CHAPTER IV
THE GRAND ARMY OF THE POTOMAC
The defeat at Bull Run showed the necessity for a thorough reorganization of the Army of the Potomac, and George B. McClellan, who had made a successful campaign in Western Virginia, was summoned to Washington and placed in command. At the end of two months, he had under him a splendidly equipped and disciplined force of over a hundred thousand men. The pickets were gradually extended, and little skirmishes with the enemy took place almost daily.
CIVIL WAR
"Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot
Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette;
Ring me a ball in the glittering spot
That shines on his breast like an amulet!"
"Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead,
There's music around when my barrel's in tune!"
Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped,
And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.
"Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch
From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood;
A button, a loop, or that luminous patch
That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud!"
"O captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track,
When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette,
For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back,
That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.
"But I snatched off the trinket,—this locket of gold;
An inch from the centre my lead broke its way,
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,
Of a beautiful lady in bridal array."
"Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket!—'tis she,
My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoon
Was her husband—Hush! soldier, 'twas Heaven's decree,
We must bury him there, by the light of the moon!
"But, hark! the far bugles their warnings unite;
War is a virtue,—weakness a sin;
There's a lurking and loping around us to-night
Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!"
Charles Dawson Shanly.
McClellan at last began preparations for a grand advance into Virginia, troops were sent across the Potomac in great numbers—then, suddenly, the orders were countermanded and the troops brought back across the river. The army had increased to one hundred and fifty thousand men, but for nearly two months the public ear was daily irritated by the report, "All quiet along the Potomac."
THE PICKET-GUARD
[November, 1861]
"All quiet along the Potomac," they say,
"Except now and then a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.
'Tis nothing: a private or two, now and then,
Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost—only one of the men,
Moaning out, all alone, the death rattle."
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-fire, are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh of the gentle night-wind
Through the forest leaves softly is creeping,
While the 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 shade of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle ... "Ha! Mary, good-by!"
The red 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!
Ethel Lynn Beers.
Despite the size and efficiency of the "Grand Army," nothing was done and nothing attempted. It was evident that McClellan, though a perfect organizer and disciplinarian, lacked the qualities of aggressive leadership, and the discontent of the country found constant and angry expression.
TARDY GEORGE
[January, 1862]
What are you waiting for, George, I pray?
To scour your cross-belts with fresh pipe-clay?
To burnish your buttons, to brighten your guns;
Or wait you for May-day and warm spring suns?
Are you blowing your fingers because they are cold,
Or catching your breath ere you take a hold?
Is the mud knee-deep in valley and gorge?
What are you waiting for, tardy George?
Want you a thousand more cannon made,
To add to the thousand now arrayed?
Want you more men, more money to pay?
Are not two millions enough per day?
Wait you for gold and credit to go,
Before we shall see your martial show;
Till Treasury Notes will not pay to forge?
What are you waiting for, tardy George?
Are you waiting for your hair to turn,
Your heart to soften, your bowels to yearn
A little more toward "our Southern friends,"
As at home and abroad they work their ends?
"Our Southern friends!" whom you hold so dear
That you do no harm and give no fear,
As you tenderly take them by the gorge—
What are you waiting for, tardy George?
Now that you've marshalled your whole command,
Planned what you would, and changed what you planned;
Practised with shot and practised with shell,
Know to a hair where every one fell,
Made signs by day and signals by night;
Was it all done to keep out of a fight?
Is the whole matter too heavy a charge?
What are you waiting for, tardy George?
Shall we have more speeches, more reviews?
Or are you waiting to hear the news;
To hold up your hands in mute surprise,
When France and England shall "recognize"?
Are you too grand to fight traitors small?
Must you have a nation to cope withal?
Well, hammer the anvil and blow the forge—
You'll soon have a dozen, tardy George.
Suppose for a moment, George, my friend—
Just for a moment—you condescend
To use the means that are in your hands,
The eager muskets and guns and brands;
Take one bold step on the Southern sod,
And leave the issue to watchful God!
For now the nation raises its gorge,
Waiting and watching you, tardy George.
I should not much wonder, George, my boy,
If Stanton get in his head a toy,
And some fine morning, ere you are out,
He send you all "to the right about"—
You and Jomini, and all the crew
Who think that war is nothing to do
But to drill and cypher, and hammer and forge—
What are you waiting for, tardy George?
Finally, President Lincoln demanded that this great army do something, and it was decided to advance again against the Confederates at Manassas. The advance began on March 9, 1862, and when the army reached Manassas, it found that the Confederates had removed all their stores and munitions and abandoned the position. Whereupon the Grand Army marched back to the Potomac.
HOW McCLELLAN TOOK MANASSAS
[March 10, 1862]
Heard ye how the bold McClellan,
He, the wether with the bell on;
He, the head of all the asses—
Heard ye how he took Manassas?
When the Anaconda plucky
Flopped its tail in old Kentucky;
When up stream the gunboats paddled,
And the thieving Floyd skedaddled,
Then the chief of all the asses
Heard the word: Go, take Manassas!
Forty brigades wait around him,
Forty blatant trumpets sound him,
As the pink of all the heroes
Since the time of fiddling Neros.
"Now's the time," cry out the masses,
"Show your pluck and take Manassas!"
Contrabands come flocking to him:
"Lo! the enemy flies—pursue him!"
"No," says George, "don't start a trigger
On the word of any nigger;
Let no more of the rascals pass us,
I know all about Manassas."
When at last a prowling Yankee—
No doubt long, and lean, and lanky—
Looking out for new devices,
Took the wooden guns as prizes,
Says he: "I sweow, ere daylight passes
I'll take a peep at famed Manassas."
Then up to the trenches boldly
Marched he—they received him coldly;
Nary reb was there to stop him.
Gathering courage, in he passes:
"Jerusalem! I've took Manassas."
Bold McClellan heard the story:
"Onward, men, to fields of glory;
Let us show the rebel foemen,
When we're READY we're not slow, men;
Wait no more for springing grasses—
Onward! onward! to Manassas!"
Baggage trains were left behind him,
In his eagerness to find them;
Upward the balloons ascended,
To see which way the rebels trended;
Thirty miles away his glasses
Swept the horizon round Manassas.
Out of sight, the foe, retreating,
Answered back no hostile greeting;
None could tell, as off he paddled,
Whitherward he had skedaddled.
Then the chief of all the asses
Cried: "Hurrah! I've got Manassas."
Future days will tell the wonder,
How the mighty Anaconda
Lay supine along the border,
With the mighty Mac to lord her:
Tell on shaft and storied brasses
How he took the famed Manassas.
McClellan, meanwhile, had decided that the proper way to take Richmond was to remove his army to Fortress Monroe and advance up the peninsula. The change of base was accomplished by April 3, 1862, and the advance began, the army encountering no obstacle save almost impassable mud. McClellan, however, firmly believed that an immense force of Confederates was massed before him and proceeded so cautiously that he scarcely moved at all, and the impatience of the people deepened into anger and disgust.
Back from the trebly crimsoned field
Terrible words are thunder-tost;
Full of the wrath that will not yield,
Full of revenge for battles lost!
Hark to their echo, as it crost
The Capital, making faces wan:
"End this murderous holocaust;
Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!
"Give us a man of God's own mould,
Born to marshal his fellow-men;
One whose fame is not bought and sold
At the stroke of a politician's pen;
Give us the man of thousands ten,
Fit to do as well as to plan;
Give us a rallying-cry, and then,
Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!
"No leader to shirk the boasting foe,
And to march and countermarch our brave,
Till they fall like ghosts in the marshes low,
And swamp-grass covers each nameless grave;
Nor another, whose fatal banners wave
Aye in Disaster's shameful van;
Nor another, to bluster, and lie, and rave;—
Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!
"Hearts are mourning in the North,
While the sister rivers seek the main,
Red with our life-blood flowing forth—
Who shall gather it up again?
Though we march to the battle-plain
Firmly as when the strife began,
Shall all our offering be in vain?—
Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!
"Is there never one in all the land,
One on whose might the Cause may lean?
Are all the common ones so grand,
And all the titled ones so mean?
What if your failure may have been
In trying to make good bread from bran,
From worthless metal a weapon keen?—
Abraham Lincoln, find us a MAN!
"Oh, we will follow him to the death,
Where the foeman's fiercest columns are!
Oh, we will use our latest breath,
Cheering for every sacred star!
His to marshal us high and far;
Ours to battle, as patriots can
When a Hero leads the Holy War!—
Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!"
Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Finally, after infinite preparation, McClellan's batteries were ready to open on the Confederate works at Yorktown, but on May 4, 1862, it was discovered that the works had been abandoned. Hooker's and Kearny's cavalry began a vigorous pursuit of the Confederates, caught up with them at Williamsburg and captured the works there, after a severe engagement.
THE GALLANT FIGHTING "JOE"
[May 4, 5, 1862]
From Yorktown on the fourth of May
The rebels did skedaddle,
And to pursue them on their way
Brave Hooker took the saddle.
"I'll lead you on, brave boys," he said,
"Where danger points the way;"
And drawing forth his shining blade,
"Move onward!" he did say.
Chorus—Then we'll shout hurrah for Hooker, boys,
The gallant fighting Joe;
We'll follow him with heart and hand,
Wherever he does go.
"Forward, March!" then was the word
That passed from front to rear,
When all the men with one accord
Gave a loud and hearty cheer.
And then with Hooker at our head,
We marched in order good,
Till darkness all around us spread,
When we lay down in the wood.
Early next morn by break of day,
The rain in torrents fell;
"This day," brave Hooker he did say,
"Your valor it will tell.
Williamsburg is very near,
Be steady every man,
Let every heart be filled with cheer,
And I will take the van."
The gallant Massachusetts men
Fought well and nobly, too,
As did the men from good old Penn.,
And Jersey, ever true,
And Sickles' men like lions brave,
Their courage did display,
For gallantly they did behave
On the battle-field that day.
The men from Mass. and good old Penn.
That morn the fight began,
And like true, noble-hearted men,
Most nobly they did stand.
When Jersey's sons, the bold, the brave,
Not fearing lead nor steel,
Their gallant comrades for to save,
Dashed boldly to the field.
By every means the rebels sought
To stand the Jerseys' fire,
But soon for them it was too hot,
And they quickly did retire.
But getting reënforced again
With numbers very great,
The gallant band of Jerseymen
Were forced for to retreat.
"Now, Sickles' men," Hooker did say,
"Move out to the advance;
If you your courage would display,
Now you have got a chance.
The foe have forced us to give way,
They number six to one,
But still, my lads, we'll gain the day,
And I will lead you on."
Excelsior then the foremost stood,
Not knowing dread nor fear,
And met the rebels in the woods,
With a loud and hearty cheer.
Volley after volley flew,
Like hail the balls did fly,
And Hooker cried: "My heroes true,
We'll conquer or we'll die."
Our ammunition being gone,
Brave Hooker then did say:
"Reënforcements fast are coming on,
My lads, do not give way.
Keep good your ground, our only chance
Is t' remain upon the field.
And if the rebels dare advance,
We'll meet them with the steel."
'Twas then brave Kearny did appear,
Who ne'er to foe would yield,
To him we gave a hearty cheer,
As he rushed on the field.
"Now, charge! my lads," then Hooker cried,
"Our work will soon be done,
For with brave Kearny by our side,
The rebels we'll make run."
And since that time we all do know
The battles he hath won;
He beat the rebels at Bristow,
And chased them to Bull Run;
And had we a few more loyal men
Like the gallant fighting "Joe,"
The war would soon be at an end,
Then home we all would go.
Singing, hurrah, hurrah, for Hooker's boys,
The gallant Fighting Joe,
We'll follow him with heart and hand,
Wherever he does go.
James Stevenson.
The advance continued slowly, and on May 31, 1862, a portion of the army reached Fair Oaks. Here the Confederates attacked with force, and would have won a decisive victory but for the timely arrival of dashing "Phil" Kearny, who rallied the Union forces, led them forward, and swept the Confederates from the field.
KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES
[May 31, 1862]
So that soldierly legend is still on its journey,—
That story of Kearny who knew not to yield!
'Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and Birney,
Against twenty thousand he rallied the field.
Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest,
Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine,
Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,—
No charge like Phil Kearny's along the whole line.
When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn,
Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground,
He rode down the length of the withering column,
And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound;
He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the powder,—
His sword waved us on and we answered the sign;
Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder.
"There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole line!"
How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten
In the one hand still left,—and the reins in his teeth!
He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten,
But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath.
Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal,
Asking where to go in,—through the clearing or pine?
"Oh, anywhere! Forward! 'Tis all the same, Colonel:
You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line!"
Oh, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly,
That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried!
Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily,
The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's pride!
Yet we dream that he still,—in that shadowy region
Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer's sign,—
Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion,
And the word still is "Forward!" along the whole line.
Edmund Clarence Stedman.
For nearly a month after this battle, the Army of the Potomac lay along the Chickahominy, within a few miles of Richmond, while the Confederates concentrated their forces, under Robert E. Lee, for the defence of the city. On June 14, 1862, General J. E. B. Stuart, with a force of fifteen hundred cavalry, circled the Union position, destroyed stores, seized mules and horses, took nearly two hundred prisoners, and returned leisurely to Richmond. Captain Latané was killed in a skirmish during this expedition.
THE BURIAL OF LATANÉ
[June 14, 1862]
The combat raged not long, but ours the day;
And, through the hosts that compassed us around,
Our little band rode proudly on its way,
Leaving one gallant comrade, glory-crowned,
Unburied on the field he died to gain—
Single of all his men, amid the hostile slain.
One moment on the battle's edge he stood—
Hope's halo, like a helmet, round his hair;
The next beheld him, dabbled in his blood,
Prostrate in death—and yet, in death how fair!
Even thus he passed through the red gates of strife,
From earthly crowns and palms, to an immortal life.
A brother bore his body from the field,
And gave it unto strangers' hands, that closed
The calm blue eyes on earth forever sealed,
And tenderly the slender limbs composed:
Strangers, yet sisters, who, with Mary's love,
Sat by the open tomb, and, weeping, looked above.
A little child strewed roses on his bier—
Pale roses, not more stainless than his soul,
Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere,
That blossomed with good actions—brief, but whole;
The aged matron and the faithful slave
Approached with reverent feet the hero's lowly grave.
No man of God might say the burial rite
Above the "rebel"—thus declared the foe
That blanched before him in the deadly fight;
But woman's voice, with accents soft and low,
Trembling with pity—touched with pathos—read
Over his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead.
"'Tis sown in weakness, it is raised in power!"
Softly the promise floated on the air,
While the low breathings of the sunset hour
Came back responsive to the mourner's prayer.
Gently they laid him underneath the sod,
And left him with his fame, his country, and his God!
Let us not weep for him, whose deeds endure!
So young, so brave, so beautiful! He died
As he had wished to die; the past is sure;
Whatever yet of sorrow may betide
Those who still linger by the stormy shore,
Change cannot harm him now, nor fortune touch him more.
John R. Thompson.
Meanwhile, McDowell's corps had been ordered forward from the Shenandoah valley to coöperate with McClellan, but was harassed by the Confederate cavalry under Turner Ashby and Stonewall Jackson, which was handled with the utmost brilliancy and daring.
THE CHARGE BY THE FORD
Eighty and nine with their captain
Rode on the enemy's track,
Rode in the gray of the morning:
Nine of the ninety came back.
Slow rose the mist from the river,
Lighter each moment the way:
Careless and tearless and fearless
Galloped they on to the fray.
Singing in tune, how the scabbards
Loud on the stirrup-irons rang,
Clinked as the men rose in saddle,
Fell as they sank with a clang.
What is it moves by the river,
Jaded and weary and weak,
Gray-backs—a cross on their banner—
Yonder the foe whom they seek.
Silence! They see not, they hear not,
Tarrying there by the marge:
Forward! Draw sabre! Trot! Gallop!
Charge! like a hurricane, charge!
Ah! 'twas a man-trap infernal—
Fire like the deep pit of hell!
Volley on volley to meet them,
Mixed with the gray rebel's yell.
Ninety had ridden to battle,
Tracing the enemy's track,—
Ninety had ridden to battle,
Nine of the ninety came back.
Honor the name of the ninety;
Honor the heroes who came
Scatheless from five hundred muskets,
Safe from the lead-bearing flame.
Eighty and one of the troopers
Lie on the field of the slain—
Lie on the red field of honor:
Honor the nine who remain!
Cold are the dead there, and gory,
There where their life-blood was spilt,
Back come the living, each sabre
Red from the point to the hilt.
Give them three cheers and a tiger!
Let the flags wave as they come!
Give them the blare of the trumpet!
Give them the roll of the drum!
Thomas Dunn English.
Skirmish after skirmish was fought, in one of which, at Harrisonburg, on June 6, 1862, Ashby was killed. But the Confederates succeeded in their object, for McDowell's junction with McClellan was indefinitely delayed.
DIRGE FOR ASHBY
[June 6, 1862]
Heard ye that thrilling word—
Accent of dread—
Flash like a thunderbolt,
Bowing each head,—
Crash through the battle dun,
Over the booming gun,—
"Ashby, our bravest one,—
Ashby is dead!"
Saw ye the veterans—
Hearts that had known
Never a quail of fear,
Never a groan,—
Sob 'mid the fight they win,—
Tears their stern eyes within,—
"Ashby, our Paladin,
Ashby is gone!"
Dash—dash the tear away,—
Crush down the pain!
"Dulce et decus" be
Fittest refrain!
Why should the dreary pall
Round him be flung at all?
Did not our hero fall
Gallantly slain?
Catch the last word of cheer
Dropt from his tongue;
Over the volley's din,
Loud be it rung,—
"Follow me! follow me!"—
Soldier, oh! could there be
Pæan or dirge for thee
Loftier sung!
Bold as the Lion-heart,
Dauntless and brave;
Knightly as knightliest
Bayard could crave;
Sweet with all Sidney's grace,
Tender as Hampden's face;—
Who—who shall fill the space
Void by his grave?
'Tis not one broken heart,
Wild with dismay;
Crazed with her agony,
Weeps o'er his clay:
Ah! from a thousand eyes
Flow the pure tears that rise;
Widowed Virginia lies
Stricken to-day!
Yet though that thrilling word—
Accent of dread—
Falls like a thunderbolt,
Bowing each head,—
Heroes! be battle done
Bravelier every one,
Nerved by the thought alone—
Ashby is dead!
Margaret Junkin Preston.
McClellan continued to waste his time in complaints and reproaches to the government at Washington, and the Confederates prepared to take the offensive. Their advance began June 26, 1862, and McClellan promptly began to retreat. Finally, on July 1, at Malvern Hill, the Union army turned and repulsed the Confederates, after a severe engagement. McClellan, instead of advancing, issued an order to "fall still farther back."
MALVERN HILL
[July 1, 1862]
Ye elms that wave on Malvern Hill
In prime of morn and May,
Recall ye how McClellan's men
Here stood at bay?
While deep within yon forest dim
Our rigid comrades lay—
Some with the cartridge in their mouth,
Others with fixed arms lifted South—
Invoking so
The cypress glades? Ah wilds of woe!
The spires of Richmond, late beheld
Through rifts in musket-haze,
Were closed from view in clouds of dust
On leaf-walled ways,
Where streamed our wagons in caravan;
And the Seven Nights and Days
Of march and fast, retreat and fight,
Pinched our grimed faces to ghastly plight—
Does the elm wood
Recall the haggard beards of blood?
The battle-smoked flag, with stars eclipsed,
We followed (it never fell!)—
In silence husbanded our strength—
Received their yell;
Till on this slope we patient turned
With cannon ordered well;
Reverse we proved was not defeat;
But ah, the sod what thousands meet!—
Does Malvern Wood
Bethink itself, and muse and brood?
We elms of Malvern Hill
Remember everything;
But sap the twig will fill:
Wag the world how it will,
Leaves must be green in Spring.
Herman Melville.
A MESSAGE
[July 1, 1882]
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 a lantern on it,
Gilding all the purple shade,
And stooped to raise him softly,—
"That's my mother, sir," he said.
"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,—"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?
Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.
So ended McClellan's attempt to capture Richmond. He had lost seventy-five thousand men and had accomplished nothing. President Lincoln made a personal visit to inspect the army, then issued a call for three hundred thousand more troops.
THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE
[July 2, 1862]
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more,
From Mississippi's winding stream and from New England's shore;
We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear,
With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear;
We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before:
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!
If you look across the hill-tops that meet the northern sky,
Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry;
And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside,
And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride,
And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour:
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!
If you look all up our valleys where the growing harvests shine,
You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line;
And children from their mother's knees are pulling at the weeds,
And learning how to reap and sow against their country's needs;
And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door:
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!
You have called us, and we're coming, by Richmond's bloody tide
To lay us down, for Freedom's sake, our brothers' bones beside,
Or from foul treason's savage grasp to wrench the murderous blade,
And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade.
Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before:
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!
James Sloan Gibbons.
Meanwhile the Army of Virginia had been formed for the defence of Washington, and placed under the command of General Pope. He at once endeavored to secure the valley of the Shenandoah, and on August 9, 1862, fought a fierce but indecisive battle with Jackson at Cedar Mountain.
CEDAR MOUNTAIN
[August 9, 1862]
Ring the bells, nor ring them slowly;
Toll them not,—the day is holy!
Golden-flooded noon is poured
In grand libation to the Lord.
No mourning mothers come to-day
Whose hopeless eyes forget to pray:
They each hold high the o'erflowing urn,
And bravely to the altar turn.
Ye limners of the ancient saint!
To-day another virgin paint;
Where with the lily once she stood
Show now the new beatitude.
To-day a mother crowned with pain,
Of silver beauty beyond stain,
Clasping a flower for our land
A-sheathèd in her hand.
Each pointed leaf with sword-like strength,
Guarding the flower throughout its length;
Each sword has won a sweet release
To the flower of beauty and of peace.
Ring the bells, nor ring them slowly,
To the Lord the day is holy;
To the young dead we consecrate
These lives that now we dedicate.
Annie Fields.
Lee's army, released from Richmond by McClellan's retreat, hastened to face Pope, while Jackson got in Pope's rear, captured Manassas Junction, cut Pope's communications, formed a junction with Longstreet, and on August 30, 1862, defeated the Union forces at the second battle of Bull Run.
"OUR LEFT"
[August 30, 1862]
From dawn to dark they stood
That long midsummer day,
While fierce and fast
The battle blast
Swept rank on rank away.
From dawn to dark they fought,
With legions torn and cleft;
And still the wide
Black battle tide
Poured deadlier on "Our Left."
They closed each ghastly gap;
They dressed each shattered rank;
They knew—how well—
That freedom fell
With that exhausted flank.
"Oh, for a thousand men
Like these that melt away!"
And down they came,
With steel and flame,
Four thousand to the fray!
Right through the blackest cloud
Their lightning path they cleft;
And triumph came
With deathless fame
To our unconquered "Left."
Ye of your sons secure,
Ye of your dead bereft—
Honor the brave
Who died to save
Your all upon "Our Left."
Francis Orrery Ticknor.
On the following day, Jackson again attacked at Chantilly, an indecisive action lasting all day. During the battle, General Philip Kearny pushed forward to reconnoitre and came upon a Confederate outpost which summoned him to surrender. Instead, he clapped spurs to his horse and endeavored to escape, but was shot and killed.
DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER
[September 1, 1862]
Close his eyes; his work is done!
What to him is friend or foeman,
Rise of moon, or set of sun,
Hand of man, or kiss of woman?
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!
As man may, he fought his fight,
Proved his truth by his endeavor;
Let him sleep in solemn night,
Sleep forever and forever.
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!
Fold him in his country's stars,
Roll the drum and fire the volley!
What to him are all our wars,
What but death-bemocking folly?
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!
Leave him to God's watching eye;
Trust him to the hand that made him.
Mortal love weeps idly by:
God alone has power to aid him.
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!
George Henry Boker.
Pope's shattered army was withdrawn within the defences of Washington, where McClellan's forces soon joined it. The latter was given command of the forces at the capital, and recruits were hurried forward to fill the broken ranks.
THE REVEILLE
Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands,
And of armèd men the hum;
Lo! a nation's hosts have gathered
Round the quick-alarming drum,—
Saying: "Come,
Freemen, come!
Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quick-alarming drum.
"Let me of my heart take counsel:
War is not of life the sum;
Who shall stay and reap the harvest
When the autumn days shall come?"
But the drum
Echoed: "Come!
Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the solemn-sounding drum.
"But when won the coming battle,
What of profit springs therefrom?
What if conquest, subjugation,
Even greater ills become?"
But the drum
Answered: "Come!
You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yankee-answering drum.
"What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder,
Whistling shot and bursting bomb,
When my brothers fall around me,
Should my heart grow cold and numb?"
But the drum
Answered: "Come!
Better there in death united than in life a recreant,—Come!"
Thus they answered—hoping, fearing,
Some in faith and doubting some,
Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming,
Said: "My chosen people, come!"
Then the drum,
Lo! was dumb;
For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered: "Lord, we come!"
Bret Harte.
Never was the Republic in greater danger. A month before, Lee had been desperately defending Richmond against two armies; now he had defeated them both and was ready to invade the North. He pushed forward with decision and celerity, and by September 7, 1862, his whole army had crossed the Potomac into Maryland.
BEYOND THE POTOMAC
[September 7, 1862]
They slept on the field which their valor had won,
But arose with the first early blush of the sun,
For they knew that a great deed remained to be done,
When they passed o'er the river.
They arose with the sun, and caught life from his light,—
Those giants of courage, those Anaks in fight,—
And they laughed out aloud in the joy of their might,
Marching swift for the river.
On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills;
On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills;
And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and thrills,
At the thought of the river.
Oh, the sheen of their swords! the fierce gleam of their eyes!
It seemed as on earth a new sunlight would rise,
And, king-like, flash up to the sun in the skies,
O'er their path to the river.
But their banners, shot-scarred, and all darkened with gore,
On a strong wind of morning streamed wildly before,
Like the wings of death-angels swept fast to the shore,
The green shore of the river.
As they march, from the hillside, the hamlet, the stream,
Gaunt throngs whom the foemen had manacled, teem,
Like men just aroused from some terrible dream,
To cross sternly the river.
They behold the broad banners, blood-darkened, yet fair,
And a moment dissolves the last spell of despair,
While a peal, as of victory, swells on the air,
Rolling out to the river.
And that cry, with a thousand strange echoings, spread,
Till the ashes of heroes were thrilled in their bed,
And the deep voice of passion surged up from the dead,
"Ay, press on to the river!"
On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills,
On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills,
And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and thrills,
As they pause by the river.
Then the wan face of Maryland, haggard and worn,
At this sight lost the touch of its aspect forlorn,
And she turned on the foemen, full-statured in scorn,
Pointing stern to the river.
And Potomac flowed calmly, scarce heaving her breast,
With her low-lying billows all bright in the west,
For a charm as from God lulled the waters to rest
Of the fair rolling river.
Passed! passed! the glad thousands march safe through the tide;
Hark, foeman, and hear the deep knell of your pride,
Ringing weird-like and wild, pealing up from the side
Of the calm-flowing river!
'Neath a blow swift and mighty the tyrant may fall;
Vain! vain! to his gods swells a desolate call;
Hath his grave not been hollowed, and woven his pall,
Since they passed o'er the river?
Paul Hamilton Hayne.
McClellan undertook a timorous and blundering pursuit, calling constantly for more men and even proposing that Washington be abandoned, if that should be necessary to reinforce his army. On September 13, 1862, Lee's army passed through Frederick, and it was then that the incident recorded in "Barbara Frietchie" is said to have occurred.
[September 13, 1862]
Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree fruited deep,
Fair as the garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain-wall;
Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.
Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down;
In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced; the old flag met his sight.
"Halt!"—the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
"Fire!"—out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.
She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.
"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country's flag," she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman's deed and word;
"Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on!" he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:
All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.
Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,
And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
The main body of the Confederates was finally encountered at Antietam, and on September 17, 1862, a savage action was fought, which left Lee badly shattered.
MARTHY VIRGINIA'S HAND
[September 17, 1862]
"There, on the left!" said the colonel; the battle had shuddered and faded away,
Wraith of a fiery enchantment that left only ashes and blood-sprinkled clay—
"Ride to the left and examine that ridge, where the enemy's sharpshooters stood.
Lord, how they picked off our men, from the treacherous vantage-ground of the wood!
But for their bullets, I'll bet, my batteries sent them something as good.
Go and explore, and report to me then, and tell me how many we killed.
Never a wink shall I sleep till I know our vengeance was duly fulfilled."
Fiercely the orderly rode down the slope of the cornfield—scarred and forlorn,
Rutted by violent wheels, and scathed by the shot that had ploughed it in scorn;
Fiercely, and burning with wrath for the sight of his comrades crushed at a blow,
Flung in broken shapes on the ground like ruined memorials of woe;
These were the men whom at daybreak he knew, but never again could know.
Thence to the ridge, where roots out-thrust, and twisted branches of trees
Clutched the hill like clawing lions, firm their prey to seize.
"What's your report?" and the grim colonel smiled when the orderly came back at last.
Strangely the soldier paused: "Well, they were punished." And strangely his face looked, aghast.
"Yes, our fire told on them; knocked over fifty—laid out in line of parade.
Brave fellows, Colonel, to stay as they did! But one I 'most wished hadn't stayed.
Mortally wounded, he'd torn off his knapsack; and then, at the end, he prayed—
Easy to see, by his hands that were clasped; and the dull, dead fingers yet held
This little letter—his wife's—from the knapsack. A pity those woods were shelled!"
Silent the orderly, watching with tears in his eyes as his officer scanned
Four short pages of writing. "What's this, about 'Marthy Virginia's hand'?"
Swift from his honeymoon he, the dead soldier, had gone from his bride to the strife;
Never they met again, but she had written him, telling of that new life,
Born in the daughter, that bound her still closer and closer to him as his wife.
Laying her baby's hand down on the letter, around it she traced a rude line:
"If you would kiss the baby," she wrote, "you must kiss this outline of mine."
There was the shape of the hand on the page, with the small, chubby fingers outspread.
"Marthy Virginia's hand, for her pa,"—so the words on the little palm said.
Never a wink slept the colonel that night, for the vengeance so blindly fulfilled.
Never again woke the old battle-glow when the bullets their death-note shrilled.
Long ago ended the struggle, in union of brotherhood happily stilled;
Yet from that field of Antietam, in warning and token of love's command,
See! there is lifted the hand of a baby—Marthy Virginia's hand!
George Parsons Lathrop.
It was McClellan's first victory, and his partisans hailed him as another Alexander; but he permitted a great opportunity to slip through his fingers. Instead of attacking next day, he remained inactive, and Lee made good his escape across the Potomac.
THE VICTOR OF ANTIETAM
[September 17, 1862]
When tempest winnowed grain from bran,
And men were looking for a man,
Authority called you to the van,
McClellan!
Along the line the plaudits ran,
As later when Antietam's cheers began.
Through storm-cloud and eclipse must move
Each cause and man, dear to the stars and Jove;
Nor always can the wisest tell
Deferred fulfilment from the hopeless knell—
The struggler from the floundering ne'er-do-well.
A pall-cloth on the Seven Days fell,
McClellan—
Unprosperously heroical!
Who could Antietam's wreath foretell?
Authority called you; then, in mist
And loom of jeopardy—dismissed.
But staring peril soon appalled;
You, the Discarded, she recalled—
Recalled you, nor endured delay;
And forth you rode upon a blasted way,
Arrayed Pope's rout, and routed Lee's array,
McClellan!
Your tent was choked with captured flags that day,
McClellan.
Antietam was a telling fray.
Recalled you; and she heard your drum
Advancing through the ghastly gloom.
You manned the wall, you propped the Dome,
You stormed the powerful stormer home,
McClellan!
Antietam's cannon long shall boom.
At Alexandria, left alone,
McClellan—
Your veterans sent from you, and thrown
To fields and fortunes all unknown—
What thoughts were yours, revealed to none,
While faithful still you labored on—
Hearing the far Manassas gun!
McClellan,
Only Antietam could atone.
You fought in the front (an evil day,
McClellan)—
The forefront of the first assay;
The Cause went sounding, groped its way;
The leadsmen quarrelled in the bay;
Quills thwarted swords; divided sway;
The rebel flushed in his lusty May;
You did your best, as in you lay,
McClellan.
Antietam's sun-burst sheds a ray.
Your medalled soldiers love you well,
McClellan!
Name your name, their true hearts swell;
With you they shook dread Stonewall's spell,
With you they braved the blended yell
Of rebel and maligner fell;
With you in fame or shame they dwell,
McClellan!
Antietam-braves a brave can tell.
And when your comrades (now so few,
McClellan,—
Such ravage in deep files they rue)
Meet round the board, and sadly view
The empty places; tribute due
They render to the dead—and you!
Absent and silent o'er the blue;
The one-armed lift the wine to you,
McClellan,
And great Antietam's cheers renew.
Herman Melville.
On October 1, 1862, President Lincoln issued to McClellan a peremptory order to pursue Lee. Twenty days were spent in correspondence before that order was obeyed. McClellan had exhausted the patience even of the President. On November 5 he was relieved from command, and General A. E. Burnside appointed to replace him. The latter paused to get the army in hand and then moved down the Rappahannock toward Fredericksburg, where Lee was strongly intrenched. On December 11 the Union army managed to cross the Potomac in the face of a heavy fire.
THE CROSSING AT FREDERICKSBURG
[December 11, 1862]
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,—
'Twas firm, though low and sad;
But the roar that followed his question
Laughed out till the hills were glad.
"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.
"And hark what the General orders,
For I could not catch his words;
But what means that hurry and movement,
That clash of muskets and swords?"
"Lie still, lie still, my Captain,
'Tis a call for volunteers;
And the noise that vexes your fever
Is only our soldiers' cheers."
"Where go they?" "Across the river."
"O God! and must I lie still,
While that drum and that measured trampling
Move from me far down the hill?
"How many?" "I judge, four hundred."
"Who are they? I'll know to a man."
"Our own Nineteenth and Twentieth,
And the Seventh Michigan."
"Oh, to go, but to go with my comrades!
Tear the 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 solemn!
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, stout fellow,
Who sprang in the boats 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 rife,
Was torn and crushed and shattered,—
A hopeless wreck for life.
But yet the boats moved onward;
Through fire and lead they drove,
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 line of battle;
Not a man was out of place.
Then with levelled steel they hurled them
Straight in the rebels' face.
"Oh, help me, help me, comrade!
For tears my eyelids drown,
As I see their smoking 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.
"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.
"If this is death, I care not!
Hear me, men, from rear to van!—
One more cheer for Massachusetts,
And one more for Michigan!"
George Henry Boker.
On the morning of December 13, 1862, the Union army advanced to the attack. The Confederate advance lines were driven back, but rallied and drove back their assailants with heavy loss. Assault after assault was repulsed, and Burnside was finally compelled to withdraw with a loss of fifteen thousand men. He was relieved of command soon afterwards.
AT FREDERICKSBURG
[December 13, 1862]
God send us peace, and keep red strife away;
But should it come, God send us men and steel!
The land is dead that dare not face the day
When foreign danger threats the common weal.
Defenders strong are they that homes defend;
From ready arms the spoiler keeps afar.
Well blest the country that has sons to lend
From trades of peace to learn the trade of war.
Thrice blest the nation that has every son
A soldier, ready for the warning sound;
Who marches homeward when the fight is done,
To swing the hammer and to till the ground.
Call back that morning, with its lurid light,
When through our land the awful war-bell tolled;
When lips were mute, and women's faces white
As the pale cloud that out from Sumter rolled.
Call back that morn: an instant all were dumb,
As if the shot had struck the Nation's life;
Then cleared the smoke, and rolled the calling drum,
And men streamed in to meet the coming strife.
They closed the ledger and they stilled the loom,
The plough left rusting in the prairie farm;
They saw but "Union" in the gathering gloom;
The tearless women helped the men to arm;
Brigades from towns—each village sent its band:
German and Irish—every race and faith;
There was no question then of native land,
But—love the Flag and follow it to death.
No need to tell their tale: through every age
The splendid story shall be sung and said;
But let me draw one picture from the page—
For words of song embalm the hero dead.
* * * * *
The smooth hill is bare, and the cannons are planted,
Like Gorgon fates shading its terrible brow;
The word has been passed that the stormers are wanted,
And Burnside's battalions are mustering now.
The armies stand by to behold the dread meeting;
The work must be done by a desperate few;
The black-mouthèd guns on the height give them greeting—
From gun-mouth to plain every grass blade in view.
Strong earthworks are there, and the rifles behind them
Are Georgia militia—an Irish brigade—
Their caps have green badges, as if to remind them
Of all the brave record their country has made.
The stormers go forward—the Federals cheer them;
They breast the smooth hillside—the black mouths are dumb;
The riflemen lie in the works till they near them,
And cover the stormers as upward they come.
Was ever a death-march so grand and so solemn?
At last, the dark summit with flame is enlined;
The great guns belch doom on the sacrificed column,
That reels from the height, leaving hundreds behind.
The armies are hushed—there is no cause for cheering:
The fall of brave men to brave men is a pain.
Again come the stormers! and as they are nearing
The flame-sheeted rifle-lines, reel back again.
And so till full noon come the Federal masses—
Flung back from the height, as the cliff flings a wave;
Brigade on brigade to the death-struggle passes,
No wavering rank till it steps on the grave.
Then comes a brief lull, and the smoke-pall is lifted,
The green of the hillside no longer is seen;
The dead soldiers lie as the sea-weed is drifted,
The earthworks still held by the badges of green.
Have they quailed? is the word. No: again they are forming—
Again comes a column to death and defeat!
What is it in these who shall now do the storming
That makes every Georgian spring to his feet?
"O God! what a pity!" they cry in their cover,
As rifles are readied and bayonets made tight;
"['Tis Meagher and his fellows!] their caps have green clover;
'Tis Greek to Greek now for the rest of the fight!"
Twelve hundred the column, their rent flag before them,
With Meagher at their head, they have dashed at the hill!
Their foemen are proud of the country that bore them;
But, Irish in love, they are enemies still.
Out rings the fierce word, "Let them have it!" the rifles
Are emptied point-blank in the hearts of the foe:
It is green against green, but a principle stifles
The Irishman's love in the Georgian's blow.
The column has reeled, but it is not defeated;
In front of the guns they re-form and attack;
Six times they have done it, and six times retreated;
Twelve hundred they came, and two hundred go back.
Two hundred go back with the chivalrous story;
[The wild day is closed] in the night's solemn shroud;
A thousand lie dead, but their death was a glory
That calls not for tears—the Green Badges are proud!
Bright honor be theirs who for honor were fearless,
Who charged for their flag to the grim cannon's mouth;
And honor to them who were true, though not tearless,—
Who bravely that day kept the cause of the South.
The quarrel is done—God avert such another;
The lesson it brought we should evermore heed:
Who loveth the Flag is a man and a brother,
No matter what birth or what race or what creed.
John Boyle O'Reilly.
FREDERICKSBURG
The increasing moonlight drifts across my bed,
And on the churchyard by the road, I know
It falls as white and noiselessly as snow....
'Twas such a night two weary summers fled;
The stars, as now, were waning overhead.
Listen! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow
Where the swift currents of the river flow
Past Fredericksburg; far off the heavens are red
With sudden conflagration: on yon height,
Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath;
A signal-rocket pierces the dense night,
Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath:
Hark!—the artillery massing on the right,
Hark!—the black squadrons wheeling down to Death!
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
Major-General Joseph Hooker was placed in command, and the Grand Army of the Potomac, of which so much had been expected, went into winter quarters on the Rappahannock.
BY THE POTOMAC
The soft new grass is creeping o'er the graves
By the Potomac; and the crisp ground-flower
Tilts its blue cup to catch the passing shower;
The pine-cone ripens, and the long moss waves
Its tangled gonfalons above our braves.
Hark, what a burst of music from yon bower!—
The Southern nightingale that hour by hour
In its melodious summer madness raves.
Ah, with what delicate touches of her hand,
With what sweet voice of bird and rivulet
And drowsy murmur of the rustling leaf
Would Nature soothe us, bidding us forget
The awful crime of this distracted land
And all our heavy heritage of grief.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD
Along a river-side, I know not where,
I walked one night in mystery of dream;
A chill creeps curdling yet beneath my hair,
To think what chanced me by the pallid gleam
Of a moon-wraith that waned through haunted air.
Pale fireflies pulsed within the meadow-mist
Their halos, wavering thistle downs of light;
The loon, that seemed to mock some goblin tryst,
Laughed; and the echoes, huddling in affright,
Like Odin's hounds, fled baying down the night.
Then all was silent, till there smote my ear
A movement in the stream that checked my breath:
Was it the slow plash of a wading deer?
But something said, "This water is of Death!
The Sisters wash a shroud,—ill thing to hear!"
I, looking then, beheld the ancient Three
Known to the Greek's and to the Northman's creed,
That sit in shadow of the mystic Tree,
Still crooning, as they weave their endless brede,
One song: "Time was, Time is, and Time shall be."
No wrinkled crones were they, as I had deemed,
But fair as yesterday, to-day, to-morrow,
To mourner, lover, poet, ever seemed;
Something too high for joy, too deep for sorrow,
Thrilled in their tones, and from their faces gleamed.
"Still men and nations reap as they have strawn,"
So sang they, working at their task the while;
"The fatal raiment must be cleansed ere dawn:
For Austria? Italy? the Sea-Queen's isle?
O'er what quenched grandeur must our shroud be drawn?
"Or is it for a younger, fairer corse,
That gathered States like children round his knees,
That tamed the waves to be his posting-horse,
Feller of forests, linker of the seas,
Bridge-builder, hammerer, youngest son of Thor's?
"What make we, murmur'st thou? and what are we?
When empires must be wound, we bring the shroud,
The time-old web of the implacable Three:
Is it too coarse for him, the young and proud?
Earth's mightiest deigned to wear it,—why not he?"
"Is there no hope?" I moaned, "so strong, so fair!
Our Fowler whose proud bird would brook erewhile
No rival's swoop in all our western air!
Gather the ravens, then, in funeral file
For him, life's morn yet golden in his hair?
"Leave me not hopeless, ye unpitying dames!
I see, half seeing. Tell me, ye who scanned
The stars, Earth's elders, still must noblest aims
Be traced upon oblivious ocean-sands?
Must Hesper join the wailing ghosts of names?"
"When grass-blades stiffen with red battle-dew,
Ye deem we choose the victor and the slain:
Say, choose we them that shall be leal and true
To the heart's longing, the high faith of brain?
Yet there the victory lies, if ye but knew.
"Three roots bear up Dominion: Knowledge, Will,—
These twain are strong, but stronger yet the third,—
Obedience,—'tis the great tap-root that still,
Knit round the rock of Duty, is not stirred,
Though Heaven-loosed tempests spend their utmost skill.
"Is the doom sealed for Hesper? 'Tis not we
Denounce it, but the Law before all time:
The brave makes danger opportunity;
The waverer, paltering with the chance sublime,
Dwarfs it to peril: which shall Hesper be?
"Hath he let vultures climb his eagle's seat
To make Jove's bolts purveyors of their maw?
Hath he the Many's plaudits found more sweet
Than Wisdom? held Opinion's wind for Law?
Then let him hearken for the doomster's feet!
"Rough are the steps, slow-hewn in flintiest rock,
States climb to power by; slippery those with gold
Down which they stumble to eternal mock:
No chafferer's hand shall long the sceptre hold,
Who, given a Fate to shape, would sell the block.
"We sing old Sagas, songs of weal and woe,
Mystic because too cheaply understood;
Dark sayings are not ours; men hear and know,
See Evil weak, see strength alone in Good,
Yet hope to stem God's fire with walls of tow.
"Time Was unlocks the riddle of Time Is,
That offers choice of glory or of gloom;
The solver makes Time Shall Be surely his.
But hasten, Sisters! for even now the tomb
Grates its slow hinge and calls from the abyss."
"But not for him," I cried, "not yet for him,
Whose large horizon, westering, star by star
Wins from the void to where on Ocean's rim
The sunset shuts the world with golden bar,
Not yet his thews shall fail, his eye grow dim!
"His shall be larger manhood, saved for those
That walk unblenching through the trial-fires;
Not suffering, but faint heart, is worst of woes,
And he no base-born son of craven sires,
Whose eye need blench confronted with his foes.
"Tears may be ours, but proud, for those who win
Death's royal purple in the foeman's lines;
Peace, too, brings tears; and mid the battle-din,
The wiser ear some text of God divines,
For the sheathed blade may rust with darker sin.
"God, give us peace! not such as lulls to sleep,
But sword on thigh, and brow with purpose knit!
And let our Ship of State to harbor sweep,
Her ports all up, her battle-lanterns lit,
And her leashed thunders gathering for their leap!"
So cried I with clenched hands and passionate pain,
Thinking of dear ones by Potomac's side;
Again the loon laughed mocking, and again
The echoes bayed far down the night and died,
While waking I recalled my wandering brain.
James Russell Lowell.
October, 1861.