Far up the lonely mountain-side My wandering footsteps led; The moss lay thick beneath my feet, The pine sighed overhead. The trace of a dismantled fort Lay in the forest nave, And in the shadow near my path I saw a soldier's grave.
The bramble wrestled with the weed Upon the lowly mound;-- The simple head-board, rudely writ, Had rotted to the ground; I raised it with a reverent hand, From dust its words to clear, But time had blotted all but these-- "A Georgia Volunteer!"
I saw the toad and scaly snake From tangled covert start, And hide themselves among the weeds Above the dead man's heart; But undisturbed, in sleep profound, Unheeding, there he lay; His coffin but the mountain soil, His shroud Confederate gray.
I heard the Shenandoah roll Along the vale below, I saw the Alleghanies rise Toward the realms of snow. The "Valley Campaign" rose to mind-- Its leader's name--and then I knew the sleeper had been one Of Stonewall Jackson's men.
Yet whence he came, what lip shall say-- Whose tongue will ever tell What desolated hearths and hearts Have been because he fell? What sad-eyed maiden braids her hair, Her hair which he held dear? One lock of which perchance lies with The Georgia Volunteer!
What mother, with long watching eyes, And white lips, cold and dumb, Waits with appalling patience for Her darling boy to come? Her boy! whose mountain grave swells up But one of many a scar, Cut on the face of our fair land, By gory-handed war.
What fights he fought, what wounds he wore, Are all unknown to fame; Remember, on his holy grave There is not e'en a name! That he fought well and bravely too, And held his country dear, We know, else he had never been A Georgia volunteer.
He sleeps--what need to question now If he were wrong or right? He knows, ere this, whose cause was just In God the Father's sight. He wields no warlike weapons now, Returns no foeman's thrust-- Who but a coward would revile An honest soldier's dust?
Roll, Shenandoah, proudly roll, Adown thy rocky glen, Above thee lies the grave of one Of Stonewall Jackson's men. Beneath the cedar and the pine, In solitude austere. Unknown, unnamed, forgotten, lies A Georgia Volunteer!
A Grave in Hollywood Cemetery, Richmond
(J.R.T.) By Margaret Junkin Preston (1820-1897)
I read the marble-lettered name, And half in bitterness I said, "As Dante from Ravenna came, Our poet came from exile-dead." And yet, had it been asked of him Where he would rather lay his head, This spot he would have chosen. Dim The city's hum drifts o'er his grave, And green above the hollies wave Their jagged leaves, as when a boy, On blissful summer afternoons, He came to sing the birds his runes, And tell the river of his joy.
Who dreams that in his wanderings wide By stern misfortunes tossed and driven, His soul's electric strands were riven From home and country? Let betide What might, what would, his boast, his pride, Was in his stricken mother-land, That could but bless and bid him go, Because no crust was in her hand To stay her children's need. We know The mystic cable sank too deep For surface storm or stress to strain, Or from his answering heart to keep The spark from flashing back again.
Think of the thousand mellow rhymes, The pure idyllic passion-flowers, Wherewith, in far-gone, happier times, He garlanded this South of ours. Provencal-like, he wandered long, And sang at many a stranger's board, The tenderest pathos through his song. We owe the poet praise and tears, Whose ringing ballad sends the brave, Bold Stuart riding down the years. What have we given him? Just a grave!
A Reply to the Conquered Banner
by Sir Henry Houghton, Bart.
(1809-1885)
Gallant nation, foiled by numbers! Say not that your hopes are fled; Keep that glorious flag which slumbers, One day to avenge your dead. Keep it, widowed, sonless mothers! Keep it, sisters, mourning brothers! Furl it now, but keep it still-- Think not that its work is done. Keep it till your children take it, Once again to hall and make it, All their sires have bled and fought for; All their noble hearts have sought for-- Bled and fought for all alone! All alone! ay, shame the story! Millions here deplore the stain; Shame, alas! for England's glory, Freedom called, and called in vain! Furl that banner, sadly, slowly, Treat it gently, for 'tis holy; Till that day--yes, furl it sadly; Then once more unfurl it gladly-- Conquered banner! keep it still!
A Reply to the Conquered Banner (2)
by Sir Henry Houghton, Bart.
(1809-1885)
Gallant nation, foiled by numbers! Say not that your hopes are fled; Keep that glorious flag which slumbers, One day to avenge your dead. Keep it, widowed, sonless mothers! Keep it, sisters, mourning brothers! Furl it now, but keep it still-- Think not that its work is done. Keep it till your children take it, Once again to hall and make it, All their sires have bled and fought for; All their noble hearts have sought for-- Bled and fought for all alone! All alone! ay, shame the story! Millions here deplore the stain; Shame, alas! for England's glory, Freedom called, and called in vain! Furl that banner, sadly, slowly, Treat it gently, for 'tis holy; Till that day--yes, furl it sadly; Then once more unfurl it gladly-- Conquered banner! keep it still!
A Soldiers Dream
Anonymous
Last night as I toasted My wet feet and roasted A small bit of beef by a similar blaze, While nought but the wheezings, The snorings, and sneezings Of comrades grouping in Dreamland's haze Disturbed the fine vision -- The picture Elysian -- That Fancy's weird wand conjured up to my thought, As she stood like a spooke, In a garb of blue smoke, And amid the hot embers her wonders she wrought.
Adown a highway We were marching so gay An army with banners bedecked o'er and o'er With the brightest garlands Wove by fairest of hands, While a flaming bouquet stuck in each musket bore. Each triumphal arch It met on the march Was blazoned with "Peace"; "Welcome home each loved one"; While maid, wife, and mother Would with rapture discover And rush out to meet lover, husband, and son!
I forgot all my sore toes -- Nay, all of my woes -- As I sprang to the threshold and clasped her dear waist; And every campaign I'd gone over again To get from those ripe lips another such taste. But as I flew to her I dropped my fine skewer, And with it my supper. I mastered my grief As the vanishing vision of joy's Elysian, But I couldn't get over the loss of the beef!
A Word With the West
John Reuben Thompson (1823-1873) [On the appointment of General Joseph E. Johnston to the command of the Confederate armies of the West, November, 1862] Once more to the breach for the Land of the West! And a leader we give, of our bravest and best, Of his State and his army the pride; Hope shines like the plume of Navarre on his crest, And gleams in the glaive at his side.
For his courage is keen and his honor is bright As the trusty Toledo he wears to the fight, Newly wrought in the forges of Spain, And this weapon, like all he has brandished for Right, Will never be dimmed by a stain.
He leaves the loved soil of Virginia behind, Where the dust of his fathers is fitly enshrined, Where lie the fresh fields of his fame; Where the murmurous pines, as they sway in the wind, Seem ever to whisper his name.
The Johnstons have always borne wings on their spurs, And their motto a noble distinction confers, "Ever ready" -- for friend or foe -- With a patriot's fervor the sentiment stirs The large manly heart of our Joe.
We recall that a former bold chief of the clan Fell, bravely defending the West, in the van On Shiloh's illustrious day; And with reason we reckon our Johnston the man The dark bloody debt to repay.
There is much to be done: if not glory to seek, There's a just and a terrible vengeance to wreak For crimes of a terrible dye, While the plaints of the helpless, the wail of the weak In a chorus rise up to the sky.
For the Wolf of the North we once drove to his den, That quailed in affright 'neath the stern glance of men, With his pack has returned to the spoil; Then come from the hamlet, the mountain, the glen, And drive him again from the soil!
Brave-born Tennesseans, so loyal, so true, Who have hunted the beast in your highlands, of you Our leader has never a doubt; You will troop by the thousands the chase to renew The day when his bugles ring out.
But ye "Hunters" so famed "of Kentucky" of yore, Where, where are the rifles that kept from your door The wolf and the robber as well? Of a truth, you have never been laggard before To deal with a savage so fell.
Has the love you once bore to your country grown cold? Has the fire on the altar died out? Do you hold Your lives than your freedom more dear? Can you shamefully barter your birthright for gold, Or basely take counsel of fear?
We will not believe it! Kentucky, the land Of a Clay, will not tamely submit to the brand That disgraces the dastard, the slave; The hour of redemption draws nigh -- is at hand -- Her own sons her own honor shall save!
Mighty men of Missouri, come forth to the call, With the rush of your rivers when tempests appall, And the torrents their sources unseal; And this be the watchword of one and of all -- "Remember the butcher, McNiel!"
Then once more to the breach for the land of the West! Strike home for your hearts -- for the lips you love best -- Follow on where your leader you see! One flash of his sword when the foe is hard pressed, And the Land of the West shall be free!
Acceptation
by Margaret Junkin Preston (1820-1897)
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, blessed Peace!
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.
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.
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.
Acrostics
by William Anderson Ellis
Farewell, dear, young friends; though parting is painful, A sad separation approaches at last. Revilers may spurn me, lost friends may chide me; Even then with much pleasure I'll think on the past. When rivers divide us and hills rise between us, Even then I'll remember your childhood bright days. Let not sad reflections a moment beguile you; Look forward with hope on future's bright rays
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When young I began my own fortune to seek In the morning of life so fresh and so gay Long on the future looked forward so meek. Long, long I expected a happier day, I looked but in vain for that happier day And thought I'd most reached the long looked for prize. My hopes and effects were both taken away.
And I sank down; alas, unexpecting to rise No more then did hope for a time on me bloom Doomed ever it seemed for innocent blame Even friends had proved false; I must sink to the tomb Repugnantly last like the dressed priest's fame, Sweet mate of some promise at length seemed to say On literature pages I yet had a charm; No friends save a few to look on with pity.
Eternally blest may they yet rise to fame. Laborious efforts I made full of wages Long lessons I learned by mind to... I soon became noted on literature's pages Since then I've been teaching young ideas to shoot.
After the Battle
by Agnes Leonard (1842-?)
All day long the sun had wandered Through the slowly creeping hours, And at last the stars were shining, Like some golden-petalled flowers, Scattered o'er the azure bosom Of the glory-haunted night, Flooding all the sky with grandeur, Filling all the earth with light;
And the fair moon, with the sweet stars, Gleamed amid the radiant spheres Like "a pearl of great price," shining Just as it had shone for years, On the young land that had risen, In her beauty and her might, Like some gorgeous superstructure, Woven in the dreams of night;
With her "cities hung like jewels" On her green and peaceful breast, With her harvest fields of plenty, And her quiet homes of rest; But a change had fallen sadly O'er the young and beauteous land, Brothers on the field fought madly, That once wandered hand in hand;
And "the hearts of distant mountains Shuddered," with a fearful wonder, As the echoes burst upon them Of the cannons' awful thunder. Through the long hours raged the battle, Till the setting of the sun Dropped a seal upon the record, That the day's mad work was done.
Thickly on the trampled grasses Lay the battle's awful traces, 'Mid the blood-stained clover blossoms Lay the stark and ghastly faces, With no mourners bending downward O'er a costly funeral pall; And the dying daylight softly With the starlight watched o'er all.
And where eager, joyous footsteps Once, perchance, were wont to pass, Ran a little streamlet making One "blue fold in the dark grass;" And where from its hidden fountain, Clear and bright the brooklet burst, Two had crawled, and each was bending O'er to slake his burning thirst.
Then beneath the solemn starlight Of the radiant jewelled skies, Both had turned, and were intently Gazing in each other's eyes; Both were solemnly forgiving, Hushed the pulse of passion's breath -- Calmed the maddening thirst for battle, By the chilling hand of death.
Then spake one in bitter anguish: "God have pity on my wife, And my children in New hampshire, Orphans by this cruel strife"; And the other leaning closer, Underneath the solem sky, Bowed his head to hide the moisture Gathering in his downcast eye:
"I've a wife and little daughter, 'Mid the fragrant Georgia bloom" -- Then his cry rang sharper, wilder: "Oh, God! pity all their gloom;" And the wounded, in their death-hour, Talking of their loved ones' woes, Nearer drew unto each other, Till they were no longer foes;
And the Georgian listened sadly, As the other tried to speak, While the tears were dropping softly O'er the pallor on his cheek: "How she used to stand and listen, Looking o'er the fields for me, Waiting 'till she saw me coming, 'Neath the shadowy old plum-tree; Nevermore I'll hear her laughter, As she sees me at the gate, And beneath the plum-tree's shadows, All in vain for me she'll wait."
Then the Georgian, speaking softly, Said: "A brown-eyed little one Used to wait among the roses For me, when the day was done; And amid the early fragrance Of those blossoms, fresh and sweet, Up and down the old verandah, I would chase my darling's feet.
"But on earth no more the beauty Of her face my eyes shall greet, Never more I'll hear the music Of those merry pattering feet -- Ah, the solemn starlight falling On the far-off Georgia bloom, Tells no tale unto my darling Of her absent father's doom."
Through the tears that rose between them Both were trying grief to smother, As they clasped each other's fingers, Whispering: "Let's forgive each other."
When the morning sun was walking "Up the gray stairs of the dawn," And the crimson east was flushing All the forehead of the morn, Pitying skies were looking sadly On the "once proud, happy land," On the Southron and the Northman, Holding fast each other's hand. Fatherless the golden tresses, Watching 'neath the old plum-tree; Fatherles the little Georgian, Sporting in unconcious glee.
Albert Sidney Johnston
by Kate Brownlee Sherwood (1841-1914)
I hear again the tread of war go thundering through the land, And Puritan and Cavalier are clinching neck and hand, Round Shiloh church the furious foes have met to thrust and slay, Where erst the peaceful sons of Christ were wont to kneel and pray.
The wrestling of the ages shakes the hills of Tennessee, With all their echoing mounts a-throb with war's wild minstrelsy; A galaxy of stars new-born round the shield of Mars, And set against the Stars and Stripes the flashing Stars and Bars.
'Twas Albert Sidney Johnston led the columns of the Gray, Like Hector on the plains of Troy his presence fired the fray; And dashing horse and gleaming sword spake out his royal will As on the slopes of Shiloh field the blasts of war blew shrill.
"Down with the base invaders," the Gray shout forth the cry, "Death to presumptuous rebels," the Blue ring out reply; All day the conflict rages and yet again all day, Though Grant is on the Union side he cannot stem nor stay.
They are a royal race of men, these brothers face to face, Their fury speaking through their guns, their frenzy in their pace; The sweeping onset of the Gray bears down the sturdy Blue, Though Sherman and his legions are heroes through and through.
Though Prentiss and his gallant men are forcing scaur and crag, They fall like sheaves before the scythes of Hardee and of Bragg; Ah, who shall tell the victor's tale when all the strife is past, When, man and man, in one great mould the men who strive are cast.
As when the Trojan hero came from that fair city's gates, With tossing mane and flaming crest to scorn the scowling fates, His legions gather round him and madly charge and cheer, And fill the besieging armies with wild disheveled fear;
Then bares his breast unto the dart the daring spearsman sends, And dying hears his cheering foes, the wailing of his friends, So Albert Sidney Johnston, the chief of belt and scar, Lay down to die at Shiloh and turned the scales of war.
Now five and twenty years are gone, and lo, to-day they come, The Blue and Gray in proud array with throbbing fife and drum; But not as rivals, not as foes, as brothers reconciled, To twine love's fragrant roses where the thorns of hate grew wild.
They tell the hero of three wars, the lion-hearted man, Who wore his valor like a star--uncrowned American; Above his heart serene and still the folded Stars and Bars, Above his head, like mother-wings, the sheltering Stripes and Stars.
Aye, five and twenty years, and lo, the manhood of the South Has held its valor stanch and strong, as at the cannon's mouth, With patient heart and silent tongue has kept its true parole, And in the conquests born of peace has crowned its battle roll.
But ever while we sing of war, of courage tried and true, Of heroes wed to gallant deeds, or be it Gray or Blue, Then Albert Sidney Johnston's name shall flash before our sight Like some resplendent meteor across the sombre night.
America, thy sons are knit with sinews wrought of steel, They will not bend, they will not break, beneath the tyrant's heel; But in the white-hot flame of love, to silken cobwebs spun, They whirl the engines of the world, all keeping time as one.
To-day they stand abreast and strong, who stood as foes of yore, The world leaps up to bless their feet, heaven scatters blessings o'er; Their robes are wrought of gleaming gold, their wings are freedom's own, The trampling of their conquering hosts shakes pinnacle and throne.
Oh, veterans of the Blue and Gray, who fought on Shiloh field, The purposes of God are true, His judgment stands revealed; The pangs of war have rent the veil, and lo, His high decree: One heart, one hope, one destiny, one flag from sea to sea.
Another Yankee Doodle
by Anonymous
Yankee Doodle had a mind To whip the Southern traitors, Because they didn't choose to live On codfish and potatoes, Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, And to keep his courage up He took a drink of brandy.
Yankee Doodle said he found By all the census figures, That he could starve the rebels out, If he could steal their niggers. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, And then he took another drink Of gunpowder and brandy.
Yankee Doodle made a speech; 'Twas very full of feeling; "I fear," he says, "I cannot fight, But I am good at stealing." Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, Hurrah for Lincoln, he's the boy To take a drop of brandy.
Yankee Doodle drew his sword, And practiced all the passes; Come, boys, we'll take another drink When we get to Manassas. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, They never reached Manassas plain, And never got the brandy.
Yankee Doodle soon found out That Bull Run was no trifle; For if the North knew how to steal, The South knew how to rifle. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, 'Tis very clear I took too much Of that infernal brandy.
Yankee Doodle wheeled about, And scampered off at full run, And such a race was never seen As that he made at Bull Run. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, I haven't time to stop right now To take a drop of brandy.
Yankee Doodle, oh! for shame, You're always intermeddling; Let guns alone, they're dangerous things; You'd better stick to peddling. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, When next I go to Bully Run I'll throw away the brandy.
Army of Northern Virginia
by Steven Vincent Benét (1898-1943)
Army of Northern Virginia, army of legend, Who were your captains that you could trust them so surely? Who were your battle-flags? Call the shapes from the mist, Call the dead men out of the mist and watch them ride. Tall the first rider, tall with a laughing mouth, His long black beard is combed like a beauty's hair, His slouch hat plumed with a curled black ostrich-feather, He wears gold spurs and sits his horse with the seat Of a horseman born. It is Stuart of Laurel Hill, "Beauty" Stuart, the genius of cavalry, Reckless, merry, religious, theatrical, Lover of gesture, lover of panache, With all the actor's grace and the quick, light charm That makes the women adore him-a wild cavalier Who worships as sober a God as Stonewall Jackson, A Rupert who seldom drinks, very often prays, Loves his children, singing, fighting spurs, and his wife. Sweeney his banjo-player follows him. And after them troop the young Virginia counties, Horses and men, Botetort, Halifax, Dinwiddie, Prince Edward, Cumberland, Nottoway, Mecklenburg, Berkeley, Augusta, the Marylanders, The horsemen never matched till Sheridan came. Now the phantom guns creak by. They are Pelham's guns. That quiet boy with the veteran mouth is Pelham. He is twenty-two. He is to fight sixty battles And never lose a gun. The cannon roll past, The endless lines of the infantry begin. A. P. Hill leads the van. He is small and spare, His short, clipped beard is red as his battleshirt, Jackson and Lee are to call him in their death-hours. Dutch Longstreet follows, slow, pugnacious and stubborn, Hard to beat and just as hard to convince, Fine corps commander, good bulldog for holding on, But dangerous when he tries to think for himself, He thinks for himself too much at Gettysburg, But before and after he grips with tenacious jaws. There is D. H. Hill--there is Early and Fitzhugh Lee-- Yellow-haired Hood with his wounds and his empty sleeve, Leading his Texans, a Viking shape of a man, With the thrust and lack of craft of a berserk sword, All lion, none of the fox. When he supersedes Joe Johnston, he is lost, and his army with him, But he could lead forlorn hopes with the ghost of Ney. His bigboned Texans follow him into the mist. Who follows them? These are the Virginia faces, The Virginia speech. It is Jackson's footcavalry, The Army of the Valley, It is the Stonewall Brigade, it is the streams Of the Shenandoah, marching. Ewell goes by, The little woodpecker, bald and quaint of speech With his wooden leg stuck stiffly out from his saddle, He is muttering, "Sir, I'm a nervous Major-General, And whenever an aide rides up from General Jackson I fully expect an order to storm the North Pole." He chuckles and passes, full of crotchets and courage, Living on frumenty for imagined dyspepsia, And ready to storm the North Pole at a Jackson phrase. Then the staff--then little Sorrel--and the plain Presbyterian figure in the flat cap, Throwing his left hand out in the awkward gesture That caught the bullet out of the air at Bull Run, Awkward, rugged and dour, the belated Ironside With the curious, brilliant streak of the cavalier That made him quote Mercutio in staff instructions, Love lancet windows, the color of passion-flowers, Mexican sun and all fierce, tautlooking fine creatures; Stonewall Jackson, wrapped in his beard and his silence, Cromwell-eyed and ready with Cromwell's short Bleak remedy for doubters and fools and enemies, Hard on his followers, harder on his foes, An iron sabre vowed to an iron Lord, And yet the only man of those men who pass With a strange, secretive grain of harsh poetry Hidden so deep in the stony sides of his heart That it shines by flashes only and then is gone. It glitters in his last words. He is deeply ambitious, The skilled man, utterly sure of his own skill And taking no nonsense about it from the unskilled, But God is the giver of victory and defeat, And Lee, on earth, vicegerent under the Lord. Sometimes he differs about the mortal plans But once the order is given, it is obeyed. We know what he thought about God. One would like to know What he thought of the two together, if he so mingled them. He said two things about Lee it is well to recall. When he first beheld the man that he served so well, "I have never seen such a fine-looking human creature." Then, afterwards, at the height of his own fame, The skilled man talking of skill, and something more. "General Lee is a phenomenon, He is the only man I would follow blindfold." Think of those two remarks and the man who made them When you picture Lee as the rigid image in marble. No man ever knew his own skill better than Jackson Or was more ready to shatter an empty fame. He passes now in his dusty uniform. The Bible jostles a book of Napoleon's Maxims And a magic lemon deep in his saddlebags.
And now at last, Comes Traveller and his master. Look at them well. The horse is an iron-grey, sixteen hands high, Short back, deep chest, strong haunch, flat legs, small head, Delicate ear, quick eye, black mane and tail, Wise brain, obedient mouth. Such horses are The jewels of the horseman's hands and thighs, They go by the word and hardly need the rein. They bred such horses in Virginia then, Horses that were remembered after death And buried not so far from Christian ground That if their sleeping riders should arise They could not witch them from the earth again And ride a printless course along the grass With the old manage and light ease of hand. The rider, now. He too, is iron-grey, Though the thick hair and thick, blunt-pointed beard Have frost in them. Broad-foreheaded, deep-eyed, Straight-nosed, sweet-mouthed, firmlipped, head cleanly set, He and his horse are matches for the strong Grace of proportion that inhabits both. They carry nothing that is in excess And nothing that is less than symmetry, The strength of Jackson is a hammered strength, Bearing the tool marks still. This strength was shaped By as hard arts but does not show the toil Except as justness, though the toil was there. --And so we get the marble man again, The head on the Greek coin, the idol image, The shape who stands at Washington's left hand, Worshipped, uncomprehended and aloof, A figure lost to flesh and blood and bones, Frozen into a legend out of life, A blank-verse statue-- How to humanize That solitary gentleness and strength Hidden behind the deadly oratory Of twenty thousand Lee Memorial days, How show, in spite of all the rhetoric, All the sick honey of the speechifiers, Proportion, not as something calm congealed From lack of fire, but ruling such a fire As only such proportion could contain?
The man was loved, the man was idolized, The man had every just and noble gift. He took great burdens and he bore them well, Believed in God but did not preach too much, Believed and followed duty first and last With marvellous consistency and force, Was a great victor, in defeat as great, No more, no less, always himself in both, Could make men die for him but saved his men Whenever he could save them-was most kind But-was not disobeyed-was a good father, A loving husband, a considerate friend: Had litle humor, but enough to play Mild jokes that never wounded but had charm, Did not seek intimates, yet drew men to him, Did not seek fame, did not protest against it, Knew his own value without pomp or jealousy And died as he preferred to live--sans praise, With commonsense, tenacity and courage, A Greek proportion--and a riddle unread. And everything that we have said is true And nothing helps us yet to read the man, Nor will he help us while he has the strength To keep his heart his own. For he will smile And give you, with unflinching courtesy, Prayers, trappings, letters, uniforms and orders, Photographs, kindness, valor and advice, And do it with such grace and gentleness That you will know you have the whole of him Pinned down, mapped out, easy to understand-- And so you have. All things except the heart The heart he kept himself, that answers all. For here was someone who lived all his life In the most fierce and open light of the sun, Wrote letters freely, did not guard his speech, Listened and talked with every sort of man, And kept his heart a secret to the end From all the picklocks of biographers.
He was a man, and as a man he knew Love, separation, sorrow, joy and death. He was a master of the tricks of war, He gave great strokes and warded strokes as great. He was the prop and pillar of a State, The incarnation of a national dream, And when the State fell and the dream dissolved He must have lived with bitterness itself- But what his sorrow was and what his joy, And how he felt in the expense of strength, And how his heart contained its bitterness, He will not tell us. We can lie about him, Dress up a dummy in his uniform And put our words into the dummy's mouth, Say "Here Lee must have thought," and "There, no doubt, By what we know of him, we may suppose He felt--this pang or that--" but he remains Beyond our stagecraft, reticent as ice, Reticent as the fire within the stone.
Yet--look at the face again--look at it well-- This man was not repose, this man was act. This man who murmured "It is well that war Should be so terrible, if it were not We might become too fond of it--" and showed Himself, for once, completely as he lived In the laconic balance of that phrase; This man could reason, but he was a fighter, Skilful in every weapon of defence But never defending when he could assault, Taking enormous risks again and again, Never retreating while he still could strike, Dividing a weak force on dangerous ground And joining it again to beat a strong, Mocking at chance and all the odds of war With acts that looked like hairbread'th recklessness - We do not call them reckless, since they won. We do not see him reckless for the calm Proportion that controlled the recklessness-- But that attacking quality was there. He was not mild with life or drugged with justice, He gripped life like a wrestler with a bull, Impetuously. It did not come to him While he stood waiting in a famous cloud, He went to it and took it by both horns And threw it down. Oh, he could bear the shifts Of time and play the bitter loser's game, The slow, unflinching chess of fortitude, But while he had an opening for attack He would attack with every ounce of strength. His heart was not a stone but trumpet-shaped And a long challenge blew an anger through it That was more dread for being musical First, last, and to the end. Again he said A curious thing to life. "I'm always wanting something." The brief phrase Slides past us, hardly grasped in the smooth flow Of the well-balanced, mildly-humorous prose That goes along to talk of cats and duties, Maxims of conduct, farming and poor bachelors, But for a second there, the marble cracked And a strange man we never saw before Showed us the face he never showed the world And wanted something--not the general Who wanted shoes and food for ragged men, Not the good father wanting for his children, The patriot wanting victory--all the Lees Whom all the world could see and recognize And hang with gilded laurels-but the man Who had, you'd say, all things that life can give Except the last success-and had, for that, Such glamor as can wear sheer triumph out, Proportion's son and Duty's eldest sword And the calm mask who-wanted something still, Somewhere, somehow and always. Picklock biographers, What could he want that he had never had?
He only said it once--the marble closed-- There was a man enclosed within that image. There was a force that tried Proportion's rule And died without a legend or a cue To bring it back. The shadow-Lees still live. But the first-person and the singular Lee?
The ant finds kingdoms in a foot of ground But earth's too small for something in our earth, We'll make a new earth from the summer's cloud, From the pure summer's cloud. It was not that, It was not God or love or mortal fame. It was not anything he left undone.
-What does Proportion want that it can lack?
-What does the ultimate hunger of the flesh
Want from the sky more than a sky of air?
He wanted something. That must be enough. Now he rides Traveller back into the mist.
Ashby
by Arthur Louis Peticolas
Silver clear above the river, Hear the bugle calling! Through the forest by the river, O'er the hills and o'er the river, Shades of night are falling; While the dusky echoes waking, Airy, fairy music making -- Ashby's bugle calling! Matchless horseman of the Valley! Knightly horseman of the Valley! Ashby's bugle calling.
Wakeful pickets by the river, Keeping watch and ward; Soldiers sleeping by the river, By the rapid, rushing river, On the velvet sward; 'Neath the stars of midnight gleaming, Stonewall's army peaceful dreaming, Ashby's keeping guard. Matchless horseman of the Valley! Knightly horseman of the Valley! Ashby's keeping guard.
Loud and clear above the river, Hear the rifles ringing! Flaming guns that set aquiver All the echoes by the river, Songs of death are singing; Through the raging fight, and after, Hears the foe, like mocking laughter, Ashby's bugle ringing! Matchless horseman of the Valley! Knightly horseman of the Valley! Ashby's bugle ringing.
Well the Valley, well the river, Knew the silver tone; Knew the steeds whose hoof beats ever Woke the echoes by the river. White, and black, and roan Were the steeds of valiant mettle, Were the steeds that bore to battle Ashby's self alone! Matchless horseman of the Valley! Knightly horseman of the Valley! Ashby's self alone.
But no more beside the river Ashby's steeds career; And no more the rushing river, Hill and vale and rushing river, Ashby's bugle hear; Nevermore in charge or rally Wakes the echoes of the Valley Ashby's bugle clear! Matchless horseman of the Valley! Knightly horseman of the Valley! That we loved so dear.
In a sunshine guilded meadow Fell that battle day; Ashby formed us in the shadow Of a wood; below the meadow Flower spangled lay; While beyond, with pomp and daring, Wyndham came with trumpets blaring, Charging to the fray! Futile all his pomp and daring, Futile all his trumpets blaring Proved that fatal day.
Three fierce volleys, then a tempest Set the echoes ringing! Sweetly clear a silver tempest, Deadly clear a silver tempest -- Ashby's bugle singing! Down we charged on Wyndham's squadrons, Charged on Wyndham's reeling squadrons. All our sabers swinging! Charged, and broke, and rode them over, Stained with blood the meadow clover, All our sabers swinging!
Riflemen beside the meadow Swept the volleyed field; From the copse beside the meadow, Volleyed woodland by the meadow, Back our footmen reeled! Ashby spurred to lead them, crying; "Charge!" They charged, but he was lying Dead upon the field! Matchless horseman of the Valley! O loved horseman of the Valley! Dead upon the field!
Sadly sweet the bugle's calling Over Ashby's bier! Soft and low the bugle's calling As the shades of night are falling. But he does not hear. Stilled forever by the river, In the Valley, by the river, Ashby's bugle clear! Matchless horseman of the Valley! Knightly horseman of the Valley! That we loved so dear.
Ashby (2)
by John Oliver Crown
A wail swells o'er the valley, Virginia, deep with woe; Thy noble sons and daughters In mournful grief bend low, In mournful grief bend low, Above that fallen brave, The high-souled, gallant Ashby, Who sleeps in Glory's grave.
His clarion voice is silent That stirred his band to dare The front and shock of battle When cannon rent the air, When cannon rent the air, And armies met in strife, Advancing or recoiling Before the tide of life.
Amid the war-storm's thunder A battle god he moved; But in the hour of victory Stern death relentless proved, Stern death relentless proved, As he pressed down the foe That came in mocking triumph To lay Virginians low.
Virginia, with thy glory Will live his endless fame! The Shenandoah's waters Will chant his deathless name, Will chant his deathless name, And every rill will tell And every breeze will whisper How, fighting, Ashby fell.
With his proud name we linger Like some bright dream that's fled, And scarce our hearts can echo -- He sleeps among the dead, He sleeps among the dead, But, oh, his deeds live on, That speak in battle's language -- Strive on till victory's won!
Carolina
by Henry Timrod (1829-1867) I The despot treads thy sacred sands, Thy pines give shelter to his bands, They sons stand by with idle hands, Carolina! He breathes at ease thy airs of balm, He scorns the lances of thy palm; Oh! who shall break thy craven calm, Carolina! Thy ancient fame is growing dim, A spot is on thy garment's rim; Give to the winds thy battle hymn, Carolina!
II Call on thy children of the hill, Wake swamp and river, coast and rill, Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill, Carolina! Cite wealth and science, trade and art, Touch with thy fire the cautious mart, And pour thee through the people's heart, Carolina! Till even the coward spurns his fears, And all thy fields and fens and meres Shall bristle like thy palm with spears, Carolina!
III Hold up the glories of thy dead; Say how thy elder children bled, And point to Eutaw;s battle-bed, Carolina! Tell how the patriot's soul was tried, And what his dauntless breast defied; How Rutledge ruled and Laurens died, Carolina! Cry! till thy summons heard at last, Shall fall like Marion's bugle-blast Re-echoed from the haunted Past, Carolina!
IV I hear a murmur as of waves That grope their way through sunless caves, Like bodies struggling in their graves, Carolina! And now it deepens; slow and grand It swells, as, rolling to the land, An ocean broke upon thy strand, Carolina! Shout! let it reach the startled Huns! And roar with all thy festal guns! It is the answer of thy sons, Carolina!
V They will not wait to hear thee call; From Sachem's Head to Sumter's wall Resounds the voice of hut and hall, Carolina! No! thou hast not a stain, they say, Or none save what the battle-day Shall wash in seas of blood away, Carolina! Thy skirts indeed the foe may part, Thy robe be pierced with sword and dart, They shall not touch thy noble heart, Carolina!
VI Ere thou shalt own the tyrant's thrall Ten times ten thousand men must fall; Thy corpse may hearken to his call, Carolina! When, by thy bier, in mournful throngs The women chant thy mortal wrongs, 'T will be their own funereal songs, Carolina! From thy dead breast by ruffians trod No helpless child shall look to God; All shall be safe beneath thy sod, Carolina!
VII Girt with such wills to do and bear, Assured in right, and mailed in prayer, Thou wilt not bow thee to despair, Carolina! Throw thy bold banner to the breeze! Front with thy ranks the threatening seas Like thine own proud armorial trees, Carolina! Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns, And roar the challenge from thy guns; Then leave the future to thy sons, Carolina!
Charleston
by Henry Timrod (1829-1867)
Calm as that second summer which precedes The first fall of snow, In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds, The city bides the foe.
As yet, behind their ramparts, stern and proud, Her bolted thunders sleep, -- Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud, Looms o'er the solemn deep.
No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scaur To guard the holy strand; But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war Above the level sand.
And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched, Unseen, beside the flood, -- Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched That wait and watch for blood.
Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade, Walk grave and thoughtful men, Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade As lightly as the pen.
And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim Over a bleeding hound, Seem each one to have caught the strength of him Whose sword she sadly bound.
Thus girt without and garrisoned at home, Day patient following day, Old Charleston looks from roof and spire and dome, Across her tranquil bay.
Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands And spicy Indian ports, Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands, And Summer to her courts.
But still, along yon dim Atlantic line, The only hostile smoke Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine, From some frail, floating oak.
Shall the Spring dawn, and she, still clad in smiles, And with an unscathed brow, Rest in the strong arms of her palm-covered isles, As fair and free as now?
We know not; in the temple of the Fates God has inscribed her doom; And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits The triumph or the tomb.
Chickamauga
by Mollie E. Moore
The sharp, clear crack of rifles, and the deep Loud thunder of artillery; the flash Of bayonets, and the arrowy sweep Of keen-edged sabres; the most fearful clash Of meeting squadrons, and the pride Of hostile banners! How they fought who died By the River of Death!
Morn dawned upon the field, the bugle's blast Wound out its shrilly summons and the word Leaped down the lines, and fiery hearts beat fast: Two gallant armies bared the murderous sword, And fearless breasted battle's bitter waves, And eager thousands sought their nameless graves By the River of Death!
And many eyes grew dim; the labored breath Fled many a young and gallant breast; And many an arm grew rigid there: but Death Urged on the carnage, and they knew no rest, Those panting hosts. Our banner kept its pride, But its blood-stained stars tell how they fought who died By the River of Death!
And Texas' fearless sons were there: they bared Their bosoms to the shock and met the tide, As their own forests meet the storm; they dared Their splendid foe with all his bannered pride: Their hearts were in the struggle, for they thought Of their free fair homes in Texas, as they fought By the River of Death!
His heart beat high amid the deepening strife, That stalwart Texan's heart! His manly breast Caught in his veins a new, a holy light. As on that reeking plain, where crest met crest, A thought of Texas, with her lovely plains, Came o'er his heart like music's soothing strains , By the River of Death!
The free fair plains of Texas and her hills With rich dark valleys sleeping soft between; Her moss-hung forests and her willowy rills, Her streams like silver in the noonday sheen;-- The free, fair plains of Texas! how the thought Of all their beauty nerved him as he fought By the River of Death!
His boyhood's home amid the shadows lying, Beneath his own, his sunny western skies! His mother and his sisters! 'Mid the dying How is it that a new fire lights his eyes, As these thoughts weep like lightning through his breast? . . . .The day drags on: the strong arms know no rest By the River of Death!
By the River of Death! 'Twas there he fell As only Freedom's own can fall! his eye Still lit with triumph, and his heart, as slow It ceased its own faint earth-born melody, To battle's raging chorus keeping time -- The "infinite, fierce chorus" -- that mad chime By the River of Death!
A single thought o'ershadowed him, his eye Grew troubled for one moment, then 'twas o'er -- "His fair young wife. his dark-eyed boy, to die Far from them!" The cannon's lordly roar Broke on his ear, his eye caught back its pride, His lax hand grasped his falling gun: he died By the River of Death!
He died, and night with clouded skies looked down Upon his burial. The torch-light red Glared fitfully about; they gathered 'round, His comrades, sadly silent near the dead. They wrapped him in his blanket,--song nor prayer Awoke the stillness, as they laid him there By the River of Death!
Buried upon the field! 'Tis meet, for why Should warriors rest where peaceful churchyards are? Why should they sleep where battle's trumpet-cry Was never heard, nor breath of glorious war? Upon their field of glory, on the plain Where Death's strange voice hath hushed the noble slain, There let them lie.
At home, the sweet young wife droops like a flower, His prattling babe hushed sadly by her knee-- His boy, his laughing boy, whose earthly dower Is fatherless childhood! Ah, the sunbeams flee That darkened hearth, and free the shadows stray, Shadows born there since that fateful day By the River of Death!
The camp-fire in the distant wood gleams red, The soldiers group about the ruddy light, And count in softened tones the noble dead -- The dead! "It thinned our ranks so, that last fight! The brave who fell like brothers, side by side!" And then his comrades tell how well he fought, who died By the River of Death!
Christmas Night of 62
by William Gordon McCabe (1841-1920)
The wintry blast goes wailing by, The snow is falling overhead; I hear the lonely sentry's tread, And distant watch-fires light the sky.
Dim forms go flitting through the gloom; The soldiers cluster round the blaze To talk of other Christmas days, And softly speak of home and home.
My sabre swinging overhead Gleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow, While fiercely drives the blinding snow, And memory leads me to the dead.
My thoughts go wandering to and fro, Vibrating between the Now and Then; I see the low-browed home again, The old hall wreathed with mistletoe.
And sweetly from the far-off years Comes borne the laughter faint and low, The voices of the Long Ago! My eyes are wet with tender tears.
I feel again the mother-kiss, I see again the glad surprise That lightened up the tranquil eyes And brimmed them o'er with tears of bliss,
As, rushing from the old hall-door, She fondly clasped her wayward boy-- Her face all radiant with the joy She felt to see him home once more.
My sabre swinging on the bough Gleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow, While fiercely drives the blinding snow Aslant upon my saddened brow.
Those cherished faces all are gone! Asleep within the quiet graves Where lies the snow in drifting waves,-- And I am sitting here alone.
There's not a comrade here to-night But knows that loved ones far away On bended knee this night will pray: "God bring our darling from the fight."
But there are none to wish me back, For me no yearning prayers arise. The lips are mute and closed the eyes-- My home is in the bivouac.
Cleburne
Author Unknown
Another ray of light hath fled, another Southern brave Hath fallen in his country's cause and found a laureled grave-- Hath fallen, but his deathless name shall live when stars shall set, For, noble Cleburne, thou art one this world will ne'er forget.
'Tis true, thy warm heart beats no more, that on thy noble head Azrael placed his icy hand, and thou art with the dead; The glancing of thine eyes are dim; no more will they be bright Until they ope in Paradise, with clearer, heavenlier light.
No battle news disturbs thy rest upon the sun-bright shore, No clarion voice awakens thee on earth to wrestle more, No tramping steed, no wary foe bids thee awake, arise, For thou art in the angel world, beyond the starry skies.
Brave Cleburne, dream in thy low bed, with pulseless deadened heart; Calm, calm and sweet, O warrior rest! thou well hast borne thy part, And now a glory wreath for thee the angels singing twine, A glory wreath, not of the earth, but made by hands divine.
A long farewell--we give thee up, with all thy bright reknown, A chieftain here on earth is lost, in heaven an angel found. Above thy grave a wail is heard--a nation mourns her dead; A nobler for the South ne'er died, a braver never bled.
A last farewell--how can we speak the bitter word farewell! The anguish of our bleeding hearts vain words may never tell. Sleep on, sleep on, to God we give our chieftain in his might; And weeping, feel he lives on high, where comes no sorrow's night.
Confederate Memorial Day
Author Unknown
The marching armies of the past Along our Southern plains, Are sleeping now in quiet rest Beneath the Southern rains.
The bugle call is now in vain To rouse them from their bed; To arms they'll never march again-- They are sleeping with the dead.
No more will Shiloh's plains be stained With blood our heroes shed, Nor Chancellorsville resound again To our noble warriors' tread.
For them no more shall reveille Sound at the break of dawn, But may their sleep peaceful be Till God's great judgment morn.
We bow our heads in solemn prayer For those who wore the gray, And clasp again their unseen hands On our Memorial Day.
Csa
by Abram Joseph Ryan (1838-1886)
Do we weep for the heroes who died for us, Who living were true and tried for us, And dying sleep side by side for us; The Martyr-band That hallowed our land With the blood they shed in a tide for us?
Ah! fearless on many a day for us They stood in front of the fray for us, And held the foeman at bay for us; And tears should fall Fore'er o'er all Who fell while wearing the Gray for us.
How many a glorious name for us, How many a story of fame for us They left: Would it not be a blame for us If their memories part From our land and heart, And a wrong to them, and shame for us?
No, no, no, they were brave for us, And bright were the lives they gave for us; The land they struggled to save for us Will not forget Its warriors yet Who sleep in so many a grave for us.
On many and many a plain for us Their blood poured down all in vain for us, Red, rich, and pure, like a rain for us; They bleed -- we weep, We live -- they sleep, "All lost," the only refrain for us.
But their memories e'er shall remain for us, And their names, bright names, without stain for us; The glory they won shall not wane for us, In legend and lay Our heroes in Gray Shall forever live over again for us.
Cutting Off the Buttons
by Sallie A. Brock (writing as Virginia Madison) Respectfully dedicated to the Knights of the Shears
"Come out that grey!" a Yankee cried; "Excuse me," Johnny Reb replied, "For I have naught to wear beside"-- And his jacket quickly buttons.
"That livery is disallowed," The Yankee lustily avowed, But Johnny most profoundly bowed, And fingered at his buttons.
Nonplussed, the Yankees shook his head, And furious frowned, (discomfited), "If you won't doff that grey," he said, "Why, then,--I'll take your buttons!"
The rarest fun that e'er was seen On "Terra Firma," was, I ween, When came the order startling--keen-- To cut off Rebel buttons.
Where'er a grey-back showed his face, On the street or in the market-place, A Yankee armed at once gave chase, To cut off his brass buttons!
Poor Johnny Reb! what could he do But tremble, and repentant view The flashing shears and knife so new, For cutting off his buttons?
And like a lamb to slaughter led, At once he bowed his vanquished head, "Do as you will," he meekly said, And--"farewell, my poor buttons!"
Alas! poor Johnny was forlorn As Samson when his locks were shorn; "I'll pin my jacket with a thorn, Since I'm allowed no buttons!
"I've nary a red to buy a pin, Confederate scrip is not worth--tin, It is indeed a shameful sin To rob me of my buttons!
"'Tis well 'tis summer time," groaned he, "Else I might freeze and die, you see, Bereft, I am, so suddenly, Of all my jacket buttons!"
"The game is up" triumphant cried His hostile foe. "Oh no, not yet!" a voice replied, "You surely never have denied A lady, some brass buttons?"
"Why never, no!" the gallant said, And paling white and blushing red, The hero of this valorous deed Delivered up the buttons.
With a merry twinkle in her eye, The lady smiled and made reply-- "I thank you, sir! most heartily For these poor Rebel buttons!"
From her pocket out a twine she drew, And strung them quickly in his view, And round her neck the necklace threw-- And a tear dropped on the buttons.
"I love these relics, for they tell How long our poor boys fought, and well-- The story makes my proud heart swell, The story in these buttons!"
And galvanized they now appear, Adorning many a shell-like ear, Of certain girls who dare to wear These precious, proscribed buttons.
A brooch their spotless collar pins, Burnished, until like gold it shines, You'll see them all along "the lines," The Rebel girls in buttons.
"Oppressed by might, and want and care, Meekly subdued" the "men," we hear, But bravely, and without a fear, The women wear the buttons.
Death of Stonewall Jackson
by Henry Lynden Flash (1835-1914)
Not 'mid the lightning of the stormy fight, Not in the rush upon the vandal foes, Did kingly Death, with his resistless might, Lay the great leader low.
His warrior soul its earthy shackles broke, In the full sunshine of a peaceful town; When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak That propped our cause went down.
Though his alone the blood that flecked the ground, Recording all his grand heroic deeds, Freedom herself is writhing with the wound, And all the country bleeds.
He entered not the nation's promised land At the red belching of the cannon's mouth, But broke the house of bondage with his hand -- The Moses of the South.
O gracious God! not gainless is the loss; A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest frown; And while his country staggers with the cross, He rises with the crown!
Decking Southern Soldiers Graves
by A.W. Slayback
Beautiful feet, with maidenly tread, Offerings bring to the gallant dead. Footsteps light press the sacred sod Of heroes untimely ascended to God. Bring spring flowers! in fragrant perfume And offer sweet prayers for a merciful doom.
Beautiful hands! ye deck the graves, Above the dust of the Southern braves. Here was extinguished their manly fire, Who scorned to flinch from the foeman's ire. Bring spring flowers! the laurel and rose, And deck ye the graves where your friends repose.
Beautiful eyes! the tears ye shed Are brighter than diamonds to those who bled; Spurned is the cause they fell to save, But "little they'll reck," if ye honor the brave. Bring spring flowers! with tears and praise, And chant o'er their tombs your grateful lays.
Beautiful lips! ye trembled now, Memory wakens the sleeping one's vow; Mute are the lips and faded the forms, That never knelt, save to God and your charms. Bring spring flowers! all dewy with morn, And think how they loved ye, whose graves ye adorn.
Beautiful hearts! of matron and maid, Faithful were ye, when Apostles betrayed! Here are your loved and cherished ones laid, Peace to their ashes, the flowers ye strew Are monuments worthy the faithful and true. Bring spring flowers! perfume their sod, With annual incense to glory and God.
Dedication at Vicsksburg
by J. E. Battaile
Shades of our heroes dead, Sleeping in glory, Here, where your blood was shed, Carve we your story! Marble must sink in dust, Fame lives forever. Though your true blades be rust, Forget we? Never! Yon sculptured sentinel Watches your sleeping. Tells how you fought and fell, Loyally keeping Life's trust. You met death's hour Stern and undaunted. Ours 'tis to nurse the flower Your valor planted. Here, 'neath the giant hills, Rest warriors, rest ye! Lulled by the murm'ring rills, None shall molest ye! Fanned by our south wind's breath, Sleep, soldiers weary! Yours was no fameless death, Darksome and dreary. Sleep well! The strife is past; No war-drum's rattle Breaks forth, nor bugle's blast. Hushed is the battle. Wrapt in your native earth, Sweet be your slumber! When shall we match your worth? When your deeds number? Strewn be this sacred sod, Soldier's fit pillow. Whence your souls sprang to God, With sorrow's willow! Many a youth shall bring Many a maiden, Tribute of balmy spring Here, flower-laden. Sleep on; but not for aye! Should war's red chalice Dash out its gory spray Over our valleys, Come! In the battle's crest Flash your proud lances, Lead where our bravest, best Column advances!
Dirge For Ashby
by Margaret Junkin Preston (1820-1897)
Heard ye that thrilling word -- Accent of dread -- Fall, like a thunderbolt, Bowing each head? Over the battle dun, Over each booming gun -- Ashby, our bravest one! Ashby is dead!
Saw ye the veterans -- Hearts that had known Never a quail of fear, Never a groan -- Sob, though the fight they win, Tears their stern eyes within -- Ashby, our Paladin, Ashby is dead!
Dash, dash the tear away -- Crush down the pain! Dulce et decus, be Fittest refrain! Why should the dreary pall, Round him be flung at all? Did not our hero fall Gallantly slain?
Catch the last words of cheer, Dropt from his tongue: O'er the battle's din, Let them be rung! "Follow me! follow me!" Soldier, oh! could there be Paean or dirge for thee, Loftier sung?
Bold as the lion's heart -- Dauntlessly brave -- Knightly as knightliest; Bayard might crave; Sweet, with all Sydney's grace, Tender as Hampden's face, Who now shall fill the space, Void by his grave?
'Tis not one broken heart, Wild with dismay -- Crazed in her agony, Weeps o'er his clay! Ah! From a thousand eyes, Flow the pure tears that rise -- Widowed Virginia lies Stricken today!
Yet charge as gallantly, Ye, whom he led! Jackson, the victor, still Leads at your head! Heroes! be battle done Bravelier, every one Nerved by the thought alone -- Ashby is dead!
Dreaming in the Trenches
by William Gordon McCabe (1841-1920)
I picture her there in the quaint old room, Where the fading fire-light starts and falls, Alone in the twilight's tender gloom With the shadows that dance on the dim-lit walls.
Alone, while those faces look silently down From their antique frames in a grim repose-- Slight scholarly Ralph in his Oxford gown, And stanch Sir Alan, who died for Montrose.
There are gallants gay in crimson and gold, There are smiling beauties with powdered hair, But she sits there, fairer a thousand-fold, Leaning dreamily back in her low arm-chair.
And the roseate shadows of fading light Softly clear, steal over the sweet young face, Where a woman's tenderness blends to-night With the guileless pride of a knightly race.
Her hands lie clasped in a listless way On the old Romance--which she holds on her knee-- Of Tristram, the bravest of knights in the fray, And Iseult, who waits by the sounding sea.
And her proud, dark eyes wear a softened look, As she watches the dying embers fall: Perhaps she dreams of the knight in the book, Perhaps of the pictures that smile on the wall.
What fancies, I wonder, are thronging her brain, For her cheeks flush warm with a crimson glow! Perhaps--ah! me, how foolish and vain! But I'd give my life to believe it so.
Well, whether I ever march home again To offer my love and a stainless name, Or whether I die at the head of my men, I'll be true to the end all the same.
Enlisted Today
Anonymous
I know the sun shines, and the lilacs are blowing, And the summer sends kisses by beautiful May -- Oh! to see all the treasures the spring is bestowing, And think my boy Willie enlisted today.
It seems but a day since at twilight, low humming, I rocked him to sleep with his cheek upon mine, While Robby, the four-year old, watched for the coming Of father, adown the street's indistinct line.
It is many a year since my Harry departed, To come back no more in the twilight or dawn: And Robby grew weary of watching, and started Alone on the journey his father had gone.
It is many a year -- and this afternoon sitting At Robby's old window, I heard the band play, And suddenly ceased dreaming over my knitting, To recollect Willie is twenty today.
And that, standing beside him this soft May-day morning, And the sun making gold of his wreathed cigar smoke, I saw in his sweet eyes and lips a faint warning, And choked down the tears when he eagerly spoke:
"Dear mother, you know how these Northmen are crowing, They would trample the rights of the South in the dust, The boys are all fire; and they wish I were going --" He stopped, but his eyes said. "Oh, say if I must!"
I smiled on the boy, though my heart it seemed breaking, My eyes filled with tears, so I turned them away, And answered him, "Willie, 'tis well you are waking -- Go, act as your father would bid you, today!"
I sit in the window, and see the flags flying, And drearily list to the roll of the drum, And smother the pain in my heart that is lying And bid all the fears in my bosom be dumb.
I shall sit in the window when summer is lying Out over the fields, and the honey-bee's hum Lulls the rose at the porch from her tremulous sighing, And watch for the face of my darling to come.
And if he should fall --his young life he has given For freedom's sweet sake; and for me, I will pray Once more with my Harry and Robby in Heaven To meet the dear boy who enlisted today.
Epistle to the Ladies
by W.E.M., of Gen. Lee's Army
Ye Southern maids and ladies fair, Of whatsoe'r degree, A moment stop--a moment spare-- And listen unto me.
The summer's gone, the frosts have come, The winter draweth near, And still they march to fife and drum-- Our armies! do you hear?
Give heed then to the yarn I spin, Who says that it is coarse? At your fair feet I lay the sin, The thread of my discourse.
To speak of shoes, it boots not here; Our Q.M.'s, wise and good, Give cotton calf-skins twice a year With soles of cottonwood.
Shoeless we meet the well-shod foe, And bootless him despise; Sockless we watch, with bleeding toe, And him sockdologise!
Perchance our powder giveth out, We fight them, then, with rocks; With hungry craws we craw-fish not, But, then, we miss the socks.
Few are the miseries that we lack, And comforts seldom come; What have I in my haversack? And what have you at home?
Fair ladies, then, if nothing loth, Bring forth your spinning wheels; Knit not your brow--but knit to clothe In bliss our blistered heels.
Do not you take amiss, dear miss, The burden of my yarn; Alas! I know there's many a lass That doesn't care a darn.
But you can aid us if you will, And heaven will surely bless And Foote will vote to foot a bill For succouring our distress.
For all the socks the maids have made, My thanks for all the brave; And honoured be your pious trade, The soldier's sole to save.
Farewell to Brother Jonathan
by Caroline
Farewell! we must part; we have turned from the land Of our cold-hearted brother, with tyrannous hand, Who assumed all our rights as a favor to grant, And whose smile ever covered the sting of a taunt;
Who breathed on the fame he was bound to defend,-- Still the craftiest foe, 'neath the guise of a friend; Who believed that our bosoms would bleed at a touch, Yet could never believe he could goad them too much;
Whose conscience affects to be seared with our sin, Yet is plastic to take all its benefits in; The mote in our eye so enormous has grown, That he never perceives there's a beam in his own.
O, Jonathan, Jonathan! vassal of pelf, Self-righteous, self-glorious, yes, every inch self, Your loyalty now is all bluster and boast, But was dumb when the foemen invaded our coast.
In vain did your country appeal to you then, You coldly refused her your money and men; Your trade interrupted, you slunk from her wars, And preferred British gold to the Stripes and the Stars!
Then our generous blood was as water poured forth, And the sons of the South were the shields of the North; Nor our patriot ardor one moment gave o'er, Till the foe you had fed we had driven from the shore!
Long years we have suffered opprobrium and wrong, But we clung to your side with affection so strong, That at last, in mere wanton aggression, you broke All the ties of our hearts with one murderous stroke.
We are tired of contest for what is our own, We are sick of a strife that could never be done; Thus our love has died out, and its altars are dark, Not Prometheus's self could rekindle the spark.
O Jonathan, Jonathan! deadly the sin Of your tigerish thirst for the blood of your kin; And shameful the spirit that gloats over wives And maidens despoiled of their honor and lives!
Your palaces rise from the fruits of our toil. Your millions are fed from the wealth of our soil; The balm of our air brings the health to your cheek, And our hearts are aglow with the welcome we speak.
O brother! beware how you seek us again, Lest you brand on your forehead the signet of Cain; That blood and that crime on your conscience must sit; We may fall--we may perish--but never submit!
The pathway that leads to the Pharisee's door We remember, indeed, but we tread it no more; Preferring to turn, with the Publican's faith, To the path through the valley and shadow of death!
General Dabney H Maury
by Rosewell Page He sleeps, "the little general" sleeps, With all the great before him; Another son Virginia weeps, Proud that 'twas she who bore him.
Away from home, far, far away, He crossed life's utmost barrier; Subdued, but still without dismay He comes, our gentle warrior.
He fell not, 'twas his cause that fell, Upon the field of glory. He lived, that living he might tell His country's gallant story.
With heroes he was wont to share The trial and the peril; With them to do, with them to dare, With them shall be his burial.
He rests, the tired soldier rests, Upon the field of battle, Recalling deeds of dauntless breasts And scenes of boyish prattle.
He sleeps, "the little General" sleeps, With all the great before him; Virginia now her vigil keeps, Proud that 'twas she who bore him.
Hell See It When He Wakes
by Frank Lee
Amid the clouds of battle smoke The sun had died away, And where the storm of battle broke A thousand warriors lay. A band of friends upon the field Stood round a youthful form, Who, when the war cloud's thunder pealed, Had perished in the storm. Upon his forehead, on his hair, The coming moonlight breaks, And each dear brother standing there A tender farewell takes.
But ere they laid him in his home There came a comrade near, And gave a token that had come From her the dead held dear. A moment's doubt upon them pressed, Then one the letter takes And lays it low upon his breast -- "He'll see it when he wakes." 0 thou who dost in sorrow wait, Whose heart in anguish breaks, Though thy dear message came too late, "He'll see it when he wakes."
No more amid the fiery storm Shall his strong arm be seen, No more his young and manly form Tread Mississippi's green; And e'en thy tender words of love -- The words affection speaks- Came all too late; but O thy love Will "see them when he wakes! No jars disturb his gentle rest, No noise his slumber breaks; But thy words sleep upon his breast -- "He'll see them when he wakes."
Hospital Duties
by Anonymous
Fold away all your bright-tinted dresses, Turn the key on your jewels today, And the wealth of your tendril-like tresses Braid back in a serious way; No more delicate gloves, no more laces, No more trifling in boudoir or bower, But come with your souls in your faces To meet the stern wants of the hour.
Look around! By the torchlight unsteady The dead and the dying seem one -- What! Trembling and paling already, Before your dear mission's begun? These wounds are more precious than ghastly -- Time presses her lips to each scar, While she chants of that glory which vastly Transcends all the horrors of war.
Pause here by this bedside. How mellow The light showers down on that brow! Such a brave, brawny visgage, poor fellow! Some homestead is missing him now! Some wife shades her eyes in the clearing, Some mother sits moaning distressed, While the loved one lies faint but unfearing, With the enemy's ball in his breast.
Here's another -- a lad -- a mere stripling, Picked up in the field almost dead, With the blood through his sunny hair rippling From the horrible gash in his head. They say he was first in the action; Gay-hearted, quick-headed, and witty: He fought till he dropped with exhaustion At the gates of our fair Southern city.
Fought and fell 'neath the guns of that city, With a spirit transcending his years -- Lift him up in your large-hearted pity, And wet his pale lips with your tears. Touch him gently; most sacred the duty Of dressing that poor shattered hand! God spare him to rise in his beauty And battle once more for his land!
Pass on! it is useless to linger While others are calling your care; There is need for your delicate finger, For your womanly sympathy there. There are sick ones athirst for caressing, There are dying ones raving at home, There are wounds to be bound with a blessing, And shrouds to make ready for some.
They have gathered about you the harvest Of death in its ghastliest view; The nearest as well as the furthest Is there with the traitor and true. And crowned with your beautiful patience, Made sunny with love at the heart, You must balsam the wounds of the nations, Nor falter nor shrink from your part.
And the lips of the mother will bless you, And angels, sweet-visaged and pale, And the little ones run to caress you, And the wives and the sisters cry hail! But e'en if you drop down unheeded, What matter? God's ways are the best; You have poured out your life where 'twas needed, And He will take care of the rest.
Hurrah For the Light Artillery!
by Anonymous
On the unstained sward of the gentle slope, Full of valor and nerved by hope, The infantry sways like a coming sea; Why lingers the light artillery? "Action front!"
Whirling the Parrotts like children's toys, The horses strain to the rushing noise; To right and to left, so fast and free, They carry the light artillery. "Drive on!"
The gunner cries with a tug and a jerk, The limbers fly, and we bend to our work; The handspike in, and the implements out-- We wait for the word, and it comes with a shout-- "Load!"
The foes pour on their billowy line; Can nothing check their bold design? With yells and oaths of fiendish glee, They rush for the light artillery. "Commence firing!"
Hurrah! Hurrah! our bulldogs bark, And the enemy's line is a glorious mark; Hundreds fall like grain on the lea, Mowed down by the light artillery.
"Fire!" and "Load!" are the only cries, Thundered and rolled to the vaulted skies; Aha! they falter, they halt, they flee From the hail of the light artillery. "Cease firing!"
The battle is over, the victory won, Ere the dew is dried by the rising sun; While the shout bursts out, like a full-voiced sea, "Hurrah for the light artillery! "Hurrah for the light artillery!"
In Memoriam of Col Benj F Terry
by W.M. Gilleland
The war steed is champing his bit with disdain, And wild is the flash of his eye As he waves to the wind his dark, flowing mane, Starts, neighs, while the shouts and the bugler's refrain Proclaim that the battle is nigh.
Charge! charge! And the Ranger flies fast on his steed, Bold Terry! the fearless and brave; His troops on his trail are moving with speed, And each has crowned his name with a deed That story or song will engrave!
He swept to the field with an eye of delight, At the head of his brave, chosen band, As a meteor's course, 'mid the storms of the night, So splendidly shone his form in the fight, And sunk down with a glory as grand.
He fought for the land of his kindred and birth, Not for fame--though its laurels are won; His thoughts had a higher, a holier worth Than the trumpet's acclaim, which tells to the earth "Of the man!"--not the deeds he has done.
The lightning that burst on the warrior's head, From the foe that outnumbered his band, Deterred not his course, as thro' columns he sped,-- And left on his pathway the dying and dead, That had yielded their breath to his band.
The thunders of battle are hush'd on the plain, And the wild cry of carnage is o'er, Dark vultures are gazing from high at the slain, And the earth drank the blood from the dark purple vein That thrilled to life's passions before.
But tear-drops of grief dim the eyes of the brave, For their lion in death is laid low, Their banners in sable above him they wave, And muffle their drums in his march to the grave, To the music and language of woe.
The Magnolia City laments for the dead, Through whose streets his gay banners he bore To a far distant land--but low lies his head, Yet columns shall rise on the fields where he bled, And freemen his memory adore.
O calm in the tomb is the conqueror's rest! For his labors of life were well done, And though quenched is the light of his generous breast, With heroes immortal his spirit is blest, Who o'er death have the victory won.
January 4, 1862
In the Land Where We Were Dreaming
by Daniel Bedinger Lucas (1836-1909) Fair were our nation's visions, and as grand As ever floated out of fancy-land; Children we were in simple faith, But god-like children, whom nor death, Nor threat of 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 thrill At evening hushed the whip-poor-will, At morn the mocking bird was mute and still, In the land where we were dreaming!
And we had graves that covered more of glory, Than ever taxed the lips of ancient story; And in our dreams we wove the thread Of principles for which had bled, And suffered long our own immortal dead, In the land where we were dreaming!
Tho' in our land we had both bond and free, Both were content, and so God let them be; Till Northern glances, slanting down, With envy viewed our harvest sun -- 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 flew in circling lanes Of light, red Comets tossed their fiery manes O'er the land where we were dreaming!
Down from her eagle height smiled Liberty, And waved her hand in sign of victory; The world approved, and everywhere, Except where growled the Russian bear, The brave, the good and just gave us their prayer, For the land where we were dreaming!
High o'er our heads a starry flag was seen, Whose field was blanched, and spotless in its sheen; Chivalry's cross its union bears, And by his scars each vet'ran swears To bear it on in triumph through the wars, In the land where we were dreaming!
We fondly thought a Government was ours -- We challenged place among the world's great powers; We talk'd in sleep of rank, commission, Until so life-like grew the vision, That he who dared to doubt but met derision, In the land where we were dreaming!
A figure came among us as we slept -- At first he knelt, then slowly rose and wept; Then gathering up a thousand spears, He swept across the field of Mars, Then bowed farewell and walked behind the stars, From the land where we were dreaming!
We looked again, another figure still Gave hope, and nerved each individual will; Erect he stood, as clothed with power; Self-poised, he seemd to rule the hour, With firm, 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, we, on guard for thee, Beheld a bronzed hero, god-like Lee, In the land where we were dreaming!
As wakes the soldier when the alarum calls, -- As wakes the mother when her infant falls, -- As starts the traveler when around His sleepy couch the fire-bells sound, -- So woke our nation with a single bound -- In the land where we were dreaming!
Woe! Woe! is us, the startled mothers cried, While we have slept, our noble sons have died! Woe! Woe! is us, how strange and sad, That all our glorious visions fled, Have left us nothing real but our dead, In the land where we were dreaming!
And are they really dead, our martyred slain? No, Dreamers! Morn shall bid them rise again, From every plain, -- from every height, -- On which they seemed to die for right, Their gallant spirits shall renew the fight, In the land where we were dreaming!
Unconquered still in soul, tho' now o'er-run, In peace, in war, the battle's just begun! Once this Thyestean banquet o'er, Grown strong the few who bide their hour, Shall rise and hurl its drunken guests from power, In the land where we were dreaming!
In the Land Where We Were Dreaming (2)
by Daniel Bedinger Lucas (1836-1909) Fair were our nation's visions, and as grand As ever floated out of fancy-land; Children we were in simple faith, But god-like children, whom nor death, Nor threat of 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 thrill At evening hushed the whip-poor-will, At morn the mocking bird was mute and still, In the land where we were dreaming!
And we had graves that covered more of glory, Than ever taxed the lips of ancient story; And in our dreams we wove the thread Of principles for which had bled, And suffered long our own immortal dead, In the land where we were dreaming!
Tho' in our land we had both bond and free, Both were content, and so God let them be; Till Northern glances, slanting down, With envy viewed our harvest sun -- 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 flew in circling lanes Of light, red Comets tossed their fiery manes O'er the land where we were dreaming!
Down from her eagle height smiled Liberty, And waved her hand in sign of victory; The world approved, and everywhere, Except where growled the Russian bear, The brave, the good and just gave us their prayer, For the land where we were dreaming!
High o'er our heads a starry flag was seen, Whose field was blanched, and spotless in its sheen; Chivalry's cross its union bears, And by his scars each vet'ran swears To bear it on in triumph through the wars, In the land where we were dreaming!
We fondly thought a Government was ours -- We challenged place among the world's great powers; We talk'd in sleep of rank, commission, Until so life-like grew the vision, That he who dared to doubt but met derision, In the land where we were dreaming!
A figure came among us as we slept -- At first he knelt, then slowly rose and wept; Then gathering up a thousand spears, He swept across the field of Mars, Then bowed farewell and walked behind the stars, From the land where we were dreaming!
We looked again, another figure still Gave hope, and nerved each individual will; Erect he stood, as clothed with power; Self-poised, he seemd to rule the hour, With firm, 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, we, on guard for thee, Beheld a bronzed hero, god-like Lee, In the land where we were dreaming!
As wakes the soldier when the alarum calls, -- As wakes the mother when her infant falls, -- As starts the traveler when around His sleepy couch the fire-bells sound, -- So woke our nation with a single bound -- In the land where we were dreaming!
Woe! Woe! is us, the startled mothers cried, While we have slept, our noble sons have died! Woe! Woe! is us, how strange and sad, That all our glorious visions fled, Have left us nothing real but our dead, In the land where we were dreaming!
And are they really dead, our martyred slain? No, Dreamers! Morn shall bid them rise again, From every plain, -- from every height, -- On which they seemed to die for right, Their gallant spirits shall renew the fight, In the land where we were dreaming!
Unconquered still in soul, tho' now o'er-run, In peace, in war, the battle's just begun! Once this Thyestean banquet o'er, Grown strong the few who bide their hour, Shall rise and hurl its drunken guests from power, In the land where we were dreaming!
Invocation
ON THE DEDICATION OF THE MOUNTAIN, MAY 20th, 1916 by Armond Carroll
Come on, Marse Robert, throw yourself into the saddle, For the fifes are growing fretful and the drums begin to boom: Get a foot into the stirrup, then give your horse a chirrup And we'll ride Stone Mountain 'til the crack of doom!
Come on, Marse Robert, your boys in gray are waiting; We have bivouacked in this granite since the minnie struck us dumb; But we'll rise in ancient glory to hear the splendid story Of your valor and your greatness yet to come.
Come on, Marse Robert, the nation needs your presence. It needs you on this mountain where all its sons may gaze. In this time of strife and passion, lead them, in your kindly fashion, Into peace and brotherhood, as in the olden days.
Jacksons Foot-Cavalry
By Hard-Cracker
Day after day our way has been O'er many a hill and hollow; Through marsh and bog, by wood and glen -- Where "Stonewall" leads, we follow. Through dust-clouds rising dim and thick, Or smoke of battle o'er us, Close to our leader we must "stick," As he trots on before us.
Now we're trotting up a hill, Or fast behind it sinking; Or jumping o'er some road-side rill, Without a pause for drinking; Now crowding on the narrow road In thick and struggling masses; Now skirmishing the fields so broad, Or guarding mountain passes.
Our march is thirty miles a day, And forty -- now and then -- But that's not strange, you well may say, For we are Jackson's men. Before the sun gets up, we rise, And eat our beef and dough, And e'er the morn has left the skies, We're off upon the "go."
With five days' rations of fresh meat, (And no shirts) on our backs, And "nary a leather" on our feet, We're ever making tracks. In this sad plight we dash ahead From morn till late at night, Or else are halted, well-nigh
