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RUNNING THE BATTERIES.

AMERICAN WAR BALLADS
AND LYRICS

A COLLECTION OF THE SONGS AND BALLADS OF THE
COLONIAL WARS, THE REVOLUTION, THE WAR
OF 1812-15, THE WAR WITH MEXICO
AND THE CIVIL WAR

EDITED BY
GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON
VOLUME II.

NEW YORK AND LONDON
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
The Knickerbocker Press

Copyright
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
1889

The Knickerbocker Press, New York
Electrotyped and Printed by
G. P. Putnam’s Sons

Typogravures by W. Kurtz.

PART II.

THE CIVIL WAR

LYON.

By HENRY PETERSON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MY MARYLAND.

By JAMES R. RANDALL.

Hark to an exiled son’s appeal, Maryland! My Mother State, to thee I kneel, Maryland! For life or death, for woe or weal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland, my Maryland!

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland! Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland! Remember Carroll’s sacred trust, Remember Howard’s warlike thrust, And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland, my Maryland!

Come! ’tis the red dawn of the day, Maryland! Come with thy panoplied array. Maryland! With Ringgold’s spirit for the fray, With Watson’s blood at Monterey, With fearless Lowe and dashing May, Maryland, my Maryland!

Dear Mother, burst the tyrant’s chain, Maryland! Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland! She meets her sisters on the plain, “Sic semper!” ’tis the proud refrain That baffles minions back amain, Maryland! Arise in majesty again, Maryland, my Maryland!

Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, Maryland! Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, Maryland! Come to thine own heroic throng Stalking with liberty along, And chant thy dauntless slogan-song, Maryland, my Maryland!

I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland! But thou wast ever bravely meek, Maryland! But lo! there surges forth a shriek, From hill to hill, from creek to creek, Potomac calls to Chesapeake, Maryland, my Maryland!

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, Maryland! Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland! Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland, my Maryland!

I hear the distant thunder-hum Maryland! The “Old Line’s” bugle, fife, and drum, Maryland! She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb; Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum— She breathes! She burns! She’ll come! She’ll come! Maryland, my Maryland!

[Southern.]

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC

By JULIA WARD HOWE.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps; His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnish’d rows of steel; “As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal”; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on.

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat; Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me: As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on.

November, 1861.

THE PICKET GUARD.

By ETHEL LYNN BEERS.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn moon, Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night wind Through the forest leaves softly is creeping; While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard—for the army is sleeping.

There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread, As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two in the low trundle bed Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack—his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep— For their mother—may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night, when the love yet unspoken— Leaped up to his lips—when low-murmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken. Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling, And gathers his gun closer up to its place As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree— The footstep is lagging and weary; Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Towards the shades of the forest so dreary. Hark! was it the night wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looks like a rifle—ah! “Mary, good-bye!” And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead— The picket’s off duty forever.

THE COUNTERSIGN.

[In his admirably edited collection of poems of the civil war, entitled “Bugle Echoes,” Mr. Francis F. Browne introduces this poem with the following note:

“There has been no little dispute as to the authorship of this poem. The Philadelphia Press, in 1861, said it was ‘written by a private in Company G, Stuart’s engineer regiment, at Camp Lesley, near Washington.’ But it may now be stated positively that it was written by a Confederate soldier, still living. The poem is usually printed in a very imperfect form, with the fourth, fifth, and sixth stanzas omitted. The third line of the fifth stanza affords internal evidence of Southern origin.”—Editor.]

THE COUNTERSIGN.

Along the beaten path I pace, Where white rays mark my sentry’s track; In formless shrubs I seem to trace The foeman’s form with bending back, I think I see him crouching low; I stop and list—I stoop and peer, Until the neighboring hillocks grow To groups of soldiers far and near.

With ready piece I wait and watch, Until my eyes, familiar grown, Detect each harmless earthen notch, And turn guerrillas into stone; And then, amid the lonely gloom, Beneath the tall old chestnut trees, My silent marches I resume, And think of other times than these.

Sweet visions through the silent night! The deep bay windows fringed with vine, The room within, in softened light, The tender, milk-white hand in mine; The timid pressure, and the pause That often overcame our speech— The time when by mysterious laws We each felt all in all to each.

And then that bitter, bitter day, When came the final hour to part; When, clad in soldier’s honest gray, I pressed her weeping to my heart; Too proud of me to bid me stay, Too fond of me to let me go, I had to tear myself away, And left her, stolid in my woe.

So rose the dream, so passed the night— When, distant in the darksome glen, Approaching up the sombre height I heard the solid march of men; Till over stubble, over sward, And fields where lay the golden sheaf, I saw the lantern of the guard Advancing with the night relief.

“Halt! Who goes there?” my challenge cry, It rings along the watchful line; “Relief!” I hear a voice reply; “Advance, and give the countersign!” With bayonet at the charge I wait— The corporal gives the mystic spell; With arms aport I charge my mate, Then onward pass, and all is well.

But in the tent that night awake, I ask, if in the fray I fall, Can I the mystic answer make When the angelic sentries call? And pray that Heaven may so ordain, Whene’er I go, what fate be mine, Whether in pleasure or in pain, I still may have the countersign.

[Southern.]

JONATHAN TO JOHN.

By JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

[This poem is a part of the second series of “The Bigelow Papers,” a work wholly unmatched in the literature of humor, that has an earnest purpose and well matured thought for its sources of inspiration. The poem was called forth by what is known as “the Trent affair.” Captain Wilkes, commanding the United States man-of-war, San Jacinto, boarded the British mail steamer Trent on the 8th of November, 1861, and took from her the Confederate commissioners Mason and Slidell. Great Britain resented the act, and for a time there was serious apprehension of war between that country and the United States; but as the seizure of the commissioners on board a neutral vessel was deemed to be an act in violation of international law, the Government at Washington, after inquiry into the facts, surrendered the prisoners. The version of the poem here given is a correct one, taken from the collected edition of Mr. Lowell’s poems. An abridged and otherwise imperfect version is given in many collections.—Editor.]

JONATHAN TO JOHN.

You wonder why we’re hot, John? Your mark wuz on the guns, The neutral guns, thet shot, John, Our brothers an’ our sons: Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess There’s human blood,” sez he, “By fits an’ starts, in Yankee hearts, Though ’t may surprise J. B. More ’n it would you an’ me.”

Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John, On your front parlor stairs, Would it just meet your views, John, To wait an’ sue their heirs? Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess, I on’y guess,” sez he, “Thet ef Vattel on his toes fell, ’Twould kind o’ rile J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

Who made the law thet hurts, John, Heads I win—ditto tails? “J. B.” was on his shirts, John, Onless my memory fails. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess (I’m good at thet),” sez he, “Thet sauce for goose ain’t jest the juice For ganders with J. B., No more’n with you or me!”

When your rights was our wrongs, John, You didn’t stop for fuss,— Brittany’s trident prongs, John, Was good ’nough law for us. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess, Though physic’s good,” sez he, “It doesn’t foller thet he can swaller Prescriptions signed ‘J. B.’ Put up by you an’ me.”

We own the ocean, tu, John, You mus’ n’ take it hard, Ef we can’t think with you, John, It’s just your own back yard, Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess Ef thet’s his claim,” sez he, “The fencin’ stuff’ll cost enough To bust up friend J. B. Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

Why talk so dreffle big, John, Of honor when it meant You didn’t care a fig, John, But jest for ten per cent? Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess He’s like the rest,” sez he; “When all is done, it’s number one Thet’s nearest to J. B., Ez wal ez t’ you an’ me!”

We give the critters back, John, Cos Abram thought ’twas right; It warn’t your bullyin’ clack, John, Provokin’ us to fight. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess We’ve a hard row,” sez he, “To hoe just now; but thet, somehow, May happen to J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

We ain’t so weak an’ poor, John, With twenty million people, An’ close to every door, John, A school house an’ a steeple. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess It is a fact,” sez he, “The surest plan to make a Man Is, think him so, J. B., Ez much ez you or me!”

Our folks believe in Law, John; An’ it’s fer her sake, now, They’ve left the axe an’ saw, John, The anvil an’ the plow. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess, Ef ’t warn’t fer law,” sez he, “There ’d be one shindy from here to Indy; An’ thet don’t suit J. B. (When ’t ain’t ’twixt you an’ me!)”

We know we ’ve got a cause, John, Thet ’s honest, just, an’ true; We thought ’t would win applause, John, Ef nowhere else, from you, Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess His love of right,” sez he, “Hangs by a rotten fibre o’ cotton; There ’s natur’ in J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

The South says, “Poor folks down!” John, An’ “All men up!” say we,— White, yaller, black, an’ brown, John; Now which is your idee? Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess John preaches wal,” sez he; “But, sermon thru, an’ come to du, Why there’s the old J. B. A-crowdin’ you an’ me!”

Shall it be love or hate, John? It’s you thet ’s to decide; Ain’t your bonds held by Fate, John, Like all the world’s beside? Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess Wise men fergive,” sez he, “But not ferget; an’ some time yet Thet truth may strike J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

God means to make this land, John, Clear thru, from sea to sea, Believe an’ understand, John, The wuth o’ bein’ free. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess God’s price is high,” sez he; “But nothin’ else than wut he sells Wears long, an’ thet J. B. May larn, like you an’ me!”

THERE’S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET.

By JAMES R. RANDALL.

[First printed in the Richmond Examiner. Written while the author was in prison.]

Minions! we sleep but we are not dead; We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred; We crouch—’t is to welcome the triumph tread Of the peerless Beauregard. Then woe to your vile, polluting horde, When the Southern braves are met; There’s faith in the victor’s stainless sword, There’s life in the old land yet!

Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind With the clank of an iron chain; The spirit of freedom sings in the wind, O’er Merriman, Thomas, and Kane; And we, though we smile not, are not thralls,— Are piling a gory debt; While down by McHenry’s dungeon walls There’s life in the old land yet!

Our women have hung their harps away, And they scowl on your brutal bands, While the nimble poniard dares the day, In their dear, defiant hands. They will strip their tresses to string our bows, Ere the Northern sun is set; There’s faith in their unrelenting woes, There’s life in the old land yet!

There’s life, though it throbbeth in silent veins,— ’T is vocal without noise; It gushed o’er Manassas’ solemn plains, From the blood of the Maryland Boys! That blood shall cry aloud, and rise With an everlasting threat; By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies, There’s life in the old land yet!

[Southern.]

NEVER OR NOW.

By OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

You whom the fathers made free and defended, Stain not the scroll that emblazons their fame! You whose fair heritage spotless descended, Leave not your children a birthright of shame!

Stay not for questions while Freedom stands gasping! Wait not till Honor lies wrapped in his pall! Brief the lips’ meeting be, swift the hands clasping: “Off for the wars!” is enough for them all.

Break from the arms that would fondly caress you! Hark! ’t is the bugle-blast, sabres are drawn! Mothers shall pray for you, fathers shall bless you, Maidens shall weep for you when you are gone!

Never or now! cries the blood of a nation, Poured on the turf where the red rose should bloom; Now is the day and the hour of salvation,— Never or now! peals the trumpet of doom!

Never or now! roars the hoarse-throated cannon Through the black canopy blotting the skies; Never or now! flaps the shell-blasted pennon O’er the deep ooze where the Cumberland lies!

From the foul dens where our brothers are dying, Aliens and foes in the land of their birth,— From the rank swamps where our martyrs are lying, Pleading in vain for a handful of earth,—

From the hot plains where they perish outnumbered, Furrowed and ridged by the battle-field’s plough, Comes the loud summons; too long you have slumbered, Hear the last Angel-trump—Never or Now!

1862.

BOY BRITTAN.

(Battle of Fort Henry, Tenn., Feb. 6, 1862.)

By FORCEYTHE WILLSON.

I.

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

III. Boom! Boom! till river and fort and field are over-clouded By battle’s breath; then from the fort a gleam And a crashing gun, and the Essex is wrapt and shrouded In a scalding cloud of steam?

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

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

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

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

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

THE “CUMBERLAND.”

By H. W. LONGFELLOW.

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

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

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

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

Then like a kraken, huge and black She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! Down went the Cumberland all 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!

ON BOARD THE “CUMBERLAND.”

(March 8, 1862.)

By GEORGE H. BOKER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her ports were closed, from stem to stem No sign of life appeared. We wondered, questioned, strained our eyes, Joked,—every thing but feared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE SWORD-BEARER.

By GEORGE H. BOKER.

So he swore an oath in the sight of heaven (If he kept it, the world can tell): “Before I strike to a rebel flag, I’ll sink to the gates of hell!

“Here, take my sword; ’tis in my way; I shall trip o’er the useless steel: For I’ll meet the lot that falls to all, With my shoulder at the wheel.”

So the little negro took the sword, And oh! with what reverent care! Following his master step by step, He bore it here and there.

A thought had crept through his sluggish brain, And shone in his dusky face, That somehow—he could not tell just how— ’Twas the sword of his trampled race.

And as Morris, great with his lion heart, Rushed onward from gun to gun, The little negro slid after him, Like a shadow in the sun.

But something of pomp and of curious pride The sable creature wore, Which at any time but a time like that Would have made the ship’s crew roar.

Over the wounded, dying, and dead, Like an usher of the rod, The black page, full of his mighty trust, With dainty caution trod.

No heed he gave to the flying ball, No heed to the bursting shell; His duty was something more than life, And he strove to do it well.

Down, with our starry flag apeak, In the whirling sea we sank; And captain and crew and the sword-bearer Were washed from the bloody plank.

They picked us up from the hungry waves— Alas! not all. And where, Where is the faithful negro lad? “Back oars! avast! look there!”

We looked, and as heaven may save my soul, I pledge you a sailor’s word, There, fathoms deep in the sea he lay, Still grasping his master’s sword.

We drew him out; and many an hour We wrought with his rigid form, Ere the almost smothered spark of life By slow degrees grew warm.

The first dull glance that his eyeballs rolled Was down toward his shrunken hand; And he smiled, and closed his eyes again, As they fell on the rescued brand.

And no one touched the sacred sword, Till at length, when Morris came, The little negro stretched it out, With his eager eyes aflame.

And if Morris wrung the poor boy’s hand, And his words seemed hard to speak, And tears ran down his manly cheeks, What tongue shall call him weak?

THE OLD SERGEANT.

By FORCEYTHE WILLSON.

“Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to, but it ain’t much use to try—” “Never say that,” said the surgeon, as he smothered down a sigh; “It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier to say die!” “What you say will make no difference, Doctor, when you come to die.

“Doctor, what has been the matter?”—“You were very faint, they say; You must try to get to sleep now.”—“Doctor, have I been away?” “Not that anybody knows of!”—“Doctor—Doctor, please to stay! There is something I must tell you, and you won’t have long to stay!

“I have got my marching orders, and I’m ready now to go; Doctor, did you say I fainted!—But it couldn’t ha’ been so,— For as sure as I’m a Sergeant, and was wounded at Shiloh, I’ve this very night been back there, on the old field of Shiloh!

“This is all that I remember: The last time the lighter came, And the lights had all been lowered, and the noises much the same, He had not been gone five minutes before something called my name: ’Orderly Sergeant—Robert Burton!’—just that way it called my name.

“And I wondered who could call me so distinctly and so slow, Knew it couldn’t be the lighter,—he could not have spoken so; And I tried to answer, ‘Here, sir!’ but I couldn’t make it go! For I couldn’t move a muscle, and I couldn’t make it go!

“Then I thought: It’s all a nightmare, all a humbug and a bore: Just another foolish grapevine[1]—and it won’t come any more; But it came, sir, notwithstanding, just the same way as before: ‘Orderly Sergeant—Robert Burton!’ even plainer than before.

“That is all that I remember, till a sudden burst of light, And I stood beside the river, where we stood that Sunday night, Waiting to be ferried over to the dark bluffs opposite, When the river was perdition and all hell was opposite!

“And the same old palpitation came again in all its power, And I heard a bugle sounding, as from some celestial tower; And the same mysterious voice said: ‘It is the eleventh hour! Orderly Sergeant—Robert Burton—It is the eleventh hour!’

“Doctor Austin!—what day is this?”—“It is Wednesday night, you know.” “Yes,—to-morrow will be New Year’s, and a right good time below! What time is it, Doctor Austin?”—“Nearly twelve.” “Then don’t you go!” Can it be that all this happened—all this—not an hour ago!

“There was where the gun-boats opened on the dark, rebellious host, And where Webster semi-circled his last guns upon the coast; There were still the two log-houses, just the same, or else their ghost,— And the same old transport came and took me over—or its ghost!

“And the old field lay before me all deserted far and wide; There was where they fell on Prentice,—there McClernand met the tide; There was where stern Sherman rallied, and where Hurlbut’s heroes died,— Lower down, where Wallace charged them, and kept charging till he died.

“There was where Lew Wallace showed them he was of the canny kin, There was where old Nelson thundered, and where Rousseau waded in; Then McCook sent ’em to breakfast and we all began to win— There was where the grape-shot took me, just as we began to win.

“Now, a shroud of snow and silence over every thing was spread; And but for this old blue mantle and the old hat on my head, I should not have even doubted, to this moment I was dead,— For my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon the dead!

“Death and silence!—Death and silence! all around me as I sped! And behold a mighty Tower, as if builded to the dead,— To the Heaven of the heavens, lifted up its mighty head, Till the Stars and Stripes of Heaven all seemed waving from its head!

“Round and mighty-based it towered—up into the infinite— And I knew no mortal mason could have built a shaft so bright; For it shone like solid sunshine; and a winding stair of light, Wound around it and around it till it wound clear out of sight!

“And, behold, as I approached it—with a rapt and dazzled stare,— Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending the great stair— Suddenly the solemn challenge broke of,—‘Halt! and who goes there?’ ‘I’m a friend,’ I said, ‘if you are.’—‘Then advance, sir, to the stair!’

“I advanced!—that sentry, Doctor, was Elijah Ballantyne!— First of all to fall on Monday, after we had formed the line: ‘Welcome, my old Sergeant, welcome! welcome by that countersign!’ And he pointed to the scar there, under this old cloak of mine!

“As he grasped my hand, I shuddered, thinking only of the grave; But he smiled and pointed upward, with a bright and bloodless glaive; ‘That’s the way, sir, to head-quarters.’—‘What head-quarters?’—‘Of the brave.’ ‘But the great tower?’—‘That was builded of the great deeds of the brave.’

“Then a sudden shame came o’er me at his uniform of light; At my own so old and tattered, and at his so new and bright; ‘Ah!’ said he, ‘you have forgotten the new uniform to-night,— Hurry back, for you must be here at just twelve o’clock to-night!’

“And the next thing I remember, you were sitting there, and I— Doctor—did you hear a footstep? Hark!—God bless you all! Good-bye! Doctor, please to give my musket and my knapsack when I die, To my son—my son that’s coming,—he won’t get here till I die!

“Tell him his old father blessed him as he never did before,— And to carry that old musket”—Hark! a knock is at the door!— “Till the Union”—See! it opens!—“Father! Father! Speak once more!” “Bless you!”—gasped the old gray Sergeant, and he lay and said no more.

[ [1] The troops during the war were accustomed to express their incredulity, when news could not be traced to a trustworthy source, by saying that the tidings had been received by “grapevine telegraph.” Hence a canard was called a “grapevine.”—Editor.

THE “VARUNA.”

(Sunk April 24, 1862.)

By GEORGE H. BOKER.

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

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

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

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

THE RIVER FIGHT.

By HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

[Admiral Farragut was so impressed with this irregular but spirited description of the river battle below New Orleans that he sought out the author and their acquaintance ended in a warm friendship. Brownell having expressed a desire to witness a naval conflict, Farragut took him on board the Flagship Hartford at the time of the storming of the Mobile forts, and the poet repaid the courtesy with the poem which appears elsewhere in this collection, called “The Bay Fight.”—Editor.]

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

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