Poetry From Confederate And The Union
Was there ever message sweeter
Than that one from Malvern Hill,
From a grim old fellow,-you remember?
Dying in the dark at Malvern Hill.
With his rough face turned a little,
On, a heap of scarlet sand,
They found him, just within the thicket,
With a picture in his hand,
With a stained and crumpled picture
Of a woman's aged face;
Yet there seemed to leap a wild entreaty,
Young and living-tender-from the face
When they flashed the lantern on it,
Gilding all the purple shade,
And stooped to raise him softly,
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That's my mother, sir,"
he said.
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"Tell her"
-but he wandered, slipping
Into tangled words and cries,
Something about Mac and Hooker,
Something dropping through the cries
About the kitten by the fire,
And mother's cranberry-pies; and there
The words fell, and an utter
Silence brooded in the air.
just as he was drifting from them,
Out into the dark, alone
(Poor old mother, waiting for your message,
Waiting with the kitten, all alone!),
Through the hush his voice broke,
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"Tell her
Thank you, Doctor-when you can,
Tell her that I kissed her picture,
And wished I'd been a better man."
Ah, I wonder if the red feet
Of departed battle-hours
May not leave for us their searching
Message from those distant hours.
Sisters, daughters, mothers, think you,
Would your heroes now or then,
Dying, kiss your pictured faces,
Wishing they'd been better men?
By Walt Whitman(1819-1892)
Ashes of soldiers South or North, As I muse retrospective murmuring a chant in thought,The war resumes, again to my sense your shapes, And again the advance of the armies.
Noiseless as mists and vapors, From their graves in the trenches ascending, From cemeteries all through Virginia and Tennessee, From every point of the compass out of the countless graves,In wafted clouds, in myriads large, or squads of twos or threes or single ones they come, And silently gather round me.
Now sound no note O trumpeters, Not at the head of my cavalry parading on spirited horses,With sabres drawn and glistening, and carbinesby their thighs, (ah my brave horsemen! My handsome tan-faced horsemen! what life, what joy and pride,With all the perils were yours.)
Nor you drummers, neither at reveille at dawn,Nor the long roll alarming the camp, nor even the muffled beat for a burial, Nothing from you this time O drummers bearing my warlike drums.
But aside from these and the marts of wealth and the crowded promenade, Admitting around me comrades close unseen by the rest and voiceless, The slain elate and alive again, the dust and debris alive, I chant this chant of my silent soul in the name of all dead soldiers.
Faces so pale with wondrous eyes, very dear, gather closer yet, Draw close, but speak not.Phantoms of countless lost, Invisible to the rest henceforth become my companions, Follow me ever -- desert me not while I live.
Sweet are the blooming cheeks of the living -- sweet are the musical voices sounding, But sweet, ah sweet, are the dead with their silent eyes.
Dearest comrades, all is over and long gone,But love is not over -- and what love, O comrades!Perfume from battle-fields rising, up from the foetor arising.
Perfume therefore my chant, O love, immortal love,Give me to bathe the memories of all dead soldiers,Shroud them, embalm them, cover them all over with tender pride.
Perfume all -- make all wholesome.Make these ashes to nourish and blossom,O love, solve all, fructify all with the last chemistry.
Give me exhaustless, make me a fountain,That I exhale love from me wherever I go like a moist perennial dew, For the ashes of all dead
soldiers South or North.
May 19, 1863
by George Henry Boker
(1823-1890)
While Sherman stood beneath the hot test fire,
That from the lines of Vicksburg gleamed,
And bomb-shells tumbled in their smoky gyre,
And grape-shot hissed, and case-shot screamed;
Back from the front there came,
Weeping and sorely lame,
The merest child, the youngest face
Man ever saw in such a fearful place.
Stifling his tears, he limped his chief to meet;
But when he paused, and tottering stood,
Around the circle of his little feet
There spread a circle of bright, young blood.
Shocked at his doleful case,
Sherman cried,
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"Halt! Front face!
Who are you? Speak, my gallant boy!"
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"A drummer, sir: -- Fifty-fifth Illinois."
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"Are you not hit?"
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"That's nothing. Only send
Some cartridges: our men are out;
And the foe press us."
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"But, my little friend --"
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"Don't mind me! Did you hear that shout?
What if our men be driven?
O, for the love of Heaven,
Send to my Colonel, General dear!"
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"But you?"
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"O, I shall easily find the rear."
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"I'll see to that,"
cried Sherman; and a drop
Angels might envy, dimmed his eye,
As the boy, toiling towards the hill's hard top,
Turned round, and with his shrill child's cry
Shouted,
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"O, don't forget!
We'll win the battle yet!
But let our soldiers have some more,
More cartridges, sir, -- calibre fifty-four!"
(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 blazeTo talk of other Christmas days,And softly speak of home and home.My sabre swinging overheadGleams 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 yearsComes 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 surpriseThat lightened up the tranquil eyesAnd 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 joyShe felt to see him home once more.My sabre swinging on the boughGleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow,While fiercely drives the blinding snowAslant upon my saddened brow.Those cherished faces all are gone!Asleep within the quiet gravesWhere lies the snow in drifting waves,--And I am sitting here alone.
There's not a comrade here to-nightBut 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.
Author Unknown
Here's one for a town that celebrated their Confederate Memorial Day just yesterday.
At the bottom is an url where anyone can look and see which places have celebrated their own Confederate Memorial Day.
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.
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.
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!"
by Grant P. Robinson
I met him again, he was trudging along,
His knapsack with chickens was swelling;
He'd
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"Blenkered"
these dainties, and thought it no wrong,
From some secessionist's dwelling.
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"What regiment's yours? and under whose flag
Do you fight?"
said I, touching his shoulder;
Turning slowly around, he smilingly said,
For the thought made him stronger and bolder;
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"I fights mit Sigel."
The next time I saw him his knapsack was gone,
His cap and canteen were missing;
Shell, shrapnel, and grape, and the swift rifle ball
Around him and o'er him were hissing.
How are you, my friend, and where have you been,
And for what and for whom are you fighting?
He said, as a shell from the enemy's gun
Sent his arm and his musket
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'a-kiting,"
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"I fights mit Sigel."
And once more I saw him and knelt by his side,
His life blood was rapidly flowing;
I whispered of home, wife, children, and friends,
The bright land to which he was going;
And have you no word for the dear ones at home,
The
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"wee one,"
the father or mother?
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"Yaw! yawl"
said he,
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"tell them! Oh! tell them I fights"-
Poor fellow he thought of no other--
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"I fights mit Sigel."
We scraped out a grave, and he dreamlessly sleeps
On the banks of the Shenandoah River;
His home and his kindred alike are unknown,
His reward in the hands of the Giver.
We placed a rough board at the head of his grave,
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"And we left him alone in his glory,"
But on it we marked ere we turned from the spot,
The little we knew of his story--
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"I fights mit Sigel."
At my post I am standing, tis a dark dreary night,This scenery around me shut out from my sight,With my gun in my hand I stand thus alone,While my thoughts they are wandering to the loved ones at home.Perchance in their slumbers they are dreaming of me,While I stand here on picket in old Tennessee.With my cartridge box on, filled with powder and lead,I stand winking and thinking and nodding my head.I rouse up again and rub hard my eyes, And peep out in the darkness to see rebel spies;Not a sound can I hear, not a soul can I see,There is no one here but grim darkness and me.
So I lean on my gun while my thoughts again roam,To the circle of loved ones I left at my home.There is a father with locks grown quite grey,Who is anxiously thinking of his son far away?Not knowing how soon he might see that son's name,Among those who in battle are wounded or slain.There's mother, what a charm in that word,What a thrill it creates when e'er it is heard;The council she gave me looms up from afar,And shines in my pathway like morn's guiding star.And you brothers and sisters, me thinks I can seeSo earnestly looking for letters from me.
While scanning the Union news for Rosa to find,Yes, brothers and sisters, you are oft' in my mind,And the letters you send me I read with delight,And ponder their contents in standing by night.Far away a sentry so silent and lone,Who is there can blame me for thinking of home.There is another, both young, bright and fair,While my thoughts again roam comes in for a share.The sweet hours we spent seems like a dream,In contrast with the present, so hallowed it seems.I wonder if ever she thinks of the oneThat is now standing picket alone with his gun.
Yes I know that she does how gladly I haleThe assurance she sends so oft' by mail.So kind and so true, ah! She shed bitter tearsWhen my name was enrolled with the brave Volunteers. I would say to her ere my thoughts She could see, her letters are welcome, most Welcome to me. With feet sore and weary in Returning to camp, A kind letter repays me for the Long weary tramp. Bright steps in my pathway they find me alone, The sweet loving letters she Sends me from home.
Two hours on, four off, we must stand the night through All are rejoiced when the relief comes in view. Then we'll present, return, to right shoulder shift and to camp we'll return, Thus hour after hour, and day after day, Our routine of duty passes slowly away. While you friends in the north with solicitous care, Are watching the progress we make in the war.But we will assure you, with Rosa to guide,Our banner o'er victory we'll always inscribe.Wherever the Cumberland army shall go,Whey are brave sons of freedom, as the world can ever know. The butternuts find us too much for their nettle, When brave Rosa moves on, they are sure to skedaddle. We'll closely pursue them with saber and sword,
Until the last rebel's banished and peace is restored.And the stars and stripes float triumphant again,O'er the land that is pierced with all this loyal men.Homeward we'll turn, we'll sing as we go,Oh friends we are coming, we've conquered the foe.The rebs are defeated, all put to rout,Rebellion is ended, secession is played out.There are many, who will shed bitter tearsFor the loss in the struggle of our brave volunteers.There are many, who in anguish will morn,For the brave soldiers who will never returnIf it should be my lot in the struggle to fall,
Dear friends in the north, I will say to you all,Mourn not at the fate which may take me from you,The patriots grave with no tears I view.He who tempers the wind to the lamb that is shorn,Will guide, guard and protect you when I am gone.We hope for the best, sad thoughts to dispel,We trust in the end that all will be well.The day will soon come when our friends we will greet,And the circle of loved ones again we will meet.So keep up good courage till rebellion is crushed,Remember dear sister, our cause it is just.Above are my thoughts and I send them to thee,
From your ever true brother in old Tennessee.
Not for fame or reward,
Not for place or for rank,
Not lured by ambition,
Or goaded by necessity,
But in Simple
Obedience to Duty
As they understood it,
These men suffered all,
Sacrificed all,
Dared all--and died.
Lyon Gardiner Tyler, the son of John Tyler, 10th President of the United States was born at Charles City County in 1853. He attended the University of Virginia, became a member of the bar and practiced law at Richmond, Virginia. He served in the Virginia House of Delegates in 1887, and in 1888 was named President of the College of William and Mary, a position he held until 1919. Tyler also served as an officer of the Virginia Historical Society. In addition to the practice of law, politics, and educational administration, Tyler was an historian and an occasional poet.
His poetry was published in various periodicals of the day.
[Source: Armistead C. Gordon, Jr., Virginian Writers of Fugitive Verse 131
(New York: James T. White & Co., 1923)]
Lyon G. Tyler and the Quest for a Dissertation Harrison Ruffin Tyler '49 pledges $5 million to Lyon Gardiner Tyler Department of History
Spirit voices tell me, dreaming,
"Courage, cease repining:
Soon she will come in glorious seeming,
Face with starlike radiance beaming,
Hair down fairest shoulders streaming,
Eyes with magic shining."
Spirit forms in glorious keeping
With these voices cheering,
Haunt me whether wake or sleeping,
All my soul in gladness steeping,
Change to smiling all my weeping
With their looks endearing.
Spirit hands are all around me
In the morn awaking;
In a trance-like state they've bound me,
And with love's sweet garlands crowned me,
All day long they still surround me,
Never once forsaking!
Spirit lips are whispering ever
Words of wondrous power:
"Soon she will come, to part ah! never,
Soon no human hand can sever
Ties that bind two hearts forever
In love's happy bower."
[Virginian Writers of Fugitive Verse, at 360]
Father Abram Joseph Ryan
Gather the sacred dust
Of the warriors tried and true,
Who bore the flag of a Nation's trust
And fell in a cause, though lost, still just,
and died for me and you .
Gather them one and all,
From the private to the chief;
Come they from hovel or princely hall,
They fell for us, and for them should fall
The tears of a Nation's grief
Gather the corpses strewn
O'er many a battle plain;
From many a grave that lies so lone,
Without a name and without a stone,
Gather the Southern slain.
We care not whence they came,
Dear in their lifeless clay!
Whether unknown, or known to fame,
Their cause and country still the same;
They died and wore the Gray.
Wherever the brave have died,
They should not rest apart;
Living, they struggled side by side,
Why should the hand of Death divide
A single heart from heart?
Gather their scattered clay,
Wherever it may rest;
Just as they marched to the bloody fray,
Just as they fell on the battle day,
Bury them breast to breast.
The foeman need not dread
This gathering of the brave;
Without sword or flag, and with soundless tread,
We muster once more our deathless dead,
Out of each lonely grave.
The foeman need not frown,
They all are powerless now;
We gather them here and we lay them down,
And tears and prayers are the only crown
We bring to wreathe each brow.
And the dead thus meet the dead,
While the living o'er them weep;
And the men by Lee and Stonewall led,
And the hearts that once together bled,
Together still shall sleep.
By Herman Melville (1819-1891)
Happy are they and charmed in lifeWho through long wars arrive unscarred?At peace. To such the wreath be given,If they unfalteringly have striven --In honor, as in limb, unmarred.Let cheerful praise be rife,And let them live their years at ease,Musing on brothers who victorious died --Loved mates whose memory shall ever please.
And yet mischance is honorable too --Seeming defeat in conflict justifiedWhose end to closing eyes is hid from view.The will, that never can relent --The aim, survivor of the bafflement,
Make this memorial due.
By Allen Tate
(1899-1979)
Row after row with strict impunity
The headstones yield their names to the element,
The wind whirs without recollection;
In the riven troughs the splayed leaves
Pile up, of nature the casual sacrament
To the seasonal eternity of death;
Then driven by the fierce scrutiny
Of heaven to their election in the vast breath,
They sough the rumour of mortality.
Autumn is desolation in the plot
Of a thousand acres where these memories grow
From the inexhaustible bodies that are not
Dead, but feed the grass row after rich row.
Think of the autumns that have come and gone!--
Ambitious November with the humors of the year,
With a particular zeal for every slab,
Staining the uncomfortable angels that rot
On the slabs, a wing chipped here, an arm there:
The brute curiosity of an angel's stare
Turns you, like them, to stone,
Transforms the heaving air
Till plunged to a heavier world below
You shift your sea-space blindly
Heaving, turning like the blind crab.
Dazed by the wind, only the wind
The leaves flying, plunge
You know who have waited by the wall
The twilight certainty of an animal,
Those midnight restitutions of the blood
You know--the immitigable pines, the smoky frieze
Of the sky, the sudden call: you know the rage,
The cold pool left by the mounting flood,
Of muted Zeno and Parmenides.
You who have waited for the angry resolution
Of those desires that should be yours tomorrow,
You know the unimportant shrift of death
And praise the vision
And praise the arrogant circumstance
Of those who fall
Rank upon rank, hurried beyond decision--
Here by the sagging gate, stopped by the wall.
Seeing, seeing only the leaves
Flying, plunge and expire
Turn your eyes to the immoderate past,
Turn to the inscrutable infantry rising
Demons out of the earth--they will not last.
Stonewall, Stonewall, and the sunken fields of hemp.
Shiloh, Antietam, Malvern Hill, Bull Run.
Lost in that orient of the thick-and-fast
You will curse the setting sun.
Cursing only the leaves crying
Like an old man in a storm
You hear the shout, the crazy hemlocks point
With troubled fingers to the silence which
Smothers you, a mummy, in time.
The hound bitch
Toothless and dying, in a musty cellar
Hears the wind only.
Now that the salt of their blood
Stiffens the saltier oblivion of the sea,
Seals the malignant purity of the flood,
What shall we who count our days and bow
Our heads with a commemorial woe
In the ribboned coats of grim felicity,
What shall we say of the bones, unclean,
Whose verdurous anonymity will grow?
The ragged arms, the ragged heads and eyes
Lost in these acres of the insane green?
The gray lean spiders come, they come and go;
In a tangle of willows without light
The singular screech-owl's tight
Invisible lyric seeds the mind
With the furious murmur of their chivalry.
We shall say only the leaves
Flying, plunge and expire
We shall say only the leaves whispering
In the improbable mist of nightfall
That flies on multiple wing;
Night is the beginning and the end
And in between the ends of distraction
Waits mute speculation, the patient curse
That stones the eyes, or like the jaguar leaps
For his own image in a jungle pool, his victim.
What shall we say who have knowledge
Carried to the heart? Shall we take the act
To the grave? Shall we, more hopeful, set up the grave
In the house? The ravenous grave?
Leave now
The shut gate and the decomposing wall:
The gentle serpent, green in the mulberry bush,
Riots with his tongue through the hush--
Sentinel of the grave who counts us all!
By Author Unknown
The plumed staff officer gallops
Along the swaying line,
That shakes as, beaten by hailstones,
Shakes the loaded autumn vine;
And the earth beneath is reddened,
But not with the stain of wine.
The regular shock of a battery
The rattling tumult stuns;
And its steady thrill through the hill-side
Like a pulse beneath it runs;
The many are dead around it,
But the few still work the guns.
"Who commands this battery?"
And Crosby his clear, young eyes
From the sliding gun-sights lifting
As the well-aimed death-bolt flies,
"I command it today, Sir!"
With a steady voice replies.
Answers as heroes answer,
With modest words and few,
Whose hearts and hands to duty
Even in death are true,
Though its awful light is breaking
Full on their blenchless view.
The officer passes onward
With a less troubled eye,
The words and the look unshaken
Bid every wild doubt fly;
He knows that the young commander
Is there to do or die.
To do *and* die; for the battle
And day of command are done,
While stands unmoved on the hill-side
Each shattered, blackened gun,
And Crosby in death beside them
A deathless name has won.
Anonymous
Must I die so soon? ah, far away
By blue Ohio's shore,
A little group waits patiently
Till this sad war is o'er;
A little face is often pressed
Against the window pane,
Oh, chaplain only tell me this
Shall I see my boy again?
Must I never press close to my heart
The rings of shining hair,
Or listen to my bright-eyed child
Whisper his evening prayer,
Shall I never hear his bounding step
Across the cottage floor?
It were not hard to die, chaplain,
Could I see my boy once more.
When morning broke with solemn tread
On old Potomac's banks,
His comrades laid the soldier down -
Discharged from the ranks,
But many a day o'er western hills,
By blue Ohio's shore,
A little boy will patient wait,
When this sad war is o'er.
(1819-1891)
April, 1862 Skimming lightly, wheeling still,The swallows fly lowOver the fields in cloudy days,The forest-field of Shiloh--Over the field where April rainSolaced the parched one stretched in painThrough the pause of nightThat followed the Sunday fightAround the church of Shiloh--The church, so lone, the log-built one,That echoed to many a parting groanAnd natural prayerOf dying foeman mingled there--
Foeman at morn, but friends at eve--Fame or country least their care:(What like a bullet can undeceive!)But now they lie low,While over them the swallows skim,And all is hushed at Shiloh.
By John Williamson Palmer (1825-1906)
Come, stack arms, men! pile on the rails,
Stir up the camp-fire bright;
No growling if the canteen fails,
We'll make a roaring night.
Here Shenandoah brawls along,
There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,
To swell the Brigade's rousing song
Of
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"Stonewall Jackson's way."
We see him now-the queer slouched hat
Cocked o'er his eye askew;
The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat,
So calm, so blunt, so true.
The
Quote
"Blue-light Elder"
knows em well;
Says he,
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"That's Banks-he's fond of shell;
Lord save his soul! we'll give him-"
well!
That's
Quote
"Stonewall Jackson's way."
Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off
Old Massa's goin' to pray.
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff
Attention! it's his way.
Appealing from his native sod
In forma pauperis to God:
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"Lay bare Thine arm; stretch forth Thy rod!
Amen!"---
That's
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"Stonewall's way."
He's in the saddle now. Fall in!
Steady! the whole brigade!
Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win
His way out, ball and blade!
What matter if our shoes are worn?
What matter if our feet are torn?
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"Quick step! we're with him before morn!"
That's
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"Stonewall Jackson's way."
The sun's bright lances rout the mists
Of morning, and, by George!
Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge.
Pope and his Dutchmen, whipped before;
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"Bay'nets and grape!"
hear Stonewall roar;
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"Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score"
in
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"Stonewall Jackson's Way."
Ah, Maiden! wait and watch and yearn
For news of Stonewall's band,
Ah, widow! read, with eyes that burn,
That ring upon thy hand,
Ah, Wife! sew on, pray on, hope on;
Thy life shall not be all forlorn;
The foe had better ne'er been born
That gets in
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"Stonewall's way."
(1820-1897)
Halt!--the march is over,Day is almost done;Loose the cumbrous knapsack,Drop the heavy gun.Chilled and wet and weary,Wander to and fro,Seeking wood to kindleFires amidst the snow.
Round the bright blaze gather,Heed not sleet or cold;Ye are Spartan soldiers,Stout and brave and bold.Never Xerxian armyYet subdued a foeWho but asked a blanketOn a bed of snow.
Shivering, 'midst the darkness,Christian men are found,There devoutly kneelingOn the frozen ground--Pleading for their country,In its hour of woe--For the soldiers marchingShoeless through the snow.
Lost in heavy slumbers,Free from toil and strife,Dreaming of their dear ones--Home, and child, and wife--Tentless they are lying,While the fires burn low--Lying in their blankets'Midst December's snow.
By Francis Miles Finch
(1827-1907)
By the flow of the inland river,
Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
Asleep are the ranks of the dead:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Under the one, the Blue,
Under the other, the Gray.
These in the robings of glory,
Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle-blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day,
Under the laurel, the Blue,
Under the willow, the Gray.
From the silence of sorrowful hours
The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers
Alike for the friend and the foe:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day,
Under the roses, the Blue,
Under the lilies, the Gray.
So, with an equal splendor,
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day,
Broidered with gold, the Blue,
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.
So, when the summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day,
Wet with the rain, the Blue,
Wet with the rain, the Gray.
Sadly, but not with upbraiding,
The generous deed was done,
In the storm of the years that are fading
No braver battle was won:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day,
Under the blossoms, the Blue,
Under the garlands, the Gray.
No more shall the war cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
The banish our anger forever
When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day,
Love and tears for the Blue,
Tears and love for the Gray.
by Father Abram Joseph Ryan
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 no one left to lave it
In the blood that 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 shaft 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,
Till 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 deplored 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 dead!
December 11, 1862
by George Henry Boker
(1823-1890)
I lay in my tent at mid-day,
Too full of pain to die,
When I heard the voice of Burnside,
And an answering shout reply.
I heard the voice of the General,--
'T was firm, though low and sad;
But the roar that followed his question
Laughed out till the hills were glad.
Quote
"O comrade, open the curtain.
And see where our men are bound,
For my heart is still in my bosom
At that terrible, mirthful sound."
Quote
"And hark what the General orders,
For I could not catch his words;
And what means that hurry and movement,
That clash of muskets and swords?"
Quote
"Lie still, lie still, my Captain,
'T is a call for volunteers;
And the noise that vexes your fever
Is only our soldiers' cheers."
Quote
"Where go they?"
Quote
"Across the river."
Quote
"O God! and must I lie still,
While that drum and that measured trampling
Move from me far down the hill?"
Quote
"How many?"
Quote
"I judge, four hundred."
Quote
"Who are they? I'll know to a man."
Quote
"Our own Nineteenth and Twentieth,
And the Seventh Michigan."
Quote
"O, to go, but to go with my comrades!
Tear he curtain away from the hook;
For I'll see them march down to their glory,
If I perish by the look!"
They leaped in the rocking shallops,
Ten offered where one could go;
And the breeze was alive with laughter
Till the boatmen began to row.
Then the shore, where the rebels harbored,
Was fringed with a gush of flame,
And buzzing, like bees, o'er the water
The swarms of their bullets came.
In silence, how dread and solmen!
With courage, how grand and true!
Steadily, steadily onward
The line of the shallops drew.
Not a whisper! Each man was conscious
He stood in the sight of death;
So he bowed to the awful presence,
And treasured his living breath.
'Twixt death in the air above them,
And death in the waves below,
Through balls and grape and shrapnel
They moved--my God, how slow!
And many a brave, stour fellow,
Who sprang in the boat with mirth,
Ere they made that fatal crossing
Was a load of lifeless earth.
And many a brave, stout fellow,
Whose limbs with strength were rifem
Was torn and crushed and shattered,--
A helpless wreck for life.
But yet the boats moved onward;
Through fire and lead they drovem
With the dark, still mass within them,
And the floating stars above,
So loud and near it sounded,
I started at the shout,
As the keels ground on the gravel.
And the eager men burst out.
Cheer after cheer we sent them,
As only armies can,--
Cheers for old Massachusetts,
Cheers for young Michigan!
They formed in lines of battle;
Not a man was out of place.
Then with levelled steel they hurled them
Straight in the rebels' face.
"O, help me, help me. comrade!
For tears my eyelids drown,
As I see their starry banners
Stream up the smoking town.
"And see the noisy workmen
O'er the lengthening bridges run,
And the troops that swarm to cross them
When the rapid work be done.
Quote
"For the old heat, or a new one,
Flames up in every vein;
And with fever or with passion
I am faint as death again."
Quote
"If this is death, I care not!
Hear me, men, from rear to van!--
One more cheer for Massachusetts,
And one more for Michigan!"
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow(1802-1887)
At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland sloop-of-war;And at times from the fortress across the bay   The alarum of drums swept past,   Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke,And we knew that the iron ship of our foes   Was steadily steering its course   To try the force Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort;Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns,   And leaps the terrible death,   With fiery breath, From each open port. We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside!As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,   Rebounds our heavier hail   From each iron scale Of the monster's hide. "Strike your flag!" the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain."Never!" our gallant Morris replies: "It is better to sink than to yield!"     And the whole air is pealed   With the cheers of our men.   Then like a kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp!Down went the Cumberland all awrack,   With a sudden shudder of death,   And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast-head.Lord, how beautiful was thy day!   Every waft of the air   Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead. Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream.Ho! brave land! with hearts like these,   Thy flag, that is rent in twain,   Shall be one again,
 And without a seam.
by Roger D. Anderson
February eighteen sixty-two defending Donelson
and the Bonnie Blue
we gave em heck till Grant broke through
He struck the heart of Dixie.
Shiloh turned our men to boys
as we stormed a hornet's nest again
on the morrow we'll fail to win
the grand OLE fight for Dixie...
Now Dixie bows her head and cries
for those who fight and all who've died
forever I'll stand at her side
my heart belongs to Dixie...
At Franklin we charged the gates of Hell
where darkness silences the rebel yell
Cleburne died and thousands fell
on the blood-soaked ground of Dixie...
Hood marches on Nashville the desperate fight
we slept on frozen ground that night
God gave our bravest souls the right
to defend our beloved Dixie...
Now Dixie bows her head and cries
for those who fight and all who've died
forever I'll stand at her side
my heart belongs to Dixie...
Guns grow silent hardened foes embrace
colors furled inside their casings
surrender our arms but never our hearts
I'll live and die for Dixie...
I stood and watched as tears rolled down
the battle-scarred face of Dixie...
By Joseph O'Connor
The general dashed along the road
Amid the pelting rain;
How joyously his bold face glowed
To hear our cheer's refrained!
His blue blouse flapped in wind and wet,
His boots were splashed with mire,
But round his lips a smile was set,
And in his eyes a fire.
A laughing word, a gesture kind,--
We did not ask for more,
With thirty weary miles behind,
A weary fight before.
The gun grew light to every man,
The crossed belts ceased their stress,
As onward to the column's van
We watched our leader press.
Within an hour we saw him lie,
A bullet in his brain,
His manly face turned to the sky,
And beaten by the rain.
By Ambrose Bierce(1842-1914?)
When I was young and full of faith  And other fads that youngsters cherishA cry rose as of one that saith  With emphasis: "Help or I perish!"'Twas heard in all the land, and men  The sound were each to each repeating.It made my heart beat faster then  Than any heart can now be beating.
For the world is old and the world is gray--  Grown prudent and, I think, more witty.She's cut her wisdom teeth, they say,  And doesn't now go in for Pity.Besides, the melancholy cry  Was that of one, 'tis now conceded,Whose plight no one beneath the sky   Felt half so poignantly as he did.
Moreover, he was black. And yet  That sentimental generationWith an austere compassion set  Its face and faith to the occasion.Then there were hate and strife to spare,  And various hard knocks a-plenty;And I ('twas more than my true share,  I must confess) took five-and-twenty.
That all is over now--the reign  Of love and trade stills all dissensions,And the clear heavens arch again  Above a land of peace and pensions.The black chap--at the last we gave  Him everything that he had cried for,Though many white chaps in the grave  'Twould puzzle to say what they died for.
I hope he's better off--I trust  That his society and his master'sAre worth the price we paid, and must  Continue paying, in disasters;But sometimes doubts press thronging round  ('Tis mostly when my hurts are aching)If war for Union was a sound  And profitable undertaking.
'Tis said they mean to take away  The Negro's vote for he's unlettered.'Tis true he sits in darkness day  And night, as formerly, when fettered;But pray observe--howe'er he vote  To whatsoever party turning,He'll be with gentlemen of note  And wealth and consequence and learning.
With saints and sages on each side,  How could a fool through lack of knowledge,Vote wrong? If learning is no guide  Why ought one to have been in college?O Son of Day, O Son of Night!  What are your preferences made of?I know not which of you is right,  Nor which to be the more afraid of.
The world is old and the world is bad,  And creaks and grinds upon its axis;And man's an ape and the gods are mad!--  There's nothing sure, not even our taxes!No mortal man can Truth restore,  Or say where she is to be sought for.I know what uniform I wore--
  O, that I knew which side I fought for!
By Caroline Augusta Ball
Born 1825
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.
by John Bryson
See, where the morning's beam
Purples the Cedar stream,
Long lines of bayonets gleam,
Fiercely and bright arrayed.
Tramp, tramp, with step so true,
As if on grand review.
It is the march, I trow,
Of the Iron Brigade.
Bristoe and Catlett's glen
All are alive with men,
Cheery and blithe as when
Forming on dress parade;
Onward, thro' wood and field,
Hearts all with courage steel'd
Ne'er to the foe shall yield
The old Iron Brigade.
Tramp, tramp, with weary feet,
Thro' rivers wide and deep,
O'er pathways rough and steep,
Breastwork and barricade;
Covering ten leagues and more,
To Rappahannock's shore,
Men never marched before
Like the Iron Brigade.
Grand was the martial sight,
In the glad morning's light,
When from old Falmouth's height.
Footmen and Cavalcade,
'Mid bridges burning high,
Burnishing all the sky,
March'd with light step and spry,
The old Iron Brigade.
Cheer upon cheer arise,
Up thro' the vaulted skies,
While the proud rebel flies,
Baffled and sore dismay'd.
Long will the poets tell,
While the glad numbers swell,
All the deeds that befell
The old Iron Brigade.