CANTO III.
“Hark! from yon stately ranks what laughter rings,
Mingling wild mirth with war’s stern minstrelsy;
His jest while each blithe comrade ’round him flings,
And moves to death with military glee;
Boast, Erin, boast them, tameless, frank and free,
In kindness warm, and fierce in danger known;
Rough Nature’s children, humorous as she;
And he—yon chieftain—strike the proudest tone
Of thy bold harp, green isle, the hero is thine own.”—Sir Walter Scott.
“Thy songs were made for the pure and free;
They shall never sound in slavery.”—Moore.
“Hereditary bondsmen, know ye not
Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow?”—Byron.
Though slavery in its dying throe
Has done its worst,—has struck the blow
That robbed us of our noblest son,
And deemed a triumph it had won;
Yet all its efforts have been vain;
With Lincoln “Mercy hath been slain!”
Thus blinded by their foolish rage
A desperate war the despots wage;
One martyred patriot falls, ’tis true;
But millions more spring up to view,
Who maddened by this dastard stroke
The vengeful furies fierce invoke;
Like bloodhounds, with terrific yell
Pursue the demons to their hell;
Till, fastening in their flesh their fangs,
They gloat in their tremendous pangs.
The place by Lincoln vacant left
Is of his tenderness bereft;
And filled by one of purpose stern
Who can ’twixt right and wrong discern;
Who gives to justice its due course,
And puts his country’s laws in force.
Yes! Johnson bravely steels his heart
Against seduction’s wily art;
Its blandishments and snares ignores,
While high o’er passion’s waves he soars,
Resolved to save the Ship of State,
In spite of rebels, hell and fate.
Thus retributive justice woke
Swift vengeance with unerring stroke,
On each assassin’s guilty head;
And now behold them stark and dead!
Booth, like a wild beast, by a ball
Which freed him from life’s torturing thrall:
That female fiend, Surratt, strung up
With Payne has drunk death’s bitter cup;
A warning to the desperate band
Of vixens who infest our land.
Harold and Atzeroth must share
The feast of death and “dance on air!”
And Davis trembling for his fate
His turn to swing is forced to wait;
His soul by conscious guilt consumed
Feels all the pangs that gnaw the doomed:
Like Cyclops gloating o’er his feast,
The gallows gapes to gulp him last;
While the vile scum who helped the plot
Are left in dungeons damp to rot;
Like toads, to poison with their breath
Whate’er they touch,—their touch is death.
What though our arms once met rebuff
At Richmond, Bull Run and Ball’s Bluff;
Where imbeciles or traitors led
Our hosts to murder’s gory bed;
Where thousands perished in the fight,
And thousands more were put to flight;
Where noble Baker fought so well,
And with his comrades fighting fell:—
Such obstacles but swelled the tide
That swept the rebels’ strength and pride;
And merely served to whet the scythe
That lately made their columns writhe;
And but postponed the reck’ning day
When they the bill and costs should pay.
For all our well-fought fields attest,
That Right alone by Heaven is blessed;
And that the wrong cannot prevail,
Though hell our Union cause assail.
All efforts us to thwart, subdue,
Recoil upon the rebel crew,
To whom of every hope bereft
That last, sad ditch alone is left!
That last, sad ditch?—think, friends, just think,
The “chivalry” shiver on its brink,
And fear to plunge! And see, oh fie!
Like common hacks, they bolt and shy;
Seek safety—some in swamps and boats,
And some in hoods and petticoats!
But still, ye mudsills ’grimed with dirt,
“Take care, some of you may get hurt!”[i]
Then let us raise to Heaven our voice
In grateful chorus, and rejoice,
That never, since the world began,
More glorious shone the freeborn man;
And in no nation old or young
Has love of country proved more strong:
Not Greece in her most palmy days
More nobly earned the meed of praise,
When her ten thousand heroes won
Immortal fame at Marathon;
Or when at Salamis she hurled
Those bolts which fired and saved the world;
Or at Platæa swept the plain,
Where Persia’s hordes opposed in vain;
Or, at Thermopylæ’s dread pass,
The band led by Leonidas
Laid down their lives, a holocaust,
To stay the foe’s invading host:
Not Rome when fierce, barbaric bands
O’erran her city, towns and lands;
Or at Cannæ or Thrasymene,
Where thousands of her sons were slain;
Not Winkleried or William Tell
Who fighting for their country fell;
Not Kosciusko ’midst the storm
That prostrate laid his manly form;—
Displayed more dignity of soul,
More sacrificing self-control,
Than in our country’s cause appeared,
When danger for her life was feared:
For still we cried, though suffering sore;
“We come six hundred thousand more;
No shrinking and no compromise
With God’s and nature’s enemies;
And, while a man or dime remains,
We’ll march, fight, rend the tyrants’ chains!”
Then all, save copperheads alone,
Stood for the sacred Union—“one,
Eternal, indivisible,
Where Freedom must and shall prevail!”
Well might the despots of the earth
Who envy us our freemen’s birth,
Well might they pause in their career,
Ere they with us should interfere;—
And shrink in terror from the look
Of men who will no despots brook;—
Who, taught to wield the gun and sword,
Hurl fierce defiance at their horde!
And let our gratitude extend
To every soul who proved a friend
When danger rendered friendship sweet;
Let generous acclamations greet
Each noble nationality
Which then stood by our Liberty:
Henceforth let one dear common name
Of “brother” share one common fame.
Conspicuous ’midst that glorious throng
Our Irish heroes march along;
The good, the gallant and the free,
And chant the hymn of Liberty!
Above them Freedom’s banners wave,
Beneath them yawns—the Southern grave!
They march with laughter, song and cheer,
And mock at danger, jest at fear!
Ye wives and sweethearts, weep and mourn,
For few will ever home return![j]
The Irish heart, impelled by Right,
Is prompt to meet the foe in fight:
Enough! the flag which it adored
Is sullied by the rebel horde;
Enough to rouse its holiest flame,
“Your country is exposed to shame,
Rise, patriots, rise!” They hear the call,
And lo! they stand like solid wall
Of fire, prepared to stem the tide,
And of rebellion check the pride!
Woe to the foe that waits to feel
The desperate onset of their steel!
The wild tornado’s furious force
Were less tremendous in its course.
Ye heroes famed at Fontenoy,
Look down from Heaven with pride and joy
Upon your sons for freedom made,
Here marshalled in a new “brigade,”
Whose fame on many a well-fought field
To yours in glory shall not yield;
But both shall be transmitted down,
Equal in honor and renown,
Through every age and every clime,
Till angels sound the knell of time.
In every field for freedom won,
Since Mercer, friend of Washington,
Thy sons, green Erin, foremost stood,
And free as water poured their blood.
Bear witness, ye immortal plains,
Where Jackson fought at New Orleans,
Where Albion’s lion shook his mane,
And furious lashed his sides in vain,
And, with a terror-stricken roar,
Slunk off to reappear no more.
Bear witness too, ye glorious fields
Of Mexico, where, led by Shields
Their valor turned the tide of war,
And victory chained to freedom’s car!
And now with joy we see once more,
That noble spirit proudly soar,
On eagle pinions to sustain
Their country on th’ ensanguined plain.
What host presents a nobler front
To hostile rage, or bears its brunt
With more heroic soul than they;
Or who more dreadful in the fray?
At first Bull Run with Corcoran,
At Lexington with Mulligan,
They bore the storm almost alone,
Nor yielded till all hope was gone;
And had their efforts been sustained
By valor such as they maintained,
Those sad disasters, judges say,
Had surely rolled the other way.
At Winchester with Shields again
Our heroes swept of foes the plain;
Achieved the glory, in that fight,
Of putting “Stonewall’s” hordes to flight!
Throughout those seven disastrous days,
Near Richmond, too, they won fresh bays,
When little Mac “triumphant” made
That “brilliant” movement retrograde.
Wherever danger threatened most,
Wherever pressed the rebel host,
There Meagher and his men were found
To battle for each inch of ground;
Their ready steel the foe beat back,
And glory gained from each attack;
Until, all toil and danger past,
They rested on their arms at last.
Antietam’s field can also tell,
How well they fought, how nobly fell;
Till Fredericksburgh’s twice fatal fray
Had almost swept their ranks away:
For each true-hearted Irishman
Will glory court in danger’s van,
And, last to quit the blood-stained field,
Will die before he basely yield!
Heroic sons of injured sires,
Whose bosoms burn with patriot fires;
Whose souls abhor the tyrant lord,
In freedom’s cause still wield the sword,
Nor sheath it while a rebel foe
Assails the land to which you owe
All gratitude for blessings given;
Then “register” a vow in Heaven,
That you shall neither pause nor rest,
Nor pleasure culture in your breast,
Till you’ve expelled the monsters vile
Who trample on your own green Isle;
The traitors who enslave her sons,
Her daughters and their little ones!
The copperheads who wield their power
Her limbs to torture and devour;
Who with base despots here conspire
To light our fratricidal fire,
That freedom in the flame may fall,
And one black ruin sweep us all!
Rest not, until your Isle become
“Plurium una,”—“of many one!”
Where union sweet and love divine
Two kindred flags in one combine;
The green of earth with heaven’s soft blue,
The stars, stripes, harp and shamrock too;
And, o’er your isle, sublime and free
These emblems float of Liberty!
Then shall Columbia’s children sing
Hosannas to the eternal King,
And join with Erin’s sons to praise
The Lord of nations and of grace,
Their anthem, “Hail, Columbia,”
“Green Erin hail,—slan lat go bragh!”
It seems invidious to extol
A few on the great muster roll,
Since all who for the right contend,
And all who freedom’s cause befriend,
Are noble, and have justly won
Fame bright and lasting as the sun.
I these record to put to shame
The drabs who claim the Irish name,
But lack that generous Irish heart
Which ever with the free takes part,—
Detests the traitor and the knave,
And loathes and spurns the willing slave:
Nor would I recognise the base
As appertaining to the race,
Did I not know they were abused
By demagogues, and thus misused;
And, therefore, not so much to blame
As those who glory in their shame.
These once were serfs of Europe’s soil,
For some great lord condemned to toil,
With little else save roots to eat,
At intervals a scrap of meat;
Deprived of intellectual light,
And doomed to endless toil and night;
Hard lot! but hope’s benignant ray
Still pointed to a happier day,
In scenes beyond the Atlantic wave,
That owned no despot, serf nor slave,
But where the humblest son of toil
Was free in freedom’s chosen soil!
Perhaps some friend had gone before
And paved your way to that fair shore;
Or you had never reached that land,
Whose very streams roll golden sand;
But you arrive and burst your chain,
Free amongst freemen,—so remain,
And hand to generations down
That boon more precious than a crown:
But do not change your freeman’s heart
To that of tyrant! Ha, you start!
Do you forget, in days of yore,
Your sufferings on your native shore,
Which ought, but did not, give a home,
And how you longed for one to come?
Do you remember how your soul
Rebelled against th’ unjust control
Of those who used you worse than brute,
Whose scourge you bore and yet kept mute?
Don’t you your children’s cries recall,
Which might the stoutest heart appall,
Their hunger and their deep distress,
Their shiverings and their nakedness;
And how you taught their infant tongues
To curse the cause of all your wrongs?
And shall you turn a tyrant now,
And wear the despot on your brow?
Shall you whose scanty fare was roots,
But richer now by blacking boots,
Rise like O’Bulger and such hacks,
And fling your brogues at heads of blacks,
And trample the poor wretches down
To gulfs as deep as were your own?
Your country cries; “My sons, for shame,
Shall you too fan the tyrant’s flame?”
’Tis thus with “Jack” who feels his oats,
Before his eyes a phantom floats;
He makes oblivion serve his need,
When he would act the noble steed;
He kicks, he plunges, and no sneers
Can point him to his monstrous ears;
The swift he banters to the race,
And, for a time, keeps up his pace;
But wind and metal soon give out;
“Why, Jack, what brings this change about?”
Quoth Jack, “My boasted sire, alas,
Was after all an humble ass!”
O Heavipaugh, why did you dare
Yourself with Nimblefoot compare?
Ambition’s draught why did you quaff,
And thus provoke the wild horse-laugh?
Had you forgot that hunting raid,
When you the lion’s skin displayed,
Until detected by your ears,
Your real character appears?
How will you this new shame abide?
Jack—
Shame penetrate a donkey’s hide?
Scalpel—
So far, I grant, you are secure;
’Tis yours to plod, to serve, endure;
Within the bounds that nature gave,
Rest satisfied, nor wider crave.
The class of Irish thus misled
Are sound of heart, though weak of head,
Weak,—not from lack of mental force,
Of this they are the fruitful source;
And from that matchless source have sprung
The gifted both in brain and tongue,
The patriot, soldier, statesman, bard;—
Their weakness is the slave’s reward;
Hemmed in with triple walls of brass,
Through which no ray of light could pass,
Cribbed, cabined, hampered and confined,
What were the strongest human mind?
The miracle in this consists,
That any virtue still exists
In souls, from childhood crushed and taught
To curb each rising, freeborn thought
Which might disturb the tranquil flow
Of that mysterious stream, below
Whose placid surface monsters glide,
And despots base defile the tide.
What matter? there “the ignoble mass”
Must let all crimes unchallenged pass,
Nor dare by gesture, look or tone,
Transgress this law, “let us alone!”
Jeff. Davis saw its power for evil,
And cribbed this wrinkle from the Devil,
And hence with wild and frenzied tone,
All Dixie screams; “Let us alone!”
Thus “nigger-whippers” steeped in lust
Cry, “Sirs, in us put all your trust;
Nor question what we do or say,
Pursue whatever course we may:
’Tis true—we scourge—the niggers groan—
What matter? are they not our own?
We from the husband tear the wife,
Yet don’t we lead a decent life?—
The child snatch from its mother’s breast,—
Our flesh and blood sell with the rest;—
But, sir, are not they too our own?
Take warning, then, let us alone!
Our institution!—’Tis divine,
Its influence is most benign;
Its power for good you must not blast,
The world without it were a waste:
It is our temple’s corner stone,
And every one will doubtless own
’Tis laid on this undying truth
Which we have first unmasked, in sooth,
And spread before the world at large,
(How can the world this debt discharge?)
That negroes are beneath the whites,
And, therefore, they can have no rights
Which white men need respect; their race
Are doomed as slaves, sans end, sans grace:
Outsiders must not interfere,
We are the only judges here;
Though millions in our chains should groan,
Hands off, let slavery alone!”
As certain teachers tell their dupes,
(The bigot’s zeal nor flags nor droops;)
That no salvation for the soul
Exists, save that which they control;
And all who will not bend the knee
To them must howl in misery,
So Jeff. declares there’s no salvation
For those who love the “proclamation;”
And that a heresy so bold
Must keep its vot’ries in the cold.
Let Massachusetts cry in vain
Upon her own apostle, Train,
To whom the key of Afric’s Heaven
Has been by Jeff. and Stevens given,
No entrance to that paradise
Can ever glad her recreant eyes,
Until repentant and heart-sick,
She cease to be a heretic,
And turn her face to Mecca’s shrine,
And swear, that slavery is divine!
If doctrines such as these impart
Their sting to many an honest heart,
What wonder if the poison spread
Contagion to the weaker head?
What wonder, that of all mankind
The most corrupt in heart and mind,
The refuse of the scourge and rope,
Of whose reform we have no hope;
What wonder, if such men assail
The simple heart, they should prevail?
But can this tyranny endure,
Or can their triumph be secure?
No! for the honest still are strong
To choose the right, eschew the wrong;
Their virtues to themselves they owe,
Their faults from other sources flow;
When led aright they nobly stand,
The bulwarks of fair freedom’s land;
But, if by traitors led astray,
Their wrath may slumber for a day,
Till, roused at length to furious rage,
It sweep the monsters off the stage.