Cherish the heroes who fought the Varuna;
Treat them as kings if they honor your way;
Succor and comfort the sick and the wounded;
Oh! for the dead let us all kneel to pray!
George Henry Boker.
New Orleans was panic-stricken. Many of the better class of citizens fled, and the town was given over to the mob. Drums were beaten, soldiers scampered hither and thither, and women ran through the streets demanding that the city be burned. The cotton on the levee was set on fire, and the torch was put to the wharves and shipping. Finally, on April 29, 1862, after a lot of silly rhodomontade, the city surrendered.
THE SURRENDER OF NEW ORLEANS
[April 29, 1862]
All day long the guns at the forts,
With far-off thunders and faint retorts,
Had told the city that down the bay
The fleet of Farragut's war-ships lay;
But now St. Philip and Jackson grim
Were black and silent below the rim
Of the southern sky, where the river sped
Like a war-horse scenting the fight ahead.
And we of the city, the women, and men
Too old for facing the battle then,
Saw all the signs of our weakness there
With a patience born of a great despair.
The river gnawed its neglected bank,
The weeds in the unused streets grew rank,
And flood and famine threatened those
Who stayed there braving greater woes.
Under the raking of shot and shell
The river fortresses fighting fell;
The Chalmette batteries then boomed forth,
But the slim, straight spars of the ships of the North
Moved steadily on in their river-road,
Like a tide that up from the ocean flowed.
Then load after load, and pile upon pile,
Lining the wharves for many a mile,
Out of the cotton-presses and yards,
With a grim industry which naught retards,
The bales were carried and swiftly placed
By those who knew there was need of haste,
And the torch was laid to the cotton so.
Up from that bonfire the glare and glow
Was seen by the watchers far away,
And weeping and wailing those watchers say,
"The city is lost! O men at the front,
Braving the fortunes of war, and the brunt
Of battle bearing with fearful cost,
The city you loved and left is lost!"
Ah, memories crowding so thick and fast,
Ye were the first; is this the last?
We gave with clamor our first great gift,
With shouts which up to the heavens lift;
We gave with silence our last best yield,
Our last, best gleaning for Shiloh's field.
With mute devotion we saw them go;
But when the banners were furled and low,
And the solid columns were thinned by war,
We wondered what we had given for.