which brought victory. Hail! to the courage of the Boys in Blue, Who fought so grandly, to their Country true.

KINAHAN CORNWALLIS.

Among the wounded, on the Confederate side, was Isaac Giffen, a native of East Tennessee. He was terribly injured, and was taken by Dr. Francis O. Ticknor into his home and nursed back to life. He fell in one of the battles before Atlanta.

LITTLE GIFFEN

Out of the focal and foremost fire, Out of the hospital walls as dire, Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene (Eighteenth battle and he sixteen)-- Spectre such as you seldom see, Little Giffen of Tennessee.

"Take him--and welcome!" the surgeons said, "Little the doctor can help the dead!" So we took him and brought him where The balm was sweet on the summer air; And we laid him down on a wholesome bed-- Utter Lazarus, heel to head!

And we watched the war with bated breath-- Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death. Months of torture, how many such! Weary weeks of the stick and crutch; And still a glint in the steel-blue eye Told of a spirit that wouldn't die.

And didn't. Nay, more! in death's despite The crippled skeleton learned to write. "Dear Mother," at first of course; and then "Dear Captain," inquiring about "the men." Captain's answer: "Of eighty and five, Giffen and I are left alive."

Word of gloom from the war one day: "Johnston's pressed at the front, they say!" Little Giffen was up and away; A tear--his first--as he bade good-by, Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye. "I'll write, if spared!" There was news of the fight; But none of Giffen--he did not write.

I sometimes fancy that, were I king Of the princely knights of the Golden Ring, With the song of the minstrel in mine ear, And the tender legend that trembles here, I'd give the best, on his bended knee, The whitest soul of my chivalry, For Little Giffen of Tennessee.

FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR.

Both the Union and Confederate armies were in need of rest and reorganization, and for a time hostilities ceased. Grant paused to collect his forces and to prepare for a manoeuvre of the first importance.

THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862

The flags of war like storm-birds fly, The charging trumpets blow; Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, No earthquake strives below.

And, calm and patient, Nature keeps Her ancient promise well, Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps The battle's breath of hell.

And still she walks in golden hours Through harvest-happy farms, And still she wears her fruits and flowers Like jewels on her arms.

What mean the gladness of the plain, This joy of eve and morn, The mirth that shakes the beard of grain And yellow locks of corn?

Ah! eyes may well be full of tears, And hearts with hate are hot; But even-paced come round the years, And Nature changes not.

She meets with smiles our bitter grief, With songs our groans of pain; She mocks with tint of flower and leaf The war-field's crimson stain.

Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm; Too near to God for doubt or fear, She shares the eternal calm.

She knows the seed lies safe below The fires that blast and burn; For all the tears of blood we sow She waits the rich return.

She sees with clearer eye than ours The good of suffering born,-- The hearts that blossom like her flowers, And ripen like her corn.

Oh, give to us, in times like these, The vision of her eyes; And make her fields and fruited trees Our golden prophecies!

Oh, give to us her finer ear! Above this stormy din, We too would hear the bells of cheer Ring peace and freedom in.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

VI. THE COAST AND THE RIVER

At the opening of the Civil War, the United States had proclaimed a blockade of all Southern ports. But places like Pamlico Sound and Port Royal had so many outlets that they could not be blockaded effectually, and finally, in November, 1861, a combined sea and land attack captured the latter place and gave the Union fleet a good harbor in the South.

AT PORT ROYAL

[November 7, 1861]

The tent-lights glimmer on the land, The ship-lights on the sea; The night-wind smooths with drifting sand Our track on lone Tybee.

At last our grating keels outslide, Our good boats forward swing; And while we ride the land-locked tide, Our negroes row and sing.

For dear the bondman holds his gifts Of music and of song: The gold that kindly Nature sifts Among his sands of wrong;

The power to make his toiling days And poor home-comforts please; The quaint relief of mirth that plays With sorrow's minor keys.

Another glow than sunset's fire Has filled the west with light, Where field and garner, barn and byre, Are blazing through the night.

The land is wild with fear and hate, The rout runs mad and fast; From hand to hand, from gate to gate The flaming brand is passed.

The lurid glow falls strong across Dark faces broad with smiles: Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss That fire yon blazing piles.

With oar-strokes timing to their song, They weave in simple lays The pathos of remembered wrong, The hope of better days,--

The triumph-note that Miriam sung, The joy of uncaged birds: Softening with Afric's mellow tongue Their broken Saxon words.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

The campaign along the North Carolina coast was vigorously pressed, and fort after fort was captured, until the Northern troops were so firmly in possession that their control of that portion of the coast was never afterwards seriously threatened.

READY

Loaded with gallant soldiers, A boat shot in to the land, And lay at the right of Rodman's Point, With her keel upon the sand.

Lightly, gayly, they came to shore, And never a man afraid; When sudden the enemy opened fire, From his deadly ambuscade.

Each man fell flat on the bottom Of the boat; and the captain said: "If we lie here, we all are captured, And the first who moves is dead!"

Then out spoke a negro sailor, No slavish soul had he: "Somebody's got to die, boys, And it might as well be me!"

Firmly he rose, and fearlessly Stepped out into the tide; He pushed the vessel safely off, Then fell across her side:

Fell, pierced by a dozen bullets, As the boat swung clear and free;-- But there wasn't a man of them that day Who was fitter to die than he!

PHOEBE CARY.

Especially important was the capture of Newberne, on the Neuse River, where the Confederates were strongly intrenched. The Union forces under Burnside advanced to the attack on the morning of March 14, 1862, and succeeded in carrying the works. The loss on both sides was heavy, and would have been heavier still on the Union side, but for the quick wit of Kady Brownell.

THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT

(FIFTH RHODE ISLAND)

[March 14, 1862]

Who with the soldiers was stanch danger-sharer,-- Marched in the ranks through the shriek of the shell? Who was their comrade, their brave color-bearer? Who but the resolute Kady Brownell!

Over the marshland and over the highland, Where'er the columns wound, meadow or dell, Fared she, this daughter of little Rhode Island,-- She, the intrepid one, Kady Brownell!

While the mad rout at Manassas was surging, When those around her fled wildly, or fell, And the bold Beauregard onward was urging, Who so undaunted as Kady Brownell!

When gallant Burnside made dash upon Newberne, Sailing the Neuse 'gainst the sweep of the swell, Watching the flag on the heaven's broad blue burn, Who higher hearted than Kady Brownell?

In the deep slough of the springtide debarking, Toiling o'er leagues that are weary to tell, Time with the sturdiest soldiery marking, Forward, straight forward, strode Kady Brownell.

Reaching the lines where the army was forming, Forming to charge on those ramparts of hell, When from the wood came her regiment swarming, What did she see there--this Kady Brownell?

See! why she saw that their friends thought them foemen; Muskets were levelled, and cannon as well! Save them from direful destruction would no men? Nay, but this woman would,--Kady Brownell!

Waving her banner she raced for the clearing; Fronted them all, with her flag as a spell; Ah, what a volley--a volley of cheering-- Greeted the heroine, Kady Brownell!

Gone (and thank God!) are those red days of slaughter! Brethren again we in amity dwell; Just one more cheer for the Regiment's Daughter!-- Just one more cheer for her, Kady Brownell!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

The Federals had succeeded in partially destroying the navy yard at Norfolk at the outbreak of the war, but the Confederates succeeded in raising one vessel, the Merrimac. This they rebuilt, converted into an iron-clad, armed with ten rifled guns, and named the Virginia. A cast-iron ram was fitted to the bow. The vessel was completed in March, 1862, and on the 8th cast loose and steamed down the river.

THE TURTLE

[March 8, 1862]

Cæsar, afloat with his fortunes! And all the world agog Straining its eyes At a thing that lies In the water, like a log! It's a weasel! a whale! I see its tail! It's a porpoise! a pollywog!

Tarnation! it's a turtle! And blast my bones and skin, My hearties, sink her, Or else you'll think her A regular terror-pin!

The frigate poured a broadside! The bombs they whistled well, But--hit old Nick With a sugar stick! It didn't phase her shell!

Piff, from the creature's larboard-- And dipping along the water A bullet hissed From a wreath of mist Into a Doodle's quarter!

Raff, from the creature's starboard-- Rip, from his ugly snorter, And the Congress and The Cumberland Sunk, and nothing--shorter.

Now, here's to you, Virginia, And you are bound to win! By your rate of bobbing round And your way of pitchin' in-- For you are a cross Of the old sea-hoss And a regular terror-pin.

At Newport News lay the United States 50-gun frigate Congress, the 24-gun sloop Cumberland, and the frigates St. Lawrence, Roanoke, and Minnesota. In command of the Cumberland was Lieutenant George Upham Morris, and at noon the Merrimac was seen from the Cumberland's deck advancing to the attack. Shot and shell were poured upon her without effect. She steamed straight on and plunged her ram into the Cumberland's side. Morris fought his ship until she sank under him.

THE ATTACK

[March 8, 1862]

In Hampton Roads, the airs of March were bland, Peace on the deck and in the fortress sleeping, Till, in the look-out of the Cumberland, The sailor, with his well-poised glass in hand, Descried the iron island downward creeping.

A sudden wonder seized on land and bay, And Tumult, with her train, was there to follow; For still the stranger kept its seaward way, Looking a great leviathan blowing spray, Seeking with steady course his ocean wallow.

And still it came, and largened on the sight; A floating monster; ugly and gigantic; In shape, a wave, with long and shelving height, As if a mighty billow, heaved at night, Should turn to iron in the mid-Atlantic.

Then ship and fortress gazed with anxious stare, Until the Cumberland's cannon, silence breaking, Thundered its guardian challenge, "Who comes there?" But, like a rock-flung echo in the air, The shot rebounded, no impression making.

Then roared a broadside; though directed well, On, like a nightmare, moved the shape defiant; The tempest of our pounding shot and shell Crumbled to harmless nothing, thickly fell From off the sounding armor of the giant!

Unchecked, still onward through the storm it broke, With beak directed at the vessel's centre; Then through the constant cloud of sulphurous smoke Drove, till it struck the warrior's wall of oak, Making a gateway for the waves to enter.

Struck, and to note the mischief done, withdrew, And then, with all a murderer's impatience, Rushed on again, crushing her ribs anew, Cleaving the noble hull well-nigh in two, And on it sped its fiery imprecations.

Swift through the vessel swept the drowning swell, With splash, and rush, and guilty rise appalling; While sinking cannon rung their own loud knell. Then, cried the traitor, from his sulphurous cell, "Do you surrender?" Oh, those words were galling!

How spake our captain to his comrades then? It was a shout from out a soul of splendor, Echoed from lofty maintop, and again Between-decks, from the lips of dying men, "Sink! sink, boys, sink! but never say surrender!"

Down went the ship! Down, down; but never down Her sacred flag to insolent dictator. Weep for the patriot heroes, doomed to drown; Pledge to the sunken Cumberland's renown. She sank, thank God! unsoiled by foot of traitor!

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

THE CUMBERLAND

[March 8, 1862]

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore.

Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak.

Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port.

We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster's hide.

"Strike your flag!" the rebel cries In his arrogant old plantation strain. "Never!" our gallant Morris replies: "It is better to sink than to yield!" And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men.

Then, like a kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp.

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. Lord, how beautiful was Thy day! Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead.

Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream; Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND

[March 8, 1862]

"Stand to your guns, men!" Morris cried. Small need to pass the word; Our men at quarters ranged themselves, Before the drum was heard.

And then began the sailors' jests: "What thing is that, I say?" "A long-shore meeting-house adrift Is standing down the bay!"

A frown came over Morris' face; The strange, dark craft he knew; "That is the iron Merrimac, Manned by a rebel crew.

"So shot your guns, and point them straight; Before this day goes by, We'll try of what her metal's made." A cheer was our reply.

"Remember, boys, this flag of ours Has seldom left its place; And where it falls, the deck it strikes Is covered with disgrace.

"I ask but this: or sink or swim, Or live or nobly die, My last sight upon earth may be To see that ensign fly!"

Meanwhile the shapeless iron mass Came moving o'er the wave, As gloomy as a passing hearse, As silent as the grave.

Her ports were closed, from stem to stern No sign of life appeared. We wondered, questioned, strained our eyes, Joked,--everything but feared.

She reached our range. Our broadside rang, Our heavy pivots roared; And shot and shell, a fire of hell, Against her sides we poured.

God's mercy! from her sloping roof The iron tempest glanced, As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch, And round her leaped and danced;

Or, when against her dusky hull We struck a fair, full blow, The mighty, solid iron globes Were crumbled up like snow.

On, on, with fast increasing speed, The silent monster came; Though all our starboard battery Was one long line of flame.

She heeded not, nor gun she fired, Straight on our bow she bore; Through riving plank and crashing frame Her furious way she tore.

Alas! our beautiful, keen bow, That in the fiercest blast So gently folded back the seas, They hardly felt we passed!

Alas! Alas! My Cumberland, That ne'er knew grief before, To be so gored, to feel so deep The tusk of that sea-boar!

Once more she backward drew a space, Once more our side she rent; Then, in the wantonness of hate, Her broadside through us sent.

The dead and dying round us lay, But our foeman lay abeam; Her open portholes maddened us; We fired with shout and scream.

We felt our vessel settling fast, We knew our time was brief; "The pumps, the pumps!" But they who pumped, And fought not, wept with grief.

"Oh, keep us but an hour afloat! Oh, give us only time To be the instruments of heaven Against the traitors' crime!"

From captain down to powder-boy, No hand was idle then; Two soldiers, but by chance aboard, Fought on like sailor-men.

And when a gun's crew lost a hand, Some bold marine stepped out, And jerked his braided jacket off, And hauled the gun about.

Our forward magazine was drowned; And up from the sick-bay Crawled out the wounded, red with blood, And round us gasping lay.

Yes, cheering, calling us by name, Struggling with failing breath, To keep their shipmates at the port, While glory strove with death.

With decks afloat, and powder gone, The last broadside we gave From the guns' heated iron lips Burst out beneath the wave.

So sponges, rammers, and handspikes-- As men-of-war's men should-- We placed within their proper racks, And at our quarters stood.

"Up to the spar-deck! Save yourselves!" Cried Selfridge. "Up, my men! God grant that some of us may live To fight yon ship again!"

We turned--we did not like to go; Yet staying seemed but vain, Knee-deep in water; so we left; Some swore, some groaned with pain.

We reached the deck. Here Randall stood: "Another turn, men--so!" Calmly he aimed his pivot-gun: "Now, Tenney, let her go!"

It did our sore hearts good to hear The song our pivot sang, As rushing on, from wave to wave, The whirring bomb-shell sprang.

Brave Randall leaped upon the gun, And waved his cap in sport; "Well done! well aimed! I saw that shell Go through an open port."

It was our last, our deadliest shot; The deck was overflown; The poor ship staggered, lurched to port, And gave a living groan.

Down, down, as headlong through the waves Our gallant vessel rushed, A thousand gurgling, watery sounds Around my senses gushed.

Then I remember little more; One look to heaven I gave, Where, like an angel's wing, I saw Our spotless ensign wave.

I tried to cheer, I cannot say Whether I swam or sank; A blue mist closed around my eyes, And everything was blank.

When I awoke, a soldier-lad, All dripping from the sea, With two great tears upon his cheeks, Was bending over me.

I tried to speak. He understood The wish I could not speak. He turned me. There, thank God! the flag Still fluttered at the peak!

And there, while thread shall hang to thread, O let that ensign fly! The noblest constellation set Against our northern sky.

A sign that we who live may claim The peerage of the brave; A monument, that needs no scroll, For those beneath the wave!

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

THE CUMBERLAND

Some names there are of telling sound, Whose vowelled syllables free Are pledge that they shall ever live renowned; Such seems to be A Frigate's name (by present glory spanned)-- The Cumberland. Sounding name as e'er was sung, Flowing, rolling on the tongue-- Cumberland! Cumberland!

She warred and sunk. There's no denying That she was ended--quelled; And yet her flag above her fate is flying, As when it swelled Unswallowed by the swallowing sea: so grand-- The Cumberland. Goodly name as e'er was sung, Roundly rolling on the tongue-- Cumberland! Cumberland!

What need to tell how she was fought-- The sinking flaming gun-- The gunner leaping out the port-- Washed back, undone! Her dead unconquerably manned The Cumberland. Noble name as e'er was sung, Slowly roll it on the tongue-- Cumberland! Cumberland!

Long as hearts shall share the flame Which burned in that brave crew, Her fame shall live--outlive the victor's name; For this is due. Your flag and flag-staff shall in story stand-- Cumberland! Sounding name as e'er was sung, Long they'll roll it on the tongue-- Cumberland! Cumberland!

HERMAN MELVILLE.

The Merrimac then drew off and subjected the Congress to such a terrific fire that the frigate was forced to surrender. After heavily damaging the other vessels of the fleet, the Merrimac withdrew, intending to complete their destruction in the morning.

HOW THE CUMBERLAND WENT DOWN

[March 8, 1862]

Gray swept the angry waves O'er the gallant and the true, Rolled high in mounded graves O'er the stately frigate's crew-- Over cannon, over deck, Over all that ghastly wreck,-- When the Cumberland went down.

Such a roar the waters rent As though a giant died, When the wailing billows went Above those heroes tried; And the sheeted foam leaped high, Like white ghosts against the sky,-- As the Cumberland went down.

O shrieking waves that gushed Above that loyal band, Your cold, cold burial rushed O'er many a heart on land! And from all the startled North A cry of pain broke forth, When the Cumberland went down.

And forests old, that gave A thousand years of power To her lordship of the wave And her beauty's regal dower, Bent, as though before a blast, When plunged her pennoned mast, And the Cumberland went down.

And grimy mines that sent To her their virgin strength, And iron vigor lent To knit her lordly length, Wildly stirred with throbs of life, Echoes of that fatal strife, As the Cumberland went down.

Beneath the ocean vast, Full many a captain bold, By many a rotting mast, And admiral of old, Rolled restless in his grave As he felt the sobbing wave, When the Cumberland went down.

And stern Vikings that lay A thousand years at rest, In many a deep blue bay Beneath the Baltic's breast, Leaped on the silver sands, And shook their rusty brands, As the Cumberland went down.

S. WEIR MITCHELL.

But when, on the morning of March 9, 1862, the Merrimac steamed out again into Hampton Roads, a new antagonist confronted her--the Monitor, Ericsson's eccentric boat, which had arrived from New York the night before. The ships approached each other, like David and Goliath. A battle followed, unique in naval warfare, the first duel of ironclads the world had ever seen. It ended in the Merrimac retreating to Norfolk, badly damaged.

THE CRUISE OF THE MONITOR

[March 9, 1862]

Out of a Northern city's bay, 'Neath lowering clouds, one bleak March day, Glided a craft--the like, I ween, On ocean's crest was never seen Since Noah's float, that ancient boat, Could o'er a conquered deluge gloat.

No raking masts, with clouds of sail, Bent to the breeze, or braved the gale; No towering chimney's wreaths of smoke Betrayed the mighty engine's stroke; But low and dark, like the crafty shark, Moved in the waters this novel bark.

The fishers stared as the flitting sprite Passed their huts in the misty light, Bearing a turret huge and black, And said, "The old sea-serpent's back, Carting away by light of day, Uncle Sam's fort from New York Bay."

Forth from a Southern city's dock, Our frigates' strong blockade to mock, Crept a monster of rugged build, The work of crafty hands, well skilled-- Old Merrimac, with an iron back Wooden ships would find hard to crack.

Straight to where the Cumberland lay, The mail-clad monster made its way; Its deadly prow struck deep and sure, And the hero's fighting days were o'er. Ah! many the braves who found their graves, With that good ship, beneath the waves!

But with their fate is glory wrought, Those hearts of oak like heroes fought With desperate hope to win the day, And crush the foe that 'fore them lay. Our flag up run, the last-fired gun, Tokens how bravely duty was done.

Flushed with success, the victor flew, Furious, the startled squadron through: Sinking, burning, driving ashore, Until that Sabbath day was o'er, Resting at night to renew the fight With vengeful ire by morning's light.

Out of its den it burst anew, When the gray mist the sun broke through, Steaming to where, in clinging sands, The frigate Minnesota stands, A sturdy foe to overthrow, But in woful plight to receive a blow.

But see! Beneath her bow appears A champion no danger fears; A pigmy craft, that seems to be To this new lord who rules the sea, Like David of old to Goliath bold-- Youth and giant, by Scripture told.

Round the roaring despot playing, With willing spirit, helm obeying, Spurning the iron against it hurled, While belching turret rapid whirled, And swift shot's seethe, with smoky wreath, Told that the shark was showing his teeth--

The Monitor fought. In grim amaze The Merrimacs upon it gaze, Cowering 'neath the iron hail, Crashing into their coat of mail; They swore "this craft, the devil's shaft, Looked like a cheese-box on a raft."

Hurrah! little giant of '62! Bold Worden with his gallant crew Forces the fight; the day is won; Back to his den the monster's gone With crippled claws and broken jaws, Defeated in a reckless cause.

Hurrah for the master mind that wrought, With iron hand, this iron thought! Strength and safety with speed combined, Ericsson's gift to all mankind; To curb abuse, and chains to loose, Hurrah for the Monitor's famous cruise!

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

The reign of terror created by the Merrimac was at an end, and the ship herself did not last long. On May 10, 1862, the Confederates were forced to abandon Norfolk, and the Merrimac was blown up. On December 30 the Monitor foundered in a gale off Hatteras.

THE SINKING OF THE MERRIMACK

[May, 1862]

Gone down in the flood, and gone out in the flame! What else could she do, with her fair Northern name? Her font was a river whose last drop is free: That river ran boiling with wrath to the sea, To hear of her baptismal blessing profaned; A name that was Freedom's, by treachery stained.

'Twas the voice of our free Northern mountains that broke In the sound of her guns, from her stout ribs of oak: 'Twas the might of the free Northern hand you could feel In her sweep and her moulding, from topmast to keel: When they made her speak treason (does Hell know of worse?), How her strong timbers shook with the shame of her curse!

Let her go! Should a deck so polluted again Ever ring to the tread of our true Northern men? Let the suicide-ship thunder forth, to the air And the sea she has blotted, her groan of despair! Let her last heat of anguish throb out into flame! Then sink them together,--the ship and the name!

LUCY LARCOM.

The work of the gunboats on the Mississippi at the investment of Fort Henry and Fort Donelson has been already mentioned. In April, 1862, a blow was aimed at the very heart of the Confederacy, when a fleet under command of David Glasgow Farragut advanced up the river against the formidable forts below New Orleans. After five days' bombardment, the fleet ran past the forts and attacked the Confederate ships before the city.

THE RIVER FIGHT

[April 18, 1862]

Do you know of the dreary land, If land such region may seem, Where 'tis neither sea nor strand, Ocean, nor good, dry land, But the nightmare marsh of a dream? Where the Mighty River his death-road takes, 'Mid pools and windings that coil like snakes, A hundred leagues of bayous and lakes, To die in the great Gulf Stream?

No coast-line clear and true, Granite and deep-sea blue, On that dismal shore you pass, Surf-worn boulder or sandy beach,-- But ooze-flats as far as the eye can reach, With shallows of water-grass; Reedy Savannahs, vast and dun, Lying dead in the dim March sun; Huge, rotting trunks and roots that lie Like the blackened bones of shapes gone by, And miles of sunken morass.

No lovely, delicate thing Of life o'er the waste is seen But the cayman couched by his weedy spring, And the pelican, bird unclean, Or the buzzard, flapping with heavy wing, Like an evil ghost o'er the desolate scene.

Ah! many a weary day With our Leader there we lay. In the sultry haze and smoke, Tugging our ships o'er the bar, Till the spring was wasted far, Till his brave heart almost broke. For the sullen river seemed As if our intent he dreamed,-- All his sallow mouths did spew and choke.

But ere April fully passed All ground over at last And we knew the die was cast,-- Knew the day drew nigh To dare to the end one stormy deed, Might save the land at her sorest need, Or on the old deck to die!

Anchored we lay,--and a morn the more, To his captains and all his men Thus wrote our old commodore (He wasn't Admiral then):-- "GENERAL ORDERS: Send your to'gallant masts down, Rig in each flying jib-boom! Clear all ahead for the loom Of traitor fortress and town, Or traitor fleet bearing down.

"In with your canvas high; We shall want no sail to fly! Topsail, foresail, spanker, and jib (With the heart of oak in the oaken rib), Shall serve us to win or die!

"Trim every sail by the head (So shall you spare the lead), Lest if she ground, your ship swing round, Bows in shore, for a wreck. See your grapnels all clear with pains, And a solid kedge in your port main-chains, With a whip to the main yard: Drop it heavy and hard When you grapple a traitor deck!

"On forecastle and on poop Mount guns, as best you may deem. If possible, rouse them up (For still you must bow the stream). Also hoist and secure with stops Howitzers firmly in your tops, To fire on the foe abeam.

"Look well to your pumps and hose; Have water tubs fore and aft, For quenching flame in your craft, And the gun crew's fiery thirst. See planks with felt fitted close, To plug every shot-hole tight. Stand ready to meet the worst! For, if I have reckoned aright, They will serve us shot, Both cold and hot, Freely enough to-night.

"Mark well each signal I make (Our life-long service at stake, And honor that must not lag!),-- Whate'er the peril and awe, In the battle's fieriest flaw, Let never one ship withdraw Till the orders come from the flag!"

* * * * *

Would you hear of the river fight? It was two of a soft spring night; God's stars looked down on all; And all was clear and bright But the low fog's clinging breath; Up the River of Death Sailed the great Admiral.

On our high poop-deck he stood, And round him ranged the men Who have made their birthright good Of manhood once and again,-- Lords of helm and of sail, Tried in tempest and gale, Bronzed in battle and wreck. Bell and Bailey grandly led Each his line of the Blue and Red; Wainwright stood by our starboard rail; Thornton fought the deck. And I mind me of more than they, Of the youthful, steadfast ones, That have shown them worthy sons Of the seamen passed away. Tyson conned our helm that day; Watson stood by his guns.

What thought our Admiral then, Looking down on his men? Since the terrible day (Day of renown and tears!),-- When at anchor the Essex lay,-- Holding her foes at bay,-- When a boy by Porter's side he stood, Till deck and plank-sheer were dyed with blood; 'Tis half a hundred years,-- Half a hundred years to a day!

Who could fail with him? Who reckon of life or limb? Not a pulse but beat the higher! There had you seen, by the starlight dim, Five hundred faces strong and grim: The Flag is going under fire! Right up by the fort, With her helm hard aport, The Hartford is going under fire!

The way to our work was plain. Caldwell had broken the chain (Two hulks swung down amain Soon as 'twas sundered). Under the night's dark blue, Steering steady and true, Ship after ship went through, Till, as we hove in view, "Jackson" out-thundered!

Back echoed "Philip!" ah! then Could you have seen our men. How they sprung in the dim night haze, To their work of toil and of clamor! How the boarders, with sponge and rammer And their captains, with cord and hammer, Kept every muzzle ablaze. How the guns, as with cheer and shout-- Our tackle-men hurled them out-- Brought up on the water-ways!

First, as we fired at their flash, 'Twas lightning and black eclipse, With a bellowing roll and crash. But soon, upon either bow, What with forts and fire-rafts and ships (The whole fleet was hard at it now), All pounding away!--and Porter Still thundering with shell and mortar,-- 'T was the mighty sound and form!

(Such you see in the far South, After long heat and drought, As day draws nigh to even, Arching from north to south, Blinding the tropic sun, The great black bow comes on, Till the thunder-veil is riven,-- When all is crash and levin, And the cannonade of heaven Rolls down the Amazon!)

But, as we worked along higher, Just where the river enlarges, Down came a pyramid of fire,-- It was one of your long coal barges. (We had often had the like before.) 'T was coming down on us to larboard, Well in with the eastern shore; And our pilot, to let it pass round (You may guess we never stopped to sound), Giving us a rank sheer to starboard, Ran the Flag hard and fast aground!

'T was nigh abreast of the Upper Fort, And straightway a rascal ram (She was shaped like the Devil's dam) Puffed away for us, with a snort, And shoved it, with spiteful strength, Right alongside of us to port. It was all of our ship's length,-- A huge, crackling Cradle of the Pit! Pitch-pine knots to the brim, Belching flame red and grim, What a roar came up from it!

Well, for a little it looked bad: But these things are, somehow, shorter, In the acting than in the telling; There was no singing out or yelling, Or any fussing and fretting, No stampede, in short; But there we were, my lad, All afire on our port quarter, Hammocks ablaze in the netting, Flames spouting in at every port, Our fourth cutter burning at the davit (No chance to lower away and save it).

In a twinkling, the flames had risen Halfway to maintop and mizzen, Darting up the shrouds like snakes! Ah, how we clanked at the brakes, And the deep, steaming pumps throbbed under, Sending a ceaseless flow.

Our topmen, a dauntless crowd, Swarmed in rigging and shroud: There ('twas a wonder!) The burning ratlines and strands They quenched with their bare, hard hands; But the great guns below Never silenced their thunder.

At last, by backing and sounding, When we were clear of grounding, And under headway once more, The whole rebel fleet came rounding The point. If we had it hot before, 'Twas now from shore to shore, One long, loud, thundering roar,-- Such crashing, splintering, and pounding, And smashing as you never heard before!

But that we fought foul wrong to wreck, And to save the land we loved so well, You might have deemed our long gun-deck Two hundred feet of hell!

For above all was battle, Broadside, and blaze, and rattle, Smoke and thunder alone (But, down in the sick-bay, Where our wounded and dying lay, There was scarce a sob or a moan).

And at last, when the dim day broke, And the sullen sun awoke, Drearily blinking O'er the haze and the cannon smoke, That ever such morning dulls,-- There were thirteen traitor hulls On fire and sinking!

Now, up the river!--though mad Chalmette Sputters a vain resistance yet, Small helm we gave her our course to steer,-- 'Twas nicer work than you well would dream, With cant and sheer to keep her clear Of the burning wrecks that cumbered the stream.

The Louisiana, hurled on high, Mounts in thunder to meet the sky! Then down to the depths of the turbid flood,-- Fifty fathom of rebel mud! The Mississippi comes floating down, A mighty bonfire from off the town; And along the river, on stocks and ways, A half-hatched devil's brood is ablaze,-- The great Anglo-Norman is all in flames (Hark to the roar of her trembling frames!), And the smaller fry that Treason would spawn Are lighting Algiers like an angry dawn!

From stem to stern, how the pirates burn, Fired by the furious hands that built! So to ashes forever turn The suicide wrecks of wrong and guilt!

But as we neared the city, By field and vast plantation (Ah! millstone of our nation!), With wonder and with pity, What crowds we there espied Of dark and wistful faces, Mute in their toiling places, Strangely and sadly eyed. Haply 'mid doubt and fear, Deeming deliverance near (One gave the ghost of a cheer!).

And on that dolorous strand, To greet the victor brave, One flag did welcome wave-- Raised, ah me! by a wretched hand, All outworn on our cruel land,-- The withered hand of a slave!

But all along the levee, In a dark and drenching rain (By this 'twas pouring heavy), Stood a fierce and sullen train, A strange and frenzied time! There were scowling rage and pain, Curses, howls, and hisses, Out of Hate's black abysses,-- Their courage and their crime All in vain--all in vain!

For from the hour that the Rebel Stream With the Crescent City lying abeam, Shuddered under our keel, Smit to the heart with self-struck sting, Slavery died in her scorpion-ring And Murder fell on his steel.

'Tis well to do and dare; But ever may grateful prayer Follow, as aye it ought, When the good fight is fought, When the true deed is done. Aloft in heaven's pure light (Deep azure crossed on white), Our fair Church pennant waves O'er a thousand thankful braves, Bareheaded in God's bright sun.

Lord of mercy and frown, Ruling o'er sea and shore, Send us such scene once more! All in line of battle When the black ships bear down On tyrant fort and town, 'Mid cannon cloud and rattle; And the great guns once more Thunder back the roar Of the traitor walls ashore, And the traitor flags come down.

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

THE BALLAD OF NEW ORLEANS

[April 24, 1862]

Just as the hour was darkest, Just between night and day, From the flag-ship shone the signal, "Get the squadrons under way."

Not a sound but the tramp of sailors, And the wheeling capstan's creak, Arose from the busy vessels As the anchors came apeak.

The men worked on in silence, With never a shout or cheer, Till 'twas whispered from bow to quarter: "Start forward! all is clear."

Then groaned the ponderous engine, Then floundered the whirling screw; And as ship joined ship, the comrades Their lines of battle drew.

The moon through the fog was casting A blur of lurid light, As the captain's latest order Was flashed into the night.

"Steam on! and whatever fortune May follow the attack, Sink with your bows still northward No vessel must turn back!"

'Twas hard when we heard that order To smother a rising shout; For it wakened the life within us, And we burned to give it out.

All wrapped in the foggy darkness, Brave Bailey moved ahead; And stem after stern, his gunboats To the starboard station led.

Next Farragut's stately flag-ship To port her head inclined; And midmost, and most in danger, Bell's squadron closed behind.

Ah! many a prayer was murmured For the homes we ne'er might see; And the silence and night grew dreadful With the thought of what must be.

For many a tall, stout fellow Who stood at his quarters then, In the damp and dismal moonlight, Never saw the sun again.

Close down by the yellow river In their oozy graves they rot; Strange vines and strange weeds grow o'er them, And their far homes know them not.

But short was our time of musing; For the rebel forts discerned That the whole great fleet was moving, And their batteries on us turned.

Then Porter burst out from his mortars, In jets of fiery spray, As if a volcano had opened Where his leaf-clad vessels lay.

Howling and screeching and whizzing The bomb-shells arched on high, And then, like gigantic meteors, Dropped swiftly from the sky.

Dropped down on the low, doomed fortress A plague of iron death, Shattering earth and granite to atoms With their puffs of sulphurous breath.

The whole air quaked and shuddered As the huge globes rose and fell, And the blazing shores looked awful As the open gates of hell.

Fort Jackson and Fort Saint Philip, And the battery on the right, By this time were flashing and thundering Out into the murky night.

Through the hulks and the cables, sundered By the bold Itasca's crew, Went Bailey in silence, though round him The shells and the grape-shot flew.

No answer he made to their welcome, Till abeam Saint Philip bore, Then, oh, but he sent them a greeting In his broadsides' steady roar!

Meanwhile, the old man, in the Hartford, Had ranged to Fort Jackson's side; What a sight! he slowed his engines Till he barely stemmed the tide;

Yes, paused in that deadly tornado Of case-shot and shell and ball, Not a cable's length from the fortress, And he lay there, wood to wall.

Have you any notion, you landsmen, Who have seen a field-fight won, Of canister, grape-shot, and shrapnel Hurled out from a ten-inch gun?

I tell you, the air is nigh solid With the howling iron flight; And 'twas such a tempest blew o'er us Where the Hartford lay that night.

Perched aloft in the forward rigging, With his restless eyes aglow, Sat Farragut, shouting his orders To the men who fought below.

And the fort's huge faces of granite Were splintered and rent in twain, And the masses seemed slowly melting, Like snow in a torrid rain.

Now quicker and quicker we fired, Till between us and the foe A torrent of blazing vapor Was leaping to and fro;

While the fort, like a mighty caldron, Was boiling with flame and smoke, And the stone flew aloft in fragments, And the brick into powder broke.

So thick fell the clouds o'er the river, You hardly could see your hand; When we heard, from the foremast rigging, Old Farragut's sharp command:

"Full ahead! Steam across to Saint Philip! Starboard battery, mind your aim! Forecastle there, shift your pivots! Now, Give them a taste of the same!"

Saint Philip grew faint in replying, Its voice of thunder was drowned; "But ha! what is this? Back the engines! Back, back, the ship is aground!"

Straight down the swift current came sweeping A raft, spouting sparks and flame; Pushed on by an iron-clad rebel, Under our port side it came.

At once the good Hartford was blazing, Below, aloft, fore and aft. "We are lost!" "No, no; we are moving!" Away whirled the crackling raft.

The fire was soon quenched. One last broadside We gave to the surly fort; For above us the rebel gunboats Were wheeling like devils at sport.

And into our vacant station Had glided a bulky form; 'Twas Craven's stout Brooklyn, demanding Her share of the furious storm.

We could hear the shot of Saint Philip Ring on her armor of chain, And the crash of her answering broadside, Taking and giving again.

We could hear the low growl of Craven, And Lowry's voice clear and calm, While they swept off the rebel ramparts As clean as your open palm.

Then ranging close under our quarter, Out burst from the smoky fogs The queen of the waves, the Varuna, The ship of bold Charley Boggs.

He waved his blue cap as he passed us; The blood of his glorious race, Of Lawrence, the hero, was burning Once more in a living face.

Right and left flashed his heavy pieces, Rams, gunboats--it mattered not; Wherever a rebel flag floated Was a target for his shot.

All burning and sinking around him Lay five of the foe; but he, The victor, seemed doomed with the vanquished, When along dashed gallant Lee.

And he took up the bloody conflict, And so well his part he bore, That the river ran fire behind him, And glimmered from shore to shore.

But while powder would burn in a cannon, Till the water drowned his deck, Boggs pounded away with his pivots From his slowly settling wreck.

I think our great captains in Heaven, As they looked upon those deeds, Were proud of the flower of that navy, Of which they planted the seeds.

Paul Jones, the knight-errant of ocean, Decatur, the lord of the seas, Hull, Lawrence, and Bainbridge, and Biddle, And Perry, the peer of all these!

If Porter beheld his descendant, With some human pride on his lip, I trust, through the mercy of Heaven, His soul was forgiven that slip.

And thou, living veteran, Old Ironsides, The last of the splendid line, Thou link 'twixt the old and new glory, I know what feelings were thine!

When the sun looked over the tree-tops, We found ourselves--Heaven knows how-- Above the grim forts; and that instant A smoke broke from Farragut's bow.

And over the river came floating The sound of the morning gun; And the stars and stripes danced up the halyards, And glittered against the sun.

Oh, then what a shout from the squadrons! As flag followed flag, till the day Was bright with the beautiful standard, And wild with the victors' huzza!

But three ships were missing. The others Had passed through that current of flame; And each scar on their shattered bulwarks Was touched by the finger of Fame.

Below us, the forts of the rebels Lay in the trance of despair; Above us, uncovered and helpless, New Orleans clouded the air.

Again, in long lines we went steaming Away towards the city's smoke; And works were deserted before us, And columns of soldiers broke.

In vain the town clamored and struggled; The flag at our peak ruled the hour; And under its shade, like a lion, Were resting the will and the power.

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

The Varuna, after sinking five Confederate vessels, was herself sunk. Every ship of the Federal fleet suffered severely, but on the afternoon of April 25, 1862, the fleet dropped anchor off New Orleans.

THE VARUNA

[Sunk April 24, 1862]

Who has not heard of the dauntless Varuna? Who has not heard of the deeds she has done? Who shall not hear, while the brown Mississippi Rushes along from the snow to the sun?

Crippled and leaking she entered the battle, Sinking and burning she fought through the fray; Crushed were her sides and the waves ran across her, Ere, like a death-wounded lion at bay, Sternly she closed in the last fatal grapple, Then in her triumph moved grandly away.

Five of the rebels, like satellites round her, Burned in her orbit of splendor and fear; One, like the Pleiad of mystical story, Shot, terror-stricken, beyond her dread sphere.

We who are waiting with crowns for the victors, Though we should offer the wealth of our store, Load the Varuna from deck down to kelson, Still would be niggard, such tribute to pour On courage so boundless. It beggars possession,-- It knocks for just payment at heaven's bright door!

Cherish the heroes who fought the Varuna; Treat them as kings if they honor your way; Succor and comfort the sick and the wounded; Oh! for the dead let us all kneel to pray!

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

New Orleans was panic-stricken. Many of the better class of citizens fled, and the town was given over to the mob. Drums were beaten, soldiers scampered hither and thither, and women ran through the streets demanding that the city be burned. The cotton on the levee was set on fire, and the torch was put to the wharves and shipping. Finally, on April 29, 1862, after a lot of silly rhodomontade, the city surrendered.

THE SURRENDER OF NEW ORLEANS

[April 29, 1862]

All day long the guns at the forts, With far-off thunders and faint retorts, Had told the city that down the bay The fleet of Farragut's war-ships lay; But now St. Philip and Jackson grim Were black and silent below the rim Of the southern sky, where the river sped Like a war-horse scenting the fight ahead.

And we of the city, the women, and men Too old for facing the battle then, Saw all the signs of our weakness there With a patience born of a great despair. The river gnawed its neglected bank, The weeds in the unused streets grew rank, And flood and famine threatened those Who stayed there braving greater woes.

Under the raking of shot and shell The river fortresses fighting fell; The Chalmette batteries then boomed forth, But the slim, straight spars of the ships of the North Moved steadily on in their river-road, Like a tide that up from the ocean flowed.

Then load after load, and pile upon pile, Lining the wharves for many a mile, Out of the cotton-presses and yards, With a grim industry which naught retards, The bales were carried and swiftly placed By those who knew there was need of haste, And the torch was laid to the cotton so. Up from that bonfire the glare and glow Was seen by the watchers far away, And weeping and wailing those watchers say, "The city is lost! O men at the front, Braving the fortunes of war, and the brunt Of battle bearing with fearful cost, The city you loved and left is lost!"

Ah, memories crowding so thick and fast, Ye were the first; is this the last? We gave with clamor our first great gift, With shouts which up to the heavens lift; We gave with silence our last best yield, Our last, best gleaning for Shiloh's field. With mute devotion we saw them go; But when the banners were furled and low, And the solid columns were thinned by war, We wondered what we had given for.

And oh, the day when with muffled drum We saw our dear, dead Johnston come! The blood of our slain ones seemed to pour From the eyes that should see them come no more. We measured our grief by each gallant deed; We measured our loss by our direful need; Our dead dreams rose from the vanquished past, And across the future their shadows cast. Our brave young hope, like a fallen tear, We laid on the grave of our Chevalier.

And that last wild night! the east was red So long 'fore the day had left its bed. With white, set faces, and smileless lips, We fired our vessels, we fired our ships. We saw the sails of the red flame lift O'er each fire-cargo we set adrift; To Farragut's fleet we sent them down, A warm, warm welcome from the town.

But, alas, how quickly came the end! For down the river, below the bend, Like a threatening finger shook each mast Of the Yankee ships as they steamed up fast. Grim and terrible, black with men, Oh, for the Mississippi then! And--God be merciful!--there she came, A drifting wreck, a ship of flame.

What a torch to light the stripes and stars That had braved our forts and harbor bars! What a light, by which we saw vainly slip Our hopes to their death in that sinking ship!

We shrieked with rage, and defeat, and dread, As down the river that phantom sped; But on the deck of a Yankee ship, One grim old tar, with a smiling lip, Patted the big black breech of his gun, As one who silently says, "Well done!"

To-day the graves that were new are old, And a story done is a story told; But we of the city, the women and men, And boys unfitted for fighting then, Remember the day when our flag went down, And the stars and stripes waved over the town. Ah me! the bitter goes with the sweet, And a victory means another defeat; For, bound in Nature's inflexible laws, A glory for one is another's Lost Cause.

MARION MANVILLE.

The national flag was hoisted over the mint, but was torn down and dragged through the streets in derision by a gang of men led by William B. Mumford. Mumford was captured and hanged for treason.

MUMFORD

THE MARTYR OF NEW ORLEANS

[May, 1862]

Where murdered Mumford lies Bewailed in bitter sighs, Low bowed beneath the flag he loved Martyrs of Liberty, Defenders of the Free! Come, humbly nigh, And learn to die!

Ah, Freedom on that day Turned fearfully away, While pitying angels lingered near, To gaze upon the sod Red with a martyr's blood; And woman's tear Fell on his bier!

Oh, God! that he should die Beneath a Southern sky! Upon a felon's gallows swinging, Murdered by tyrant hand,-- While round a helpless band, On Butler's name Poured scorn and shame.

But hark! loud pæans fly From earth to vaulted sky, He's crowned at Freedom's holy throne! List! sweet-voiced Israfel Tolls for the martyr's knell! Shout Southrons high, Our battle cry!

Come all of Southern blood, Come kneel to Freedom's God! Here at her crimson altar swear! Accursed forever more The flag that Mumford tore, And o'er his grave Our colors wave.

INA M. PORTER.

The behavior of the women was especially insulting and culminated when one of them spat in the face of a Union officer. General Butler thereupon issued his famous Order No. 28, providing that any woman who insulted an officer or soldier of the United States should be treated as a woman of the town. The order was received with hysteria throughout the South, but it brought the people of New Orleans to their senses.

BUTLER'S PROCLAMATION

[May 15, 1862]

Ay! drop the treacherous mask! throw by The cloak that veiled thine instincts fell, Stand forth, thou base, incarnate Lie, Stamped with the signet brand of hell! At last we view thee as thou art, A trickster with a demon's heart.

Off with disguise! no quarter now To rebel honor! thou wouldst strike Hot blushes up the anguished brow, And murder Fame and Strength alike. Beware! ten million hearts aflame Will burn with hate thou canst not tame!

We know thee now! we know thy race! Thy dreadful purpose stands revealed Naked, before the nation's face! Comrades! let Mercy's font be sealed, While the black banner courts the wind, And cursed be he who lags behind!

O soldiers, husbands, brothers, sires! Think that each stalwart blow ye give Shall quench the rage of lustful fires, And bid your glorious women live Pure from a wrong whose tainted breath Were fouler than the foulest death.

O soldiers, lovers, Christians, men! Think that each breeze that floats and dies O'er the red field, from mount or glen, Is burdened with a maiden's sighs-- And each false soul that turns to flee, Consigns his love to infamy!

Think! and strike home! the fabled might Of Titans were a feeble power To that with which your arms should smite In the next awful battle-hour! And deadlier than the bolts of heaven Should flash your fury's fatal leven!

No pity! let your thirsty bands Drink their warm fill at caitiff veins; Dip deep in blood your wrathful hands, Nor pause to wipe those crimson stains. Slay! slay! with ruthless sword and will-- The God of vengeance bids you "kill!"

Yes! but there's _one who shall not die In battle harness_! One for whom Lurks in the darkness silently Another and a sterner doom! A warrior's end should crown the brave-- For him, swift cord! and felon grave!

As loathsome, charnel vapors melt, Swept by invisible winds to naught, So, may this fiend of lust and guilt Die like nightmare's hideous thought! Naught left to mark the mother's name, Save--immortality of shame!

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

VII. EMANCIPATION

Slavery had caused the war, and as the months passed, the President and his advisers became more and more convinced that the emancipation of the negroes would go far to end it. On August 31, 1861, John C. Frémont, in command of the Western Department, issued a proclamation freeing the slaves of secessionists in Missouri, but the President promptly countermanded it.

TO JOHN C. FRÉMONT

[August 31, 1861]

Thy error, Frémont, simply was to act A brave man's part, without the statesman's tact, And, taking counsel but of common sense, To strike at cause as well as consequence. Oh, never yet since Roland wound his horn At Roncesvalles, has a blast been blown Far-heard, wide-echoed, startling as thine own, Heard from the van of freedom's hope forlorn! It had been safer, doubtless, for the time, To flatter treason, and avoid offence To that Dark Power whose underlying crime Heaves upward its perpetual turbulence. But if thine be the fate of all who break The ground for truth's seed, or forerun their years Till lost in distance, or with stout hearts make A lane for freedom through the level spears, Still take thou courage! God has spoken through thee, Irrevocable, the mighty words, Be free! The land shakes with them, and the slave's dull ear Turns from the rice-swamp stealthily to hear. Who would recall them now must first arrest The winds that blow down from the free Northwest, Ruffling the Gulf; or like a scroll roll back The Mississippi to its upper springs. Such words fulfil their prophecy, and lack But the full time to harden into things.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

The slaves were, however, from the outbreak of hostilities, declared to be "contraband of war," and not returnable to their masters. On April 16, 1862, the President approved a bill freeing the slaves in the District of Columbia and compensating their owners.

ASTRÆA AT THE CAPITOL

ABOLITION OF SLAVERY IN THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA, 1862

[April 16, 1862]

When first I saw our banner wave Above the nation's council-hall, I heard beneath its marble wall The clanking fetters of the slave!

In the foul market-place I stood, And saw the Christian mother sold, And childhood with its locks of gold, Blue-eyed and fair with Saxon blood.

I shut my eyes, I held my breath, And, smothering down the wrath and shame That set my Northern blood aflame, Stood silent,--where to speak was death.

Beside me gloomed the prison-cell Where wasted one in slow decline For uttering simple words of mine, And loving freedom all too well.

The flag that floated from the dome Flapped menace in the morning air; I stood a perilled stranger where The human broker made his home.

For crime was virtue: Gown and Sword And Law their threefold sanction gave, And to the quarry of the slave Went hawking with our symbol-bird.

On the oppressor's side was power; And yet I knew that every wrong, However old, however strong, But waited God's avenging hour.

I knew that truth would crush the lie,-- Somehow, sometime, the end would be; Yet scarcely dared I hope to see The triumph with my mortal eye.

But now I see it! In the sun A free flag floats from yonder dome, And at the nation's hearth and home The justice long delayed is done.

Not as we hoped, in calm of prayer, The message of deliverance comes, But heralded by roll of drums On waves of battle-troubled air!

Midst sounds that madden and appall, The song that Bethlehem's shepherds knew! The harp of David melting through The demon-agonies of Saul!

Not as we hoped; but what are we? Above our broken dreams and plans God lays, with wiser hand than man's, The corner-stones of liberty.

I cavil not with Him: the voice That freedom's blessed gospel tells Is sweet to me as silver bells, Rejoicing! yea, I will rejoice!

Dear friends still toiling in the sun; Ye dearer ones who, gone before, Are watching from the eternal shore The slow work by your hands begun,

Rejoice with me! The chastening rod Blossoms with love; the furnace heat Grows cool beneath His blessed feet Whose form is as the Son of God!

Rejoice! Our Marah's bitter springs Are sweetened; on our ground of grief Rise day by day in strong relief The prophecies of better things.

Rejoice in hope! The day and night Are one with God, and one with them Who see by faith the cloudy hem Of Judgment fringed with Mercy's light!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

At last the President resolved to throw down the gauntlet, and on September 22, 1862, proclaimed that all slaves should be freed in such states as were in rebellion against the United States on January 1, 1863. The South continued in rebellion, and the proclamation went into effect on the first day of the new year.

BOSTON HYMN

[January 1, 1863]

The word of the Lord by night To the watching Pilgrims came, As they sat by the seaside, And filled their hearts with flame.

God said, I am tired of kings, I suffer them no more; Up to my ear the morning brings The outrage of the poor.

Think ye I made this ball A field of havoc and war, Where tyrants great and tyrants small Might harry the weak and poor?

My angel--his name is Freedom-- Choose him to be your king; He shall cut pathways east and west, And fend you with his wing.

Lo! I uncover the land, Which I hid of old time in the West, As the sculptor uncovers the statue When he has wrought his best;

I show Columbia, of the rocks Which dip their foot in the seas, And soar to the air-borne flocks Of clouds and the boreal fleece.

I will divide my goods; Call in the wretch and slave; None shall rule but the humble, And none but Toil shall have.

I will have never a noble, No lineage counted great; Fishers and choppers and ploughmen Shall constitute a state.

Go, cut down trees in the forest And trim the straightest boughs; Cut down trees in the forest And build me a wooden house.

Call the people together, The young men and the sires, The digger in the harvest-field, Hireling and him that hires;

And here in a pine state-house They shall choose men to rule In every needful faculty, In church and state and school.

Lo, now! if these poor men Can govern the land and sea, And make just laws below the sun, As planets faithful be.

And ye shall succor men; 'Tis nobleness to serve; Help them who cannot help again: Beware from right to swerve.

I break your bonds and masterships, And I unchain the slave: Free be his heart and hand henceforth As wind and wandering wave.

I cause from every creature His proper good to flow; As much as he is and doeth, So much he shall bestow.

But, laying hands on another, To coin his labor and sweat, He goes in pawn to his victim For eternal years in debt.

To-day unbind the captive, So only are ye unbound; Lift up a people from the dust, Trump of their rescue, sound!

Pay ransom to the owner And fill the bag to the brim. Who is the owner? The slave is owner And ever was. Pay him.

O North! give him beauty for rags, And honor, O South! for his shame; Nevada! coin thy golden crags With Freedom's image and name.

Up! and the dusky race That sat in darkness long,-- Be swift their feet as antelopes, And as behemoth strong.

Come, East and West and North, By races, as snowflakes, And carry my purpose forth, Which neither halts nor shakes.

My will fulfilled shall be, For, in daylight or in dark, My thunderbolt has eyes to see His way home to the mark.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

THE PROCLAMATION

[January 1, 1863]

Saint Patrick, slave to Milcho of the herds Of Ballymena, wakened with these words: "Arise, and flee Out from the land of bondage, and be free!"

Glad as a soul in pain, who hears from heaven The angels singing of his sins forgiven, And, wondering, sees His prison opening to their golden keys,

He rose a man who laid him down a slave, Shook from his locks the ashes of the grave, And outward trod Into the glorious liberty of God.

He cast the symbols of his shame away; And, passing where the sleeping Milcho lay, Though back and limb Smarted with wrong, he prayed, "God pardon him!"

So went he forth; but in God's time he came To light on Uilline's hills a holy flame; And, dying, gave The land a saint that lost him as a slave.

O dark, sad millions, patiently and dumb Waiting for God, your hour, at last, has come, And freedom's song Breaks the long silence of your night of wrong!

Arise and flee! shake off the vile restraint Of ages; but, like Ballymena's saint, The oppressor spare, Heap only on his head the coals of prayer.

Go forth, like him! like him return again, To bless the land whereon in bitter pain Ye toiled at first, And heal with freedom what your slavery cursed.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

The Emancipation Proclamation was received with little enthusiasm except in New England, and early in 1863 certain politicians proposed to form a new Union, excluding the New England states because of their hostility to slavery and consequent obnoxiousness to the South.

TREASON'S LAST DEVICE

[January 19, 1863]

"Who deserves greatness Deserves your hate.... Yon common cry of curs, whose breath I loathe As reek o' the rotten fens."

CORIOLANUS.

"Hark! hark! the dogs do bark."

NURSERY RHYME.

Sons of New England, in the fray, Do you hear the clamor behind your back? Do you hear the yelping of Blanche and Tray? Sweetheart, and all the mongrel pack? Girded well with her ocean crags, Little our mother heeds their noise; Her eyes are fixed on crimsoned flags: But you--do you hear it, Yankee boys?

Do you hear them say that the patriot fire Burns on her altars too pure and bright, To the darkened heavens leaping higher, Though drenched with the blood of every fight? That in the light of its searching flame Treason and tyrants stand revealed, And the yielding craven is put to shame On Capitol floor or foughten field?

Do you hear the hissing voice, which saith That she--who bore through all the land The lyre of Freedom, the torch of Faith, And young Invention's mystic wand-- Should gather her skirts and dwell apart, With not one of her sisters to share her fate,-- A Hagar, wandering sick at heart? A pariah, bearing the Nation's hate?

Sons, who have peopled the distant West, And planted the Pilgrim vine anew, Where, by a richer soil carest, It grows as ever its parent grew,-- Say, do you hear,--while the very bells Of your churches ring with her ancient voice, And the song of your children sweetly tells How true was the land of your fathers' choice,--

Do you hear the traitors who bid you speak The word that shall sever the sacred tie? And ye, who dwell by the golden Peak, Has the subtle whisper glided by? Has it crost the immemorial plains To coasts where the gray Pacific roars, And the Pilgrim blood in the people's veins Is pure as the wealth of their mountain ores?

Spirits of sons who, side by side, In a hundred battles fought and fell, Whom now no East and West divide, In the isles where the shades of heroes dwell,-- Say, has it reached your glorious rest, And ruffled the calm which crowns you there,-- The shame that recreants have confest The plot that floats in the troubled air?

Sons of New England, here and there, Wherever men are still holding by The honor our fathers left so fair,-- Say, do you hear the cowards' cry? Crouching among her grand old crags, Lightly our mother heeds their noise, With her fond eyes fixed on distant flags; But you--do you hear it, Yankee boys?

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

On January 31, 1865, Congress adopted an amendment to the constitution forever abolishing slavery in the United States. On December 18, 1865, it was announced that the amendment had been ratified by the requisite number of states.

LAUS DEO!

On hearing the bells ring on the passage of the constitutional amendment abolishing slavery.

It is done! Clang of bell and roar of gun Send the tidings up and down. How the belfries rock and reel! How the great guns, peal on peal, Fling the joy from town to town!

Ring, O bells! Every stroke exulting tells Of the burial hour of crime. Loud and long, that all may hear, Ring for every listening ear Of Eternity and Time!

Let us kneel: God's own voice is in that peal, And this spot is holy ground. Lord, forgive us! What are we, That our eyes this glory see, That our ears have heard the sound!

For the Lord On the whirlwind is abroad; In the earthquake He has spoken; He has smitten with His thunder The iron walls asunder, And the gates of brass are broken!

Loud and long Lift the old exulting song; Sing with Miriam by the sea, He has cast the mighty down; Horse and rider sink and drown; "He hath triumphed gloriously!"

Did we dare, In our agony of prayer, Ask for more than He has done? When was ever His right hand Over any time or land Stretched as now beneath the sun?

How they pale, Ancient myth and song and tale, In this wonder of our days, When the cruel rod of war Blossoms white with righteous law And the wrath of man is praise!

Blotted out! All within and all about Shall a fresher life begin; Freer breathe the universe As it rolls its heavy curse On the dead and buried sin!

It is done! In the circuit of the sun Shall the sound thereof go forth. It shall bid the sad rejoice, It shall give the dumb a voice, It shall belt with joy the earth!

Ring and swing, Bells of joy! On morning's wing Send the song of praise abroad! With a sound of broken chains Tell the nations that He reigns, Who alone is Lord and God!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.