XI. WINSLOW AND FARRAGUT…

XI. WINSLOW AND FARRAGUT

During the Civil War, the Confederates commissioned a large number of privateers to prey upon Northern commerce, the most famous of which was the Alabama, commanded by Raphael Semmes. Semmes had orders to sink, burn, and destroy everything flying the Stars and Stripes, and carried them out in the most thorough-going way. On June 11, 1864, the Alabama entered the harbor of Cherbourg, France. Three days later, the United States sloop-of-war Kearsarge, Captain John A. Winslow, appeared in the offing, and both ships prepared for battle. The Alabama steamed out of the harbor on the morning of Sunday, June 19, and was soon reduced to a wreck by the deadly fire from the Kearsarge. She sank while trying to run inshore.

THE EAGLE AND VULTURE

[June, 1864]

In Cherbourg Roads the pirate lay One morn in June, like a beast at bay, Feeling secure in the neutral port, Under the guns of the Frenchman's fort; A thieving vulture; a coward thing; Sheltered beneath a despot's wing.

But there outside, in the calm blue bay, Our ocean-eagle, the Kearsarge, lay; Lay at her ease on the Sunday morn, Holding the Corsair ship in scorn; With captain and crew in the might of their right, Willing to pray, but more eager to fight.

Four bells are struck, and this thing of night, Like a panther, crouching with fierce affright, Must leap from his cover, and, come what may, Must fight for his life, or steal away! So, out of the port with his braggart air, With flaunting flags, sailed the proud Corsair.

The Cherbourg cliffs were all alive With lookers-on, like a swarming hive; While compelled to do what he dared not shirk, The pirate went to his desperate work; And Europe's tyrants looked on in glee, As they thought of our Kearsarge sunk in the sea.

But our little bark smiled back at them A smile of contempt, with that Union gem, The American banner, far floating and free, Proclaiming her champions were out on the sea; Were out on the sea, and abroad on the land, Determined to win under God's command.

Down came the vulture; our eagle sat still, Waiting to strike with her iron-clad bill; Convinced by the glow of his glorious cause, He could crumple his foe in the grasp of his claws.

"Clear the decks," then said Winslow, words measured and slow; "Point the guns, and prepare for the terrible blow; And whatever the fate to ourselves may be, We will sink in the ocean this pest of the sea."

The decks were all cleared, and the guns were all manned, Awaiting to meet this Atlantic brigand; When, lo! roared a broadside; the ship of the thief Was torn, and wept blood in that moment of grief.

Another! another! another! And still The broadsides went in with a hearty good will, Till the pirate reeled wildly, as staggering and drunk, And down to his own native regions he sunk.

Down, down, forty fathoms beneath the blue wave, And the hopes of old Europe lie in the same grave; While Freedom, more firm, stands upon her own sod, And for heroes like Winslow is shouting, "Thank God!"

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

KEARSARGE AND ALABAMA

[June 19, 1864]

It was early Sunday morning, in the year of sixty-four, The Alabama she steam'd out along the Frenchman's shore. Long time she cruised about, Long time she held her sway, But now beneath the Frenchman's shore she lies off Cherbourg Bay. Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave Over the Union, the home of the brave. Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave, God bless America, the home of the brave!

The Yankee cruiser hove in view, the Kearsarge was her name, It ought to be engraved in full upon the scroll of fame; Her timbers made of Yankee oak, And her crew of Yankee tars. And o'er her mizzen peak she floats the glorious stripes and stars.

A challenge unto Captain Semmes, bold Winslow he did send! "Bring on your Alabama, and to her we will attend, For we think your boasting privateer Is not so hard to whip; And we'll show you that the Kearsarge is not a merchant ship."

It was early Sunday morning, in the year of sixty-four, The Alabama she stood out and cannons loud did roar; The Kearsarge stood undaunted, and quickly she replied And let a Yankee 'leven-inch shell go tearing through her side.

The Kearsarge then she wore around and broadside on did bear, With shot and shell and right good-will, her timbers she did tear; When they found that they were sinking, down came the stars and bars, For the rebel gunners could not stand the glorious stripes and stars.

The Alabama she is gone, she'll cruise the seas no more, She met the fate she well deserved along the Frenchman's shore; Then here is luck to the Kearsarge, we know what she can do, Likewise to Captain Winslow and his brave and gallant crew. Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave Over the Union, the home of the brave! Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave, God bless America, the home of the brave!

KEARSARGE

[June 19, 1864]

Sunday in Old England: In gray churches everywhere The calm of low responses, The sacred hush of prayer.

Sunday in Old England: And summer winds that went O'er the pleasant fields of Sussex, The garden lands of Kent,

Stole into dim church windows And passed the oaken door, And fluttered open prayer-books With the cannon's awful roar.

Sunday in New England: Upon a mountain gray The wind-bent pines are swaying Like giants at their play;

Across the barren lowlands, Where men find scanty food, The north wind brings its vigor To homesteads plain and rude.

Ho, land of pine and granite! Ho, hardy northland breeze! Well have you trained the manhood That shook the Channel seas,

When o'er those storied waters The iron war-bolts flew, And through Old England's churches The summer breezes blew;

While in our other England Stirred one gaunt rocky steep, When rode her sons as victors, Lords of the lonely deep.

S. WEIR MITCHELL.

LONDON, July 20, 1864.

THE ALABAMA

She has gone to the bottom! the wrath of the tide Now breaks in vain insolence o'er her; No more the rough seas like a queen shall she ride, While the foe flies in terror before her!

Now captive or exiled, or silent in death, The forms that so bravely did man her; Her deck is untrod, and the gale's stirring breath Flouts no more the red cross of her banner!

She is down 'neath the waters, but still her bright name Is in death, as in life, ever glorious, And a sceptre all barren the conqueror must claim, Though he boasts the proud title "Victorious."

Her country's lone champion, she shunned not the fight, Though unequal in strength, bold and fearless; And proved in her fate, though not matchless in might, In daring at least she was peerless.

No trophy hung high in the foe's hated hall Shall speak of her final disaster, Nor tell of the danger that could not appall, Nor the spirit that nothing could master!

The death-shot has sped--she has grimly gone down, But left her destroyer no token, And the mythical wand of her mystic renown, Though the waters o'erwhelm, is unbroken.

For lo! ere she settles beneath the dark wave On her enemies' cheeks spreads a pallor, As another deck summons the swords of the brave To gild a new name with their valor.

Her phantom will yet haunt the wild roaring breeze, Causing foemen to start and to shudder, While their commerce still steals like a thief o'er the seas, And trembles from bowsprit to rudder.

The spirit that shed on the wave's gleaming crest The light of a legend romantic Shall live while a sail flutters over the breast Of thy far-bounding billows, Atlantic!

And as long as one swift keel the strong surges stems, Or "poor Jack" loves his song and his story, Shall shine in tradition the valor of Semmes And the brave ship that bore him to glory!

MAURICE BELL.

Mobile and Wilmington were the only important Confederate ports still open, and early in August, 1864, Admiral Farragut appeared off Mobile with a fleet of eighteen vessels. The entrance to the harbor was strongly defended by forts on both sides, but Farragut determined to run past them. On August 5 the fleet advanced, but the Tecumseh, leading the fleet, struck a torpedo and sank instantly, carrying down nearly all her crew, including T. A. M. Craven, her commander, who drew aside from the ladder that the pilot might pass first.

CRAVEN

[August 5, 1864]

Over the turret, shut in his ironclad tower, Craven was conning his ship through smoke and flame; Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour. Now was the time for a charge to end the game.

There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and grim, A hundred deaths beneath it, and never a sign; There lay the enemy's ships, and sink or swim The flag was flying, and he was head of the line.

The fleet behind was jamming: the monitor hung Beating the stream; the roar for a moment hushed; Craven spoke to the pilot; slow she swung; Again he spoke, and right for the foe she rushed

Into the narrowing channel, between the shore And the sunk torpedoes lying in treacherous rank; She turned but a yard too short; a muffled roar, A mountainous wave, and she rolled, righted, and sank.

Over the manhole, up in the ironclad tower, Pilot and captain met as they turned to fly: The hundredth part of a moment seemed an hour, For one could pass to be saved, and one must die.

They stood like men in a dream; Craven spoke,-- Spoke as he lived and fought, with a captain's pride: "After you, Pilot." The pilot woke, Down the ladder he went, and Craven died.

All men praise the deed and the manner; but we-- We set it apart from the pride that stoops to the proud, The strength that is supple to serve the strong and free, The grace of the empty hands and promises loud;

Sidney thirsting a humbler need to slake, Nelson waiting his turn for the surgeon's hand, Lucas crushed with chains for a comrade's sake, Outram coveting right before command,

These were paladins, these were Craven's peers, These with him shall be crowned in story and song, Crowned with the glitter of steel and the glimmer of tears, Princes of courtesy, merciful, proud, and strong.

HENRY NEWBOLT.

Farragut, who had lashed himself to the shrouds of his flagship, the Hartford, observed the Brooklyn, which preceded him, recoil as the Tecumseh sank. "What's the trouble?" he signalled. "Torpedoes!" answered the Brooklyn. "Damn the torpedoes!" shouted Farragut. "Go ahead, Captain Drayton! Four bells!" and the Hartford cleared the Brooklyn and took the lead.

FARRAGUT

(MOBILE BAY, August 5, 1864)

Farragut, Farragut, Old Heart of Oak, Daring Dave Farragut, Thunderbolt stroke, Watches the hoary mist Lift from the bay, Till his flag, glory-kissed, Greets the young day.

Far, by gray Morgan's walls, Looms the black fleet. Hark, deck to rampart calls With the drums' beat! Buoy your chains overboard, While the steam hums; Men! to the battlement, Farragut comes.

See, as the hurricane Hurtles in wrath Squadrons of clouds amain Back from its path! Back to the parapet, To the guns' lips, Thunderbolt Farragut Hurls the black ships.

Now through the battle's roar Clear the boy sings, "By the mark fathoms four," While his lead swings. Steady the wheelmen five "Nor' by East keep her," "Steady," but two alive: How the shells sweep her!

Lashed to the mast that sways Over red decks, Over the flame that plays Round the torn wrecks, Over the dying lips Framed for a cheer, Farragut leads his ships, Guides the line clear.

On by heights cannon-browed, While the spars quiver; Onward still flames the cloud Where the hulks shiver. See, yon fort's star is set, Storm and fire past. Cheer him, lads--Farragut, Lashed to the mast!

Oh! while Atlantic's breast Bears a white sail, While the Gulf's towering crest Tops a green vale, Men thy bold deeds shall tell, Old Heart of Oak, Daring Dave Farragut, Thunderbolt stroke!

WILLIAM TUCKEY MEREDITH.

On went the flagship across the line of torpedoes, but not one of them exploded, and a moment later one of the most daring feats in the naval history of the world had been safely accomplished. The line of battle was re-formed, the forts and Confederate fleet savagely attacked, and by nine o'clock the Union fleet was in the bay.

THROUGH FIRE IN MOBILE BAY

[August 5, 1864]

I'd weave a wreath for those who fought In blue upon the waves, I drop a tear for all who sleep Down in the coral caves, And proudly do I touch my cap Whene'er I meet to-day A man who sail'd with Farragut Thro' fire in Mobile Bay.

Oh, what a gallant sight it was As toward the foe we bore! Lashed to the mast, unflinching, stood Our grand old Commodore. I see him now above the deck, Though time has cleared away The battle smoke that densely hung Above old Mobile Bay.

Torpedoes to the right and left, Torpedoes straight ahead! The stanch Tecumseh sinks from sight, The waves receive her dead. But on we press, thro' lead and iron, On, on with pennons gay, Whilst glory holds her wreath above Immortal Mobile Bay.

The rebel forts belch fire and death, But what care we for them? Our onward course, with Farragut To guide us, nought can stem. The Hartford works her dreaded guns, The Brooklyn pounds away, And proudly flies the flag of stars Aloft o'er Mobile Bay.

Behold yon moving mass of iron Beyond the Ossipee; To fight the fleet with courage grim Steams forth the Tennessee. We hem her in with battle fire-- How furious grows the fray, Until Surrender's flag she flies Above red Mobile Bay.

We count our dead, we count our scars, The proudest ever won; We cheer the flag that gayly flies Victorious in the sun. No longer in the rigging stands The hero of the day, For he has linked his name fore'er To deathless Mobile Bay.

Thus I would weave a wreath for all Who fought with us that time, And I'd embalm that glorious day Forevermore in rhyme. The stars above will rise and set, The years will pass away, But brighter all the time shall grow The fame of Mobile Bay.

He sleeps, the bluff old Commodore Who led with hearty will; But ah! methinks I see him now, Lashed to the rigging still. I know that just beyond the tide, In God's own glorious day, He waits to greet the gallant tars Who fought in Mobile Bay.

The ships were brought to anchor and breakfast was being served, when the great Confederate ram, Tennessee, was seen advancing at full speed, to attack the whole fleet. A terrific struggle followed, in which nearly every one of the Union ships was badly damaged; but the Tennessee at last became unmanageable and was forced to surrender. The task of reducing the forts remained. This was completed in a few days and the port of Mobile was effectually closed.

THE BAY FIGHT

(MOBILE HARBOR, August 5, 1864)

Three days through sapphire seas we sailed, The steady Trade blew strong and free, The Northern Light his banners paled, The Ocean Stream our channels wet, We rounded low Canaveral's lee, And passed the isles of emerald set In blue Bahama's turquoise sea.

By reef and shoal obscurely mapped, The hauntings of the gray sea-wolf, The palmy Western Key lay lapped In the warm washing of the Gulf.

But weary to the hearts of all The burning glare, the barren reach Of Santa Rosa's withered beach, And Pensacola's ruined wall.

And weary was the long patrol, The thousand miles of shapeless strand, From Brazos to San Blas that roll Their drifting dunes of desert sand.

Yet coastwise as we cruised or lay, The land-breeze still at nightfall bore, By beach and fortress-guarded bay, Sweet odors from the enemy's shore,

Fresh from the forest solitudes, Unchallenged of his sentry lines,-- The bursting of his cypress buds, And the warm fragrance of his pines.

Ah, never braver bark and crew, Nor bolder Flag a foe to dare, Had left a wake on ocean blue Since Lion-Heart sailed Trenc-le-mer!

But little gain by that dark ground Was ours, save, sometime, freer breath For friend or brother strangely found, 'Scaped from the drear domain of death.

And little venture for the bold, Or laurel for our valiant Chief, Save some blockaded British thief, Full fraught with murder in his hold,

Caught unawares at ebb or flood, Or dull bombardment, day by day, With fort and earthwork, far away, Low couched in sullen leagues of mud.

A weary time,--but to the strong The day at last, as ever, came; And the volcano, laid so long, Leaped forth in thunder and in flame!

"Man your starboard battery!" Kimberly shouted;-- The ship, with her hearts of oak, Was going, 'mid roar and smoke, On to victory; None of us doubted, No, not our dying-- Farragut's Flag was flying!

Gaines growled low on our left, Morgan roared on our right; Before us, gloomy and fell, With breath like the fume of hell, Lay the dragon of iron shell, Driven at last to the fight!

Ha, old ship! do they thrill, The brave two hundred scars You got in the River-Wars? That were leeched with clamorous skill (Surgery savage and hard), Splinted with bolt and beam, Probed in scarfing and seam, Rudely linted and tarred With oakum and boiling pitch, And sutured with splice and hitch, At the Brooklyn Navy Yard!

Our lofty spars were down, To bide the battle's frown (Wont of old renown)-- But every ship was drest In her bravest and her best, As if for a July day; Sixty flags and three, As we floated up the bay-- At every peak and mast-head flew The brave Red, White, and Blue,-- We were eighteen ships that day.

With hawsers strong and taut, The weaker lashed to port, On we sailed two by two-- That if either a bolt should feel Crash through caldron or wheel, Fin of bronze, or sinew of steel, Her mate might bear her through.

Forging boldly ahead, The great Flag-Ship led, Grandest of sights! On her lofty mizzen flew Our leader's dauntless Blue, That had waved o'er twenty fights. So we went with the first of the tide, Slowly, 'mid the roar Of the rebel guns ashore And the thunder of each full broadside.

Ah, how poor the prate Of statute and state We once held these fellows! Here on the flood's pale green, Hark how he bellows, Each bluff old Sea-Lawyer! Talk to them, Dahlgren, Parrott, and Sawyer!

On, in the whirling shade Of the cannon's sulphury breath, We drew to the Line of Death That our devilish Foe had laid,-- Meshed in a horrible net, And baited villainous well, Right in our path were set Three hundred traps of hell!

And there, O sight forlorn! There, while the cannon Hurtled and thundered (Ah, what ill raven Flapped o'er the ship that morn!),-- Caught by the under-death, In the drawing of a breath Down went dauntless Craven, He and his hundred!

A moment we saw her turret, A little heel she gave, And a thin white spray went o'er her, Like the crest of a breaking wave;-- In that great iron coffin, The channel for their grave, The fort their monument (Seen afar in the offing), Ten fathom deep lie Craven And the bravest of our brave.

Then in that deadly track A little the ships held back, Closing up in their stations;-- There are minutes that fix the fate Of battles and of nations (Christening the generations), When valor were all too late. If a moment's doubt be harbored;-- From the main-top, bold and brief, Came the word of our grand old chief: "Go on!"--'twas all he said,-- Our helm was put to starboard, And the Hartford passed ahead.

Ahead lay the Tennessee, On our starboard bow he lay, With his mail-clad consorts three (The rest had run up the bay): There he was, belching flame from his bow, And the steam from his throat's abyss Was a Dragon's maddened hiss; In sooth a most cursed craft!-- In a sullen ring, at bay, By the Middle-Ground they lay, Raking us fore and aft.

Trust me, our berth was hot, Ah, wickedly well they shot-- How their death-bolts howled and stung! And the water-batteries played With their deadly cannonade Till the air around us rung; So the battle raged and roared;-- Ah, had you been aboard To have seen the fight we made! How they leapt, the tongues of flame, From the cannon's fiery lip! How the broadsides, deck and frame, Shook the great ship!

And how the enemy's shell Came crashing, heavy and oft, Clouds of splinters flying aloft And falling in oaken showers;-- But ah, the pluck of the crew! Had you stood on that deck of ours, You had seen what men may do.

Still, as the fray grew louder, Boldly they worked and well-- Steadily came the powder, Steadily came the shell. And if tackle or truck found hurt, Quickly they cleared the wreck-- And the dead were laid to port, All a-row, on our deck.

Never a nerve that failed, Never a cheek that paled, Not a tinge of gloom or pallor;-- There was bold Kentucky's grit, And the old Virginian valor, And the daring Yankee wit. There were blue eyes from turfy Shannon, There were black orbs from palmy Niger,-- But there alongside the cannon, Each man fought like a tiger!

A little, once, it looked ill, Our consort began to burn-- They quenched the flames with a will, But our men were falling still, And still the fleet were astern.

Right abreast of the Fort In an awful shroud they lay, Broadsides thundering away, And lightning from every port; Scene of glory and dread! A storm-cloud all aglow With flashes of fiery red, The thunder raging below, And the forest of flags o'erhead!

So grand the hurly and roar, So fiercely their broadsides blazed, The regiments fighting ashore Forgot to fire as they gazed.

There, to silence the foe, Moving grimly and slow, They loomed in that deadly wreath, Where the darkest batteries frowned,-- Death in the air all round, And the black torpedoes beneath!

And now, as we looked ahead, All for'ard, the long white deck Was growing a strange dull red,-- But soon, as once and again Fore and aft we sped (The firing to guide or check), You could hardly choose but tread On the ghastly human wreck (Dreadful gobbet and shred That a minute ago were men!)

Red, from mainmast to bitts! Red, on bulwark and wale, Red, by combing and hatch, Red, o'er netting and vail!

And ever, with steady con, The ship forged slowly by,-- And ever the crew fought on, And their cheers rang loud and high.

Grand was the sight to see How by their guns they stood, Right in front of our dead, Fighting square abreast-- Each brawny arm and chest All spotted with black and red, Chrism of fire and blood!

Worth our watch, dull and sterile, Worth all the weary time, Worth the woe and the peril, To stand in that strait sublime!

Fear? A forgotten form! Death? A dream of the eyes! We were atoms in God's great storm That roared through the angry skies.

One only doubt was ours, One only dread we knew,-- Could the day that dawned so well Go down for the Darker Powers? Would the fleet get through? And ever the shot and shell Came with the howl of hell, The splinter-clouds rose and fell, And the long line of corpses grew,-- Would the fleet win through?

They are men that never will fail (How aforetime they've fought!), But Murder may yet prevail,-- They may sink as Craven sank. Therewith one hard fierce thought, Burning on heart and lip, Ran like fire through the ship; Fight her, to the last plank!

A dimmer renown might strike If Death lay square alongside,-- But the old Flag has no like, She must fight, whatever betide;-- When the War is a tale of old, And this day's story is told, They shall hear how the Hartford died!

But as we ranged ahead, And the leading ships worked in, Losing their hope to win, The enemy turned and fled-- And one seeks a shallow reach! And another, winged in her flight, Our mate, brave Jouett, brings in;-- And one, all torn in the fight, Runs for a wreck on the beach, Where her flames soon fire the night.

And the Ram, when well up the Bay, And we looked that our stems should meet (He had us fair for a prey), Shifting his helm midway, Sheered off, and ran for the fleet; There, without skulking or sham, He fought them gun for gun; And ever he sought to ram, But could finish never a one.

From the first of the iron shower Till we sent our parting shell, 'Twas just one savage hour Of the roar and the rage of hell.

With the lessening smoke and thunder, Our glasses around we aim,-- What is that burning yonder? Our Philippi--aground and in flame!

Below, 'twas still all a-roar, As the ships went by the shore, But the fire of the Fort had slacked (So fierce their volleys had been),-- And now with a mighty din, The whole fleet came grandly in, Though sorely battered and wracked.

So, up the Bay we ran, The Flag to port and ahead,-- And a pitying rain began To wash the lips of our dead.

A league from the Fort we lay, And deemed that the end must lag,-- When lo! looking down the Bay, There flaunted the Rebel Rag;-- The Ram is again under way And heading dead for the Flag!

Steering up with the stream, Boldly his course he lay, Though the fleet all answered his fire, And, as he still drew nigher, Ever on bow and beam Our Monitors pounded away; How the Chickasaw hammered away!

Quickly breasting the wave, Eager the prize to win, First of us all the brave Monongahela went in Under full head of steam;-- Twice she struck him abeam, Till her stem was a sorry work (She might have run on a crag!), The Lackawanna hit fair, He flung her aside like cork, And still he held for the Flag.

High in the mizzen shroud (Lest the smoke his sight o'erwhelm), Our Admiral's voice rang loud; "Hard-a-starboard your helm! Starboard, and run him down!" Starboard it was,--and so, Like a black squall's lifting frown, Our mighty bow bore down On the iron beak of the Foe.

We stood on the deck together, Men that had looked on death In battle and stormy weather; Yet a little we held our breath, When, with the hush of death, The great ships drew together.

Our Captain strode to the bow, Drayton, courtly and wise, Kindly cynic, and wise (You hardly had known him now, The flame of fight in his eyes!),-- His brave heart eager to feel How the oak would tell on the steel!

But, as the space grew short, A little he seemed to shun us; Out peered a form grim and lanky, And a voice yelled, "_Hard-a-port! Hard-a-port!--here's the damned Yankee Coming right down on us!_"

He sheered, but the ships ran foul With a gnarring shudder and growl; He gave us a deadly gun; But as he passed in his pride (Rasping right alongside!), The old Flag, in thunder-tones Poured in her port broadside, Rattling his iron hide And cracking his timber-bones!

Just then, at speed on the Foe, With her bow all weathered and brown, The great Lackawanna came down Full tilt, for another blow;-- We were forging ahead, She reversed--but, for all our pains, Rammed the old Hartford, instead, Just for'ard the mizzen chains!

Ah! how the masts did buckle and bend, And the stout hull ring and reel, As she took us right on end! (Vain were engine and wheel, She was under full steam)-- With the roar of a thunder-stroke Her two thousand tons of oak Brought up on us, right abeam!

A wreck, as it looked, we lay (Rib and plank-sheer gave way To the stroke of that giant wedge!)-- Here, after all, we go-- The old ship is gone!--ah, no, But cut to the water's edge.

Never mind then,--at him again! His flurry now can't last long; He'll never again see land,-- Try that on him, Marchand! On him again, brave Strong!

Heading square at the hulk, Full on his beam we bore; But the spine of the huge Sea-Hog Lay on the tide like a log, He vomited flame no more.

By this, he had found it hot;-- Half the fleet, in an angry ring, Closed round the hideous thing, Hammering with solid shot, And bearing down, bow on bow; He has but a minute to choose,-- Life or renown?--which now Will the Rebel Admiral lose?

Cruel, haughty, and cold, He ever was strong and bold; Shall he shrink from a wooden stem? He will think of that brave band He sank in the Cumberland; Ay, he will sink like them.

Nothing left but to fight Boldly his last sea-fight! Can he strike? By Heaven, 'tis true! Down comes the traitor Blue, And up goes the captive White!

Up went the White! Ah, then The hurrahs that once and again Rang from three thousand men All flushed and savage with fight! Our dead lay cold and stark; But our dying, down in the dark, Answered as best they might, Lifting their poor lost arms, And cheering for God and Right!

Ended the mighty noise, Thunder of forts and ships. Down we went to the hold, Oh, our dear dying boys! How we pressed their poor brave lips (Ah, so pallid and cold!) And held their hands to the last (Those who had hands to hold).

Still thee, O woman heart! (So strong an hour ago); If the idle tears must start, 'Tis not in vain they flow.

They died, our children dear. On the drear berth-deck they died,-- Do not think of them here-- Even now their footsteps near The immortal, tender sphere (Land of love and cheer! Home of the Crucified!).

And the glorious deed survives; Our threescore, quiet and cold, Lie thus, for a myriad lives And treasure-millions untold (Labor of poor men's lives, Hunger of weans and wives, Such is war-wasted gold).

Our ship and her fame to-day Shall float on the storied Stream When mast and shroud have crumbled away, And her long white deck is a dream.

One daring leap in the dark, Three mortal hours, at the most,-- And hell lies stiff and stark On a hundred leagues of coast.

For the mighty Gulf is ours,-- The bay is lost and won, An Empire is lost and won! Land, if thou yet hast flowers, Twine them in one more wreath Of tenderest white and red (Twin buds of glory and death!), For the brows of our brave dead, For thy Navy's noblest son.

Joy, O Land, for thy sons, Victors by flood and field! The traitor walls and guns Have nothing left but to yield (Even now they surrender!).

And the ships shall sail once more, And the cloud of war sweep on To break on the cruel shore;-- But Craven is gone, He and his hundred are gone.

The flags flutter up and down At sunrise and twilight dim, The cannons menace and frown,-- But never again for him, Him and the hundred.

The Dahlgrens are dumb, Dumb are the mortars; Never more shall the drum Beat to colors and quarters,-- The great guns are silent.

O brave heart and loyal! Let all your colors dip;-- Mourn him proud ship! From main deck to royal. God rest our Captain, Rest our lost hundred!

Droop, flag and pennant! What is your pride for? Heaven, that he died for, Rest our Lieutenant, Rest our brave threescore!

* * * * *

O Mother Land! this weary life We led, we lead, is 'long of thee; Thine the strong agony of strife, And thine the lonely sea.

Thine the long decks all slaughter-sprent, The weary rows of cots that lie With wrecks of strong men, marred and rent, 'Neath Pensacola's sky.

And thine the iron caves and dens Wherein the flame our war-fleet drives; The fiery vaults, whose breath is men's Most dear and precious lives!

Ah, ever when with storm sublime Dread Nature clears our murky air, Thus in the crash of falling crime Some lesser guilt must share.

Full red the furnace fires must glow That melt the ore of mortal kind; The mills of God are grinding slow, But ah, how close they grind!

To-day the Dahlgren and the drum Are dread Apostles of His Name; His kingdom here can only come By chrism of blood and flame.

Be strong: already slants the gold Athwart these wild and stormy skies: From out this blackened waste, behold What happy homes shall rise!

But see thou well no traitor gloze, No striking hands with Death and Shame, Betray the sacred blood that flows So freely for thy name.

And never fear a victor foe-- Thy children's hearts are strong and high; Nor mourn too fondly; well they know On deck or field to die.

Nor shalt thou want one willing breath, Though, ever smiling round the brave, The blue sea bear us on to death, The green were one wide grave.

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

One more naval action remains to be recorded. The blockading fleet on the Carolina coast had been constantly threatened by the Confederate ram Albemarle. Finally, late in October, 1864, Lieutenant William B. Cushing undertook to destroy it. On the night of October 27, he entered Plymouth harbor in a small boat, with a crew of thirteen men, approached the ram, and despite a hail of bullets, exploded a torpedo under its bow, sinking it. Cushing and most of his men escaped by leaping into the water.

"ALBEMARLE" CUSHING

[October 27, 1864]

Joy in rebel Plymouth town, in the spring of sixty-four, When the Albemarle down on the Yankee frigates bore, With the saucy Stars and Bars at her main; When she smote the Southfield dead, and the stout Miami quailed, And the fleet in terror fled when their mighty cannon hailed Shot and shell on her iron back in vain, Till she slowly steamed away to her berth at Plymouth pier, And their quick eyes saw her sway with her great beak out of gear, And the color of their courage rose again.

All the summer lay the ram, Like a wounded beast at bay, While the watchful squadron swam In the harbor night and day, Till the broken beak was mended, and the weary vigil ended, And her time was come again to smite and slay.

Must they die, and die in vain, Like a flock of shambled sheep? Then the Yankee grit and brain Must be dead or gone to sleep, And our sailors' gallant story of a hundred years of glory Let us sell for a song, selling cheap!

Cushing, scarce a man in years, But a sailor thoroughbred, "With a dozen volunteers I will sink the ram," he said. "At the worst 'tis only dying." And the old commander, sighing, "'Tis to save the fleet and flag--go ahead!"

* * * * *

Bright the rebel beacons blazed On the river left and right; Wide awake their sentries gazed Through the watches of the night; Sharp their challenge rang, and fiery came the rifle's quick inquiry, As the little launch swung into the light.

Listening ears afar had heard; Ready hands to quarters sprung, The Albemarle awoke and stirred, And her howitzers gave tongue; Till the river and the shore echoed back the mighty roar, When the portals of her hundred-pounders swung.

Will the swordfish brave the whale, Doubly girt with boom and chain? Face the shrapnel's iron hail? Dare the livid leaden rain? Ah! that shell has done its duty; it has spoiled the Yankee's beauty; See her turn and fly with half her madmen slain.

High the victor's taunting yell Rings above the battle roar, And they bid her mock farewell As she seeks the farther shore, Till they see her sudden swinging, crouching for the leap and springing Back to boom and chain and bloody fray once more.

Now the Southern captain, stirred By the spirit of his race, Stops the firing with a word, Bids them yield, and offers grace. Cushing, laughing, answers, "No! we are here to fight!" and so Swings the dread torpedo spar to its place.

Then the great ship shook and reeled, With a wounded, gaping side, But her steady cannon pealed Ere she settled in the tide, And the Roanoke's dull flood ran full red with Yankee blood, When the fighting Albemarle sunk and died.

Woe in rebel Plymouth town when the Albemarle fell, And the saucy flag went down that had floated long and well, Nevermore from her stricken deck to wave. For the fallen flag a sigh, for the fallen foe a tear! Never shall their glory die while we hold our glory dear, And the hero's laurels live on his grave. Link their Cooke's with Cushing's name; proudly call them both our own; Claim their valor and their fame for America alone-- Joyful mother of the bravest of the brave!

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.

AT THE CANNON'S MOUTH

DESTRUCTION OF THE RAM ALBEMARLE BY THE TORPEDO-LAUNCH, OCTOBER 27, 1864

Palely intent, he urged his keel Full on the guns, and touched the spring; Himself involved in the bolt he drove Timed with the armed hull's shot that stove His shallop--die or do! Into the flood his life he threw, Yet lives--unscathed--a breathing thing To marvel at. He has his fame; But that mad dash at death, how name?

Had Earth no charm to stay the Boy From the martyr-passion? Could he dare Disdain the Paradise of opening joy Which beckons the fresh heart everywhere?

Life has more lures than any girl For youth and strength; puts forth a share Of beauty, hinting of yet rarer store; And ever with unfathomable eyes, Which bafflingly entice, Still strangely does Adonis draw. And life once over, who shall tell the rest? Life is, of all we know, God's best. What imps these eagles then, that they Fling disrespect on life by that proud way In which they soar above our lower clay.

Pretence of wonderment and doubt unblest: In Cushing's eager deed was shown A spirit which brave poets own-- That scorn of life which earns life's crown; Earns, but not always wins; but he-- The star ascended in his nativity.

HERMAN MELVILLE.

XII. THE MARTYR PRESIDENT

In November, 1864, Abraham Lincoln was re-elected President, carrying twenty-two out of the twenty-five states of the Union. He had grown ever dearer to the hearts of the American people, and the country had come to trust and love him.

LINCOLN

Chained by stern duty to the rock of state, His spirit armed in mail of rugged mirth, Ever above, though ever near to earth, Yet felt his heart the cruel tongues that sate Base appetites, and foul with slander, wait Till the keen lightnings bring the awful hour When wounds and suffering shall give them power. Most was he like to Luther, gay and great, Solemn and mirthful, strong of heart and limb. Tender and simple too; he was so near To all things human that he cast out fear, And, ever simpler, like a little child, Lived in unconscious nearness unto Him Who always on earth's little ones hath smiled.

S. WEIR MITCHELL.

On the evening of April 14, 1865, the President attended a performance of "Our American Cousin," at Ford's Theatre, at Washington. The play was drawing to a close, when suddenly the audience was startled by a pistol shot, and an instant later saw a man leap from the President's box to the stage. The man was John Wilkes Booth, an actor. He had shot the President through the head, and the latter died next day without regaining consciousness.

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!

[April 14, 1865]

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

WALT WHITMAN.

THE DEAD PRESIDENT

Were there no crowns on earth, No evergreen to wreathe a hero's wreath, That he must pass beyond the gates of death, Our hero, our slain hero, to be crowned? Could there on our unworthy earth be found Naught to befit his worth?

The noblest soul of all! When was there ever, since our Washington, A man so pure, so wise, so patient--one Who walked with this high goal alone in sight, To speak, to do, to sanction only Right, Though very heaven should fall!

Ah, not for him we weep; What honor more could be in store for him? Who would have had him linger in our dim And troublesome world, when his great work was done-- Who would not leave that worn and weary one Gladly to go to sleep?

For us the stroke was just; We were not worthy of that patient heart; We might have helped him more, not stood apart, And coldly criticised his works and ways-- Too late now, all too late--our little praise Sounds hollow o'er his dust.

Be merciful, O our God! Forgive the meanness of our human hearts, That never, till a noble soul departs, See half the worth, or hear the angel's wings Till they go rustling heavenward as he springs Up from the mounded sod.

Yet what a deathless crown Of Northern pine and Southern orange-flower, For victory, and the land's new bridal-hour, Would we have wreathed for that beloved brow! Sadly upon his sleeping forehead now We lay our cypress down.

O martyred one, farewell! Thou hast not left thy people quite alone, Out of thy beautiful life there comes a tone Of power, of love, of trust, a prophecy, Whose fair fulfilment all the earth shall be, And all the Future tell.

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

ASSASSINATED GOOD FRIDAY, 1865

"Forgive them, for they know not what they do!" He said, and so went shriven to his fate,-- Unknowing went, that generous heart and true. Even while he spoke, the slayer lay in wait, And when the morning opened Heaven's gate There passed the whitest soul a nation knew. Henceforth all thoughts of pardon are too late; They, in whose cause that arm its weapon drew, Have murdered Mercy. Now alone shall stand Blind Justice, with the sword unsheathed she wore. Hark, from the eastern to the western strand, The swelling thunder of the people's roar: What words they murmur,--Fetter not her hand! So let it smite, such deeds shall be no more!

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

The assassin escaped into Maryland, where he found a temporary refuge, but the country was alarmed, pursuers were close upon his trail, and on April 25, 1865, he was brought to bay in a barn. He refused to surrender and was shot by a sergeant named Boston Corbett.

PARDON

WILKES BOOTH--APRIL 26, 1865

Pains the sharp sentence the heart in whose wrath it was uttered, Now thou art cold; Vengeance, the headlong, and Justice, with purpose close muttered, Loosen their hold.

Death brings atonement; he did that whereof ye accuse him,-- Murder accurst; But from that crisis of crime in which Satan did lose him, Suffered the worst.

Harshly the red dawn arose on a deed of his doing, Never to mend; But harsher days he wore out in the bitter pursuing And the wild end.

So lift the pale flag of truce, wrap those mysteries round him, In whose avail Madness that moved, and the swift retribution that found him, Falter and fail.

So the soft purples that quiet the heavens with mourning, Willing to fall, Lend him one fold, his illustrious victim adorning With wider pall.

Back to the cross, where the Saviour uplifted in dying Bade all souls live, Turns the reft bosom of Nature, his mother, low sighing, Greatest, forgive!

JULIA WARD HOWE.

On Wednesday, April 19, 1865, a simple funeral service was held over the body of Lincoln at the White House, and for two days thereafter the body lay in state in the rotunda of the Capitol.

THE DEAR PRESIDENT

Abraham Lincoln, the Dear President, Lay in the Round Hall at the Capitol, And there the people came to look their last.

There came the widow, weeded for her mate; There came the mother, sorrowing for her son; There came the orphan, moaning for its sire.

There came the soldier, bearing home his wound; There came the slave, who felt his broken chain; There came the mourners of a blacken'd Land.

Through the dark April day, a ceaseless throng, They pass'd the coffin, saw the sleeping face, And, blessing it, in silence moved away.

And one, a poet, spoke within his heart: "It harm'd him not to praise him when alive, And me it cannot harm to praise him dead.

"Too oft the muse has blush'd to speak of men-- No muse shall blush to speak her best of him, And still to speak her best of him is dumb.

"O lofty wisdom's low simplicity! O awful tenderness of noted power!-- No man e'er held so much of power so meek.

"He was the husband of the husbandless, He was the father of the fatherless: Within his heart he weigh'd the common woe.

"His call was like a father's to his sons! As to a father's voice, they, hearing, came-- Eager to offer, strive, and bear, and die.

"The mild bond-breaker, servant of his Lord, He took the sword, but in the name of Peace, And touched the fetter, and the bound was free.

"Oh, place him not among the historic kings, Strong, barbarous chiefs and bloody conquerors, But with the Great and pure Republicans:

"Those who have been unselfish, wise, and good, Bringers of Light and Pilots in the dark, Bearers of Crosses, Servants of the World.

"And always, in his Land of birth and death, Be his fond name--warm'd in the people's hearts-- Abraham Lincoln, the Dear President."

JOHN JAMES PIATT.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, Gentle and merciful and just! Who, in the fear of God, didst bear The sword of power, a nation's trust!

In sorrow by thy bier we stand, Amid the awe that hushes all, And speak the anguish of a land That shook with horror at thy fall.

Thy task is done; the bond are free: We bear thee to an honored grave, Whose proudest monument shall be The broken fetters of the slave.

Pure was thy life; its bloody close Hath placed thee with the sons of light, Among the noble host of those Who perished in the cause of Right.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Then the funeral train started for Lincoln's home at Springfield, Ill., stopping at Philadelphia, New York, and other towns along the route, great crowds everywhere gathering to honor the dead President.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN[12]

Not as when some great Captain falls, In battle, where his Country calls, Beyond the struggling lines That push his dread designs

To doom, by some stray ball struck dead: Or, in the last charge, at the head Of his determined men, Who must be victors then.

Nor as when sink the civic great, The safer pillars of the State, Whose calm, mature, wise words Suppress the need of swords.

With no such tears as e'er were shed Above the noblest of our dead Do we to-day deplore The Man that is no more.

Our sorrow hath a wider scope, Too strange for fear, too vast for hope, A wonder, blind and dumb, That waits--what is to come!

Not more astounded had we been If Madness, that dark night, unseen, Had in our chambers crept, And murdered while we slept!

We woke to find a mourning earth, Our Lares shivered on the hearth, The roof-tree fallen, all That could affright, appall!

Such thunderbolts, in other lands, Have smitten the rod from royal hands, But spared, with us, till now, Each laurelled Cæsar's brow.

No Cæsar he whom we lament, A Man without a precedent, Sent, it would seem, to do His work, and perish, too.

Not by the weary cares of State, The endless tasks, which will not wait, Which, often done in vain, Must yet be done again:

Not in the dark, wild tide of war, Which rose so high, and rolled so far, Sweeping from sea to sea In awful anarchy:

Four fateful years of mortal strife, Which slowly drained the nation's life (Yet for each drop that ran There sprang an armèd man!).

Not then; but when, by measures meet By victory, and by defeat, By courage, patience, skill, The people's fixed, "We will!"

Had pierced, had crushed Rebellion dead, Without a hand, without a head, At last, when all was well, He fell, O how he fell!

The time, the place, the stealing shape, The coward shot, the swift escape, The wife, the widow's scream,-- It is a hideous Dream!

A dream? What means this pageant, then? These multitudes of solemn men, Who speak not when they meet, But throng the silent street?

The flags half-mast that late so high Flaunted at each new victory? (The stars no brightness shed, But bloody looks the red!)

The black festoons that stretch for miles, And turn the streets to funeral aisles? (No house too poor to show The nation's badge of woe.)

The cannon's sudden, sullen boom, The bells that toll of death and doom, The rolling of the drums, The dreadful car that comes?

Cursed be the hand that fired the shot, The frenzied brain that hatched the plot, Thy country's Father slain By thee, thou worse than Cain!

Tyrants have fallen by such as thou, And good hath followed--may it now! (God lets bad instruments Produce the best events.)

But he, the man we mourn to-day, No tyrant was: so mild a sway In one such weight who bore Was never known before.

Cool should he be, of balanced powers, The ruler of a race like ours, Impatient, headstrong, wild, The Man to guide the Child.

And this he was, who most unfit (So hard the sense of God to hit) Did seem to fill his place; With such a homely face,

Such rustic manners, speech uncouth (That somehow blundered out the truth), Untried, untrained to bear The more than kingly care.

Ah! And his genius put to scorn The proudest in the purple born, Whose wisdom never grew To what, untaught, he knew,

The People, of whom he was one: No gentleman, like Washington (Whose bones, methinks, make room, To have him in their tomb!).

A laboring man, with horny hands, Who swung the axe, who tilled his lands, Who shrank from nothing new, But did as poor men do.

One of the People! born to be Their curious epitome; To share yet rise above Their shifting hate and love.

Common his mind (it seemed so then), His thoughts the thoughts of other men: Plain were his words, and poor, But now they will endure!

No hasty fool, of stubborn will, But prudent, cautious, pliant still; Who since his work was good Would do it as he could.

Doubting, was not ashamed to doubt, And, lacking prescience, went without: Often appeared to halt, And was, of course, at fault;

Heard all opinions, nothing loath, And, loving both sides, angered both: Was--not like Justice, blind, But watchful, clement, kind.

No hero this of Roman mould, Nor like our stately sires of old: Perhaps he was not great, But he preserved the State!

O honest face, which all men knew! O tender heart, but known to few! O wonder of the age, Cut off by tragic rage!

Peace! Let the long procession come, For hark, the mournful, muffled drum, The trumpet's wail afar, And see, the awful car!

Peace! Let the sad procession go, While cannon boom and bells toll slow. And go, thou sacred car, Bearing our woe afar!

Go, darkly borne, from State to State, Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait To honor all they can The dust of that good man.

Go, grandly borne, with such a train As greatest kings might die to gain. The just, the wise, the brave, Attend thee to the grave.

And you, the soldiers of our wars, Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars, Salute him once again, Your late commander--slain!

Yes, let your tears indignant fall, But leave your muskets on the wall; Your country needs you now Beside the forge--the plough.

(When Justice shall unsheathe her brand, If Mercy may not stay her hand, Nor would we have it so, She must direct the blow.)

And you, amid the master-race, Who seem so strangely out of place, Know ye who cometh? He Who hath declared ye free.

Bow while the body passes--nay, Fall on your knees, and weep, and pray! Weep, weep--I would ye might-- Your poor black faces white!

And, children, you must come in bands, With garlands in your little hands, Of blue and white and red, To strew before the dead.

So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes The Fallen to his last repose. Beneath no mighty dome, But in his modest home;

The churchyard where his children rest, The quiet spot that suits him best, There shall his grave be made, And there his bones be laid.

And there his countrymen shall come, With memory proud, with pity dumb, And strangers far and near, For many and many a year.

For many a year and many an age, While History on her ample page The virtues shall enroll Of that Paternal Soul.

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

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

During those twenty days, the one thought uppermost in men's minds was the martyred President. The desire for vengeance alternated with grief. It was generally believed that the conspiracy had been concocted by the Confederate authorities, and magnanimity toward a beaten foe gave place to hatred.

PARRICIDE

ABRAHAM LINCOLN--APRIL 14, 1865

O'er the warrior gauntlet grim Late the silken glove we drew, Bade the watch-fires slacken dim In the dawn's auspicious hue. Stayed the armèd heel; Stilled the clanging steel; Joys unwonted thrilled the silence through.

Glad drew near the Easter tide; And the thoughts of men anew Turned to Him who spotless died For the peace that none shall rue. Out of mortal pain This abiding strain Issued: "Peace, my peace, I give to you."

Musing o'er the silent strings, By their apathy opprest, Waiting for the spirit wings, To be touched and soul-possessed, "I am dull," I said: "Treason is not dead; Still in ambush lurks that shivering guest."

Then a woman's shriek of fear Smote us in its arrowy flight; And a wonder wild and drear Did the hearts of men unite. Has the seed of crime Reached its flowering-time, That it shoots to this audacious height?

Then, as frosts the landscape change, Stiffening from the summer's glow, Grew the jocund faces strange, Lay the loftiest emblem low: Kings are of the past, Suffered still to last; These twin crowns the present did bestow.

Fair assassin, murder white, With thy serpent speed avoid Each unsullied household light, Every conscience unalloyed. Neither heart nor home Where good angels come Suffer thee in nearness to abide.

Slanderer of the gracious brow, The untiring blood of youth, Servant of an evil now, Of a crime that beggars ruth, Treason was thy dam, Wolfling, when the Lamb, The Anointed, met thy venomed tooth.

With the righteous did he fall, With the sainted doth he lie; While the gibbet's vultures call Thee, that, 'twixt the earth and sky, Disavowed of both In their Godward troth, Thou mayst make thy poor amend, and die.

If it were my latest breath, Doomed his bloody end to share, I would brand thee with his death As a deed beyond despair. Since the Christ was lost For a felon's cost, None like thee of vengeance should beware.

Leave the murderer, noble song, Helpless in the toils of fate: To the just thy meeds belong, To the martyr, to the state. When the storm beats loud Over sail and shroud, Tunefully the seaman cheers his mate.

Never tempest lashed the wave But to leave it fresher calm; Never weapon scarred the brave But their blood did purchase balm. God hath writ on high Such a victory As uplifts the nation with its psalm.

Honor to the heart of love, Honor to the peaceful will, Slow to threaten, strong to move, Swift to render good for ill! Glory crowns his end, And the captive's friend From his ashes makes us freemen still.

JULIA WARD HOWE.

The feeling throughout the South was one of sorrow and indignation. In England, too, the act was condemned, and London Punch, which had delighted in caricaturing the President, published a full-page cartoon, depicting itself in the act of laying a wreath upon his bier--a cartoon which was followed by some spirited verses from Punch's editor, Tom Taylor, confessing that the English attitude toward Lincoln and the North had been a mistaken one.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier, You, who, with mocking pencil, wont to trace, Broad for the self-complaisant British sneer, His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,

His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, His lack of all we prize as debonair, Of power or will to shine, of art to please;

You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, Judging each step as though the way were plain; Reckless, so it could point its paragraph Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain,--

Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew, Between the mourners at his head and feet, Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you?

Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer, To lame my pencil, and confute my pen; To make me own this hind of Princes peer, This rail-splitter a true-born king of men.

My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, Noting how to occasion's height he rose, How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true, How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows;

How humble, yet how hopeful, he could be; How, in good fortune and in ill, the same; Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.

He went about his work--such work as few Ever had laid on head and heart and hand-- As one who knows, where there's a task to do, Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command;

Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, That God makes instruments to work His will, If but that will we can arrive to know, Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.

So he went forth to battle, on the side That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, As in his peasant boyhood he had plied His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting mights,--

The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe, The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil, The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,

The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear,-- Such were the needs that helped his youth to train: Rough culture--but such trees large fruit may bear, If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.

So he grew up, a destined work to do, And lived to do it: four long-suffering years' Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through, And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, And took both with the same unwavering mood; Till, as he came on light, from darkling days, And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,

A felon hand, between the goal and him, Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest-- And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest.

The words of mercy were upon his lips, Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse To thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men.

The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, Utter one voice of sympathy and shame. Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high! Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came!

A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt If more of horror or disgrace they bore; But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out,

Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife, Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven, And with the martyr's crown, crownest a life With much to praise, little to be forgiven.

TOM TAYLOR.

XIII. PEACE

The surrender of Lee at Appomattox virtually ended the war. The only considerable Confederate force left in the field was that under command of Johnston, and it surrendered to Sherman on April 26, 1865.

"STACK ARMS!"

"Stack Arms!" I've gladly heard the cry When, weary with the dusty tread Of marching troops, as night drew nigh, I sank upon my soldier bed, And calmly slept; the starry dome Of heaven's blue arch my canopy, And mingled with my dreams of home The thoughts of Peace and Liberty.

"Stack Arms!" I've heard it when the shout Exulting ran along our line, Of foes hurled back in bloody rout, Captured, dispersed; its tones divine Then came to mine enraptured ear, Guerdon of duty nobly done, And glistened on my cheek the tear Of grateful joy for victory won.

"Stack Arms!" In faltering accents, slow And sad, it creeps from tongue to tongue, A broken, murmuring wail of woe, From manly hearts by anguish wrung. Like victims of a midnight dream, We move, we know not how nor why; For life and hope like phantoms seem, And it would be relief--to die!

JOSEPH BLYNTH ALSTON.

Jefferson Davis, who had fled from Richmond, was captured on May 11, 1865, near the Ocmulgee River, in Georgia, and on May 26, when Kirby Smith formally surrendered, the last vestige of armed resistance to the national government disappeared. Davis was confined at Fortress Monroe until 1868, the South, of course, considering him a martyr.

JEFFERSON DAVIS

"Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee, are all with thee."

LONGFELLOW.

Calm martyr of a noble cause, Upon thy form in vain The Dungeon shuts its cankered jaws, And clasps its cankered chain; For thy free spirit walks abroad, And every pulse is stirred With the old deathless glory thrill, Whene'er thy name is heard.

The same that lit each Grecian eye, Whene'er it rested on The wild pass of Thermopylæ-- The plain of Marathon; And made the Roman's ancient blood Bound fiercely as he told, "How well Horatio kept the bridge, In the brave days of old."

The same that makes the Switzer's heart With silent rapture swell, When in each Alpine height he sees A monument to Tell: The same that kindles Irish veins When Emmet's name is told; What Bruce to Caledonia is, Kosciusko to the Pole--

Art thou to us!--thy deathless fame, With Washington entwined, Forever in each Southern heart Is hallowed and enshrined;-- And though the tyrant give thy form To shameful death--'twere vain; It would but shed a splendor round The gibbet and the chain.

Only less sacred in our eyes, Thus blest and purified, Than the dear cross on which our Lord Was shamed and crucified, Would the vile gallows tree become, And through all ages shine, Linked with the glory of thy name, A relic and a shrine!

WALKER MERIWETHER BELL.

It was for the South a sad awakening from the dream which had been so entrancing and which seemed so certain to come true. Their land was ravaged, their people were ruined, their best and bravest dead.

IN THE LAND WHERE WE WERE DREAMING

Fair were our visions! Oh, they were as grand As ever floated out of faerie land; Children were we in single faith, But God-like children, whom nor death Nor threat nor danger drove from honor's path, In the land where we were dreaming.

Proud were our men, as pride of birth could render; As violets, our women pure and tender; And when they spoke, their voices did thrill Until at eve the whip-poor-will, At morn the mocking-bird, were mute and still, In the land where we were dreaming.

And we had graves that covered more of glory Than ever tracked tradition's ancient story; And in our dream we wove the thread Of principles for which had bled And suffered long our own immortal dead, In the land where we were dreaming.

Though in our land we had both bond and free, Both were content; and so God let them be; Till envy coveted our land, And those fair fields our valor won; But little recked we, for we still slept on, In the land where we were dreaming.

Our sleep grew troubled and our dreams grew wild-- Red meteors flashed across our heaven's field; Crimson the moon; between the Twins Barbed arrows fly, and then begins Such strife as when disorder's Chaos reigns, In the land where we were dreaming.

Down from her sun-lit heights smiled Liberty And waved her cap in sign of Victory-- The world approved, and everywhere, Except where growled the Russian bear, The good, the brave, the just gave us their prayer In the land where we were dreaming.

We fancied that a Government was ours-- We challenged place among the world's great powers; We talked in sleep of Rank, Commission, Until so life-like grew our vision That he who dared to doubt but met derision, In the land where we were dreaming.

We looked on high; a banner there was seen, Whose field was blanched and spotless in its sheen-- Chivalry's cross its Union bears, And veterans swearing by their scars Vowed they would bear it through a hundred wars, In the land where we were dreaming.

A hero came amongst us as we slept; At first he lowly knelt--then rose and wept; Then gathering up a thousand spears He swept across the field of Mars; Then bowed farewell and walked beyond the stars, In the land where we were dreaming.

We looked again: another figure still Gave hope, and nerved each individual will-- Full of grandeur, clothed with power, Self-poised, erect, he ruled the hour With stern, majestic sway--of strength a tower, In the land where we were dreaming.

As, while great Jove, in bronze, a warder God, Gazed eastward from the Forum where he stood, Rome felt herself secure and free, So, "Richmond's safe," we said, while we Beheld a bronzèd hero--God-like Lee, In the land where we were dreaming.

As wakes the soldier when the alarum calls-- As wakes the mother when the infant falls-- As starts the traveller when around His sleeping couch the fire-bells sound-- So woke our nation with a single bound, In the land where we were dreaming.

Woe! woe is me! the startled mother cried-- While we have slept our noble sons have died! Woe! woe is me! how strange and sad That all our glorious vision's fled, And left us nothing real but the dead, In the land where we were dreaming.

DANIEL B. LUCAS.

ACCEPTATION

I

We do accept thee, heavenly Peace! Albeit thou comest in a guise Unlooked for--undesired, our eyes Welcome through tears the sweet release From war, and woe, and want,--surcease, For which we bless thee, blessèd Peace!

II

We lift our foreheads from the dust; And as we meet thy brow's clear calm, There falls a freshening sense of balm Upon our spirits. Fear--distrust-- The hopeless present on us thrust-- We'll meet them as we can, and must.

III

War has not wholly wrecked us: still Strong hands, brave hearts, high souls are ours-- Proud consciousness of quenchless powers-- A Past whose memory makes us thrill-- Futures uncharactered, to fill With heroisms--if we will.

IV

Then courage, brothers!--Though each breast Feel oft the rankling thorn, despair, That failure plants so sharply there-- No pain, no pang shall be confest: We'll work and watch the brightening west, And leave to God and Heaven the rest.

MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON.

THE CONQUERED BANNER

Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary; Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary; Furl it, fold it--it is best; For there's not a man to wave it, And there's not a sword to save it, And there's not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it; And its foes now scorn and brave it; Furl it, hide it--let it rest!

Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered; Broken is its staff and shattered, And the valiant hosts are scattered Over whom it floated high. Oh, 'tis hard for us to fold it, Hard to think there's none to hold it, Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh!

Furl that Banner--furl it sadly; Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, And ten thousands wildly, madly Swore it should forever wave-- Swore that foeman's sword should never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, And that flag should float forever O'er their freedom, or their grave!

Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low; And that Banner--it is trailing, While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe;

For, though conquered, they adore it-- Love the cold, dead hands that bore it! Weep for those who fell before it! Pardon those who trailed and tore it! But, oh, wildly they deplore it, Now who furl and fold it so!

Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory, Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, And 'twill live in song and story Though its folds are in the dust! For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages-- Furl its folds though now we must!

Furl that Banner, softly, slowly; Treat it gently--it is holy, For it droops above the dead; Touch it not--unfold it never; Let it droop there, furled forever,-- For its people's hopes are fled.

ABRAM J. RYAN.

At the North, too, Peace was welcome. The North, while suffering less poignantly than the South, had drunk deeply of the bitter cup. It had lost over three hundred and fifty thousand men.

PEACE

Daybreak upon the hills! Slowly, behind the midnight murk and trail Of the long storm, light brightens, pure and pale, And the horizon fills.

Not bearing swift release,-- Not with quick feet of triumph, but with tread August and solemn, following her dead, Cometh, at last, our Peace.

Over thick graves grown green, Over pale bones that graveless lie and bleach, Over torn human hearts her path doth reach, And Heaven's dear pity lean.

O angel sweet and grand! White-footed, from beside the throne of God, Thou movest, with the palm and olive-rod, And day bespreads the land!

His Day we waited for! With faces to the East, we prayed and fought; And a faint music of the dawning caught, All through the sounds of War.

Our souls are still with praise! It is the dawning; there is work to do: When we have borne the long hours' burden through, Then we will pæans raise.

God give us, with the time, His strength for His large purpose to the world! To bear before Him, in its face unfurled, His gonfalon sublime!

Ay, we are strong! Both sides The misty river stretch His army's wings: Heavenward, with glorious wheel, one flank He flings; And one front still abides!

Strongest where most bereft! His great ones He doth call to more command. For whom He hath prepared it, they shall stand On the Right Hand and Left!

ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY.

PEACE

O Land, of every land the best-- O Land, whose glory shall increase; Now in your whitest raiment drest For the great festival of Peace:

Take from your flag its fold of gloom, And let it float undimmed above, Till over all our vales shall bloom The sacred colors that we love.

On mountain high, in valley low, Set Freedom's living fires to burn; Until the midnight sky shall show A redder pathway than the morn.

Welcome, with shouts of joy and pride, Your veterans from the war-path's track; You gave your boys, untrained, untried; You bring them men and heroes back!

And shed no tear, though think you must With sorrow of the martyred band; Not even for him whose hallowed dust Has made our prairies holy land.

Though by the places where they fell, The places that are sacred ground, Death, like a sullen sentinel, Paces his everlasting round.

Yet when they set their country free And gave her traitors fitting doom, They left their last great enemy, Baffled, beside an empty tomb.

Not there, but risen, redeemed, they go Where all the paths are sweet with flowers; They fought to give us Peace and lo! They gained a better Peace than ours.

PHOEBE CARY.

On May 24, 1865, the united armies of Grant and Sherman, two hundred thousand strong, were reviewed at Washington by President Johnson and his cabinet.

A SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY

[May 24, 1865]

I read last night of the Grand Review In Washington's chiefest avenue,-- Two hundred thousand men in blue, I think they said was the number,-- Till I seemed to hear their trampling feet, The bugle blast and the drum's quick beat, The clatter of hoofs in the stony street, The cheers of people who came to greet, And the thousand details that to repeat Would only my verse encumber,-- Till I fell in a revery, sad and sweet, And then to a fitful slumber.

When, lo! in a vision I seemed to stand In the lonely Capitol. On each hand Far stretched the portico, dim and grand Its columns ranged, like a martial band Of sheeted spectres, whom some command Had called to a last reviewing. And the streets of the city were white and bare; No footfall echoed across the square; But out of the misty midnight air I heard in the distance a trumpet blare, And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear The sound of a far tattooing.

Then I held my breath with fear and dread; For into the square, with a brazen tread, There rode a figure whose stately head O'erlooked the review that morning, That never bowed from its firm-set seat When the living column passed its feet, Yet now rode steadily up the street To the phantom bugle's warning:

Till it reached the Capitol square, and wheeled, And there in the moonlight stood revealed A well-known form that in State and field Had led our patriot sires: Whose face was turned to the sleeping camp, Afar through the river's fog and damp, That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp, Nor wasted bivouac fires.

And I saw a phantom army come, With never a sound of fife or drum, But keeping time to a throbbing hum Of wailing and lamentation: The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill, Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville, The men whose wasted figures fill The patriot graves of the nation.

And there came the nameless dead,--the men Who perished in fever-swamp and fen, The slowly-starved of the prison-pen; And, marching beside the others, Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's fight, With limbs enfranchised and bearing bright: I thought--perhaps 'twas the pale moonlight-- They looked as white as their brothers!

And so all night marched the Nation's dead, With never a banner above them spread, Nor a badge, nor a motto brandishèd; No mark--save the bare uncovered head Of the silent bronze Reviewer; With never an arch save the vaulted sky; With never a flower save those that lie On the distant graves--for love could buy No gift that was purer or truer.

So all night long swept the strange array; So all night long, till the morning gray, I watch'd for one who had passed away, With a reverent awe and wonder,-- Till a blue cap waved in the lengthening line, And I knew that one who was kin of mine Had come; and I spake--and lo! that sign Awakened me from my slumber.

BRET HARTE.

The work of disbandment began at once, and the troops were sent home as rapidly as possible; they laid by the musket, took up the spade or hammer, and returned once more to the occupations of peace.

WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME

When Johnny comes marching home again, Hurrah! hurrah! We'll give him a hearty welcome then, Hurrah! hurrah! The men will cheer, the boys will shout, The ladies, they will all turn out, And we'll all feel gay, When Johnny comes marching home.

The old church-bell will peal with joy, Hurrah! hurrah! To welcome home our darling boy, Hurrah! hurrah! The village lads and lasses say, With roses they will strew the way; And we'll all feel gay, When Johnny comes marching home.

Get ready for the jubilee, Hurrah! hurrah! We'll give the hero three times three, Hurrah! hurrah! The laurel-wreath is ready now To place upon his loyal brow, And we'll all feel gay, When Johnny comes marching home.

Let love and friendship on that day, Hurrah! hurrah! Their choicest treasures then display, Hurrah! hurrah! And let each one perform some part, To fill with joy the warrior's heart; And we'll all feel gay, When Johnny comes marching home.

PATRICK SARSFIELD GILMORE.

DRIVING HOME THE COWS

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass, He turned them into the river-lane; One after another he let them pass, Then fastened the meadow-bars again.

Under the willows, and over the hill, He patiently followed their sober pace; The merry whistle for once was still, And something shadowed the sunny face.

Only a boy! and his father had said He never could let his youngest go: Two already were lying dead Under the feet of the trampling foe.

But after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun, And stealthily followed the foot-path damp,

Across the clover, and through the wheat, With resolute heart and purpose grim, Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, And the blind bat's flitting startled him.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white, And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom; And now, when the cows came back at night, The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain; And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son's again.

The summer day grew cold and late. He went for the cows when the work was done; But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming, one by one,--

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind; Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,-- But who was it following close behind?

Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue; And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, Looked out a face that the father knew.

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, And yield their dead unto life again; And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn In golden glory at last may wane.

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb; And under the silent evening skies, Together they followed the cattle home.

KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.

On July 21, 1865, services were held at Cambridge, Mass., in commemoration of the three hundredth anniversary of Harvard College. Addresses were made by General Meade and General Devens, and an ode written for the occasion was read by James Russell Lowell. This ode, perhaps the greatest ever delivered in America, forms a fitting close to the history of the Civil War.

ODE RECITED AT THE HARVARD COMMEMORATION

[July 21, 1865]

I

Weak-winged is song, Nor aims at that clear-ethered height Whither the brave deed climbs for light: We seem to do them wrong, Bringing our robin's-leaf to deck their hearse Who in warm life-blood wrote their nobler verse, Our trivial song to honor those who come With ears attuned to strenuous trump and drum, And shaped in squadron-strophes their desire, Live battle-odes whose lines were steel and fire: Yet sometimes feathered words are strong, A gracious memory to buoy up and save From Lethe's dreamless ooze, the common grave Of the unventurous throng.

II

To-day our Reverend Mother welcomes back Her wisest Scholars, those who understood The deeper teaching of her mystic tome, And offered their fresh lives to make it good: No lore of Greece or Rome, No science peddling with the names of things, Or reading stars to find inglorious fates, Can lift our life with wings Far from Death's idle gulf that for the many waits, And lengthen out our dates With that clear fame whose memory sings In manly hearts to come, and nerves them and dilates: Nor such thy teaching, Mother of us all! Not such the trumpet-call Of thy diviner mood, That could thy sons entice From happy homes and toils, the fruitful nest Of those half-virtues which the world calls best, Into War's tumult rude; But rather far that stern device The sponsors chose that round thy cradle stood In the dim, unventured wood, The VERITAS that lurks beneath The letter's unprolific sheath, Life of whate'er makes life worth living, Seed-grain of high emprise, immortal food, One heavenly thing whereof earth hath the giving.

III

Many loved Truth, and lavished life's best oil Amid the dust of books to find her, Content at last, for guerdon of their toil, With the cast mantle she hath left behind her. Many in sad faith sought for her, Many with crossed hands sighed for her; But these, our brothers, fought for her, At life's dear peril wrought for her, So loved her that they died for her, Tasting the raptured fleetness Of her divine completeness: Their higher instinct knew Those love her best who to themselves are true, And what they dare to dream of, dare to do; They followed her and found her Where all may hope to find, Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind, But beautiful, with danger's sweetness round her. Where faith made whole with deed Breathes its awakening breath Into the lifeless creed, They saw her plumed and mailed, With sweet, stern face unveiled, And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them in death.

IV

Our slender life runs rippling by, and glides Into the silent hollow of the past; What is there that abides To make the next age better for the last? Is earth too poor to give us Something to live for here that shall outlive us? Some more substantial boon Than such as flows and ebbs with Fortune's fickle moon? The little that we see From doubt is never free; The little that we do Is but half-nobly true; With our laborious hiving What men call treasure, and the gods call dross, Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving, Only secure in every one's conniving, A long account of nothings paid with loss, Where we poor puppets, jerked by unseen wires, After our little hour of strut and rave, With all our pasteboard passions and desires, Loves, hates, ambitions, and immortal fires, Are tossed pell-mell together in the grave. But stay! no age was e'er degenerate, Unless men held it at too cheap a rate, For in our likeness still we shape our fate. Ah, there is something here Unfathomed by the cynic's sneer, Something that gives our feeble light A high immunity from Night, Something that leaps life's narrow bars To claim its birthright with the hosts of heaven; A seed of sunshine that can leaven Our earthy dulness with the beams of stars And glorify our clay With light from fountains elder than the Day; A conscience more divine than we, A gladness fed with secret tears, A vexing, forward-reaching sense Of some more noble permanence; A light across the sea, Which haunts the soul and will not let it be, Still beaconing from the heights of undegenerate years.

V

Whither leads the path To ampler fates that leads? Not down through flowery meads, To reap an aftermath Of youth's vainglorious weeds, But up the steep, amid the wrath And shock of deadly-hostile creeds, Where the world's best hope and stay By battle's flashes gropes a desperate way, And every turf the fierce foot clings to bleeds. Peace hath her not ignoble wreath, Ere yet the sharp, decisive word Light the black lips of cannon, and the sword Dreams in its easeful sheath; But some day the live coal behind the thought, Whether from Baäl's stone obscene, Or from the shrine serene Of God's pure altar brought, Bursts up in flame; the war of tongue and pen Learns with what deadly purpose it was fraught, And, helpless in the fiery passion caught, Shakes all the pillared state with shock of men: Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed Confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued, And cries reproachful: "Was it, then, my praise, And not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth; I claim of thee the promise of thy youth; Give me thy life, or cower in empty phrase, The victim of thy genius, not its mate!" Life may be given in many ways, And loyalty to Truth be sealed As bravely in the closet as the field, So bountiful is Fate; But then to stand beside her, When craven churls deride her, To front a lie in arms and not to yield, This shows, methinks, God's plan And measure of a stalwart man, Limbed like the old heroic breeds, Who stands self-poised on manhood's solid earth, Not forced to frame excuses for his birth, Fed from within with all the strength he needs.

VI

Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, Whom late the Nation he had led, With ashes on her head, Wept with the passion of an angry grief: Forgive me, if from present things I turn To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn. Nature, they say, doth dote, And cannot make a man Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating us by rote: For him her Old-World moulds aside she threw, And, choosing sweet clay from the breast Of the unexhausted West, With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true How beautiful to see Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed, Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead; One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, Not lured by any cheat of birth, But by his clear-grained human worth, And brave old wisdom of sincerity! They knew that outward grace is dust; They could not choose but trust In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, And supple-tempered will That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust. His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind; Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars, Nothing of Europe here, Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, Ere any names of Serf and Peer Could Nature's equal scheme deface And thwart her genial will; Here was a type of the true elder race, And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face. I praise him not; it were too late; And some innative weakness there must be In him who condescends to victory Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, Safe in himself as in a fate. So always firmly he: He knew to bide his time, And can his fame abide, Still patient in his simple faith sublime, Till the wise years decide. Great captains, with their guns and drums, Disturb our judgment for the hour, But at last silence comes; These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, Our children shall behold his fame, The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, New birth of our new soil, the first American.

VII

Long as man's hope insatiate can discern Or only guess some more inspiring goal Outside of Self, enduring as the pole, Along whose course the flying axles burn Of spirits bravely-pitched, earth's manlier brood; Long as below we cannot find The meed that stills the inexorable mind; So long this faith to some ideal Good, Under whatever mortal names it masks, Freedom, Law, Country, this ethereal mood That thanks the Fates for their severer tasks, Feeling its challenged pulses leap, While others skulk in subterfuges cheap, And, set in Danger's van, has all the boon it asks, Shall win man's praise and woman's love, Shall be a wisdom that we set above All other skills and gifts to culture dear, A virtue round whose forehead we inwreathe Laurels that with a living passion breathe When other crowns grow, while we twine them, sear. What brings us thronging these high rites to pay, And seal these hours the noblest of our year, Save that our brothers found this better way?

VIII

We sit here in the Promised Land That flows with Freedom's honey and milk; But 'twas they won it, sword in hand, Making the nettle danger soft for us as silk. We welcome back our bravest and our best;-- Ah me! not all! some come not with the rest, Who went forth brave and bright as any here! I strive to mix some gladness with my strain, But the sad strings complain, And will not please the ear: I sweep them for a pæan, but they wane Again and yet again Into a dirge, and die away, in pain. In these brave ranks I only see the gaps, Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb turf wraps, Dark to the triumph which they died to gain: Fitlier may others greet the living, For me the past is unforgiving; I with uncovered head Salute the sacred dead, Who went, and who return not.--Say not so! 'Tis not the grapes of Canaan that repay, But the high faith that failed not by the way; Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave; No ban of endless night exiles the brave; And to the saner mind We rather seem the dead that stayed behind. Blow, trumpets, all your exultations blow! For never shall their aureoled presence lack; I see them muster in a gleaming row, With ever-youthful brows that nobler show; We find in our dull road their shining track; In every nobler mood We feel the orient of their spirit glow, Part of our life's unalterable good, Of all our saintlier aspiration; They come transfigured back, Secure from change in their high-hearted ways, Beautiful evermore, and with the rays Of morn on their white Shields of Expectation!

IX

But is there hope to save Even this ethereal essence from the grave? What ever 'scaped Oblivion's subtle wrong Save a few clarion names, or golden threads of song? Before my musing eye The mighty ones of old sweep by, Disvoicèd now and insubstantial things, As noisy once as we; poor ghosts of kings, Shadows of empire wholly gone to dust, And many races, nameless long ago, To darkness driven by that imperious gust Of ever-rushing Time that here doth blow: O visionary world, condition strange, Where naught abiding is but only Change, Where the deep-bolted stars themselves still shift and range! Shall we to more continuance make pretence? Renown builds tombs; a life-estate is Wit; And, bit by bit, The cunning years steal all from us but woe; Leaves are we, whose decays no harvest sow. But, when we vanish hence, Shall they lie forceless in the dark below, Save to make green their little length of sods, Or deepen pansies for a year or two, Who now to us are shining-sweet as gods? Was dying all they had the skill to do? That were not fruitless: but the Soul resents Such short-lived service, as if blind events Ruled without her, or earth could so endure; She claims a more divine investiture Of longer tenure than Fame's airy rents; Whate'er she touches doth her nature share; Her inspiration haunts the ennobled air, Gives eyes to mountains blind, Ears to the deaf earth, voices to the wind, And her clear trump sings succor everywhere By lonely bivouacs to the wakeful mind; For soul inherits all that soul could dare: Yea, Manhood hath a wider span And larger privilege of life than man. The single deed, the private sacrifice, So radiant now through proudly-hidden tears, Is covered up erelong from mortal eyes With thoughtless drift of the deciduous years; But that high privilege that makes all men peers, That leap of heart whereby a people rise Up to a noble anger's height, And, flamed on by the Fates, not shrink, but grow more bright, That swift validity in noble veins, Of choosing danger and disdaining shame, Of being set on flame By the pure fire that flies all contact base, But wraps its chosen with angelic might, These are imperishable gains, Sure as the sun, medicinal as light, These hold great futures in their lusty reins And certify to earth a new imperial race.

X

Who now shall sneer? Who dare again to say we trace Our lines to a plebeian race? Roundhead and Cavalier! Dumb are those names erewhile in battle loud; Dream-footed as the shadow of a cloud, They flit across the ear: That is best blood that hath most iron in 't. To edge resolve with, pouring without stint For what makes manhood dear. Tell us not of Plantagenets, Hapsburgs, and Guelfs, whose thin bloods crawl Down from some victor in a border-brawl! How poor their outworn coronets, Matched with one leaf of that plain civic wreath Our brave for honor's blazon shall bequeath, Through whose desert a rescued Nation sets Her heel on treason, and the trumpet hears Shout victory, tingling Europe's sullen ears With vain resentments and more vain regrets!

XI

Not in anger, not in pride, Pure from passion's mixture rude Ever to base earth allied, But with far-heard gratitude, Still with heart and voice renewed, To heroes living and dear martyrs dead, The strain should close that consecrates our brave. Lift the heart and lift the head! Lofty be its mood and grave, Not without a martial ring, Not without a prouder tread And a peal of exultation: Little right has he to sing Through whose heart in such an hour Beats no march of conscious power, Sweeps no tumult of elation! 'Tis no Man we celebrate, By his country's victories great, A hero half, and half the whim of Fate, But the pith and marrow of a Nation Drawing force from all her men, Highest, humblest, weakest, all, For her time of need, and then Pulsing it again through them, Till the basest can no longer cower. Feeling his soul spring up divinely tall, Touched but in passing by her mantle-hem. Come back, then, noble pride, for 'tis her dower! How could poet ever tower, If his passions, hopes, and fears, If his triumphs and his tears, Kept not measure with his people? Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and waves! Clash out, glad bells, from every rocking steeple! Banners, adance with triumph, bend your staves! And from every mountain-peak, Let beacon-fire to answering beacon speak, Katahdin tell Monadnock, Whiteface he, And so leap on in light from sea to sea, Till the glad news be sent Across a kindling continent, Making earth feel more firm and air breathe braver: "Be proud! for she is saved, and all have helped to save her! She that lifts up the manhood of the poor, She of the open soul and open door, With room about her hearth for all mankind! The fire is dreadful in her eyes no more; From her bold front the helm she doth unbind, Sends all her handmaid armies back to spin, And bids her navies, that so lately hurled Their crashing battle, hold their thunders in, Swimming like birds of calm along the unharmful shore. No challenge sends she to the elder world. That looked askance and hated; a light scorn Plays o'er her mouth, as round her mighty knees She calls her children back, and waits the morn Of nobler day, enthroned between her subject seas."

XII

Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast found release! Thy God, in these distempered days, Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of His ways, And through thine enemies hath wrought thy peace! Bow down in prayer and praise! No poorest in thy borders but may now Lift to the juster skies a man's enfranchised brow. O Beautiful! my Country! ours once more! Smoothing thy gold of war-dishevelled hair O'er such sweet brows as never other wore, And letting thy set lips, Freed from wrath's pale eclipse, The rosy edges of their smile lay bare, What words divine of lover or of poet Could tell our love and make thee know it, Among the Nations bright beyond compare? What were our lives without thee? What all our lives to save thee? We reck not what we gave thee; We will not dare to doubt thee, But ask whatever else, and we will dare!

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

V. THE PERIOD OF EXPANSION

THE EAGLE'S SONG

The lioness whelped, and the sturdy cub Was seized by an eagle and carried up, And homed for a while in an eagle's nest, And slept for a while on an eagle's breast; And the eagle taught it the eagle's song: "To be stanch, and valiant, and free, and strong!"

The lion whelp sprang from the eyrie nest, From the lofty crag where the queen birds rest; He fought the King on the spreading plain, And drove him back o'er the foaming main. He held the land as a thrifty chief, And reared his cattle, and reaped his sheaf, Nor sought the help of a foreign hand, Yet welcomed all to his own free land!

Two were the sons that the country bore To the Northern lakes and the Southern shore; And Chivalry dwelt with the Southern son, And Industry lived with the Northern one. Tears for the time when they broke and fought! Tears was the price of the union wrought! And the land was red in a sea of blood, Where brother for brother had swelled the flood!

And now that the two are one again, Behold on their shield the word "Refrain!" And the lion cubs twain sing the eagle's song: "To be stanch, and valiant, and free, and strong!" For the eagle's beak, and the lion's paw, And the lion's fangs, and the eagle's claw, And the eagle's swoop, and the lion's might, And the lion's leap, and the eagle's sight, Shall guard the flag with the word "Refrain!" Now that the two are one again!

RICHARD MANSFIELD.