CHAPTER V
THE WAR WITH MEXICO
In 1821 Mexico acquired her independence of Spain, but the country became the prey of military adventurers, who were made presidents by proclamation, and retained office as long as they had an army to support them. In 1834 Santa Anna, who was in power at the time, abolished the constitution and established a military despotism. The citizens of the province of Texas, which had been largely settled from the United States, revolted and declared their independence. General Cos, the military governor, and fifteen hundred men, were besieged at Bejar, and forced to surrender, after a desperate assault led by Benjamin R. Milam.
THE VALOR OF BEN MILAM
[December 5-11, 1835]
Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio?
Such was the thrilling word we heard in the chill December glow;
Such was the thrilling word we heard, and a ringing, answering cry
Went up from the dun adobe walls to the cloudless Texas sky.
He had won from the reek of a Mexique jail back without map or chart,
With his mother-wit and his hero-grit and his stanch Kentucky heart;
He had trudged by vale and by mountain trail, and by thorny and thirsty plain,
And now, with joy on his grizzled brow, he had come to his own again.
They're the spawn of Hell! we heard him tell; they will knife and lie and cheat;
At the board of none of the swarthy horde would I deign to sit at meat;
They hold it naught that I bled and fought when Spain was their ruthless foe;
Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio?
It was four to one, not gun for gun, but never a curse cared we,
Three hundred faithful and fearless men who had sworn to make Texas free.
It was mighty odds, by all the gods, this brute of the Mexique dam,
But it was not much for heroes such as followed old Ben Milam!
With rifle-crack and sabre-hack we drove them back in the street;
From house to house in the red carouse we hastened their flying feet;
And ever that shout kept pealing out with a swift and sure death-blow:
Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio?
Behind the walls from the hurtling balls Cos cowered and swore in his beard,
While we slashed and slew from dawn till dew, and, Bexar, how we cheered!
But ere failed each ruse, and the white of truce on the failing day was thrown,
Our fearless soul had gone to the goal, the Land of the Great Unknown.
Death brought the darksome boon too soon to this truest one of the true,
Or, men of the fated Alamo, Milam had died with you!
So when their names that now are Fame's—the scorner of braggart sham;—
In song be praised, let a rouse be raised for the name of Ben Milam!
Clinton Scollard.
BEN MILAM
Oft shall the soldier think of thee,
Thou dauntless leader of the brave,
Who on the heights of Tyranny
Won Freedom and a glorious grave.
And o'er thy tomb shall pilgrims weep,
And pray to heaven in murmurs low
That peaceful be the hero's sleep
Who conquered San Antonio.
Enshrined on Honor's deathless scroll,
A nation's thanks will tell thy fame;
Long as her beauteous rivers roll
Shall Freedom's votaries hymn thy name.
For bravest of the Texan clime,
Who fought to make her children free,
Was Milam, and his death sublime
Linked with undying Liberty!
William H. Wharton.
On February 23, 1836, Santa Anna appeared at the head of two thousand men before San Antonio. The town was guarded by a fort called the Alamo, held by Colonel William Travis and one hundred and fifty Texans. Travis sent to Gonzales for reinforcements and shut himself up in the fort. A few days later, thirty-two men got through the Mexican lines, swelling his force to one hundred and eighty-three. After a terrific struggle, the Mexicans carried the fort on March 6. Not one of the garrison survived.
THE MEN OF THE ALAMO
[February 23-March 6, 1836]
To Houston at Gonzales town, ride, Ranger, for your life,
Nor stop to say good-bye to-day to home, or child, or wife;
But pass the word from ranch to ranch, to every Texan sword,
That fifty hundred Mexicans have crossed the Nueces ford,
With Castrillon and perjured Cos, Sesmá and Almontê,
And Santa Anna ravenous for vengeance and for prey!
They smite the land with fire and sword; the grass shall never grow
Where northward sweeps that locust herd on San Antonio!
Now who will bar the foeman's path, to gain a breathing space,
Till Houston and his scattered men shall meet him face to face?
Who holds his life as less than naught when home and honor call,
And counts the guerdon full and fair for liberty to fall?
Oh, who but Barrett Travis, the bravest of them all!
With seven score of riflemen to play the rancher's game,
And feed a counter-fire to halt the sweeping prairie flame;
For Bowie of the broken blade is there to cheer them on,
With Evans of Concepcion, who conquered Castrillon,
And o'er their heads the Lone Star flag defiant floats on high,
And no man thinks of yielding, and no man fears to die.
But ere the siege is held a week a cry is heard without,
A clash of arms, a rifle peal, the Ranger's ringing shout,
And two-and-thirty beardless boys have bravely hewed their way
To die with Travis if they must, to conquer if they may.
Was ever valor held so cheap in Glory's mart before
In all the days of chivalry, in all the deeds of war?
But once again the foemen gaze in wonderment and fear
To see a stranger break their lines and hear the Texans cheer.
God! how they cheered to welcome him, those spent and starving men!
For Davy Crockett by their side was worth an army then.
The wounded ones forgot their wounds; the dying drew a breath
To hail the king of border men, then turned to laugh at death.
For all knew Davy Crockett, blithe and generous as bold,
And strong and rugged as the quartz that hides its heart of gold.
His simple creed for word or deed true as the bullet sped,
And rung the target straight: "Be sure you're right, then go ahead!"
And were they right who fought the fight for Texas by his side?
They questioned not; they faltered not; they only fought and died.
Who hath an enemy like these, God's mercy slay him straight!—
[A thousand Mexicans lay dead] outside the convent gate,
And half a thousand more must die before the fortress falls,
And still the tide of war beats high around the leaguered walls.
At last the bloody breach is won; the weakened lines give way;
The wolves are swarming in the court; the lions stand at bay.
The leader meets them at the breach, and wins the soldier's prize;
A foeman's bosom sheathes his sword when gallant Travis dies.
Now let the victor feast at will until his crest be red—
We may not know what raptures fill the vulture with the dead.
Let Santa Anna's valiant sword right bravely hew and hack
The senseless corse; its hands are cold; they will not strike him back.
Let Bowie die, but 'ware the hand that wields his deadly knife;
Four went to slay, and one comes back, so dear he sells his life.
And last of all let Crockett fall, too proud to sue for grace,
So grand in death the butcher dared not look upon his face.
But far on San Jacinto's field the Texan toils are set,
And Alamo's dread memory the Texan steel shall whet.
And Fame shall tell their deeds who fell till all the years be run.
"Thermopylæ left one alive—the Alamo left none."
James Jeffrey Roche.
THE DEFENCE OF THE ALAMO
[March 6, 1835]
Santa Ana came storming, as a storm might come;
There was rumble of cannon; there was rattle of blade;
There was cavalry, infantry, bugle and drum—
Full seven thousand in pomp and parade.
The chivalry, flower of Mexico;
And a gaunt two hundred in the Alamo!
And thirty lay sick, and some were shot through;
For the siege had been bitter, and bloody, and long.
"Surrender, or die!"—"Men, what will you do?"
And Travis, great Travis, drew sword, quick and strong;
Drew a line at his feet.... "Will you come? Will you go?
I die with my wounded, in the Alamo."
The Bowie gasped, "Lead me over that line!"
Then Crockett, one hand to the sick, one hand to his gun,
Crossed with him; then never a word or a sign
Till all, sick or well, all, all save but one,
One man. Then a woman stepped, praying, and slow
Across; to die at her post in the Alamo.
Then that one coward fled, in the night, in that night
When all men silently prayed and thought
Of home; of to-morrow; of God and the right,
Till dawn; and with dawn came Travis's cannon-shot,
In answer to insolent Mexico,
From the old bell-tower of the Alamo.
Then came Santa Ana; a crescent of flame!
Then the red escalade; then the fight hand to hand;
Such an unequal fight as never had name
Since the Persian hordes butchered that doomed Spartan band.
All day—all day and all night; and the morning? so slow,
Through the battle smoke mantling the Alamo.
Now silence! Such silence! Two thousand lay dead
In a crescent outside! And within? Not a breath
[Save the gasp of a woman], with gory gashed head,
All alone, all alone there, waiting for death;
And she but a nurse. Yet when shall we know
Another like this of the Alamo?
Shout "Victory, victory, victory ho!"
I say 'tis not always to the hosts that win!
I say that the victory, high or low,
Is given the hero who grapples with sin,
Or legion or single; just asking to know
When duty fronts death in his Alamo.
Joaquin Miller.
A few days later, at Goliad, Colonel Fannin and four hundred soldiers surrendered to the Mexicans under solemn assurances that their lives would be spared. On March 27 the prisoners were marched out under guard and shot down like cattle in the shambles. This massacre aroused the wildest indignation, and recruits flocked to the army under Houston, and on April 21 surprised Santa Anna at San Jacinto, routed the Mexicans, and inflicted a terrible vengeance.
THE FIGHT AT SAN JACINTO
[April 21, 1836]
"Now for a brisk and cheerful fight!"
Said Harman, big and droll,
As he coaxed his flint and steel for a light,
And puffed at his cold clay bowl;
"For we are a skulking lot," says he,
"Of land-thieves hereabout,
And the bold señores, two to one,
Have come to smoke us out."
Santa Anna and Castrillon,
Almonte brave and gay,
Portilla red from Goliad,
And Cos with his smart array.
Dulces and cigaritos,
And the light guitar, ting-tum!
Sant' Anna courts siesta—
And Sam Houston taps his drum.
The buck stands still in the timber—
"Is't the patter of nuts that fall?"
The foal of the wild mare whinnies—
"Did he hear the Comanche call?"
In the brake by the crawling bayou
The slinking she-wolves howl,
And the mustang's snort in the river sedge
Has startled the paddling fowl.
A soft low tap, and a muffled tap,
And a roll not loud nor long—
We would not break Sant' Anna's nap,
Nor spoil Almonte's song.
Saddles and knives and rifles!
Lord! but the men were glad
When Deaf Smith muttered "Alamo!"
And Karnes hissed "Goliad!"
The drummer tucked his sticks in his belt,
And the fifer gripped his gun.
Oh, for one free, wild Texan yell,
And we took the slope in a run!
But never a shout nor a shot we spent,
Nor an oath nor a prayer that day,
Till we faced the bravos, eye to eye,
And then we blazed away.
Then we knew the rapture of Ben Milam,
And the glory that Travis made,
With Bowie's lunge and Crockett's shot,
And Fannin's dancing blade;
And the heart of the fighter, bounding free
In his joy so hot and mad—
When Millard charged for Alamo,
Lamar for Goliad.
Deaf Smith rode straight, with reeking spur,
Into the shock and rout:
"I've hacked and burned the bayou bridge,
There's no sneak's back-way out!"
Muzzle or butt for Goliad,
Pistol and blade and fist!
Oh, for the knife that never glanced,
And the gun that never missed!
Dulces and cigaritos,
Song and the mandolin!
That gory swamp was a gruesome grove
To dance fandangos in.
We bridged the bog with the sprawling herd
That fell in that frantic rout;
[We slew and slew till the sun set red],
And the Texan star flashed out.
John Williamson Palmer.
The victory at San Jacinto ended the war. Santa Anna at once signed a treaty recognizing the independence of Texas, and it was formally ratified May 14, 1836. The Republic of Texas was established, and commissioners were dispatched to Washington to secure recognition and proffer annexation.
SONG OF TEXAS
Make room on our banner bright
That flaps in the lifting gale,
For the orb that lit the fight
In Jacinto's storied vale.
Through clouds, all dark of hue,
It arose with radiant face;
Oh, grant to a sister true,
Ye stars, in your train a place!
The blood of the Saxon flows
In the veins of the men who cry,—
"Give ear, give ear unto those
Who pine for their native sky!
We call on our Motherland
For a home in Freedom's hall,—
While stretching forth the hand,
Oh, build no dividing wall!
"The Mexican vaunteth no more;
In strife we have tamed his pride;
The coward raps not at your door,
Speak out! shall it open wide?
Oh, the wish of our hearts is strong,
That the star of Jacinto's fight
Have place in the flashing throng
That spangle your banner bright."
William Henry Cuyler Hosmer.
The question of the admission of Texas was destined to occasion the bitterest controversy that ever shook the Union. The struggle between the advocates of freedom and of slavery was at its height; the former feared that to annex Texas, with its two hundred thousand square miles, would be to seat the slave interests more firmly than ever in power. It would also involve war with Mexico. The controversy raged with unexampled venom, but on December 29, 1845, Texas was admitted to the Union.
TEXAS
VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND
Up the hillside, down the glen,
Rouse the sleeping citizen;
Summon out the might of men!
Like a lion growling low,
Like a night-storm rising slow,
Like the tread of unseen foe;
It is coming, it is nigh!
Stand your homes and altars by;
On your own free thresholds die.
Clang the bells in all your spires;
On the gray hills of your sires
Fling to heaven your signal-fires.
From Wachuset, lone and bleak,
Unto Berkshire's tallest peak,
Let the flame-tongued heralds speak.
Oh, for God and duty stand,
Heart to heart and hand to hand,
Round the old graves of the land.
Whoso shrinks or falters now,
Whoso to the yoke would bow,
Brand the craven on his brow!
Freedom's soil hath only place
For a free and fearless race,
None for traitors false and base.
Perish party, perish clan;
Strike together while ye can,
Like the arm of one strong man.
Like that angel's voice sublime,
Heard above a world of crime,
Crying of the end of time;
With one heart and with one mouth,
Let the North unto the South
Speak the word befitting both:
"What though Issachar be strong!
Ye may load his back with wrong
Overmuch and over long:
"Patience with her cup o'errun,
With her weary thread outspun,
Murmurs that her work is done.
"Make our Union-bond a chain,
Weak as tow in Freedom's strain
Link by link shall snap in twain.
"Vainly shall your sand-wrought rope
Bind the starry cluster up,
Shattered over heaven's blue cope!
"Give us bright though broken rays,
Rather than eternal haze,
Clouding o'er the full-orbed blaze.
"Take your land of sun and bloom;
Only leave to Freedom room
For her plough, and forge, and loom;
"Take your slavery-blackened vales;
Leave us but our own free gales,
Blowing on our thousand sails.
"Boldly, or with treacherous art,
Strike the blood-wrought chain apart;
Break the Union's mighty heart;
"Work the ruin, if ye will;
Pluck upon your heads an ill
Which shall grow and deepen still.
"With your bondman's right arm bare,
With his heart of black despair,
Stand alone, if stand ye dare!
"Onward with your fell design;
Dig the gulf and draw the line:
Fire beneath your feet the mine:
"Deeply, when the wide abyss
Yawns between your land and this,
Shall ye feel your helplessness.
"By the hearth and in the bed,
Shaken by a look or tread,
Ye shall own a guilty dread.
"And the curse of unpaid toil,
Downward through your generous soil
Like a fire shall burn and spoil.
"Our bleak hills shall bud and blow,
Vines our rocks shall overgrow,
Plenty in our valleys flow;—
"And when vengeance clouds your skies,
Hither shall ye turn your eyes,
As the lost on Paradise!
"We but ask our rocky strand,
Freedom's true and brother band,
Freedom's strong and honest hand;
"Valleys by the slave untrod,
And the Pilgrim's mountain sod,
Blessèd of our fathers' God!"
John Greenleaf Whittier.
The Mexican minister had already demanded his passports, and the annexation of Texas to the Union was regarded by Mexico as an act of war. A Mexican army was collected on the Rio Grande, while an American army of occupation under General Zachary Taylor was thrown into Texas. The war awakened the most violent hostility in the North, and especially in New England, where it was held to be merely a pretext for extending slave territory.
MR. HOSEA BIGLOW SPEAKS
Thrash away, you'll hev to rattle
On them kittle-drums o' yourn,—
'Taint a knowin' kind o' cattle
Thet is ketched with mouldy corn;
Put in stiff, you fifer feller,
Let folks see how spry you be,—
Guess you'll toot till you are yeller
'Fore you git ahold o' me!
Thet air flag's a leetle rotten,
Hope it aint your Sunday's best;—
Fact! it takes a sight o' cotton
To stuff out a soger's chest:
Sence we farmers hev to pay fer 't,
Ef you must wear humps like these,
S'posin' you should try salt hay fer 't,
It would du ez slick ez grease.
'Twouldn't suit them Southun fellers,
They're a dreffle graspin' set,
We must ollers blow the bellers
Wen they want their irons het;
May be it's all right ez preachin',
But my narves it kind o' grates,
Wen I see the overreachin'
O' them nigger-drivin' States.
Them thet rule us, them slave-traders,
Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth
(Helped by Yankee renegaders),
Thru the vartu o' the North!
We begin to think it's nater
To take sarse an' not be riled;—
Who'd expect to see a tater
All on eend at bein' biled?
Ez fer war, I call it murder,—
There you hev it plain an' flat;
I don't want to go no furder
Than my Testyment fer that;
God hez sed so plump an' fairly,
It's ez long ez it is broad,
An' you've gut to git up airly
Ef you want to take in God.
'Taint your eppyletts an' feathers
Make the thing a grain more right;
'Taint afollerin' your bell-wethers
Will excuse ye in His sight;
Ef you take a sword an' dror it,
An' go stick a feller thru,
Guv'ment aint to answer for it,
God'll send the bill to you.
Wut's the use o' meetin'-goin'
Every Sabbath, wet or dry,
Ef it's right to go amowin'
Feller-men like oats an' rye?
I dunno but what it's pooty
Trainin' round in bobtail coats,—
But it's curus Christian dooty
This 'ere cuttin' folks's throats.
They may talk o' Freedom's airy
Tell they're pupple in the face,—
It's a grand gret cemetary
Fer the barthrights of our race;
They jest want this Californy
So's to lug new slave-states in
To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye,
An' to plunder ye like sin.
Aint it cute to see a Yankee
Take sech everlastin' pains,
All to get the Devil's thankee
Helpin' on 'em weld their chains?
Wy, it's jest ez clear es figgers,
Clear ez one an' one make two,
Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggers
Want to make wite slaves o' you.
Tell ye jest the eend I've come to
Arter cipherin' plaguy smart,
An' it makes a handy sum, tu,
Any gump could larn by heart;
Laborin' man an' laborin' woman,
Hev one glory an' one shame,
Ev'y thin' thet's done inhuman
Injers all on 'em the same.
'Taint by turnin' out to hack folks
You're agoin' to git your right,
Nor by lookin' down on black folks
Coz you're put upon by wite;
Slavery aint o' nary color,
'Taint the hide thet makes it wus,
All it keers fer in a feller
'S jest to make him fill its pus.
Want to tackle me in, du ye?
I expect you'll hev to wait;
Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye
You'll begin to kal'late;
S'pose the crows wun't fall to pickin'
All the carkiss from your bones,
Coz you helped to give a lickin'
To them poor half-Spanish drones?
Jest go home an' ask our Nancy
Wether I'd be such a goose
Ez to jine ye,—guess you'd fancy
The eternal bung wuz loose!
She wants me fer home consumption,
Let alone the hay's to mow,—
Ef you're arter folks o' gumption,
You've a darned long row to hoe.
Take them editors thet's crowin'
Like a cockerel three months old,—
Don't ketch any on 'em goin',
Though they be so blasted bold;
Aint they a prime lot o' fellers?
'Fore they think on 't guess they'll sprout
(Like a peach thet's got the yellers),
With the meanness bustin' out.
Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin'
Bigger pens to cram with slaves,
Help the men thet's ollers dealin'
Insults on your fathers' graves;
Help the strong to grind the feeble,
Help the many agin the few,
Help the men thet call your people
Witewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew!
Massachusetts, God forgive her,
She's akneelin' with the rest,
She, thet ough' to ha' clung ferever
In her grand old eagle-nest;
She thet ough' to stand so fearless
W'ile the wracks are round her hurled,
Holdin' up a beacon peerless
To the oppressed of all the world!
Ha'n't they sold your colored seamen?
Ha'n't they made your env'ys w'iz?
Wut'll make ye act like freemen?
Wut'll git your dander riz?
Come, I tell you wut I'm thinkin'
Is our dooty in this fix,
They'd ha' done 't ez quick ez winkin'
In the days o' seventy-six.
Clang the bells in every steeple,
Call all true men to disown
The tradoocers of our people,
The enslavers o' their own;
Let our dear old Bay State proudly
Put the trumpet to her mouth,
Let her ring this messidge loudly
In the ears of all the South:—
"I'll return ye good fer evil
Much ez we frail mortils can,
But I wun't go help the Devil
Makin' man the cus o' man;
Call me coward, call me traitor,
Jest ez suits your mean idees,—
Here I stand a tyrant-hater,
An' the friend o' God an' Peace!"
Ef I'd my way I hed ruther
We should go to work an' part,
They take one way, we take t'other,
Guess it wouldn't break my heart;
Man hed ough' to put asunder
Them thet God has noways jined;
An' I shouldn't gretly wonder
Ef there's thousands o' my mind.
James Russell Lowell.
General Taylor took up his station opposite Matamoras, where the Mexican army was, and the Mexicans finally attacked Fort Brown, which Taylor had erected opposite one of their batteries. On May 7 Taylor started to relieve the fort, with a force of twenty-one hundred men, and at noon next day found the Mexican army, six thousand strong, drawn up before him at Palo Alto. Taylor ordered Lieutenant Blake to reconnoitre the enemy's position.
THE GUNS IN THE GRASS
[May 8, 1846]
As hang two mighty thunderclouds
Ere lightnings link the twain,
So lie we and the Mexican
On Palo Alto plain;
And silence, solemn, dread, profound,
Broods o'er the waiting battle-ground.
We see the foeman's musketeers
Deployed upon his right,
And on his left the cavalry
Stand, hungry for the fight;
But that blank centre—what? Alas,
'Tis hidden by the prairie grass!
Old Rough and Ready scans the foe;
"I would I knew," says he,
"Whether or no that lofty grass
Conceals artillery.
Could I but bring that spot in ken,
'Twere worth to me five thousand men!"
Then forward steps Lieutenant Blake,
Touches his hat, and says,
"I wait command to ride and see
What 'neath that prairie lays."
We stand amazed: no cowards, we:
But this is more than bravery!
"'Command'!" cries Taylor; "nay, I ne'er
To such a deed 'command!'"
Then bends he o'er his horse's neck
And takes as brave a hand
As e'er a loyal sabre bore:
"God bless you, Blake," he says—no more.
The soldier to his saddle springs
And gayly waves good-by,
Determination on his lips,
A proud light in his eye:
And then, as pity holds our breath,
We see him dare that road of death.
To utmost pace his steed he spurs.
Save that his sword hangs free,
It were as though a madman charged
A nation's chivalry!
On, on, he flies, his steed unreined
Till yonder hillock's crest is gained.
And now he checks his horse, dismounts,
And coolly through his glass
Surveys the phalanx of the foe
That lies beyond the grass.
A musket-flash! They move! Advance!
Halt!—'twas the sunlight on a lance!
He turns, remounts, and speeds him back.
Hark! what is that we hear?
Across the rolling prairie rings—
A gun? ah, no—a cheer!
A noble tribute sweeps the plain:
A thousand throats take up the strain.
Safe! But the secret to unveil
Taylor no longer seeks;
For with a roar that shakes the earth
That unmasked centre speaks!
'Gainst fearful odds, till set of sun,
We battle—and the field is won!
Thomas Frost.
Blake brought back with him an accurate description of the disposition of the Mexican forces, and Taylor resolved to attack, despite the odds against him. His artillery did great execution, and gradually advanced, as the Mexicans were forced back. Charge after charge was repulsed, and the Mexicans finally withdrew to Resaca de la Palma. There Taylor attacked them next day, routed them, and marched on to relieve Fort Brown.
RIO BRAVO—A MEXICAN LAMENT
[May 8, 1846]
[Rio Bravo!] Rio Bravo!
Saw men ever such a sight?
Since the field of Roncesvalles
Sealed the fate of many a knight.
Dark is Palo Alto's story,
Sad Reseca Palma's rout,
On those fatal fields so gory,
Many a gallant life went out.
There our best and bravest lances
Shivered 'gainst the Northern steel,
Left the valiant hearts that couched them
'Neath the Northern charger's heel.
Rio Bravo! Rio Bravo!
Minstrel ne'er knew such a fight
Since the field of Roncesvalles
Sealed the fate of many a knight.
Rio Bravo, fatal river,
Saw ye not while red with gore,
Torrejon all headless quiver,
A ghastly trunk upon thy shore!
Heard you not the wounded coursers
Shrieking on your trampled banks,
As the Northern winged artillery
Thundered on our shattered ranks!
There Arista, best and bravest,
There Raguena, tried and true,
On the fatal field thou lavest,
Nobly did all men could do.
Vainly there those heroes rally,
Castile on Montezuma's shore,
"Rio Bravo"—"Roncesvalles,"
Ye are names blent evermore.
Weepest thou, lorn lady Inez,
For thy lover 'mid the slain,
Brave La Vega's trenchant falchion
Cleft his slayer to the brain.
Brave La Vega who all lonely,
By a host of foes beset,
Yielded up his sabre only
When his equal there he met.
Other champions not less noted
Sleep beneath that sullen wave;
Rio Bravo, thou hast floated
An army to an ocean grave.
On they came, those Northern horsemen,
On like eagles toward the sun,
Followed then the Northern bayonet,
And the field was lost and won.
Oh! for Orlando's horn to rally
His Paladins on that sad shore,
"Rio Bravo"—"Roncesvalles,"
Ye are names blent evermore.
Translated by
Charles Fenno Hoffman
from the Spanish of
Don Jose de Saltillo.
These brilliant victories served to kindle enthusiasm for the war throughout the whole country. Congress authorized the enlistment of fifty thousand volunteers, and reinforcements were promptly started to General Taylor at Matamoras.
TO ARMS
[1846]
Awake! arise, ye men of might!
The glorious hour is nigh,—
Your eagle pauses in his flight,
And screams his battle-cry.
From North to South, from East to West:
Send back an answering cheer,
And say farewell to peace and rest,
And banish doubt and fear.
Arm! arm! your country bids you arm!
Fling out your banners free—
Let drum and trumpet sound alarm,
O'er mountains, plain, and sea.
March onward from th' Atlantic shore,
To Rio Grande's tide—
Fight as your fathers fought of yore!
Die as your fathers died!
Go! vindicate your country's fame,
Avenge your country's wrong!
The sons should own a deathless name,
To whom such sires belong.
The kindred of the noble dead
As noble deeds should dare:
The fields whereon their blood was shed
A deeper stain must bear.
To arms! to arms! ye men of might;
Away from home, away!
The first and foremost in the fight
Are sure to win the day!
Park Benjamin.
By the last of August, Taylor had whipped his army into shape, and began to advance on Monterey, a town believed to be impregnable, and where General Arista had collected an army of ten thousand men. The American army reached the town September 19; and after two days' desperate fighting the town surrendered.
MONTEREY
[September 23, 1846]
We were not many, we who stood
Before the iron sleet that day:
Yet many a gallant spirit would
Give half his years if but he could
Have been with us at Monterey.
Now here, now there, the shot is hail'd
In deadly drifts of fiery spray,
Yet not a single soldier quail'd
When wounded comrades round them wail'd
Their dying shout at Monterey.
And on—still on our column kept
Through walls of flame its withering way;
Where fell the dead, the living stept,
Still charging on the guns which swept
The slippery streets of Monterey.
The foe himself recoil'd aghast,
When, striking where he strongest lay,
We swoop'd his flanking batteries past,
And braving full their murderous blast,
Storm'd home the towers of Monterey.
Our banners on those turrets wave,
And there our evening bugles play:
Where orange-boughs above their grave
Keep green the memory of the brave
Who fought and fell at Monterey.
We are not many—we who press'd
Beside the brave who fell that day—
But who of us has not confess'd
He'd rather share their warrior rest
Than not have been at Monterey?
Charles Fenno Hoffman.
The city had cost the Americans five hundred in killed and wounded; but the Mexican loss was nearly twice as great. Among the American dead was Victor Galbraith, a bugler in a company of volunteer cavalry, who was shot for disobeying orders.
VICTOR GALBRAITH
[September 23, 1846]
Under the walls of Monterey
At daybreak the bugles began to play,
Victor Galbraith!
In the mist of the morning damp and gray,
These were the words they seemed to say:
"Come forth to thy death,
Victor Galbraith!"
Forth he came, with a martial tread;
Firm was his step, erect his head;
Victor Galbraith,
He who so well the bugle played,
Could not mistake the words it said:
"Come forth to thy death,
Victor Galbraith!"
He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky,
He looked at the files of musketry,
Victor Galbraith!
And he said, with a steady voice and eye,
"Take good aim; I am ready to die!"
Thus challenges death
Victor Galbraith.
Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red,
Six leaden balls on their errand sped;
Victor Galbraith
Falls to the ground, but he is not dead:
His name was not stamped on those balls of lead,
And they only scath
Victor Galbraith.
Three balls are in his breast and brain,
But he rises out of the dust again,
Victor Galbraith!
The water he drinks has a bloody stain;
"Oh, kill me, and put me out of my pain!"
In his agony prayeth
Victor Galbraith.
Forth dart once more those tongues of flame,
And the bugler has died a death of shame,
Victor Galbraith!
His soul has gone back to whence it came,
And no one answers to the name
When the Sergeant saith,
"Victor Galbraith!"
Under the walls of Monterey
By night a bugle is heard to play,
Victor Galbraith!
Through the mist of the valley damp and gray
The sentinels hear the sound, and say,
"That is the wraith
Of Victor Galbraith!"
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Further reinforcements were hurried forward to General Taylor. Santa Anna had collected a great army, and Taylor fell back to Angostura, near the village of Buena Vista. There, on February 22, Santa Anna summoned him to surrender, stating that he was surrounded by twenty thousand men and could not avoid defeat. Taylor tartly refused, and Santa Anna advanced to the attack, only to be routed after a desperate two days' struggle.
BUENA VISTA
[February 22-23, 1847]
From the Rio Grande's waters to the icy lakes of Maine,
Let all exult! for we have met the enemy again;
Beneath their stern old mountains we have met them in their pride,
And rolled from Buena Vista back the battle's bloody tide;
Where the enemy came surging swift, like the Mississippi's flood,
And the reaper, Death, with strong arms swung his sickle red with blood.
Santana boasted loudly that, before two hours were past,
His Lancers through Saltillo should pursue us fierce and fast:—
On comes his solid infantry, line marching after line;
Lo! their great standards in the sun like sheets of silver shine:
With thousands upon thousands,—yea, with more than three to one,—
Their forests of bright bayonets fierce-flashing in the sun.
Lo! Guanajuato's regiment; Morelos' boasted corps,
And Guadalajara's chosen troops!—all veterans tried before.
Lo! galloping upon the right four thousand lances gleam,
Where, floating in the morning wind, their blood-red pennons stream;
And here his stern artillery climbs up the broad plateau:
To-day he means to strike at us an overwhelming blow.
Now, Wool, hold strongly to the heights! for, lo! the mighty tide
Comes, thundering like an avalanche, deep, terrible, and wide.
Now, Illinois, stand steady! Now, Kentucky, to their aid!
For a portion of our line, alas! is broken and dismayed:
Great bands of shameless fugitives are fleeing from the field,
And the day is lost, if Illinois and brave Kentucky yield.
One of O'Brien's guns is gone!—On, on their masses drift,
Till their cavalry and infantry outflank us on the left;
Our light troops, driven from the hills, retreat in wild dismay,
And round us gather, thick and dark, the Mexican array.
Santana thinks the day is gained; for, now approaching near,
Miñon's dark cloud of Lancers sternly menaces our rear.
Now, Lincoln, gallant gentleman, lies dead upon the field,
Who strove to stay those cravens, when before the storm they reeled.
Fire, Washington, fire fast and true! Fire, Sherman, fast and far!
Lo! Bragg comes thundering to the front, to breast the adverse war!
Santana thinks the day is gained! On, on his masses crowd,
And the roar of battle swells again more terrible and loud.
Not yet! Our brave old General comes to regain the day;
Kentucky, to the rescue! Mississippi, to the fray!
Again our line advances! Gallant Davis fronts the foe,
And back before his rifles, in red waves the Lancers flow.
Upon them yet once more, ye brave! The avalanche is stayed!
Back roll the Aztec multitudes, all broken and dismayed.
Ride! May!—To Buena Vista! for the Lancers gain our rear,
And we have few troops there to check their vehement career.
Charge, Arkansas! Kentucky, charge! Yell, Porter, Vaughan, are slain.
But the shattered troops cling desperately unto that crimsoned plain;
Till, with the Lancers intermixed, pursuing and pursued,
Westward, in combat hot and close, drifts off the multitude.
And May comes charging from the hills with his ranks of flaming steel,
While, shattered with a sudden fire, the foe already reel:
They flee amain!—Now to the left, to stay the torrent there,
Or else the day is surely lost, in horror and despair!
For their hosts pour swiftly onward, like a river in the spring,
Our flank is turned, and on our left their cannon thundering.
Now, good Artillery! bold Dragoons! Steady, brave hearts, be calm!
Through rain, cold hail, and thunder, now nerve each gallant arm!
What though their shot fall round us here, yet thicker than the hail?
We'll stand against them, as the rock stands firm against the gale.
Lo! their battery is silenced! but our iron sleet still showers:
They falter, halt, retreat,—Hurrah! the glorious day is ours!
In front, too, has the fight gone well, where upon gallant Lane,
And on stout Mississippi, the thick Lancers charged in vain:
Ah! brave Third Indiana! you have nobly wiped away
The reproach that through another corps befell your State to-day;
For back, all broken and dismayed, before your storm of fire,
Santana's boasted chivalry, a shattered wreck, retire.
Now charge again, Santana! or the day is surely lost—
For back, like broken waves, along our left your hordes are tossed.
Still faster roar his batteries,—his whole reserve moves on;
More work remains for us to do, ere the good fight is won.
Now for your wives and children, men! Stand steady yet once more!
Fight for your lives and honors! Fight as you never fought before!
Ho! Hardin breasts it bravely! and heroic Bissell there
Stands firm before the storm of balls that fill the astonished air:
The Lancers dash upon them too! The foe swarm ten to one:
Hardin is slain; McKee and Clay the last time see the sun:
And many another gallant heart, in that last desperate fray,
Grew cold, its last thought turning to its loved ones far away.
Speed, speed, Artillery! to the front!—for the hurricane of fire
Crushes those noble regiments, reluctant to retire!
Speed swiftly! Gallop! Ah! they come! Again Bragg climbs the ridge,
And his grape sweeps down the swarming foe, as a strong man moweth sedge:
Thus baffled in their last attack, compelled perforce to yield,
Still menacing in firm array, their columns leave the field.
The guns still roared at intervals; but silence fell at last,
And on the dead and dying came the evening shadows fast.
And then above the mountains rose the cold moon's silver shield,
And patiently and pitying she looked upon the field.
While careless of his wounded, and neglectful of his dead,
Despairingly and sullenly by night Santana fled.
And thus on Buena Vista's heights a long day's work was done,
And thus our brave old General another battle won.
Still, still our glorious banner waves, unstained by flight or shame,
And the Mexicans among their hills still tremble at our name.
So, honor unto those that stood! Disgrace to those that fled!
And everlasting glory unto Buena Vista's dead!
Albert Pike.
February 28, 1847.
[February 22-23, 1847]
Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away,
O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array,
Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they near?
Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear.
"Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls;
Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their souls!"
Who is losing? who is winning? "Over hill and over plain,
I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain rain."
Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, look once more.
"Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before,
Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse,
Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain course."
Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke has rolled away;
And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray.
Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of Minon wheels;
There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their heels.
"Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now advance!
Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance!
Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together fall;
Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the Northern ball."
Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on!
Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost, and who has won?
"Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together fall,
O'er the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters, for them all!
"Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting. Blessed Mother, save my brain!
I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain.
Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and strive to rise;
Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes!
"O my heart's love! O my dear one! lay thy poor head on my knee;
Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me? canst thou see?
O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernal, look once more
On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy! mercy! all is o'er!"
Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest;
Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast;
Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said;
To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid.
Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay,
Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away;
But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt,
She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt.
With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her head;
With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her dead;
But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain,
And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again.
Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand and faintly smiled;
Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch beside her child?
All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart supplied;
With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" murmured he, and died!
"A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth,
From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, in the North!"
Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead,
And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled.
Look forth once more, Ximena! "Like a cloud before the wind
Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind;
Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded strive;
Hide your faces, holy angels! O thou Christ of God, forgive!"
Sink, O Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray shadows fall;
Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all!
Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled,
In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold.
But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued,
Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and lacking food.
Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they hung,
And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern tongue.
Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours;
Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden flowers;
From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer,
And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
The American forces in this memorable battle totalled 4691, while the Mexicans mustered over 23,000 men. The Mexican losses exceeded 2500. The Americans lost 264 killed and 450 wounded. Theodore O'Hara's famous poem was written to commemorate them.
THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on Life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind;
No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms;
No braying horn nor screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.
Their shivered swords are red with rust;
Their plumèd heads are bowed;
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms, by battle gashed,
Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout are past;
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Came down the serried foe.
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day
Was "Victory or Death."
Long had the doubtful conflict raged
O'er all that stricken plain,
For never fiercer fight had waged
The vengeful blood of Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,
Still swelled the gory tide;
Not long our stout old chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.
'Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyr's grave
The flower of his belovèd land,
The nation's flag to save.
By rivers of their fathers' gore
His first-born laurels grew,
And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too.
Full many a norther's breath has swept,
O'er Angostura's plain—
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its mouldered slain.
The raven's scream or eagle's flight
Or shepherd's pensive lay,
Alone awakes each sullen height
That frowned o'er that dread fray.
Sons of the Dark and Bloody ground,
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air.
Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave;
She claims from war his richest spoil—
The ashes of her brave.
Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield;
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes' sepulchre.
Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave,
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your story be forgot,
While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell
When many a vanished age hath flown,
The story how ye fell;
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor Time's remorseless doom,
Shall dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.
Theodore O'Hara.
Despite the victories, the war continued unpopular in New England, and particularly in Massachusetts. In the campaign of 1847, Caleb Cushing, who had raised a regiment at his own expense and taken it to Mexico, was nominated by the Democrats for governor, but was defeated by George Nixon Briggs, his Whig opponent, by a majority of fourteen thousand.
WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS
[1847]
[Guvener B.] is a sensible man;
He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks;
He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can,
An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;
But [John P.]
Robinson he
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.
My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du?
We can't never choose him o' course,—thet's flat;
Guess we shell hev to come round, (don't you?)
An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that;
Fer John P.
Robinson he
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.
[Gineral C.] is a dreffle smart man:
He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf;
But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,—
He's ben true to one party,—an' thet is himself;—
So John P.
Robinson he
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.
Gineral C. he goes in fer the war;
He don't vally princerple more 'n an old cud;
Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer,
But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood?
So John P.
Robinson he
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.
We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village,
With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint,
We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage,
An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint;
But John P.
Robinson he
Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.
The side of our country must ollers be took,
An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country.
An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book
Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry;
An' John P.
Robinson he
Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.
Parson Wilbur he calls all these argiments lies;
Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum;
An' thet all this big talk of our destinies
Is half on it ign'ance, an' t'other half rum;
But John P.
Robinson he
Sez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.
Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life
Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats,
An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife,
To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes;
But John P.
Robinson he
Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.
Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us
The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,—
God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers,
To start the world's team wen it gits in a slough;
Fer John P.
Robinson he
Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!
James Russell Lowell.
On March 9, 1847, General Winfield Scott arrived off Vera Cruz with twelve thousand men to march against the City of Mexico. On April 18 he met and defeated Santa Anna's army at Cerro Gordo. On August 20 he arrived before the City of Mexico, and, after an ill-advised armistice, advanced to storm the city on September 8. He chose the approach guarded by the formidable works of Malino del Rey and Chapultepec. The former was carried by assault, after a fierce hand-to-hand battle.
BATTLE OF THE KING'S MILL
[September 8, 1847]
Said my landlord, white-headed Gil Gomez,
With newspaper held in his hand—
"So they've built from El Paso a railway
That Yankees may visit our land.
As guests let them come and be welcome,
But not as they came here before;
They are rather rough fellows to handle
In the rush of the battle and roar.
"They took Vera Cruz and its castle;
In triumph they marched through the land;
We fought them with desperate daring,
But lacked the right man to command.
They stormed, at a loss, Cerro Gordo—
Every mile in their movement it cost;
And when they arrived at Puebla,
Some thousands of men they had lost.
"Ere our capital fell, and the city
By foreign invaders was won,
We called out among its defenders
Each man who could handle a gun.
Chapultepec stood in their pathway;
Churubusco they had to attack;
The mill of the King—well, I fought there,
And they were a hard nut to crack.
"While their right was assailing the ramparts,
Our force struck their left on the field,
Where our colonel, in language that stirred us,
To love of our country appealed.
And we swore that we never would falter
Before either sabre or ball;
We would beat back the foeman before us,
Or dead on the battle-field fall.
"Fine words, you may say, but we meant them;
And so when they came up the hill,
We poured on them volley on volley,
And riddled their ranks with a will.
Their line in a moment was broken;
They closed it, and came with a cheer;
But still we fired quickly and deadly,
And felt neither pity nor fear.
"We smote the blue column with grape-shot,
But it rushed as the wild torrent runs;
At the pieces they slew our best gunners,
And took in the struggle our guns.
We sprang in a rage to retake them,
And lost nearly half of our men;
Then, baffled and beaten, retreated,
And gained our position again.
"Ceased their yell, and in spite of our firing
They dressed like an arrow in line,
Then, standing there moveless a moment,
Their eyes flashed with purpose malign,
All still as the twilight in summer,
No cloud on the sky to deform,
Like the lull in the voices of nature
Ere wakens the whirlwind and storm.
"We had fought them with death-daring spirit,
And courage unyielding till then;
No man could have forced us to falter,
But these were more demons than men.
Our ranks had been torn by their bullets,
We filled all the gaps they had made;
But the pall of that terrible silence
The hearts of our boldest dismayed.
"Before us no roaring of cannon,
Rifle-rattle, or musketry peal;
But there on the ocean of battle
Surged steady the billow of steel.
Fierce we opened our fire on the column,
We pierced it with ball here and there;
But it swept on in pitiless sternness
Till we faltered and fled in despair.
"After that all their movements were easy;
At their storming Chapultepec fell,
And that ended the war—we were beaten:
No story is left me to tell.
And now they come back to invade us,
Though not with the bullet and blade;
They are here with their goods on a railway,
To conquer the country by trade."
Thomas Dunn English.
Chapultepec still remained, and on the morning of September 13 two storming parties rushed it, swarmed over the walls, swept back the garrison, and planted the American flag on the ramparts. The Mexican army hastened to evacuate the city, and on September 14 the Stars and Stripes floated over the capital of Mexico.
THE SIEGE OF CHAPULTEPEC
[September 13, 1847]
Wide o'er the valley the pennons are fluttering,
War's sullen story the deep guns are muttering,
Forward! blue-jackets, in good steady order,
Strike for the fame of your good northern border;
Forever shall history tell of the bloody check
Waiting the foe at the siege of Chapultepec.
Let the proud deeds of your fathers inspire ye still,
Think ye of Monmouth, and Princeton, and Bunker Hill,
Come from your hallowed graves, famous in story,
Shades of our heroes, and lead us to glory.
Side by side, son and father with hoary head
Struggle for triumph, or death on a gory bed.
Hark! to the charge! the war-hail is pattering,
The foe through our ranks red rain is scattering;
Huzza! forward! no halting or flagging till
Proudly the red stripes float o'er yon rocky hill.
Northern and Southerner, let your feuds smolder;
Charge! for our banner's fame, shoulder to shoulder!
Flash the fort guns, and thunders their stunning swell
Far o'er the valley to white Popocatapetl,
Death revels high in the midst of the bloody sport,
Bursting in flame from each black-throated castle-port,
Press on the line with keen sabres dripping wet,
Cheer, as ye smite with the death-dealing bayonet!
Our bold Northern eagle, king of the firmament,
Shares with no rival the skies of the continent.
Yields the fierce foeman; down let his flag be hurled,
Shout, as our own from the turret is wide unfurled!
Shout! for long shall Mexico mourn the wreck
Of her proud state at the siege of Chapultepec.
William Haines Lytle.
While these victories were being won in Mexico, General Stephen W. Kearny, at the head of the Army of the West, had seized the territory of New Mexico, and established a civil government at Santa Fé. He then proceeded to California, defeated the Mexicans at Sacramento, and took possession of that province.
ILLUMINATION FOR VICTORIES IN MEXICO
Light up thy homes, Columbia,
For those chivalric men
Who bear to scenes of warlike strife
Thy conquering arms again,
Where glorious victories, flash on flash,
Reveal their stormy way,—
Resaca's, Palo Alto's fields,
The heights of Monterey!
They pile with thousands of thy foes
Buena Vista's plain;
With maids and wives, at Vera Cruz,
Swell high the list of slain!
They paint upon the Southern skies
The blaze of burning domes,—
Their laurels dew with blood of babes!
Light up, light up thy homes!
Light up your homes, O fathers!
For those young hero bands,
Whose march is still through vanquished towns,
And over conquered lands!
Whose valor, wild, impetuous,
In all its fiery glow,
Pours onward like a lava-tide,
And sweeps away the foe!
For those whose dead brows glory crowns,
On crimson couches sleeping,
And for home faces wan with grief,
And fond eyes dim with weeping.
And for the soldier, poor, unknown,
Who battled, madly brave,
Beneath a stranger soil to share
A shallow, crowded grave.
Light up thy home, young mother!
Then gaze in pride and joy
Upon those fair and gentle girls,
That eagle-eyed young boy;
And clasp thy darling little one
Yet closer to thy breast,
And be thy kisses on its lips
In yearning love impressed.
In yon beleaguered city
Were homes as sweet as thine;
Where trembling mothers felt loved arms
In fear around them twine,—
The lad with brow of olive hue,
The babe like lily fair,
The maiden with her midnight eyes,
And wealth of raven hair.
The booming shot, the murderous shell,
Crashed through the crumbling walls,
And filled with agony and death
Those sacred household halls!
Then, bleeding, crushed, and blackened, lay
The sister by the brother,
And the torn infant gasped and writhed
On the bosom of the mother!
O sisters, if ye have no tears
For fearful tales like these,
If the banners of the victors veil
The victim's agonies,
If ye lose the babe's and mother's cry
In the noisy roll of drums,
If your hearts with martial pride throb high,
Light up, light up your homes!
Grace Greenwood.
The Mexican people knew themselves defeated, and were eager for peace. The treaty was finally signed February 2, 1848. Mexico accepted the Rio Grande as her northern boundary, and ceded New Mexico and California to the United States. For this territory the United States was to pay her $15,000,000, and to assume debts to the amount of $3,500,000.
THE CRISIS
Across the Stony Mountains, o'er the desert's drouth and sand,
The circles of our empire touch the western ocean's strand;
From slumberous Timpanogos to Gila, wild and free,
Flowing down from Nuevo-Leon to California's sea;
And from the mountains of the east, to Santa Rosa's shore,
The eagles of Mexitli shall beat the air no more.
O Vale of Rio Bravo! Let thy simple children weep;
Close watch about their holy fire let maids of Pecos keep;
Let Taos send her cry across Sierra Madre's pines,
And Santa Barbara toll her bells amidst her corn and vines;
For lo! the pale land-seekers come, with eager eyes of gain,
Wide scattering, like the bison herds on broad Salada's plain.
Let Sacramento's herdsmen heed what sound the winds bring down
Of footsteps on the crisping snow, from cold Nevada's crown!
Full hot and fast the Saxon rides, with rein of travel slack,
And, bending o'er his saddle, leaves the sunrise at his back;
By many a lonely river, and gorge of fir and pine,
On many a wintry hill-top, his nightly camp-fires shine.
O countrymen and brothers! that land of lake and plain,
Of salt wastes alternating with valleys fat with grain;
Of mountains white with winter, looking downward, cold, serene,
On their feet with spring-vines tangled and lapped in softest green;
Swift through whose black volcanic gates, o'er many a sunny vale,
Wind-like the Arapahoe sweeps the bison's dusty trail!
Great spaces yet untravelled, great lakes whose mystic shores
The Saxon rifle never heard, nor dip of Saxon oars;
Great herds that wander all unwatched, wild steeds that none have tamed,
Strange fish in unknown streams, and birds the Saxon never named;
Deep mines, dark mountain crucibles, where Nature's chemic powers
Work out the Great Designer's will; all these ye say are ours!
Forever ours! for good or ill, on us the burden lies:
God's balance, watched by angels, is hung across the skies.
Shall Justice, Truth, and Freedom turn the poised and trembling scale?
Or shall the Evil triumph, and robber Wrong prevail?
Shall the broad land o'er which our flag in starry splendor waves,
Forego through us its freedom, and bear the tread of slaves?
The day is breaking in the East of which the prophets told,
And brightens up the sky of Time the Christian Age of Gold;
Old Might to Right is yielding, battle blade to clerkly pen,
Earth's monarchs are her peoples, and her serfs stand up as men;
The isles rejoice together, in a day are nations born,
And the slave walks free in Tunis, and by Stamboul's Golden Horn!
Is this, O countrymen of mine! a day for us to sow
The soil of new-gained empire with slavery's seeds of woe?
To feed with our fresh life-blood the Old World's cast-off crime,
Dropped, like some monstrous early birth, from the tired lap of Time?
To run anew the evil race the old lost nations ran,
And die like them of unbelief of God, and wrong of man?
Great Heaven! Is this our mission? End in this the prayers and tears,
The toil, the strife, the watchings of our younger, better years?
Still as the Old World rolls in light, shall ours in shadow turn,
A beamless Chaos, cursed of God, through outer darkness borne?
Where the far nations looked for light, a blackness in the air?
Where for words of hope they listened, the long wail of despair?
The Crisis presses on us; face to face with us it stands,
With solemn lips of question, like the Sphinx in Egypt's sands!
This day we fashion Destiny, our web of Fate we spin;
This day for all hereafter choose we holiness or sin;
Even now from starry Gerizim, or Ebal's cloudy crown,
We call the dews of blessing or the bolts of cursing down!
By all for which the martyrs bore their agony and shame;
By all the warning words of truth with which the prophets came;
By the Future which awaits us; by all the hopes which cast
Their faint and trembling beams across the blackness of the Past;
And by the blessed thought of Him who for Earth's freedom died,
O my people! O my brothers! let us choose the righteous side.
So shall the Northern pioneer go joyful on his way;
To wed Penobscot's waters to San Francisco's bay,
To make the rugged places smooth, and sow the vales with grain;
And bear, with Liberty and Law, the Bible in his train:
The mighty West shall bless the East, and sea shall answer sea,
And mountain unto mountain call, Praise God, for we are free!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
On June 12, 1848, the last of the United States troops left the City of Mexico. They were received at home with the wildest enthusiasm. Never had a nation, in modern times, fought so successful a war in so short a time.
THE VOLUNTEERS
[1849]
The Volunteers! the Volunteers!
I dream, as in the by-gone years,
I hear again their stirring cheers,
And see their banners shine,
What time the yet unconquered North
Pours to the wars her legions forth,
For many a wrong to strike a blow
With mailèd hand at Mexico.
The Volunteers! Ah, where are they
Who bade the hostile surges stay,
When the black forts of Monterey
Frowned on their dauntless line?
When, undismayed amid the shock
Of war, like Cerro Gordo's rock,
They stood, or rushed more madly on
Than tropic tempest o'er San Juan?
On Angostura's crowded field
Their shattered columns scorned to yield,
And wildly yet defiance pealed
Their flashing batteries' throats;
And echoed then the rifle's crack,
As deadly as when on the track
Of flying foe, of yore, its voice
Bade Orleans' dark-eyed girls rejoice.
Blent with the roar of guns and bombs,
How grandly from the dim past comes
The roll of their victorious drums,
Their bugle's joyous notes,
When over Mexico's proud towers,
And the fair valley's storied bowers,
Fit recompense of toil and scars,
In triumph waved their flag of stars.
Ah, comrades, of your own tried troop,
Whose honor ne'er to shame might stoop,
Of lion heart and eagle swoop,
But you alone remain;
On all the rest has fallen the hush
Of death; the men whose battle-rush
Was wild as sun-loosed torrent's flow
From Orizaba's crest of snow.
The Volunteers! the Volunteers!
God send us peace through all our years,
But if the cloud of war appears,
We'll see them once again.
From broad Ohio's peaceful side,
From where the Maumee pours its tide,
From storm-lashed Erie's wintry shore,
Shall spring the Volunteers once more.
William Haines Lytle.