CHAPTER V
THE WAR IN THE WEST
While the Army of the Potomac in the east was imitating the manœuvres of the King of France, stirring times were enacting in the west. Missouri was torn with dissension. The state had voted against secession in February, but the governor, C. F. Jackson, was doing everything he could to throw it into the Confederacy. General Nathaniel Lyon raised a force of loyalists, and a number of skirmishes ensued.
THE LITTLE DRUMMER[9]
'Tis of a little drummer,
The story I shall tell;
Of how he marched to battle,
Of all that there befell,
Out in the west with Lyon
(For once the name was true!)
For whom the little drummer beat
His rat-tat-too.
Our army rose at midnight,
Ten thousand men as one,
Each slinging off his knapsack
And snatching up his gun.
"Forward!" and off they started,
As all good soldiers do,
When the little drummer beats for them
The rat-tat-too.
Across a rolling country,
Where the mist began to rise;
Past many a blackened farmhouse,
Till the sun was in the skies;
Then we met the rebel pickets,
Who skirmished and withdrew,
While the little drummer beat, and beat
The rat-tat-too.
Along the wooded hollows
The line of battle ran,
Our centre poured a volley,
And the fight at once began;
For the rebels answered shouting,
And a shower of bullets flew;
But still the little drummer beat
His rat-tat-too.
He stood among his comrades,
As they quickly formed the line,
And when they raised their muskets
He watched the barrels shine.
When the volley rang, he started,
For war to him was new;
But still the little drummer beat
His rat-tat-too.
It was a sight to see them,
That early autumn day,
Our soldiers in their blue coats,
And the rebel ranks in gray;
The smoke that rolled between them,
The balls that whistled through,
And the little drummer as he beat
His rat-tat-too!
His comrades dropped around him,—
By fives and tens they fell,
Some pierced by minie bullets,
Some torn by shot and shell;
They played against our cannon,
And a caisson's splinters flew;
But still the little drummer beat
His rat-tat-too!
The right, the left, the centre,—
The fight was everywhere;
They pushed us here,—we wavered,—
We drove and broke them there.
The graybacks fixed their bayonets,
And charged the coats of blue,
But still the little drummer beat
His rat-tat-too!
"Where is our little drummer?"
His nearest comrades say,
When the dreadful fight is over,
And the smoke has cleared away.
As the rebel corps was scattering
He urged them to pursue,
So furiously he beat, and beat
The rat-tat-too!
He stood no more among them,
For a bullet, as it sped,
Had glanced and struck his ankle,
And stretched him with the dead!
He crawled behind a cannon,
And pale and paler grew;
But still the little drummer beat
His rat-tat-too!
They bore him to the surgeon,
A busy man was he:
"A drummer boy—what ails him?"
His comrades answered, "See!"
As they took him from the stretcher
A heavy breath he drew,
And his little fingers strove to beat
The rat-tat-too!
The ball had spent its fury:
"A scratch!" the surgeon said,
As he wound the snowy bandage
Which the lint was staining red.
"I must leave you now, old fellow!"
"Oh, take me back with you,
For I know the men are missing me
And the rat-tat-too!"
Upon his comrade's shoulder
They lifted him so grand,
With his dusty drum before him,
And his drumsticks in his hand!
To the fiery front of battle,
That nearer, nearer drew,—
And evermore he beat, and beat
His rat-tat-too!
The wounded as he passed them
Looked up and gave a cheer;
And one in dying blessed him,
Between a smile and tear.
And the graybacks—they are flying
Before the coats of blue,
For whom the little drummer beats
His rat-tat-too.
When the west was red with sunset,
The last pursuit was o'er;
Brave Lyon rode the foremost,
And looked the name he bore.
And before him on his saddle,
As a weary child would do,
Sat the little drummer, fast asleep,
With his rat-tat-too.
Richard Henry Stoddard.
Hostilities culminated on August 10, 1861, in a pitched battle at Wilson's Creek, in which, through bad management, the Union forces were defeated and Lyon himself was killed.
THE DEATH OF LYON
[August 10, 1861]
Sing, bird, on green Missouri's plain,
The saddest song of sorrow;
Drop tears, O clouds, in gentlest rain
Ye from the winds can borrow;
Breathe out, ye winds, your softest sigh,
Weep, flowers, in dewy splendor,
For him who knew well how to die,
But never to surrender.
Up rose serene the August sun
Upon that day of glory;
Up curled from musket and from gun
The war-cloud, gray and hoary;
It gathered like a funeral pall,
Now broken, and now blended,
Where rang the bugle's angry call,
And rank with rank contended.
Four thousand men, as brave and true
As e'er went forth in daring,
Upon the foe that morning threw
The strength of their despairing.
They feared not death—men bless the field
That patriot soldiers die on;
Fair Freedom's cause was sword and shield,
And at their head was Lyon.
Their leader's troubled soul looked forth
From eyes of troubled brightness;
Sad soul! the burden of the North
Had pressed out all its lightness.
He gazed upon the unequal fight,
His ranks all rent and gory,
And felt the shadows close like night
Round his career of glory.
"General, come lead us!" loud the cry
From a brave band was ringing—
"Lead us, and we will stop, or die,
That battery's awful singing!"
He spurred to where his heroes stood—
Twice wounded, no one knowing—
The fire of battle in his blood
And on his forehead glowing.
Oh! cursed for aye that traitor's hand,
And cursed that aim so deadly,
Which smote the bravest of the land,
And dyed his bosom redly.
Serene he lay, while past him pressed
The battle's furious billow,
As calmly as a babe may rest
Upon its mother's pillow.
So Lyon died; and well may flowers
His place of burial cover,
For never had this land of ours
A more devoted lover.
Living, his country was his bride;
His life he gave her, dying;
Life, fortune, love, he nought denied
To her, and to her sighing.
Rest, patriot, in thy hillside grave,
Beside her form who bore thee!
Long may the land thou diedst to save
Her bannered stars wave o'er thee!
Upon her history's brightest page,
And on fame's glowing portal,
She'll write thy grand, heroic age,
And grave thy name immortal.
Henry Peterson.
John C. Frémont had been placed in command of the department and advanced against the Confederates at the head of a strong force. On October 23, 1861, he detached a squadron of cavalry under Major Charles Zagonyi to reconnoitre the Confederate position at Springfield. Zagonyi found the Confederates two thousand strong, but charged them at the head of his hundred and fifty men, routed them, cut them to pieces, and drove them from the city. The charge was one of the most remarkable in history. The Confederates finally withdrew from the state.
ZAGONYI
[October 25, 1861]
Bold Captain of the Body-Guard,
I'll troll a stave to thee!
My voice is somewhat harsh and hard,
And rough my minstrelsy.
I've cheered until my throat is sore
For how Dupont at Beaufort bore;
Yet here's a cheer for thee!
I hear thy jingling spurs and reins,
Thy sabre at thy knee;
The blood runs lighter through my veins,
As I before me see
Thy hundred men with thrusts and blows
Ride down a thousand stubborn foes,
The foremost led by thee.
With pistol snap and rifle crack—
Mere salvos fired to honor thee—
Ye plunge, and stamp, and shoot, and hack
The way your swords make free;
Then back again,—the path is wide
This time,—ye gods! it was a ride,
The ride they took with thee!
No guardsman of the whole command
Halts, quails, or turns to flee;
With bloody spur and steady hand
They gallop where they see
Thy daring plume stream out ahead
O'er flying, wounded, dying, dead;
They can but follow thee.
So, Captain of the Body-Guard,
I pledge a health to thee!
I hope to see thy shoulders starred,
My Paladin; and we
Shall laugh at fortune in the fray
Whene'er you lead your well-known way
To death or victory!
George Henry Boker.
Kentucky was another state divided against itself. For a time, it endeavored to preserve neutrality, but finally chose the Union side. On January 19, 1862, the battle of Somerset was fought, resulting in a Union victory.
BATTLE OF SOMERSET
[January 19, 1862]
I gazed, and lo! Afar and near,
With hastening speed, now there, now here,
The horseman rode with glittering spear—
'Twas awful to behold!
Ten thousand men, in dread array—
On every hill and mound they lay—
A dreadful sight it was that day
To see the front they formed.
The polished sabres, waving high,
Flashed brightly in the morning sky;
While, beaming on the dazzled eye,
The glittering bayonets shone.
All, all was hushed among the trees,
Save now and then a gentle breeze,
Which stirr'd the brown and serried leaves
That in the forest lay.
But what is that which greets mine eye?
Is it Columbia's sons I spy?
Hark! hark! I hear their battle cry—
Their shouts of victory!
Still hotter does the conflict grow;
While dealing death in every blow,
McCook charged on the routed foe
His daring little band.
Rest, patriots, rest; the conflict's o'er,
Your erring brethren punished sore;
Oh, would they'd fight their friends no more,
And cease this bloody strife.
Cornelius C. Cullen.
The Confederate loss was very heavy, and in one respect irreparable, for General Felix K. Zollicoffer was killed while reconnoitring the Union position.
ZOLLICOFFER
[January 19, 1862]
First in the fight, and first in the arms
Of the white-winged angels of glory,
With the heart of the South at the feet of God,
And his wounds to tell the story;
For the blood that flowed from his hero heart,
On the spot where he nobly perished,
Was drunk by the earth as a sacrament
In the holy cause he cherished!
In Heaven a home with the brave and blessed,
And for his soul's sustaining
The apocalyptic eyes of Christ—
And nothing on earth remaining,
But a handful of dust in the land of his choice,
A name in song and story—
And fame to shout with immortal voice
Dead on the field of Glory!
Henry Lynden Flash.
Near the southern line of Kentucky, the Confederates held two strong forts, Henry and Donelson, and on February 2, 1862, a Union force under General Ulysses S. Grant moved forward to attack them. The army was supported by a fleet of gunboats, and Fort Henry surrendered to the fleet before the land forces came up. The gunboat Essex led the attack and suffered severely, among her dead being Lieutenant S. B. Brittan, Jr., a boy of not quite seventeen.
BOY BRITTAN
[February 6, 1862]
I
Boy Brittan—only a lad—a fair-haired boy—sixteen,
In his uniform,
Into the storm—into the roaring jaws of grim Fort Henry—
Boldly bears the Federal flotilla—
Into the battle storm!
II
Boy Brittan is master's mate aboard of the Essex—
There he stands, buoyant and eager-eyed,
By the brave captain's side;
Ready to do and dare. Aye, aye, sir! always ready—
In his country's uniform.
Boom! Boom! and now the flag-boat sweeps, and now the Essex,
Into the battle storm!
III
Boom! Boom! till river and fort and field are overclouded
By battle's breath; then from the fort a gleam
And a crashing gun, and the Essex is wrapt and shrouded
In a scalding cloud of steam!
IV
But victory! victory!
Unto God all praise be ever rendered,
Unto God all praise and glory be!
See, Boy Brittan! see, boy, see!
They strike! Hurrah! the fort has just surrendered!
Shout! Shout! my boy, my warrior boy!
And wave your cap and clap your hands for joy!
Cheer answer cheer and bear the cheer about—
Hurrah! Hurrah! for the fiery fort is ours;
And "Victory!" "Victory!" "Victory!"
Is the shout.
Shout—for the fiery fort, and the field, and the day are ours—
The day is ours—thanks to the brave endeavor
Of heroes, boy, like thee!
The day is ours—the day is ours!
Glory and deathless love to all who shared with thee,
And bravely endured and dared with thee—
The day is ours—the day is ours—
Forever!
Glory and Love for one and all; but—but—for thee—
Home! Home! a happy "Welcome—welcome home" for thee!
And kisses of love for thee—
And a mother's happy, happy tears, and a virgin's bridal wreath of flowers—
For thee!
V
Victory! Victory!...
But suddenly wrecked and wrapt in seething steam, the Essex
Slowly drifted out of the battle's storm;
Slowly, slowly down—laden with the dead and the dying;
And there, at the captain's feet, among the dead and the dying,
The shot-marred form of a beautiful boy is lying—
There in his uniform!
VI
Laurels and tears for thee, boy,
Laurels and tears for thee!
Laurels of light, moist with the precious dew
Of the inmost heart of the nation's loving heart,
And blest by the balmy breath of the beautiful and the true;
Moist—moist with the luminous breath of the singing spheres
And the nation's starry tears!
And tremble-touched by the pulse-like gush and start
Of the universal music of the heart,
And all deep sympathy.
Laurels and tears for thee, boy,
Laurels and tears for thee—
Laurels of light and tears of love forever more—
For thee!
VII
And laurels of light, and tears of truth,
And the mantle of immortality;
And the flowers of love and of immortal youth,
And the tender heart-tokens of all true ruth—
And the everlasting victory!
And the breath and bliss of Liberty;
And the loving kiss of Liberty;
And the welcoming light of heavenly eyes,
And the over-calm of God's canopy;
And the infinite love-span of the skies
That cover the valleys of Paradise—
For all of the brave who rest with thee;
And for one and all who died with thee,
And now sleep side by side with thee;
And for every one who lives and dies,
On the solid land or the heaving sea,
Dear warrior-boy—like thee.
VIII
O the victory—the victory
Belongs to thee!
God ever keeps the brightest crown for such as thou—
He gives it now to thee!
O young and brave, and early and thrice blest—
Thrice, thrice, thrice blest!
Thy country turns once more to kiss thy youthful brow,
And takes thee—gently—gently to her breast;
And whispers lovingly, "God bless thee—bless thee now—
My darling, thou shalt rest!"
Forceythe Willson.
The fall of Fort Donelson, soon afterwards, opened the way to the south and it was decided to advance against Corinth, Miss., with Pittsburg Landing as the base of operations. By the first of April, 1862, five divisions had been concentrated there, but the Confederates had also massed a great army near by, and on the morning of Sunday, April 6, moved forward to the attack, took their opponents by surprise, and drove them back to the river. The Confederate leader, Albert Sidney Johnston, was killed during the battle.
ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON
[April 6, 1862]
I hear again the tread of war go thundering through the land,
And Puritan and Cavalier are clinching neck and hand,
Round Shiloh church the furious foes have met to thrust and slay,
Where erst the peaceful sons of Christ were wont to kneel and pray.
The wrestling of the ages shakes the hills of Tennessee,
With all their echoing mounts a-throb with war's wild minstrelsy;
A galaxy of stars new-born round the shield of Mars,
And set against the Stars and Stripes the flashing Stars and Bars.
'Twas Albert Sidney Johnston led the columns of the Gray,
Like Hector on the plains of Troy his presence fired the fray;
And dashing horse and gleaming sword spake out his royal will
As on the slopes of Shiloh field the blasts of war blew shrill.
"Down with the base invaders," the Gray shout forth the cry,
"Death to presumptuous rebels," the Blue ring out reply;
All day the conflict rages and yet again all day,
Though Grant is on the Union side he cannot stem nor stay.
They are a royal race of men, these brothers face to face,
Their fury speaking through their guns, their frenzy in their pace;
The sweeping onset of the Gray bears down the sturdy Blue,
Though Sherman and his legions are heroes through and through.
Though Prentiss and his gallant men are forcing scaur and crag,
They fall like sheaves before the scythes of Hardee and of Bragg;
Ah, who shall tell the victor's tale when all the strife is past,
When man and man in one great mould the men who strive are cast.
As when the Trojan hero came from that fair city's gates,
With tossing mane and flaming crest to scorn the scowling fates,
His legions gather round him and madly charge and cheer,
And fill the besieging armies with wild disheveled fear;
Then bares his breast unto the dart the daring spearsman sends,
And dying hears his cheering foes, the wailing of his friends,
So Albert Sidney Johnston, the chief of belt and scar,
Lay down to die at Shiloh and turned the scales of war.
Now five and twenty years are gone, and lo, to-day they come,
The Blue and Gray in proud array with throbbing fife and drum;
But not as rivals, not as foes, as brothers reconciled,
To twine love's fragrant roses where the thorns of hate grew wild.
They tell the hero of three wars, the lion-hearted man,
Who wore his valor like a star—uncrowned American;
Above his heart serene and still the folded Stars and Bars,
Above his head like mother-wings, the sheltering Stripes and Stars.
Aye, five and twenty years, and lo, the manhood of the South
Has held its valor stanch and strong as at the cannon's mouth,
With patient heart and silent tongue has kept its true parole,
And in the conquests born of peace has crowned its battle roll.
But ever while we sing of war, of courage tried and true,
Of heroes wed to gallant deeds, or be it Gray or Blue,
Then Albert Sidney Johnston's name shall flash before our sight
Like some resplendent meteor across the sombre night.
America, thy sons are knit with sinews wrought of steel,
They will not bend, they will not break, beneath the tyrant's heel;
But in the white-hot flame of love, to silken cobwebs spun,
They whirl the engines of the world, all keeping time as one.
To-day they stand abreast and strong, who stood as foes of yore,
The world leaps up to bless their feet, heaven scatters blessings o'er;
Their robes are wrought of gleaming gold, their wings are freedom's own,
The trampling of their conquering hosts shakes pinnacle and throne.
Oh, veterans of the Blue and Gray, who fought on Shiloh field,
The purposes of God are true, His judgment stands revealed;
The pangs of war have rent the veil, and lo, His high decree:
One heart, one hope, one destiny, one flag from sea to sea.
Kate Brownlee Sherwood.
ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON
SHILOH
His soul to God! on a battle-psalm!
A soldier's plea to Heaven!
From the victor wreath to the shining Palm;
From the battle's core to the central calm,
And peace of God in Heaven.
Oh, Land! in your midnight of mistrust
The golden gates flew wide,
And the kingly soul of your wise and just
Passed in light from the house of dust
To the Home of the Glorified!
Francis Orrery Ticknor.
Buell's army came up during the night, and Grant was able next day to assume the offensive and drive the enemy from the field. Johnston's death left Beauregard commander-in-chief of the Confederate forces.
BEAUREGARD
Our trust is now in thee,
Beauregard!
In thy hand the God of Hosts
Hath placed the sword;
And the glory of thy fame
Has set the world aflame—
Hearts kindle at thy name,
Beauregard!
The way that lies before
Is cold and hard;
We are led across the desert
By the Lord!
But the cloud that shines by night
To guide our steps aright,
Is the pillar of thy might,
Beauregard!
Thou hast watched the southern heavens
Evening starred,
And chosen thence thine emblems,
Beauregard;
And upon thy banner's fold
Is that starry cross enrolled,
Which no Northman shall behold
Shamed or scarred.
By the blood that crieth loudly
From the sword,
We have sworn to keep around it
Watch and ward,
And the standard of thine hand
Yet shall shine above a land,
Like its leader, free and grand,
Beauregard!
Mrs. C. A. Warfield.
The advance against Corinth was continued, and on May 30, 1862, the Union army entered the city, which the Confederates had evacuated. On October 3, 4, the Confederates attempted to recapture it, but were repulsed with heavy loss. The Eighth Wisconsin carried a live eagle in place of a flag, and during the battle the great bird circled and circled above the field.
[October 3, 4, 1862]
Did you hear of the fight at Corinth,
How we whipped out Price and Van Dorn?
Ah, that day we earned our rations
(Our cause was God's and the Nation's,
Or we'd have come out forlorn!)—
A long and terrible day!
And at last, when night grew gray,
By the hundreds, there they lay
(Heavy sleepers, you'd say),
That wouldn't wake on the morn.
Our staff was bare of a flag,
We didn't carry a rag
In those brave marching days;—
Ah, no, but a finer thing!
With never a cord or string,
An eagle of ruffled wing,
And an eye of awful gaze.
The grape it rattled like hail,
The minies were dropping like rain,
The first of a thunder shower;
The wads were blowing like chaff
(There was pounding like floor and flail,
All the front of our line!),
So we stood it hour after hour;
But our eagle, he felt fine!
'Twould have made you cheer and laugh,
To see, through that iron gale,
How the old fellow'd swoop and sail
Above the racket and roar,—
To right and to left he'd soar,
But ever came back, without fail,
And perched on his standard-staff.
All that day, I tell you true,
They had pressed us steady and fair,
Till we fought in street and square
(The affair, you might think, looked blue),—
But we knew we had them there!
Our batteries were few,
Every gun, they'd have sworn, they knew,
But, you see, there were one or two
We had fixed for them, unaware.
They reckon they've got us now!
For the next half hour 'twill be warm—
Aye, aye, look yonder!—I vow,
If they weren't Secesh, how I'd love them!
Only see how grandly they form
(Our eagle whirling above them),
To take Robinett by storm!
They're timing!—it can't be long—
Now for the nub of the fight!
(You may guess that we held our breath.)
By the Lord, 'tis a splendid sight!
A column two thousand strong
Marching square to the death!
On they came in solid column,
For once no whooping nor yell
(Ah, I dare say they felt solemn!)—
Front and flank, grape and shell,
Our batteries pounded away!
And the minies hummed to remind 'em
They had started on no child's play!
Steady they kept a-going,
But a grim wake settled behind 'em
From the edge of the abattis
(Where our dead and dying lay
Under fence and fallen tree),
Up to Robinett, all the way
The dreadful swath kept growing!
'Twas butternut mixed with gray.
Now for it, at Robinett!
Muzzle to muzzle we met
(Not a breath of bluster or brag,
Not a lisp for quarter or favor)—
Three times, there, by Robinett,
With a rush, their feet they set
On the logs of our parapet,
And waved their bit of a flag—
What could be finer or braver!
But our cross-fire stunned them in flank,
They melted, rank after rank
(O'er them, with terrible poise,
Our Bird did circle and wheel!)—
Their whole line began to waver—
Now for the bayonet, boys!
On them with the cold steel!
Ah, well—you know how it ended—
We did for them, there and then,
But their pluck throughout was splendid.
(As I said before, I could love them!)
They stood to the last, like men—
Only a handful of them
Found the way back again.
Red as blood, o'er the town,
The angry sun went down,
Firing flagstaff and vane—
And our eagle,—as for him,
There, all ruffled and grim,
He sat, o'erlooking the slain!
Next morning, you'd have wondered
How we had to drive the spade!
There, in great trenches and holes
(Ah, God rest their poor souls!),
We piled some fifteen hundred,
Where that last charge was made!
Sad enough, I must say.
No mother to mourn and search,
No priest to bless or to pray—
We buried them where they lay,
Without a rite of the church—
But our eagle, all that day,
Stood solemn and still on his perch.
'Tis many a stormy day
Since, out of the cold bleak north,
Our great war-eagle sailed forth
To swoop o'er battle and fray.
Many and many a day
O'er charge and storm hath he wheeled,
Foray and foughten field,
Tramp, and volley, and rattle!—
Over crimson trench and turf,
Over climbing clouds of surf,
Through tempest and cannon-wrack,
Have his terrible pinions whirled
(A thousand fields of battle!
A million leagues of foam!);—
But our bird shall yet come back,
He shall soar to his eyrie-home,
And his thunderous wings be furled,
In the gaze of a gladdened world,
On the nation's loftiest dome.
Henry Howard Brownell.
One more struggle closed the campaign. On December 29, 1862, the armies of Bragg and Rosecrans met at Murfreesboro, Tenn., and for four days a desperate battle raged, which ended finally in the Confederates falling back and leaving their antagonists in possession of the field.
THE BATTLE OF MURFREESBORO
[December 31, 1862]
Ere Murfreesboro's thunders rent the air—
With cannon booming 'mid the trumpet's blare—
Cane Hill and David Mills, stern battles, too,
Had carried death to hosts in Gray and Blue.
But here, more deadly, war's wild torrent rushed,
And victory, at first, the Rebels flushed.
The "right wing" gone, and troops in panic, lo!
The battle seemed already lost. But, No.
Brave Rosecrans cried out—"Now stop retreat!
We'll turn to victory this sore defeat!
We must and shall this battle—Soldiers!—win!
Now silence yonder batt'ry, to begin!
And all re-form and meet the yelling foe!
Stand firm and fire a volley! Back he'll go.
If not, present your bayonets, and Charge!
'Tis needless on these orders to enlarge;
But—Comrades!—here we conquer or we die!"
And all that Rosecrans desired was done;
And Murfreesboro's battle thus was won.
Hail! to that New Year's Day in 'Sixty-three,
And to that morrow which brought victory.
Hail! to the courage of the Boys in Blue,
Who fought so grandly, to their Country true.
Kinahan Cornwallis.
Among the wounded, on the Confederate side, was Isaac Giffen, a native of East Tennessee. He was terribly injured, and was taken by Dr. Francis O. Ticknor into his home and nursed back to life. He fell in one of the battles before Atlanta.
LITTLE GIFFEN
Out of the focal and foremost fire,
Out of the hospital walls as dire,
Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene
(Eighteenth battle and he sixteen)—
Spectre such as you seldom see,
Little Giffen of Tennessee.
"Take him—and welcome!" the surgeons said,
"Little the doctor can help the dead!"
So we took him and brought him where
The balm was sweet on the summer air;
And we laid him down on a wholesome bed—
Utter Lazarus, heel to head!
And we watched the war with bated breath—
Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death.
Months of torture, how many such!
Weary weeks of the stick and crutch;
And still a glint in the steel-blue eye
Told of a spirit that wouldn't die.
And didn't. Nay, more! in death's despite
The crippled skeleton learned to write.
"Dear Mother," at first of course; and then
"Dear Captain," inquiring about "the men."
Captain's answer: "Of eighty and five,
Giffen and I are left alive."
Word of gloom from the war one day:
"Johnston's pressed at the front, they say!"
Little Giffen was up and away;
A tear—his first—as he bade good-by,
Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye.
"I'll write, if spared!" There was news of the fight;
But none of Giffen—he did not write.
I sometimes fancy that, were I king
Of the princely knights of the Golden Ring,
With the song of the minstrel in mine ear,
And the tender legend that trembles here,
I'd give the best, on his bended knee,
The whitest soul of my chivalry,
For Little Giffen of Tennessee.
Francis Orrery Ticknor.
Both the Union and Confederate armies were in need of rest and reorganization, and for a time hostilities ceased. Grant paused to collect his forces and to prepare for a manœuvre of the first importance.
THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862
The flags of war like storm-birds fly,
The charging trumpets blow;
Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,
No earthquake strives below.
And, calm and patient, Nature keeps
Her ancient promise well,
Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps
The battle's breath of hell.
And still she walks in golden hours
Through harvest-happy farms,
And still she wears her fruits and flowers
Like jewels on her arms.
What mean the gladness of the plain,
This joy of eve and morn,
The mirth that shakes the beard of grain
And yellow locks of corn?
Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,
And hearts with hate are hot;
But even-paced come round the years,
And Nature changes not.
She meets with smiles our bitter grief,
With songs our groans of pain;
She mocks with tint of flower and leaf
The war-field's crimson stain.
Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear
Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm;
Too near to God for doubt or fear,
She shares the eternal calm.
She knows the seed lies safe below
The fires that blast and burn;
For all the tears of blood we sow
She waits the rich return.
She sees with clearer eye than ours
The good of suffering born,—
The hearts that blossom like her flowers,
And ripen like her corn.
Oh, give to us, in times like these,
The vision of her eyes;
And make her fields and fruited trees
Our golden prophecies!
Oh, give to us her finer ear!
Above this stormy din,
We too would hear the bells of cheer
Ring peace and freedom in.
John Greenleaf Whittier.