« PreviousContinue »
To naught; that steel-nerved will the loftier towers, Our heartfelt sorrow! for among the brave,
None softer! Let the stricken nation sigh
For such as he who perish by the way, Where the stern Mississippi sea-like sweeps,
While up on crimson feet she toils to greet the day. To summer flowers, pine cones of wintry steeps, Into Death's eyes again he fixed his gaze.
Ah! the bright hour he came, though weak and low Lo! where Port Hudson's deadly batteries blaze, With prison languors! Cheerily on were borne Whose that tall form that towers when all lie low, The merry clang of the bells. Clang, clang, they rang! Brow to the sun and bosom to the foe?
Joy in our hearts in jocund music sprang ! Brow to the sun, his brave sword in his hand, And all shone pleasureful. One long, long toll, Pointing “There—up and onward, patriot band !” One long, deep, lingering sound that tells the goal Again ! red batteries' hurling awful hail
Of some spent life, then moans along the air Like the fierce sleet that loads the thundering gale. As sorrowing hands our hero's ashes bear Ranks crushed beneath showered shot and shell, like To lie in honored state. We saw his form grain
Sprinkled with blossoms breathing fresh and warm ;
That soared so grand amid the battle's blaze,
We bore him to his sylvan home; there flowers
Of the red bolt, from that heroic heart The starry flag borne by a hand that falls,
Should spring; for, 'mid his kindly graces soared Death-struck; he grasps the flag—the rebel walls A firm-knit will-a purpose strong that warred See the waved stars in that strong clutch, till back In deep disdain of Fortune's fitful breath, The ebbing conflict drags him in its track.
And only bowed its rock-clutched strength to Death.
There shall he lie. When our new-kindled sun Once more in other scenes he meets the foe.
Shall dawn, his first rejoicing rays shall run O'ermatched, our columns stagger to their blow;
In gold o'er graves like his-Fame's gold—that Time Vain on their squares bold Emory's files are hurled ;
Shall brighten-and his monument sublime, Backward the dashing cataract is whirled
Oh! seek it not in stone, but in piled hearts Splintered to spray. 0 banner of the skies !
That loved him! The carved marble soon departs, Flag of the rising constellations, dyes
But the heart's token, sent through ages down, Of dawn not sunset! shalt thou trail in dust?
Warm in its living might, mocks Time's most witherShall blind, dead darkness hide our blazing trust ?
Blessed is he who suffers, * and we know
Faded so soon, should die to mark how grand
Above all fleeting life, to die for Native Land.
OUR FLAG IN '64.
Fling, fling our banner out,
With loyal song and shout,
O’er every home and hill, Hurling the foeman's might back, back, at last
By each deep valley's mill,
And let its heaven-lit beam
Round every hearth-stone gleam,
And fill the passing hour-
This pregnant, fateful bour
With all its stirring voices,
And the thunder of its power.
The foe is striking hard ;
But in the castle-yard
Uprise fresh traitor bands
To snatch from out our hands, To laurels at the touch, and one green twine
From fortress and from sea, From them the land hath wrought to deck the hero's
This banner of the free, shrine.
To give it coward Alight, He fell in conflict's fiercest, wildest flame;
That Anarchy's dark night, And now his loved and laurelled ashes claim
With all its muttering thunders,
May swallow up its light. • Colonel Benedict fell literally on a bed of crimson roses the wild Louisiana rose.
• Benedictus qui patitur. Motto of the Benedict family. VOL. VIII.-POETRY 4
BY D. B. DUFFIELD.
Ay! when our soldiers brave,
These home-born traitors cry, “ God grant no victory !"
Though scores of gallant heroes
Swore a fealty to the flag
Till stormy Treason's rage
Here God has smiled_here Peace has reigned all
tongues have ułterance here ; Here Faith is free to choose her creed—no despot's
stake is near; Here reigns an empire without walls, a wonder to the
world : And shall this fabric be dissolved ? Columbia's Flag
be furled ?
Our Flag shall stay unfurled,
Our Flag shall stay unfurled !
Our Flag shall stay unfurled !
and sea! O God of hosts ! in humble faith, we trust our cause
to thee! Then traitor's plots and tyrant hordes against us may
be hurledYet shall our Flag victorious wave, the hope of all the
Our Flag shall stay unfurled,
Our Flag shall stay unfurled!
Our Flag shall stay unfurled !
THE TATTERED FLAGS.
FEBRUARY 22, 1864. Stirring music thrilled the air, Brilliant banners fluttered there, Pealed the bells and rolled the drum, And the people cried: “They come !" On they came with measured trampHeroes proved in field and camp. Banners waved more proudly then; Cheered the children, cheered the men ; Beauty, lover of the brave, Brightened with the smiles she gave; While the sun, in golden jets, Flowed along the bayonets, As upon each laurel crown Heaven had poured a blessing down. All was stirring, grand, and gay, But the pageant passed away When, with proud and filling eye, I saw the tattered flags go by! Fancy then might faintly hear Hosts advancing, battle cheer, Sightless bullets whiz alongFit refrain for battle-song ; Cannon, with their sulphurous breath, Hurling messages of death ; Wbirring shot and screaming shell Fluttering where in wrath they fell, Opening graves-while purple rills Scar the fields and streak the hills. See the serried columns pressBold, defiant, mercilessOn the long and slender line Where the starry banners shine; With demoniac yells they come, Fiercely drive their bayonets home, And the arching heavens resoundGod! our men are giving ground ! Shouts, and cries of wild despair, Mingle in the murky air.
What hands dare strike that hopeful Flag, for which
our fathers bled ? Who mocks the wisdom of the past, the counsels of
the Dead ? Shall Faction spoil our heritage? Nay, shout it to
the worldThe progress of our race depends—Our Flag shall stay
Our Flag shall stay unfurled,
Our Flag shall stay unfurled!
Our Flay shall stay unfurled !
• Written in 1861. The authorities of Baltimore city had for. bidden the display of the American flag, but in many instances It was kept afloat, till torn down by the police. After several weeks of trouble and anxiety, the Union people prevailed, the rebel ensigns were secreted or destroyed, and the beautiful Flag of our Nation was flung out on the breeze from a thousand windows and spires all over the city.
BY I. Q. A, WOOD,
Is this the land of Washington,
For which our patriot-fathers bled, Whose mighty strides to freedom shook
The continent beneath their tread ? Is the land of Knox and Green
Of Marion, Stark, and mighty Wayne, Who hurled the despot from our shores,
And dashed to earth his galling chain ? Were these our sires-are we the sons
Of men whose fame hath filled the earth ? And have we dwarfed and dwindled thus,
To mock the majesty of birth ? Arise! ye heroes of the past !
Where mould your bones by many a steep, Behold the sons that heir your fame
Behold your progeny and weep! Were such, with old Laconia's son, * The men who fought at Bennington ?
A strong and mighty angel,
Calm, terrible, and bright,
Upon his mantle white !
Each on his broken chain,
The dead to life again!
“Wear this," the angel said ; “Take thou, O Freedom's priest ! its sign
The white, the blue, and red !" Then rose up John De Matha
In the strength the Lord Christ gave, And begged through all the land of France
The ransom of the slave.
Before him open flew,
The door-bolt backward drew.
For all men owned his errand,
And paid his righteous tax; And the hearts of lord and peasant
Were in his hands as wax.
Is this the land of Washington,
That warmed the patriot's sanguine dreams, Where Liberty made bright her shield,
And nursed her eaglets in its gleams? Where Bunker Hill and Monmouth field
Shot terror to the oppressor's soul, And wrote, with many a flying pen,
Their protests on a bloody scroll ? And shall hour-born oppression spurn
These creeds to alien tyrants taught, And Freedom's beauteous limbs enthrall,
Or bind the lightning of her thought ? Shall her unwilling hands be made
To forge the insignia of her shame; Her tongue to speak, her pen to write,
A flaming falsehood on her fame? Say, ye who stood on Trenton's height, Shall thus Columbia's freemen write ?
No! never while one spark remains
Unquenched of freedom's altar-fires, Which still may shoot aloft in flaine,
Fanned by the memory of our sires ; No! not till every patriot's blood
Is poured upon the sword to rust, And Liberty, without her shield,
Trails her bright garments in the dust; Not till the mother fails to teach
Her offspring, with a zeal divine, The foeman's rights, baptized in blood,
At Bunker Hill and Brandywine;
At last, outbound from Tunis,
His bark her anchor weighed, Freighted with seven score Christian souls
Whose ransom he had paid.
Her sails in tatters hung;
A shattered hulk she swung.
“For naught can man avail :
Her rudder and her sail !
At sea we sink or strand :
There's death upon the land !"
And make of it a sail."
The blue, the white, the red ;
The ship of Freedom sped,
• Laconia's Son.- In the early days of the discovery and rettlement of New Hampshire, it was called Laconia. At the famous battle, or battles, of Bennington (for two were fought on the same day and on the same field) General Stark, of NewHampshire, commanded.
So on through storm and darkness
They drove for weary hours ; And lo! the third gray morning shone
On Ostia's friendly towers. And on the walls the watchers
The ship of mercy knewThey knew far off its boly cross,
The red, the white, and blue.
Rang out in glad accord,
The ransomed of the Lord.
So runs the ancient legend
By bard and painter told ; And lo! the cycle rounds again,
The new is as the old ! With rudder foully broken,
And sails by traitors torn, Our Country on a midnight sea
Is waiting for the morn.
Behind, the pirate-foe;
The sea is white below.
The dread of all who wrong ;
How long, O Lord ! how long ?
Ye shall not suffer wreck While up to God the freedman's prayers
Are rising from your deck. Is not your sail the banner
Which God hath blest anew, The mantle that De Matha wore,
The red, the white, the blue ?
The red of sunset's dye,
The blue of morning's sky.
For daylight and for land ;
Your rudder is his hand.
With blessings and with bopes; The saints of old, with shadowy hands,
Are pulling at your ropes. Behind ye holy martyrs
Uplift the palm and crown; Before ye unborn ages send
Their benedictions down.
All good awaits the ripened years :
Above the Present's cry and moan,
We catch the far-off undertone Of coming Time, undimmed with tears ; and more this frailer life endears
The life to nobler being grown. Though sore begirt with peril-days,
Faith shapes anew the promise-song
0f—Right shall triumph over Wrong; And Evil's subtle, darkened ways Be set in light. Yet still delays
The golden year, delaying long. While shrouded in impending gloom,
Hangs dim the nation's beacon star :
Like deepening thunders, boding far, Comes up the cannon's awful boom; Like near resounding trump of doom,
Wide bay the hungry bounds of war! Alas! but discord's clang and jar
May Freedom nurse to larger growth;
But fiercest mortal strife, in sooth, Can drive the embattled hosts afar, That, mad with maniac frenzy, bar
The gates to wider realms of truth. Yet speed the earthquake shock that cleaves
The fetters from a shackled race;
The mountain rive, from crown to base,
To Freedom broader breathing-space!
That sets the longing captive free;
More dread than battle-thunders be The despot's rod, the assassin's knifeThe dungeon's gloom, the death in life,
Of Peace, whose price is Liberty !
THE YOUNG PATRIOT.
ONE more absent,
The battle done ;
Beneath the sod;
Before his God. Lay him low, lay him low,
Ere the morning break; Sorrow not, sorrow not,
He minds not heart-ache.
He is one, he is one
count, blazing away close to the ground, like a fire-fly Of that noble band
in the grass. Late in the waning day, the waif left Who have fought, who have died, almost alone in the whirl of the battle, a rebel Colonel For their fatherland.
dashed up, and looking down at him, ordered him to surrender : “ Surrender !” he shouted,"
you little He needs no tears;
d-d son of a - !" The words were hardly out of An angel now,
mouth, when Johnny brought his piece to “order A saintly crown
arms," and as his hand slipped down to the hammer, Upon his brow.
he pressed it back, swung up the gun to the position of We should not weep
charge bayonet,” and as the officer raised his sabre That he is gone;
to strike the piece aside, the glancing barrel lifted With us 'tis night,
into range, and the proud Colonel tumbled from his With him 'tis morn.
horse, his lips fresh-stained with the syllable of vile reproach he had Aung on a mother's grave in the hearing of her child !
A few swift moments ticked on by musket-shots, A BRAVE DRUMMER-Boy.—Orion P. Howe, of Wau- and the tiny gunner was swept up at a rebel swoop kegan, Illinois, drummer-boy to the Fifty-fifth volun- and borne away a prisoner. Soldiers, bigger but not teers of that State, was appointed to fill a vacancy in better, were taken with him, only to be washed back the Naval School at Newport. The following extract again by a surge of Federal troopers, and the prisoner from a letter written by Major-General Sherman to of thirty minutes was again John Clem“ of ours;" Secretary Stanton, detailing an incident which trans- and General Rosecrans made him a sergeant, and the pired during the assault upon the rehel works at stripes of rank covered him all over, like a mouse in a Vicksburgh, on May nineteenth, doubtless secured the harness; and the daughter of Mr Secretary Chase boy's promotion :
presented him a silver medal appropriately inscribed, “When the assault at Vicksburgh was at its height which he worthily wears, a royal order of honor, upon on the nineteenth of May, and I was in front near the his left breast; and all men conspire to spoil him; road which formed my line of attack, this young lad but, since few ladies can get at him here, perhaps he came up to me wounded and bleeding, with a good, may be saved. healthy boy's cry: 'General Sherman, send some cart- But what about last night? Well, like Flora Mcridges to Colonel Malmborg; the men are nearly all Flimsey, the Sergeant “ had nothing to wear ;" the out.' 'What is the matter, my boy?' "They shot clothing in the wardrobe of loyal livery was not at all me in the leg, sir, but I can go to the hospital. Send like Desdemona's handkerchief, “too little," but like the cartridges right away.' Even where we stood the the garments of the man who roomed a month over a shot fell thick, and I told him to go to the rear at baker's oven, a world too wide;" and so Miss Babonce, I would attend to the cartridges, and off he cock, of the Sanitary Commission, suggested to a resilimped. Just before he disappeared on the hill, he dent of your city, that a uniform for the little Orderly turned and called as loud as he could : Calibre 54.' would be acceptable. Mr. Waite and other gentlemen I have not seen the lad since, and his Colonel, Malm- of the “Sherman House" ordered it, Messrs. A. D. borg, on inquiry, gives me his address as above, and Titsworth & Company made it, Chaplain Raymond says he is a bright, intelligent boy, with a fair prelim- brought it, Miss Babcock presented it, and Johnny inary education.
put it on. Chaplain Raymond, of the Fifty-first Ilii. “What arrested my attention then was, and what nois—by the by, a most earnest and efficient oficerrenews my memory of the fact now is, that one so accompanied the gift with exceedingly appropriate young, car a musket-ball wound through his leg, suggestion and advice, the substance of which I send should have found his way to me on that fatal spot, you. This morning I happened at headquarters just and delivered his message, not forgetting the very im- as the belted and armed Sergeant was booted and portant part even of the calibre of his musket, 54, spurred, and ready to ride. Resplendent in his elegant which you know is an usual one.
uniform, rigged cap-a-pie, modest, frank, with a clear "I'll warrant that the boy has in him the elements eye and a manly face, he looked more like a fancyof a man, and I commend him to the Government as picture than a living thing. Said he to the Chaplain : one worthy the fostering care of some one of its na- * You captured me by surprise, yesterday.” Now, he tional institutions,"
is "going on" thirteen, as our grandmothers used to say; but he would be no monster if we called him
only nine. Think of a sixty-three pound SergeantLITTLE JOHNNY CLEM.—A pleasant little scene oc- fancy a handful of a hero, and then read the Arabian curred last evening at the headquarters of General Nights, and believe them! Long live the little OrThomas. Of course you remember the story of little derly ! Johnny Clem, the motherless atom of a drummer-boy,
aged ten,” who strayed away from Newark, Ohio; and the first we knew of him, though small enough to live in a drum, was beating the long roll for the Twenty-second Michigan. At Chickamauga, he filled the
" , , } office of “ marker,” carrying the guidon whereby they
FORT SMITH, ARK., February 17, 1964. form the lines; a duty having its counterpart in the “Special ORDERS, No. 45 : surveyor's more peaceful calling, in the flag-man who “ Miss Cecilia De Jeunne, a resident of Fort Smith, flutters the red signal along the metes and bounds. having admitted to the General Commanding that she On the Sunday of the battle, the little fellow's occu- is disloyal to the Government of the United States ; pation gone, he picked up a gun that had fallen from that she gave utterance to exclamations of joy when some dying hand, provided himself with ammunition, she heard that Major-General Blunt and all his staff and began putting in the periods quite on his own ac- were killed; that she has expressed sentiments of dis
A FEMALE REBEL.